So much for a period of restful contemplation. ‘I trust all is being made ready below.’
‘Nothing grand,’ Cedorpul said. ‘This is not a formal visit, after all.’
‘No polishing of buckles?’ Rise asked. ‘No buffing of silver?’
Endest snorted.
Puffing out his fleshy cheeks, Cedorpul slowly shook his head. ‘Ill-chosen my company this day. I am assailed by irreverence. An historian who derides historical occasions. An acolyte who mocks decorum.’
‘Decorum?’ Endest twisted round on one elbow to regard Cedorpul. ‘How readily you forget, that before dawn this morning I dragged you out from under three priestess candidates. Smelling like a sack of stale wine, and as for the stains upon your robes, well, I remain most decorous in not looking too closely!’ To Rise Herat he added, ‘Cedorpul finds the candidates when they’re still waiting in the chaperon’s antechamber, and informs them that their prowess in bed must be tested-’
‘I avail myself of their natural eagerness,’ Cedorpul explained.
‘He’s found an unused room and now has the key for it. Swears the candidates to secrecy-’
‘Dear me,’ said Rise. ‘Cedorpul, you risk a future of scorn and righteous vengeance. I hope I live to witness it in all its glory.’
‘Endest, you have failed me in every measure of friendship of which I can conceive. Into the ears of the court historian, no less! It will be the two of you who curse me to the fate the historian so ominously describes!’
‘Hardly,’ countered Endest. ‘I envision a night of confessions — no, whom do I deceive? Dozens of nights and confessions by the hundred. Yours is a fate I do not envy-’
‘You seemed thankful enough for my cast-offs last night, honourable acolyte. And every other night at that. Who was it who said that hypocrisy has no place in a temple of worship?’
‘No one,’ replied Rise Herat, ‘as far as I know.’
‘Indeed?’ Cedorpul asked. ‘Truth?’
Rise nodded.
‘Oh my,’ Cedorpul said, and then he sighed. ‘These matters are beneath argument. Let us ignore, for the time being, the unfortunate circumstances driving the three of us into each other’s company, and enjoy the view.’
‘And what of young Legyl Behust?’ Rise asked him.
‘Surely there is a sound argument to be made regarding the educational value of play. Besides, that chamber beneath us is the traditional sanctuary of the Citadel’s succession of hostages. May she bar the door in all assurance of privacy. Until the noon bell at the very least.’
It occurred to Rise Herat, somewhat ungraciously, that he would have preferred the company of Legyl Behust.
Cedorpul pointed. ‘I see them!’
Sister Emral Lanear examined herself in the full-length silvered mirror. The faintly blurred woman staring back at her promised great beauty, and Emral longed for them to exchange places. With such a prayer answered, none could pierce the veil, and she need not guard herself at every moment, lest someone glimpse the tortured truths roiling behind her eyes; and in expression she would give nothing away.
The world held up its illusions. No one could see for ever, beyond horizons, through the thickest of forests and the solid mountains of rock, or into the depths of dark rivers, and so there were promises out there as well, inviting the longing reach, offering up vistas of grandeur. The illusions were borne by all who witnessed them in the name of sanity, perhaps, or hope. And so too could others see her: a High Priestess taking her station in the altar room, with the other High Priestess at her side, both standing as representatives of Mother Dark, whose own veil of darkness none could pierce — they could indeed see this and so find whatever illusions of comfort they desired.
There was no cause to resent their expectations. Yet, for all that, she wished the image before her to step out from the mirror, leaving a space into which Emral could then plunge. Illusions held up the world, and she was so tired of holding up her own.
Behind her the lesser priestesses fretted, and the sound alone was sufficient to irritate her. They had fled their beds and the men lying in them as soon as the news reached them. In her mind she imagined them transformed, bright silks shed and in their place dark, oily feathers. Mouths twisting into beaks. Breathless, excited words dissolving into senseless cawing. And the musty heat of their bodies now filled the chamber, and the long-toed feet clacked and kicked through the white shit of their agitation, and in a moment Emral Lanear would turn from the mirror and look upon them, and smile at the death of illusions.
‘A woman!’ someone hissed.
‘Azathanai! It is said they can take any form they wish.’
‘Nonsense. They are bound by the same laws as the rest of us — you might well dream of escaping that ugly countenance of yours, Vygilla, but not even an Azathanai’s power could help you.’
High-pitched laughter.
Emral stared at the blurred reflection, wondering what it was thinking, wondering what it was seeing. There must be a secret dialogue, she told herself, between thinking and seeing, where every conclusion was hidden away. But to look upon oneself in this mirror-world was to witness every truth; and find nowhere to hide. Mirrors, I fear, are an invitation to suicide.
‘Sister Emral.’
At the familiar voice she felt something quail inside her. But the blurry reflection showed no sign of that, and Emral felt a flash of unreasoning jealousy. Yet she held that placid gaze and did not turn at the call. ‘Sister Syntara, is it time?’
High Priestess Syntara’s arrival in the chamber had, Emral realized, announced itself a few moments earlier, in the sudden hush among the priestesses. Such was the force of the young woman’s power, a thing of polished gold and dripping blood. Emral could see her now, almost formless in the mirror, neither beautiful nor imposing. She suppressed an urge to reach up and wipe through the shape, smearing it from existence.
There was no need for two High Priestesses. The temple was ancient, once consecrated to a spirit of the river. The god’s very name had been obliterated from all records. Pictorial representations had been effaced from the walls, but she knew the Dorssan Ryl had been named after the spirit that once dwelt in its depths. In that ancient dawn, when the first stones of Kharkanas were set down, a single priest led the processions, the rituals of worship, and conducted the necessary sacrifices.
The Yan and Yedan cults were survivors of that time, but Emral saw them as little more than hollow effigies, where ascetics invented rules of self-abnegation in the mistaken belief that suffering and faith were one and the same.
Instead of answering Emral’s soft query, Syntara spent a few moments sending all the others from the chamber. Now she turned to Emral once more. ‘Will you gaze upon yourself until All Darkness comes?’
‘I was examining the tarnish,’ Emral replied.
‘Set the candidates to polishing it, then.’ Syntara’s tone betrayed the first hint of annoyance. ‘We have matters to discuss.’
‘Yes,’ Emral said, finally turning to Syntara, ‘that does seem to be our principal task these days. The discussion of… matters.’
‘Changes are coming, Sister. We must be positioned to take advantage of them.’
Emral studied the younger woman, the fullness of her features, the unnecessary paint round her elongated, seductive eyes, the perfect moulding of her lips; and she thought of the cruel portrait Kadaspala had painted of Syntara — although it seemed that only Emral saw it as cruel, and indeed the portrait’s subject had uttered more than once her admiration of the rendition. But then Emral could not be certain that Syntara’s admiration was not for the woman depicted, rather than the genius of Kadaspala. ‘We must be positioned to survive, Sister Syntara. Seeking advantages is somewhat premature.’