The Shewstone

by Jane Fletcher

  Matt sighed. Chasing Eawynn had been so much fun, but complete victory was going to elude her. Up until yesterday, Matt had clung to a hope that she could entice the priestess to her room, and that sometime between coming and going, when Eawynn’s guard was down, she could take a wax impression of the key. Ultimately, Matt was sure she could do it, but would need longer than she was able to wait.

  She would have to fall back on her alternate plan. The game in the Shewstone room had achieved everything she intended. The repository was a joke, and although Eawynn was fighting hard, she could be played so easily. Eawynn was trying to walk her own line, but she tripped at every bump. One slip was all Matt needed.

  The circuit of the atrium reached the forbidden eastern archway. Matt stared into the dark shadows. Forbidden—a word that always caught her attention. It made her palms itch, and now she had a different sort of itch. Eawynn would be through there, sleeping in her lonely bed, praying in a private shrine, or sprawled satiated in the orgy chamber. Matt laughed softly. Having got to know the sisters, she could scratch that one off the list.

  She was going to get everything she needed from Eawynn, but not everything she wanted, and that came close enough to failure to sting. Matt shook her head. You win some; you lose some—a philosophical viewpoint that never sat well with her. Surely she could just let it go? The world had no shortage of attractive women, and once she was out of the temple she could be assured of all the easy conquests she wanted.

  But where was the fun in easy?

  Matt could not remember the last time she had wanted any woman so much. Eawynn had a sharp intelligence and a principled veneer, unlike the normal run of women Matt pursued. The game was racing to the finishing line. When she left the temple she would never see Eawynn again, if she did not count spotting her face among the priestesses while lifting purses in the sanctuary. A galling knot formed in Matt’s chest, a knot that got more tangled each day. Was it just that Eawynn was unfinished business, a race half run, a battle half fought? She turned from the passage. Conquering Eawynn had started as one step in the plan, but Matt had let herself get caught. She could deny it no longer. The hunter had dropped into her own trap.

  Matt slapped her hand on her thigh. This hunter knew how to dig herself out, and she knew where to find plenty of women who could lend her a shovel. She would chalk Eawynn up to experience, a warning to keep in mind for the future.

  The sound of a bell kicked Matt out of her brooding. The priestesses were about to go for another moonlit ceremony. Their idea of nighttime fun. How could she develop a soft spot for anyone who chose such a stupid, joyless life? Matt hurried from the atrium. She could plead sleeplessness as an excuse for wandering around, but would then have no good reason to miss the ceremony. She needed to go to bed and sleep. Tomorrow was going to be a big day.

  *

  The Shewstone Sacrarium was immaculate and had been for the last half hour. Eawynn pressed her hands against the sides of her head in despair at herself and her own stupidity. The point was long past where she could pretend she was hanging around for any reason other than the hope Hilda would visit her again. She was an idiot, not just for indulging forlorn hopes and giving up all claim to self-respect. She was inviting more trouble than she could handle.

  Everyone knew which priestesses had their “special friendships.” The temple rumour mill ground on, night and day, tended by enthusiastic sisters who could add two plus two and get five. Everything was grist for the gossip mill. Who was looking, or not looking, at whom. Who had a quarter hour unaccounted for. Whose nighttime visits to the latrine coincided. Who had suddenly started, or stopped, talking to each other.

  Eawynn rested her forehead against the cold wall. They might be talking about her already, and if not, they soon would. The abilities of some sisters to ferret out the goings on verged on supernatural. She glared at the Shewstone in its repository. “Have you been telling tales on me?”

  A year ago, it would have mattered for her no more than for any other priestess. She would have been free to decide if she wanted to join in with Hilda’s games. As long as she exercised a modicum of discretion, Insightful Sister Oracle and all the other elders would have looked the other way. But now? She was an unwanted embarrassment to the temple, much as she had been an unwanted encumbrance to her father. What chance was there that someone would decide to make an example of her, just as a warning to the others, a reminder of the advisability of being discreet?

  Her father. He had sired her, kept her like an exotic pet, and then discarded her when it suited him. He had consigned her to a life in the temple and then messed it up for her, though to be fair, that last part had been unintentional on his part and had worked out worse for him. Eawynn could almost wish her mother had refused his advances, assuming there had been a choice in the matter for her. Had she been an unwilling victim, defenceless due to her low rank? Or had she been as Eawynn was now, knowing she was being foolish and reckless, but too inflamed with desire to say no?

  Eawynn caught her lip in her teeth to hold back the groan. Often she had wondered whether she looked like her mother, but she had never before thought to ask whether she might be like her. In a few days, Hilda would leave. No matter what might happen between them, at least there would be no bastard as a result, to blame her in the years ahead. As comforting thoughts went, it was decidedly lacking. This time the groan escaped.

  In a short time, the Encomium of the Unfailing Low Tide would begin. Eawynn had wasted her chance to read in the library, or more likely, to stare blankly at a page while her thoughts refused to focus. Either way, moping in the Shewstone Sacrarium was serving no purpose, other than making her feel even worse about herself. Exasperated, Eawynn shoved the cleaning rag into the cabinet and puffed out the lamp. She yanked the door closed with a force only just short of slamming and rammed the key into the lock.

  A soft sound brought her to a dead stop. Eawynn looked over her shoulder. At the other end of Shrine to the Oracle, Hilda stood waiting, leaning against the wall.

  The light was fading as evening approached, but Hilda was prepared. A candle burned in its holder on a shelf beside her, casting a pool of yellow light. Even in the dimness, Eawynn could sense Hilda’s eyes on her, a wolf targeting its prey. The urge to dive back into the sacrarium and hide was all the more absurd, given the way she had been waiting. After a few deep breaths, Eawynn advanced the length of the shrine.

  Hilda pushed away from the wall. “I wondered how long before you’d come out.”

  “I was busy.” Eawynn added lying to her list of sins. “You didn’t want to come into the sacrarium again?”

  “Wasn’t me breaking the rules once enough for you?”

  No. The honest answer, but an inappropriate one.

  Eawynn looked at the exit, willed her feet to move, but Hilda acted first. She placed hands on Eawynn’s shoulders and steered her back into an alcove, trapping her, but not so forcefully Eawynn could not have broken free, had her heart been in it.

  “I…I need to talk to you. Is that all right?” For the first time, Hilda sounded less than confident. The effect was unexpectedly captivating.

  “About what?”

  “Don’t you know?”

  “What?”

  Hilda swallowed visibly. “You know how I’ve been around you. I can’t help myself. From the moment I saw you, you’ve been driving me crazy. I tried staying away, but that didn’t help, especially when I realised you feel something of the same for me. You can’t deny it, can you?”

  Common sense made a last desperate bid to reclaim Eawynn’s thoughts. “What about your husband?”

  “Forget he exists.”

  “You can say that?”

  “He’s never been faithful to me.”

  “But—”

  “But nothing. You’re amazing, Eawynn. Do you know that?”

  “Me?”

  “Yes. You.”

  Eawynn’s heart pounded so hard her body shook in time with it
s beat. Her breath stuck in her throat, denying her speech. Hilda filled her vision; she could think of nothing and no one else. The dimness of the shrine blotted out the rest of creation.

  Hilda’s hands stole around her waist, pulling her in close. Her face burrowed into Eawynn’s neck. Their breasts pressed hard against each other’s. Eawynn could feel Hilda’s heartbeat, matching her own. Shoulders, stomach, thighs, shins—a body length of contact. For a moment, they were frozen in place while Eawynn’s dreams and imagination were put to the test and found inadequate. The physical solidity of Hilda’s body in her arms blew away the mist of fantasy. Eawynn had never, could never imagine a simple embrace would feel so good. The merest hint of Hilda’s lips on her throat, and waves rippled through her, down to her toes.

  Hilda pulled her head back and stared into Eawynn’s eyes, a question hanging on her face. Whatever she saw must have been the answer she sought. Hilda’s lips again brushed Eawynn’s cheek and then moved, slowly but inevitably, to claim her mouth. Eawynn moaned. If not for Hilda’s arms around her, she would have fallen. The kiss grew ever more ardent, ever more forceful. The tip of Hilda’s tongue slid along her lips, requesting entry. Eawynn could deny her nothing. The world reduced to the dance of their mouths. Time no longer existed.

  Until the sanctuary bell pealed across the temple complex, the call to the Encomium of the Unfailing Low Tide. The shock kicked Eawynn back into something approaching sanity. She wrenched herself free from the encircling arms. Hilda stared at her with hurt, bewildered surprise, but Eawynn could not stay to answer or explain. She fled the shrine.

  The evening air outside was cool on her heated face. Eawynn sucked in deep lungfuls. Her heart still pounded, her lips tingled. Her skin was so sensitised the breeze felt like a lover’s caress, like Hilda’s hands.

  From east and west, sisters began to appear, filing through the atrium. She had to join them, to become one of them, but Eawynn was certain the events of the last few minutes must be written on her face, plain for anyone to see. Was it not obvious? Yet no one was looking at her, pointing or staring. The light was fading, and already stars were poking out. Night would be on them before the Encomium finished. Was it just too dark for anyone to spot the change in her?

  Eawynn forced her legs into the stately pace of a priestess, on her way to glorify her goddess. She had to act as if nothing had happened. Emerging into the sanctuary, Eawynn felt something tickle her face. She raised her hand to wipe it. Water. A droplet. Confused for a moment, she looked up at the cloudless evening sky. Not rain, but tears. The blurring of her vision confirmed it. Eawynn lowered her face, praying nobody would notice.

  In the middle of the reflecting pool, the statue of Anberith stared down, as aloof and austere as ever. How would the goddess look on her? Would she forgive her? Was there anything to forgive? This was not a life Eawynn had chosen, not a life she had wanted. All her options had slipped through the cracks between her aunt’s boating accident and her father’s ambition. She had felt despair before, and anger, frustration, and resentment, but never this sort of pain. How much more must she give to the temple?

  *

  The instant Eawynn was gone, Matt grabbed the candle and raced to the rear door. Eawynn had looked so shocked to see her, Matt had wondered whether she would remember to lock up, but habit had carried her through the custodial duties.

  Not that it made any difference. Matt had the key in her hand, lifted from Eawynn’s pocket while they kissed. In fact, Matt’s memory had been the one that nearly failed. She had been so engrossed, she had almost forgotten the reason she was there. Luckily, she had made her move before the bell rang. Matt grinned. Her weakness for good-looking women was something she must learn to overcome, but she hoped to put the lesson off for a little while longer.

  Once inside the windowless room, Matt placed the candle on the table and stepped up to the repository. No expense had been spared. Her examination had told Matt that. The frame was highest quality wrought iron. Its construction was the work of a master craftsman. The open tracery was the perfect blend of strength and beauty, allowing clear sight of the contents, but no weak spots.

  The fine copper lock was delicately engraved with entwined animals and plants and gleamed against the jet-black iron. Matt recognised the type. It was the best, most complex workmanship money could buy, made to order. Still pickable. All locks were, given the right tools and enough time. Right then, Matt had neither. The tools she could have found. The quarter hour it would have taken was an unaffordable luxury. Fortunately, there was another way into the repository.

  If she had time to spare, Matt would have taken a few seconds to laugh. The locksmith undoubtedly did though, back when the commission was received. The whole workshop must have pissed themselves. And knowing they were dealing with fools, the master should have doubled the price. Matt ignored the lock and focused on the three hinges. These were also copper, also shiny, the delicate style marking them as the work of the same master craftsman.

  Polished copper. Beautiful to look at. Soft as shit.

  A six-year-old could have popped the door off. The task scarcely required the small jemmy Matt had hidden inside her knee-high boot. None of the hinges put up any resistance. Within seconds, the door was on the floor and Matt had the Shewstone in her hands.

  The moment of triumph flowed through her. It was as good as sex. Or as good as sex was sometimes, when it was not that good. Memory of Eawynn’s lips batted at the edges of Matt’s enjoyment, spoiling the moment a little, not that she had time to savour it.

  A full examination was something else time did not allow, just the quick, first impressions. The surface was cold and sparkled like granite, but though it felt like stone, the Shewstone was lighter than expected. Was it hollow? Who had made it? When and why? Matt would find out—if someone paid her to do it. However, she could understand why the aura of mysticism attached to the Shewstone. There was something odd about it. Matt could not shake off the strange feeling that the stone knew she was stealing it, and even more strangely, was happy. Or was this so strange? Matt smiled. How many times had she heard merchants’ purses calling to her, begging her to take them?

  Matt left the stolen key behind in the lock and the room door ajar. Light glinted off the dangling chain as she raised the candle to her lips and blew it out.

  In the nearest corner of the shrine was yet another statue of Anberith, her arms raised in a gesture that must mean something to those knowledgeable in holy sign language. In the course of her temple exploration, Matt had discovered the statue stood on a wooden frame. The solid timbers were completely hidden from sight beneath an embroidered cover reaching to the ground.

  Matt lay on her back and slid her head under the staging. Thick timbers angled up to support the statue’s weight from beneath, forming a triangle with the legs and the platform. Matt balanced the Shewstone on one and wedged it in place using jemmy and candle. She scooted out and adjusted the hanging drapes, removing any trace of disturbance.

  Even if searchers lifted the skirt, they would not see the Shewstone unless they did as she had done and stuck their heads underneath. Worse case, and some thorough, conscientious searcher found the stone, there was still no way to link it back to her.

  Matt took a few more seconds for a quick brush down and straightening of her clothes and wig, then she was ready to leave the shrine, easily less than a minute after Eawynn.

  The temple bell was still clanging as Matt slipped through the door. She was just in time to catch sight of Eawynn, turning into the passageway on the other side of the atrium. Dusk was falling and the back of the walkway was in deep shadow. Matt sidled along, unnoticed, while the flow of priestesses slowed to a trickle. These were the latecomers, and their thoughts and eyes were on getting to the ceremony. Matt reached the corner of the western archway, and still nobody had seen her.

  The last clump of women emerged from the domestic quarter. Matt let them get a few yards clear, their backs to her, befo
re she slipped under the arch. She then coughed and hurried back to the atrium, making just enough noise so the nearest women turned to see who it was. Another hostel guest, Rita from Orbeck, smiled at her

  “I was sound asleep. The bell woke me,” Matt confided in a half whisper.

  Rita nodded sympathetically.

  Matt now had four witnesses that she had come from the direction of the hostel, and she had been nowhere near the Shewstone. Most folks’ memories were easy to manipulate. Some might even swear they had seen her leave the hostel. The only person who knew otherwise was Eawynn, and she was unlikely to confess.

  Matt had chosen her clothes carefully. Not just the high boots. The rest of her attire was a little closer fitting than normal, making it easy for everyone to see she was not carrying the Shewstone, nor anything else suspicious. She would need to attend the next few ceremonies, so she could prove she was never alone in the atrium. Fortunately, it should not be too long until the theft was discovered.

  Strategically positioned sisters held torches aloft to light the centre of the sanctuary. The flames reflected off the water. Matt took a spot close enough to Eawynn so their eyes met briefly. A twinge of regret prickled Matt. The kiss had been nice. She would have liked more, but it was not going to happen. She hoped Eawynn would not get into trouble. On the other hand, she hoped Most Revolting Unsightly Sister Orifice choked on her porridge.

  Matt looked at the huge statue towering over all. In the flickering light, it looked as if the goddess was winking. Matt had always known Anberith would see things her way.

  Chapter Four

  Hilda’s lips were butterflies, drifting across Eawynn’s breasts. They brushed the line of her collarbone before nuzzling at the pulse point in her throat. A hint of hard teeth was balanced by the tickling tip of Hilda’s tongue. The hand on Eawynn’s thigh moved higher in its slow advance. She heard herself moan Hilda’s name. Her body was melting from the heat of her desire.