“So less of us will be chosen,” Gaije said, and the two studied him sharply, the only one in the room who hadn’t been married. Males were permitted to marry once, and those were a lucky few.
Lehomis patted Gaije’s shoulder. “I’ve seen this before, lad, nothin’ to worry about. They don’t take wives unwillingly. They all have a choice. The difference is, in this situation, the males of the Tinharri Clan will be allowed to ask for our females’ hands.” His eyes trailed to the ceiling and he lifted his chin as if swallowing was difficult. “But then again, the same nonsense caused the Civil War of Two-hundred-and-two.” He ended his statement, rubbing his forehead. “The saehgahn get mad about things like this. I guess I’ll have to…talk to my rabble gently. Help them understand.”
Gaije leaned forward into the tight circle they’d formed. “Help them understand what? That a bunch of silky royals from the Tinharri Clan will ride through our village, wooing faerhain we’re not allowed to look in the eye for more than two seconds?”
Lehomis opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Trisdahen shushed Gaije.
“Lad,” Lehomis said, “we have plenty of widows, and the Desteer are as eager to entice reproduction as anyone. If we lose a few, they’ll pressure the widows to remarry. The Desteer might even take charge of political relations—in fact, I’m certain they will—and demand the royals take our widows instead. This is why we have Desteer. The saehgahn are hot-headed, like you, but the Desteer are quick and conniving.”
Gaije huffed. “Having them take our widows would still leave some of us unmarried.”
“Please, Gaije,” Trisdahen said. “Don’t repeat what we’ve said. Let Grandfather handle it. He’s been around much longer than us.”
The three fell silent, accentuating the sound of Mhina’s steady breathing and the crackling fire. Lehomis stood and went to the hearth for a teacup, the end of his braid bouncing off the backs of his heels.
Trisdahen cleared his throat, but Gaije barely noticed, for his eyes were staring through the little archway toward the bedroom again, where Anonhet conversed with his mother. Would she talk about him at all?
“Gaije.”
“Yes, Father?” He didn’t mean to speak to his father with such gloom in his voice.
“There’s more to say.” He turned back to listen and found Trisdahen’s face long, his eyes rounded. “When I said the queen is also the Grand Desteer, it’s the reason for my honorable discharge.” He smiled. “She took the throne a few months ago. As she acquainted herself with us, her new guard, she learned I was the only one married. She said, ‘Why are you here, then?’ Days later, she announced my honorable discharge. She let a few others go too because she’s merging the White Moths with the White Owls. She didn’t want any married saehgahn in her entourage.”
Trisdahen reached into the pocket of his tunic and brought out a new folded letter. “She sent this to you, for after your naming ceremony.”
Gaije opened it, revealing a huge swirling script that read, “HONORABLE SUMMONS.”
“She wanted me replaced with a saehgahn equally as fine. You’re being drafted.”
Gaije’s head went light. The rest of the words blurred in his vision, so he remained focused on “HONORABLE SUMMONS,” his eyes tracing the dizzying lines over and over again.
“You’ll go to training for a few weeks,” Trisdahen continued, “and then you’ll go to the palace and receive more specialized training for a year. After receiving your certification, you’ll move inward and receive secret training. You’ll be inducted into the cult of the White Owl, like me. You’ll be kept on reserve, mostly being used when the queen travels. As those in her personal guard die or retire, you’ll eventually be moved to her inner chambers. This is a great honor.”
“What about my caunsaehgahn?”
“The training will be your caunsaehgahn.”
Gaije rubbed his face. Lehomis knelt beside him with a fresh cup of honeysuckle tea and offered it to him. Gaije wanted nothing more than to grab the cup and throw it at the wall. He couldn’t bring his eyes to look at his father anymore tonight.
“Drink this,” Lehomis said, “and go to bed. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
Trisdahen slid his hands under Mhina’s back and knees and stood. “We should all go to bed.” He stepped toward the back rooms. “My wife is waiting, and I haven’t seen her in eight years.”
Lehomis pushed the teacup closer to him. “I’m taking Anonhet home. You’re welcome to my house tomorrow for more tea. She’ll pour it.”
At least with his back turned, Trisdahen couldn’t see Gaije’s hands trembling as he took the cup.
Chapter 7
Her Guardian
I can’t go to the hospital again, Kalea pleaded during her morning prayers to the Creator over and over. Her prayers were answered in the form of a heaping pile of laundry with some extra items from the more feeble and incontinent vestals—a normal part of doing laundry in the convent.
“Sorry, Kalea,” Sister Scupley said. “I’m afraid you’ll have to skip the hospital today. I’ll send someone else in your place.”
Kalea dipped her head to hide her face. “Yes, sister.” Of course she’d miss the hospital, but yesterday had proved the danger lurking in town.
So she went to the courtyard, keeping a slow, contemplative step. She drew water out of the well. The water inside caught light from the sky and winked at her in its playful way after the bucket’s splashing calmed. She tore her eyes away and focused on her task. She poured the water into the big cauldron, which waited over fresh, stacked firewood. Washing the clothes in a tub now, rather than out at the stream, might be better. She could stay locked behind the convent walls for safety. Somehow she’d have to dodge the chores which took her into town. A man who wanted to rape her lurked in town, and the forest hid an elf whose intentions weren’t so obvious.
She lit a fire under the big cauldron with a rush candle bearing a flame from the kitchen and fanned the fire to boil the water. Washing could be a life’s profession. Anyone could do the simple scrubbing and beating work, but not everyone possessed the deeper knowledge of the craft. Kalea had learned a lot from the senior washing vestal here, Sister Gani, enough to make a living doing it as a layperson. Sister Gani was in her seventy-eighth year, though, so Kalea could certainly take her place at this point.
At the end of the day, after the sheets and undergarments were hanging, waiting for the morning sun, she retreated to the dark corridors of the convent to the kitchen for supper. A long prayer of thanks and thoughts for the less fortunate preceded the meal, and then they ate in silence.
Kalea spooned her lentil soup into her mouth in tiny bites to make it last longer. Beside her bowl was set a trencher, baked small with a tiny portion of river fish. She used the quiet hour to thank the Creator a few times over for having this to eat at all, rather than brood about there not being enough of it.
The convent still stored barely enough grain and flour to make trenchers, which they used as plates for the few fish they’d caught in the river. The cook broke one of the trenchers into pieces for the lot of them to share, but the rest she broke for the poor who always waited outside for the leftovers. They didn’t have many leftovers these days, but at least they could all get a bite of a trencher.
Kalea dipped her trencher piece in the water to soften it so she could take a bite. When she’d eaten it down to the size of a large coin, she wrapped the remainder in her handkerchief to keep for later.
During cleanup, the cook handed her the linen bag of trencher pieces, which clacked like wood when shaken, to pass on to the beggars who sat in the dying sunlight, lined against the outer wall of the convent. A few more than usual awaited; the sanctuary in Tintilly must also have minimal leftovers.
Before proceeding into their company, she peeked around the outer wall’s corner to make sure Kemp wasn’t among them, waiting for her like a badger among rabbits. No sign of him, just a load of good folk having to live more rough
ly than others.
“I’m sorry,” Kalea said as she handed the first raggedy person a piece of trencher. “There’s not enough for all of you.” A beggar at the end of the line leaned forward to see past the rest of them as she talked and immediately leaned back.
“Here you are,” she said to the next one. “May the Creator bless you.” She moved down the line, emptying her bag and saying her lines. If she couldn’t go to the hospital, at least she could tend the needy here.
The last beggar against the wall sat a good several feet apart from the rest. Kalea reached into her bag while he waited, twiddling his thumbs, his head hidden under a russet-brown hood. Kalea’s hand found a dusting of crumbs.
“Oh dear, I’m so sorry,” she said. “I’ve run out.” She huffed and cast her pinched eyes over the beggar, biting her lip. How long would this famine last? She shook her head at the thought. It was in its beginning stage. She knelt beside him and opened her belt pouch for the portion of trencher she’d been saving.
“May the One Creator bless—whah!” She threw her hand over her mouth to prevent an oncoming shriek when he took his hood off. “It’s you!”
“Dorhen. My name’s Dorhen.”
“I know. What in this world are you doing here?”
He grabbed her free hand. “Are you all right? Did he hurt you yesterday?”
Kalea closed her mouth, her cheeks heating up. His long hair hid his telltale ears from the rest of the beggars, who glanced over and returned to gnawing on their trenchers. “I needed to make sure you weren’t harmed.”
She jerked her hand away. “How did you know I’d be here?”
He leaned back against the wall, frowning. He must not have cared if the other beggars saw him. “I followed you last night,” he said, pointing his turquoise eyes into the red-blanketed forest. “I wanted to see where you lived. And I wanted to make sure you got home safe.” He slowly dragged his eyes back to hers.
She leaned in, forming her most serious expression to drive the point in. “I can’t talk to you here. But listen: I can’t talk to you at all. You have to go. Go on, as you said you would do before. You were supposed to forget about me.” At the end of her statement, his frown drooped lower and his chest rose and fell heavily. “If you’re smart, and I’m beginning to think you’re not, you won’t go back to town either.”
“But yesterday, you—”
She raised her hand and then took his and slapped the ration piece into it. “Thank you for coming to my rescue yesterday.”
She stood and rushed beside the line of beggars, back to the corner. Before turning the corner, she glanced back. He was gone.
Kalea took the busiest streets to the hospital the next day. Though she had insisted on the large pile of laundry to do, Sister Gani happened to be feeling up to taking care of it. There weren’t many other arguments against going to the hospital she could use besides illness, and she couldn’t fake a fever.
Before heading out, she paused by the confession booth. If Father Liam was in there, she could tell him about yesterday. But…the elf. Should she be going around announcing to anyone how an elf was following her? She’d get in serious trouble if they found out she’d been consorting with one, considering how sneaky and seductive they were known to be. If she lost her virginity in any way, voluntary or not, or if her superiors believed she had lost it, Kalea would never become a full Sister of Sorrow. Maybe if she told her superiors about the danger, they could send a priest to walk with her to and from the hospital. Or the Sanctity of Creation could take legal action against Kemp for his attack… But the elf. Kalea shook her head and walked away from the confession booth.
She sweat, even in the cold spring air, on her way to the hospital. The market opened today, and though she avoided the square, she did happen to pass by Kemp along her way. In the light of day, his hair showed dirty blonde. New, glowing bruises dotted his face. His eyes narrowed on her and he raised two fingers to his ears to indicate elf ears, following up with a shushing finger to his lips.
Kalea ran from the area, from the maniac’s grin. When the large building appeared on the next street, she dashed for its double doors. They slammed behind her, and she leaned against them to catch her breath.
The hospital had emptied out a bit since the other day, especially of wealthy residents. On her way to the kitchen, she passed two men sitting against the wall, murmuring. One rested a rag on his head and the other chewed on an herb the hospital workers gave patients to relieve headaches.
“Did you see the Grey Knights in the square yesterday?” the man with the rag said.
The chewing man responded, “I didn’t. Why were they here?”
“They’re looking for a missing kid from their college. He’s a Sharzian—got exceptionally pale hair and olive skin. A handsome thing, they said.”
“Who is the kid?”
Kalea couldn’t help but slow her pace to eavesdrop.
The first man dipped his rag in the water bucket next to him and returned it to his head. “I don’t know, but he’s important. They’re offering money: six thousand silvers.”
The other man paused in his chewing to whistle. “I haven’t seen a full-blooded Sharzian since my trip to the coast. Them rich folk don’t come out to the country too often.”
“Peel your eyes, man. He’ll be easy to spot.”
Kalea moved on. Farther toward the back of the building, a frightful commotion echoed from one of the side wings. She wandered in that direction, bypassing the kitchen door out of plain curiosity.
A man’s voice roared, stopping Kalea mid-step, and a priest’s murmuring voice filled the pauses between screams. The corridor wound around and descended into a colder, darker underground atmosphere. After a distance, candle sconces lit the way. The hospital staff kept the dead bodies down here to wait in the cold air to be buried. A larger group than last time waited now, possibly some of the poor old folk she had helped feed on her last visit.
She walked between the rows of bodies covered by white sheets toward the back room, where the screams were exponentially louder. A half-open door showed a brighter light where several people gathered in the room.
Kalea nudged the door open a little more. The people stood gathered around a man on a bed. The smell of sulfur and vomit wafted out, and she coughed and hunched over, taking her face away from the open door for a moment. Lying on the bed, the man’s eyes wandered wildly. He lurched whenever he got the chance, but two town guards stood by to restrain him.
“Tie his hands to the posts,” Father Rayum said. “This will get worse as we progress.”
Another priest went around the bed with a piece of chalk to the floor, drawing the flower-like circle of the One Creator.
“This pattern will keep other demons from getting too close and interfering with our rituals,” Father Rayum told the younger priest next to him, an exorcist-in-training. Froth dribbled out of the possessed man’s mouth.
“How could this have happened to him?” the lesser priest asked Father Rayum.
“It didn’t happen recently. He could’ve been living with it for a while, sharing his mind with this demon. In order to cure him, we’ll have to find out what type of demon it is. It’s not a pixie, we know as much from his wildness.”
The young priest shuddered as the possessed man bucked and screamed and slobbered while the guards finished tying him down.
“Thank the Creator it’s a lesser demon,” the young priest said.
“Indeed. Not only do pixies bring a level of sophistication, making the possession hard to spot, but it would mean death for this man. We’d have to burn him.”
Also shuddering, Kalea shrank away from the door and closed it to prevent the noises from bothering the residents above. For the moment, she stood shivering in the cold air. As she walked back through the long rows of dead bodies, one of the corpses’ hands moved under the sheet.
Kalea jumped. “Oh, Creator!” She lunged toward it as soon as the fright wore off. �
�You’re alive!” Kneeling beside the person, she uncovered their head.
“Dorhen.” Her teeth clenched and his name tumbled out as a growl. “You were following me again!”
He smiled, stretched out on the cold floor. “Sorry. What in the world is going on in there?”
She pointed her finger at his face. “Why? I want to know why. What do you want from me?”
His smiled dropped and he sat up. “I’m worried about you.”
“You don’t even know me.”
“But still, I… Yesterday, you were…” He sighed and looked across the room, appearing much like he had yesterday evening with the beggars, as if he himself didn’t know. But he knew. The answer hid somewhere in his slow brain, known or not, and Kalea would find it once and for all, as well as how to get rid of him.
“Listen.” His eyes snapped back to her. “You’re going to walk me home today.” His smile returned in the dim light. His reflective eyes brightened, too. “And you’ll answer, to the fullest, every question I ask you.”
“Gladly.”
“But don’t let yourself be seen.”
He nodded sharply.
“And if I get in trouble again, you’ll protect me.”
“Of course I will.”
Her cheeks heated as she stood. “Hide yourself.”
He reached back and drew up another hood—not the brown hood, but a blue one that also emerged from under his mantle. As soon as the blue hood settled over his head, he disappeared.
Kalea gawked and blinked. He really disappeared. The sheet over his lap remained hovering over thin air before flying off and falling into a bunch on the floor. Disregarding where he now stood or whatever he might do while invisible, Kalea went through the door to start her work.
There was no guessing where Dorhen lurked all day as Kalea did her rounds with the residents. She tried to push him out of her mind, but his eyes touched her like tickles of imaginary feathers in the air. Or at least her imagination did. Walking from here to there, or sweeping the floor, she caught herself looking into shadowy corners for the elf who no doubt waited for her to finish her work, no doubt ready and anxious to carry out her request. The image of his eyes brightening right before his vanishing trick stayed suspended in her memory.
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