He opened it at random and a bookmark fell out.
22
TWO FLIGHTS UP, THE PRIESTESS WAS PUFFING AND LEANing a sweaty hand on Eleal's shoulder. They turned along another corridor smelling of incense and soap and stale cooking. Eleal was too numb for fear or sorrow. Mostly she felt a sense of loss: loss of her friends, her newfound family, loss of liberty, loss of career, loss even of her pack, which had been refused her. The distant chanting had died away into silence as if she were sinking into the ground, away from the living world. She reached an open door and was pushed inside.
The room was poky and plain, seemingly clean enough despite its musty smell. Bare stone formed the walls, bare boards the floor and ceiling. It contained a fresh-looking pallet, a chair, a little table, a copy of the Red Scriptures, nothing more. A beam of sunlight angled in through a small window, seeming only to emphasize the shadows. No lamp, no fireplace.
The priestess released her captive then and sank down gladly on the chair, which creaked—the bulges of her sweat-patched robe suggested a large body. She wiped a sleeve across her forehead. Her hair was hidden under her scarlet headcloth; her face was saggy, padded with chins and rolls of fat, and yet Eleal thought it was the hardest face she had ever seen.
"My name is Ylla. You address me as ‘Mother.’”
Eleal said nothing.
Ylla's smile would have curdled milk. “Kneel down and kiss my shoe."
Eleal backed away. “No!"
"Good!” The smile broadened. “We shall make that the test, then, shall we? When you are ready to obey—when you cannot take any more—tell me you are ready to kiss my shoe. Then we shall know that we have broken your spirit. We shall both know. You are entering upon a life of unquestioning obedience."
She waited for a reply. Not getting one, she narrowed her eyes. “We can try a whipping now if you want."
"What about Ken'th?"
Ylla laughed loudly, as if she had been waiting for the question. “Boys and old men pray to Ken'th. Men perform his sacrament willingly enough, but few would be seen dead near his temple!"
Few women went near his temple either, for Ken'th was god of virility. “Is he my father?"
"Perhaps. The goddess hinted at it. And it would fit with what your grandfather said. Women taken by a god aren't much use afterward."
That much Eleal knew from the old tales—Ken'th and Ismathon, Karzon and Harrjora. When the god withdrew his interest, the woman died of unrequited love. How strange that Piol Poet had never used either of those two great romances as the basis of a play! (She would never see a Piol play again.)
How strange to hear Trong described as her grandfather!
There was no hint of sympathy in the priestess's stony face. “But don't think that makes you special. A mortal's child is a mortal, nothing more."
Usually less, according to common belief. To call a man godspawn was about the worst insult possible. It implied he was a liar, a wastrel, and a bastard, and his mother had been as bad.
Eleal thought of Karzon's shrine and that powerful, potent bronze figure. Ken'th also was the Man. What if she prayed to Karzon? She did not even know her mother's name.
"If you are thinking of appealing to him,” Ylla said contemptuously, “then save your breath. Gods sire bantlings like mortal men spit. I suggest you don't mention it. You are an acolyte in the service of Holy Ois, and older than most, so I must explain a few things."
She folded her plump hands in her lap. “We get many unwanted girls, usually much younger than you, but most of us are temple bred. My mother was a priestess here, and her mother before her. For eight generations we have served the Lady."
"And your father?"
"A worshiper.” Ylla showed her teeth. “A hundred worshipers. Don't try to lord it over me for that, godspawn. In a year or two the Lady will bless you. You will be consecrated by priests, then, and thereafter you will serve her that same way. You will regard it as a great honor."
"No I won't!"
The fat priestess laughed, flesh rippling under her robe. “Oh, but you will! When properly instructed, you will be eager to begin. I am forty-five years old. I have borne eight children to her honor and I think I am about to bear another. You also, in your time."
They would have to chain her to the bed, Eleal thought. She would rather starve in a gutter. She said nothing, just stared at the floor.
"Why do you limp?"
"My right leg is shorter than the other."
"I can see that. Why? Were you born like that?"
"I fell out a window when I was a baby."
"Stupid of you. But it won't matter. It won't show when you're on your back, will it?"
Eleal gritted her teeth.
"I asked you a question, slut!"
"No it won't."
"Mother."
"Mother."
Ylla sighed. “You will begin your service by plucking chickens. By this time next year, you will be able to pluck chickens in your sleep. Scrubbing floors, washing clothes ... good, honest labor to purify the soul. Normally we should start with your oath of obedience. However—"
She frowned. “However, in your case the Lady gave explicit instructions."
"What sort of instructions?"
"Mother."
"What sort of instructions, Mother?"
"That for the next fortnight you are to be kept under the strictest confinement. I don't know if we can even take you to the altar for the oath—I'll ask. And guards on the door!” The old hag looked both annoyed and puzzled by that.
"The Filoby Testament!"
Ylla stared. “What of it?"
Eleal had blurted out the name without thinking and wished she hadn't. “It mentions me."
The woman snorted disbelievingly. “And who told you that?"
"A reaper."
Ylla surged to her feet, astonishingly fast for her size. Her thick hand took Eleal in the face so hard she stumbled and fell prostrate on the pallet, her head ringing from the blow and a taste of blood in her mouth.
"For that you can fast a day,” Ylla said, stamping out, slamming the door. Bolts clicked.
The room faced east, offering a fine view of the slate roofs of Narsh. The wall beneath it was sheer, and although the stonework was rough and crumbly, Eleal had no hope of being able to climb down it. It was quite high enough to break her legs. Upward offered no hope either, for her cell was a full story below the cornice—they had thought of that.
Below her lay a paved courtyard, part of the temple complex, enclosed by a row of large houses in high-walled grounds. She could see through the gaps to the street beyond, where people went about their business, enjoying freedom. She could even see parts of the city wall, Narshwater, farms, grasslands. If she leaned out as far as she dared, she could just see the meadow with the mammoth pen.
To north and south Narshflat became Narshslope, rising to join the mountains of Narshwall. She had a fine view down the length of Narshvale. Indeed she thought she could see to the end of it, where sky and plain and mountains all converged. It was a small land and a barren one. She wondered why Joalia and Thargia would bother to quarrel over it.
Later she saw the mammoth train leave and even thought she heard faint trumpeting. She was too far away to make out the people. The mammoths themselves were small as ants, but she hung over the sill for a long time, watching them go.
Farewell Ambria! Farewell Grandfather Trong, you cold, proud man! Farewell Uthiam and Golfren—and good luck in the festival! May Tion keep you.
Remember me.
If she listened at the door, she could hear her guards muttering outside, but she could not make out the words. A choir of students practiced for a while in the courtyard below.