The little priestess had begun to twitch. The singing surged higher. She screamed. She beat her fists on the floor. Louder and faster went the drums. She thrashed as if in pain, yet her face was flushed. The silver bowl went clattering across the floor, splashing eggs. She paused, lifted her head, and looked around the circle that confined her, madness in every move, every twist of her face. Her hands clawed at her robe and ripped it off, revealing a willowy, wasted body, flushed and sweating.
Without warning she was on her feet, lurching at Eleal, hands clawing for her, eyes burning with hatred. Eleal tried to leap back; Trong and Ambria staggered but did not release her. The priest caught the maniac just in time and tried to haul her back to the center, but she fought him in frenzy, screaming and frothing. Amazingly, it became a real fight. The priest was as tall as Trong, young and husky; she was a scrawny stripling half his size with limbs like spade handles, but in moments she had bitten and mauled him, shredded his robe and opened bloody tracks on his face with her nails. Twice she almost broke free altogether, heading for Eleal, twice he caught her in time. He was trying to restrain her without doing hurt; she had no such scruples. They fell to the floor and struggled more there. The drums and singing echoed deafeningly.
In another bewildering change, she cried out and went rigid, head back, limbs spread, sprawling over her opponent. The man threw her off and backed away on hands and knees, bleeding and gasping as if he had been wrestling bear cats.
Her eyes flicked open. “Athu!” she roared, in a voice as deep and resonant as Trong's—an impossible voice for that child-sized body. The drumming and singing stopped instantly. “Athu impo'el ignif!"
It was the voice of the oracle. Outside the circle, priests began scribbling on parchment as the words of the goddess reverberated through the temple. Again the dialect was too archaic for Eleal to follow. She thought she heard her name a few times, but then she thought she heard several names she knew, and probably none of them was intended. The priests seemed to make sense of the torrent, though, for their pens moved rapidly.
It died away into animal gurgles and stopped. A drum tapped. The singing resumed, a triumphant paean of thanks and praise.
Red-robed priestesses pushed in to attend the unconscious oracle. The circle fell apart. Wives and husbands embraced in relief at the end of the ordeal. Trong released Eleal's hand. Ambria hauled her close and hugged her fiercely. In a moment she felt wetness. Bewildered, she looked up and realized that the big woman was weeping.
20
IT WAS OBVIOUS WHY THE TEMPLE RARELY ASKED THE LADY for an oracle. The little priestess had been carried off, wrapped in a blanket. Her burly guardian had limped out, clutching a rag to his bleeding face and leaning on a friend. A young boy had brought a bucket and knelt to wash stains from the floor.
The richly adorned priest with the big belly was chuckling as he pawed over a group of parchments, discussing them with other elderly priests and priestesses. They all seemed pleased.
The troupe stood apart, huddled together, waiting to hear what the goddess had decreed. Eleal clung tight to Ambria's big hand and tried not to see Dolm Actor's patronizing sneer.
Then the fat priest waddled over to them, still clutching the records. “The Lady has been most generous!” he boomed. “I have never seen clearer, more explicit directions."
There was a worried pause. “Tell us!” Ambria said.
"Just the two of them, I think.” He checked one page against another. “Yes, just two. The one named Uthiam Piper?"
Uthiam whimpered. Golfren's arm tightened around her.
"Three fortnights’ service, it would seem,” said the fat man. He shrugged his pillowed shoulders. “Not as severe a penance as I would have expected, really."
Uthiam's cheeks were ashen. She raised her chin defiantly. “I have to whore here for forty-two days?"
Shocked, the priest raised his shaven brows. “Sacrifice!"
"For what?"
"For your sins and your friends’ sins, naturally. They are free to go—except one, of course. One remains. I am sure you made out that much. It is a small price to win so much favor and forgiveness, for yourself and your loved ones. Many women learn to enjoy it.” He leered slyly.
He had eyes like a pig's.
Little Piol Piper cleared his throat. “I thought—” He stopped. He was the scholar. If any of the laity had understood those ancient words, it would be Piol.
"You thought what?"
The old man clawed at his silvery, stubbly beard. “I thought an alternative was offered?"
The priest nodded, his dewlaps flapping. “But not a reasonable alternative for a band of wandering players, I am sure."
"How much?” Golfren yelped. His fair-skinned face was paler than any.
The fat man sighed. “One hundred Joalian stars."
"Ninety-four, you mean! You know we have that much!"
The priest pursed his thick lips sadly. “You cannot bargain with a goddess, actor."
"But I was to give that money to Tion that he might favor my wife in the festival."
"Your wife will not be attending the festival this year. She will be serving the goddess, here in the temple. The mammoth herders who risk their lives daily in the pass will certainly not be rash enough to offend Holy Ois.” His fat smirk left no doubt that the men would be advised of the danger.
Golfren looked close to tears. “That gold was my father's farm and his father's before him! And we only have ninety-four."
Everyone looked at Ambria, Uthiam's mother.
Her hand in Eleal's was sweating. Her voice was hoarse: “If we make up the difference, Holy One, it will leave us penniless. The fare to Suss is reputedly higher this year than it has ever been. We are poor artists, Father! Our expenses are heavy. The festival is our only hope of recouping our fortunes so that we may eat next winter. Will the Lady ruin us?"
The priest's eyes narrowed inside their bulwarks of lard, appraising her. “If you travel with the Lady's blessing,” he said reluctantly, “I believe the temple could arrange passage for you.” It was indeed possible to bargain.
"Today! The festival begins tomorrow. We must travel today!” Hints of the old Ambria were emerging.
"One hundred stars and you go today,” the priest agreed.
Ambria sighed her relief. “And the other one?"
"Mm?” He chuckled and consulted the parchments again, comparing them. “Oh, yes. Eleal Singer ... or Eleal Impresario ... the goddess called her something else ... No matter. She must remain. Must enter the service of Great Ois."
Somehow Eleal had expected this. She shivered. She felt Ambria's hand tighten on hers.
"There is no ransom for her?” Piol demanded.
The fat man scowled. “Ransom? Watch your tongue, actor!” He looked around suspiciously. “Are you offering one?"
"You have taken every copper mite we possess!” Ambria shouted.
"Ah!” He shook his head sadly and consulted the scripts again. “In any case, we are given no choice in her case.” He glanced at Trong, who was projecting utter despair. “The, er, misadventure occurred in Jurg?"
"Yes,” the big man muttered, showing no surprise.
"Of course!” The priest chuckled, shaking his head in mock disapproval. “Mighty Ken'th again! But the Lady is a jealous goddess! She demands the child.” He glanced around the group. “Come, you are being let off lightly! A hundred stars and the girl."