by JDL Rosell
He looked around the commons, hoping no one had seen, but his luck wasn’t so good as that. A woman, thin and still young by her spry step, and a girl of perhaps ten ran through the mist. Each carried buckets, the woman with one in each hand while the girl hugged a single one to her chest, grimacing as it splashed in her face. Their heads were down, though; they hadn’t seen after all.
As Erik studied them for want of anything else to do, he saw it was a better turn of events than he’d first thought, for the woman’s robes were undoubtedly a relict’s. He might have smiled, were the rain not setting his lips to quivering.
They pulled up short when they saw him, a dozen paces from the door, and Erik eyed the relict while she stared back. He hoped her views were as unconventional as her looks. Her hood was thrown back, revealing a curly mess of bark-brown tangles that sprang from her head in a matted bush, and her robe, rather than fastened at the neck, was free around her thin frame, open halfway down her chest, and where the wet cloth clung, it hinted at gentle curves. Her eyes were most telling, green as jade and sharp at the corners, contrasting the common rounder eyes on Erden Isle. Sudenian, like Erik himself. Surely she wouldn’t turn away a fellow infidel.
“Hello,” the woman said. “Not the nicest weather to be standing about.”
“I was thinking the same thing,” Erik said. He leaned against the essent, the very picture of relaxed. “Thing is, Flawed like me have nowhere to go.”
“Ah, a penitent. Then I’ll bet you tried getting past Falna already.”
“Your Falna barely looked me over before slamming the door.” He looked over himself. “Though I suppose I can hardly blame her.”
The woman followed his gaze, the corner of her mouth tweaking. “No, you can’t.”
The girl set down her bucket with a grunt, then looked up at the woman. “I’m wet,” she complained. “Can’t we go inside yet?”
Erik eyed her. She was an unremarkable runt in many ways, and an orphan if she were coming home to an essent. But her hair caught his attention, or rather the one silver streak through the dark red that ran from her left temple. The Mother’s blossom, some called it, but others named it A’Qed’s kiss. Omen or blessing, they were just superstitions to him, but those folk beliefs just might have been enough for this girl’s parents to leave her abandoned on the stairs. There were few limits to what fearful people would do, Erik knew all too well.
“Don’t complain,” the woman said. “And pick up your bucket.”
The girl grumbled but did as she was told, and the relict looked back to Erik. “Come with me. I’ll vouch for you, for whatever that’s worth.”
“'Bashful beggars earn no alms but kicks and hooves and lies,'” Erik began the rhyme.
The woman picked it up. “'The one who waits will find too late he’s naught to eat, and dies.'”
She grinned at him, and he returned it. The way she smiles at me, it makes me almost feel alive again. It was a guilty sort of pleasure, all the more for his unspoken lies.
The girl looked at both of them with a wrinkled nose, then shook her head. “Adults,” she muttered.
“I would appreciate your voucher,” Erik said, “but I have nothing for you in return.”
“Seeing the look on Falna’s face is gift enough for me,” the relict said, smile fading somewhat. “And what should I call you?”
Erik froze, all calmness dissipated. He hadn’t thought of that. Again. “Wil,” he said, grasping at the first name to come to mind.
The relict watched him for a moment, then nodded at the girl. “This is Persey,” she said. “And I’m Tara.”
“Nice to meet you, Tara,” he said to her with what smile he could manage. Then he knelt before the girl, and was startled at the gray her eyes, moody and brewing like a storm over the sea. “And you too, Persey.”
“Hi,” she said back shortly before turning her head aside, expression hard.
Vaguely embarrassed, Erik rose and followed them back to the doors. The plump relict—Falna—appeared at the crack again, and when she saw Tara and Persey, she swung it open. “Hurry in here quick,” Falna said. “A ‘fidel man all bruised and battered tried coming in—”
“Our penitent, you mean?” Tara jerked her head back in Erik’s direction, and he followed quickly on their heels, grinning at the doorkeeper.
Falna’s jaw almost hit the floor. “You—you—” she spluttered. “You can’t allow him in here! I won’t stand for it!” Her robes were white, which Erik knew reflected the relict’s view of herself as flawless in devotion to the Mother. Tara’s own were gray.
“And I shouldn’t stand for whoever pilfers honey rolls at night,” Tara retorted. “We must attend to our own flaws first, don’t you think, sister?”
The round relict flushed, but didn’t back down. “Like as not you’ve brought the Adversary himself in,” she huffed. “Look at him!”
Look at his skin, she meant. Erik just smiled wider as his throat grew tighter.
Tara knew it, too, no doubt having experienced it often enough herself. “We don’t have time for this, Falna,” she snapped. “Persey and I have fish here, and we’ve got to settle Wil in.” Then she turned away from her fellow relict and stalked down the great hall.
“Hi Falna,” Persey said solemnly, then hurried after Tara, bucket bumping against her legs.
The doorkeeper was too overcome to respond. Erik winked at her, then strolled after them.
Though the hall was dark, Erik could see it was nearly as grand as a palace entrance hall. Columns of bright sandstone ran to the high ceiling above, the tops lost in shadow. Windows ran nearly up to the eaves on either side of them, the tops allowing in slivers of dim light over heavy drapes, cast so as to keep out A’Qed’s influence that was said to come with storms. That little light was fragmented into many colors, coming in through stained glass windows. Even in a small fishing town, no expenses had been spared to furnish the relicts’ residence.
“Does this place have a name?” Erik asked, his voice echoing slightly.
“Font Amode,” Tara responded. Droplets trailed back from her and the girl as they went. “We’re supposed to be a spring of love and life for the surrounding people, but you can see how well we do with that.” She gave the barest shake of her head before seeming to catch herself.
At the end of the long room was another set of doors, smaller and less ostentatious than the ones outside, with a pair of torches mounted on either side. Tara paused and turned back, still as the hawk before the dive, her eyes leveled at Erik. They were jade, he saw now, a sharp green not common among native-born Vestorians.
“To do penance,” she said, “you have to pass the Senescent’s appraisal. Do you perform the daily rites?”
“Devoutly, sister,” he responded with a mocking bow. In his head, though, he wondered: Is this Senescent the Magpie I’m searching for?
She arched an eyebrow. “As long as you keep that tongue of yours where it belongs, you’ll do fine.” She turned, placed down a bucket, and turned the handle.
Eight
The Senescent's quarters were tucked down several other hallways. After two crossings, Tara directed Persey to take their buckets to the kitchens, a task at which the girl grumbled but still ambled off to complete.
His trepidation mounted as Tara led him beyond, well aware of the meeting’s portent. If someone had the answers he was looking for, it had to be the Senescent. She was easily the most powerful person in the town, and bound to be the best connected as well. And if she wasn’t the Magpie herself, she was bound to know who was.
They stopped in front of a simple, white door. With a look and a nod to him, Tara moved to knock, and Erik held his breath. Her hair was still a wet, curly mess under the limp hood, and her robes were immodestly damp, things he didn’t expect the Senescent would take well to. A moment passed, then the door opened a crack, revealing a adolescent girl’s face framed by a white hood.
“Yes, daughter?” she asked, an edge
to her tone.
Erik was surprised at the label. The girl was young, surely a decade younger than Tara, yet she called her daughter. It seemed arrogance whatever her rank, unless she was somehow, through some twisted joke of A'Qed's, the Senescent herself.
Tara also seemed to know the arrogance from the set of her jaw. “Matron Yelfild—”
“My name is reserved for High Matron Ada’s lips alone,” Yelfild interrupted. “Matron will do for you.”
Tara let out a sharp huff but soldiered on. “This man seeks penance for indulgence of his flaws. I speak on his behalf and request he be judged—”
“What happened to your robes, daughter?” Yelfild interrupted again, looking her up and down with a raised brow. “Did you cast your net for fishermen or fish?”
It was evidently too much to take for Erik’s companion. Leaning close, she whispered harshly, “Fine talk coming from a whore. You ought to remember who saved you from that life.”
The girl’s face flushed, but instead of the outburst Erik expected, she folded away with tears forming in the corners of her eyes. Erik stared at Tara as she pushed open the door. It wasn't hard to figure out what made her tongue so sharp that she cut her fellow sisters—‘fidels were treated the same everywhere—but it did seem a bit harsh. That's harsh? The devilish voice chimed in. What about what you did to the hermit?
Doing his best to ignore the thought, Erik took in the rest of the room. It was small, modest even, compared to the grand entrance hall, though its wealth was apparent in the subtle luxuries. Light intruded on one wall through a paned window, with the Tri-Circle formed in cyan glass, considered the purest of colors for emulating clear seawater in a calm bay. Opposite were shelves filled with books, an astounding amount of books, more books than Erik had ever seen in his life. Even the Crow hadn’t had so many. Just thinking about all the knowledge they held made his head spin. He’d spent his whole apprenticeship in formulaism studying just four, and those had been more than enough for him. The final wall was bare but for a door, unpainted, unstained, and closed. The only furniture in the room was a writing desk, messy with papers, and an austere wooden chair that sat empty.
Erik looked at Tara. She seemed to catch his question but hesitated as he looked at the crying Yelfild. Impatience won over sympathy. “The Senescent’s not here,” Tara noted bluntly.
“Blighted bitch,” the girl spat.
“And you, purporting to be a matron to me.” Tara paced before the unadorned door. “When is she expected back?”
“What if I don’t tell you?” Yelfild asked bitterly, a petulant quiver to her bottom lip. “What if I just make you wait? I can, you know. I can make you wait all night, all week, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”
Tara strode right up to her. “You listen to me,” she said in a low voice. “If you don’t tell me when the Senescent will see us, I’m striding through that door. You know I’m not just talk, so you better think hard about whether you want that or not.”
Erik saw real fear in the girl’s eyes. “No,” she moaned. “Please, she hates being disturbed.”
“Last chance,” Tara warned, backing towards the door, reaching her hand back. “Tell me, Yelfild. When will she be back?”
“I don’t know!” The girl was back to sobbing. “Please, I don’t… You can’t…”
“I can and I will.” Her hand closed over the handle.
“Sister Tara!” Yelfild suddenly shrieked, desperation sparking her anger again. “If you open that door, I—I’ll—I’ll set you to dishes for a week!”
Tara laughed and began to pull it open. Then she leaped back, as if a snake had bitten her hand, and stared at the door. Erik stared, too, as it opened, and the tallest woman he’d ever seen came from behind it.
At least, he assumed she was a woman. She was covered from head to toe in undyed, slate fabric, cascading off of her like a bride’s veil, obscuring all but two oval eyes. Perhaps it was because it was all he could see of her, but Erik found himself drawn in by those eyes. A brilliant cerulean, with pupils large and black, they were like the sky of day and night wound into one. Set back in a surprising amount of flesh for all the sharp angles poking from the folds of her robes, they reminded him of a shellback’s eyes: calm, steady, studying.
And study them all she did, one at a time, for several long moments. No one, not even Tara, said a word as they submitted to the inspection. When the tall woman finally spoke, her words lashed out like orders, as precise and authoritative as any legion’s prior.
“Daughter Yelfild, wipe your eyes and submit yourself to Her Ancient for your penance. Negligence of one’s duty is impermissible, especially in the Servant to the Senescent. We will discuss your future office afterwards.”
The girl’s eyes widened in fear, but she merely responded, “Yes, High Matron,” and left the room, barely a sniffle escaping. But Erik was more thinking about what the Senescent had said: Her Ancient? What in the Void is a fontary’s leader doing in an essent? An Ancient was to a fontary what a Senescent was to an essent; to have both here in Font Amode was redundant. Perhaps she was merely visiting, but it seemed odd for her to mete out punishment if that were so.
The tall woman turned to look down at Tara. “Daughter Tara, you perpetually break ordinance with your state of dress. Or undress, it seems.”
“As you do with your open windows,” Tara responded, and Erik looked over at her sharply. He had thought she waited with the same acquiescence as he and Yelfild, but he now saw it had been the careful watching of the stag as it is stalked by the wolf, waiting for a mistimed pounce to gore it on an antler.
The Senescent looked displeased. Even with her whole face covered, her eyes carried all the necessary movements to portray her mood, and just then they were pursed as he'd thought only lips could be. “Your insubordination is troubling, yet I see in you a desire for explanation. Your faith is weak and filled with cracks. Are you to be blamed for doubt filling them in? I will shed light on this matter, so you may trust. We cover the windows so A’Qed cannot enter and tempt us, yet I am beyond his temptations, and thus leave the shades off to care for my old eyes. Is that explanation enough?”
“Yet he does tempt, High Matron,” Tara continued. Erik wished she wouldn’t. “Pride is the flaw of man, no? And pride in one’s holiness must be the highest hubris of all.”
A personal attack—it couldn’t get any worse. He looked to the Senescent and waited for those twin daggers of eyes to strike, but she showed nothing but careful consideration. After a minute of painful, excruciating silence, she continued. “Tell me of this man.”
Tara’s voice still had a sharp edge, but she seemed calmer. “He’s a bad man, but repents of his ways and requests penance. He indulges no flaw but vulgarity, wit, and good humor.”
The very three characteristics our Senescent seems to lack. No introduction could have put him in a worse light, yet he found himself oddly pleased with the summary.
“I see,” High Matron Ada said. She took a step forward, looming at least a hand over him, and Erik wasn’t a short man. “And his name?”
Erik spoke now. “Wil, madam—er, High Matron.”
The Senescent stared at him long and hard. “And where are you from, Wil?”
“Lienze,” he answered reflexively, hoping the tanner didn’t have the reputation he’d claimed.
“Lienze,” she repeated. “And do you make a practice of choking each other in Lienze?”
His throat tightened, and not only with the anxiety of being caught. He felt the choking pressure of the lurcher's hands wringing his neck like a chicken all over again. “An unlucky encounter with a lurcher, High Matron, though I was lucky enough to escape with my life.”
“Luck,” the matriarch repeated. “Yes, an infidel might see divine workings in such vulgar terms. Luck.”
Do I have fek for brains? He could have smacked his forehead at the blunder, but settled for a weak smile.
The Senescent straightened a
nd turned away from them and walked around to her desk. “By all means, Daughter Tara, if you wish to purify any man off the street, do bring him in. I am sure your instruction will be very beneficial to his purification.”
Erik blinked at her. He’d received penance despite everything. When he realized he was staring, he averted his eyes. “Thank you, High Matron,” he muttered.
Tara nodded at him and turned back to the hallway without another acknowledgement of the leader of the essent. Uncertain as how to depart, he looked at the Senescent. The matriarch was bent over the desk, quill in hand, ink dripping onto a paper, no longer looking at him, so he followed Tara with the barest bow. Yet as he turned away, he still had the odd feeling her shellback eyes were settled on his back, watching, calculating.
He walked a bit faster, sure he knew where his Magpie hid: in plain sight.
Nine
“You have quite the reputation,” Erik said to Tara when he caught up to her. The Senescent’s implication of instruction had slowly dawned on him.
Her pace quickened ever so slightly. “They all claim to be virgins.” She looked at him. “I don’t.”
“Ah.”
“I’m a widow.” She gave him a sidelong look.
“Of course.” Then, realizing how that sounded, he said, “I mean, I’m sorry.”
“It’s been three years. Long enough that sorry isn't necessary."
Erik swallowed. “I lost my…” What is Ilyse to me? he wondered. What has she ever been to me? “I lost the woman I loved three years ago as well.”
Erik’s wooden soles slapped on the stone floor, and Tara’s wet leather shoes squished as they both considered the past.
“Nautded?” she asked quietly.
Ilyse’s bruised and bloodied face flashed before him, followed by the other dead faces he’d seen recently: the hermit’s lurcher, head crushed to pulp; the hermit, throat spilling glowing liquid; the lurcher in the woods; Vodrun. That devilish voice taunted him: How long before you kill your next victim? How long before you kill this poor, innocent relict? You’re the monster that killed Ilyse now, and you know what lurchers do.