by Shannon Page
“All the gods protect us!” the second priest gasped softly.
“Silence,” Lod hissed, glaring at the man. “It’s doubtless just another lie.”
“You did not know this?” Sian asked, nearly as astonished as they seemed to be. “You have called me several times by name. You seem to know my business.” What kind of bumbling functionaries could have tracked her down without learning such a crucial fact? She did not ask this aloud, of course, hardly wanting to goad Lod into some new display of umbrage.
“If she is cousin to the Census Taker —” began the second priest.
“I said silence!” Lod shouted, whirling on the man. “This is precisely what she wants: to have us eating from her hand. Maybe she imagines she can get a fool like you to let her go.” He turned back to face Sian. “If you are lying to us, you had best tell me now, before I go to check your claim. It will be far, far worse for you once I’ve been put to all the trouble of exposing your lie myself.”
These morons must really not get out much, Sian thought with rising disgust at all the needless suffering she had just been put through. “Please feel free to go ask Escotte yourself, Father Lod,” she replied. “I hope you will convey my greetings while you’re there, and tell him I’ll be by to thank him personally for helping to rectify this small misunderstanding.”
Lod had grown noticeably paler now, but not in anger this time, she suspected. “Very well,” he said stiffly. “I fear we must continue to detain you while this claim is verified, Domina Kattë. I trust you understand.”
“Of course,” she replied.
“Return her to her cell,” he told the priest behind him.
“The same one, sir?” he asked. “If her claim is true —”
“I said, return her to her cell. Question me again, and you may join her there.”
Obviously flustered, the man responded with a clipped bow and came forward to remove the latch around Sian’s waist, glancing up with an apologetic expression.
“I feel bound to remind you,” Lod said as she was led back toward the door, “that political connections, however lofty, are still no defense against a valid charge of spiritual fraud. That question remains to be resolved, regardless of your family.”
“I am no fraud,” Sian said, turning to look him calmly in the eyes. “As you saw yourself. And I mean the Mishrah-Khote no harm nor disrespect. I remain eager to see this unwanted burden lifted. If you can cure me of it, I will cooperate enthusiastically.”
He gave her a nod, looking more weary than offended for the first time since they’d met.
As she was led through the Healing Hall once more, Sian touched her restored fingers, then her ear — not in a healing-power way, but simply in the manner that one does a bruise or injury. Though she doubted there would be any trace remaining by the time she was returned to unfettered possession of her own body.
Despite the air of seeming calm she had retrieved, she was still struggling to catch her breath and steady her pounding heart when they arrived back at her dark cell.
Such things should not be happening to a grandmother.
Arian des Chances swept through the Factorate House’s pillared maze. Her clothing, hair, and cosmetic mask this morning were all designed to project maximum status and power. Unfortunately, the dress she had chosen was proving more confining than she’d realized. Too late to change that now. She took deep measured breaths as she walked, cultivating as much calm as she was able to. For all the years of effort she had made to play nice with Alizar’s self-important priesthood, the Mishrah-Khote had never liked their Factor’s foreign bride. But, oh, she was sick with worry for her son. She had heard about the stories being passed on Alizar’s streets: that Konrad was dying of the crab disease. But that was not what these damned priests were telling her. It might be this, my lady. It could be that. A little longer, and we should be able to determine … His condition is quite grave, of course, but we are sure that with the proper treatment … Every day, Konrad seemed further from this world, and she was tired of waiting for answers.
Arriving at the Frangipani Conference Chamber, she nodded to the uniformed Manor Escort waiting there. “He is inside?”
“Just as you requested, my lady,” he replied, pulling the door open for her.
As she strode into the sunlit room, the Mishrah-Khote’s most senior priest rose to greet her with hands outstretched and an obsequious smile, his heavy robes gleaming with ornamentation and smelling faintly of sandalwood. “My Lady Factora-Consort, how may I be of service?”
“Thank you for coming, Father Superior,” she said coolly, then took a seat in one of the large carved teakwood chairs by the marble fireplace.
“If it pleases you, my lady, ‘Father Duon’ would be entirely sufficient.” The father returned to his chair, facing her across a small table. He was a substantial man — not fat, precisely, but with none of the ascetic leanness Arian had noted in the more junior priests.
“Very well then, Father Duon.” She was well acquainted with this game. If he were not ‘Father Superior’ here, it would be easier for him to sidestep the fact that she was ‘Factora-Consort,’ officially his superior. But such trivialities hardly mattered in the absence of any audience, and perhaps the man would be more helpful if indulged a bit. “I’ve asked you here because I wish to know your opinion of my son’s current condition.” Though Duon had not been treating Konrad personally, all of her son’s actual practitioners would have been reporting to this man. Meeting with him should be tantamount to speaking with them all at once, and better still because, unlike them, he would not be able to put her questions off by claiming need to consult superiors first.
“My lady,” Duon said, “I assure you, there is no matter of greater concern to me — or to anyone in Alizar — than that of your son’s health. Any smallest development in regard to his care or treatment is brought immediately to my attention. But I must confess that without having examined the boy myself, I feel unequipped to tell you much more than I’m sure the healers attending him have already conveyed. If you would like me to go see him now, I might be more able to —”
“Father Duon,” she interrupted, already losing patience despite herself, “in your expert opinion, from all that is reported to you, does Konrad seem headed toward recovery or not?”
Father Duon spread his elaborately beringed hands, as if to ask how such a question could be answered. “From what our finest healers have reported to me, my lady, he is a boy of exceptionally strong constitution, admirable persistence, and powerful will, who seems, at present, to be stable at the very least. I have every hope that he will turn the corner soon, and —”
“Every hope founded in what precisely?” she snapped, unable to stand even one more word of such vague reassurance. She and her husband had been paying this flock of holy charlatans a fortune for months now. Where were these unnamed gods they charged so steeply to intercede with? Where were all these miracles they peddled so smugly? “Every day his fever is a little higher, his color a little grayer, his voice thinner, his weight lower. He looks like a bundle of sticks. He’s started losing hair! Have they reported this to you? Where in all of this, exactly, do you find cause for hope? I need some clear, specific answer to this question, yet your finest healers give me only the same thin gruel of seemingly gratuitous optimism that you offer me now. If you possess some better answer, please tell me what it is. If you do not, then stop patronizing me and just tell me that … he’s … going to die.”
She fell silent, needing all her remaining strength and focus just to keep from bursting into tears. So much for veils of diplomatic calm. All her discipline was failing; a rare and terrifying event in itself. After so many years of false cordiality and careful political waltz, she and Duon gazed at each other now like two scorpions in a bottle. She wondered just how candid things might finally get here, and found herself suddenly unable to care anymore.
“My Lady Consort,” Duon said, shifting in his chair, “you
r distress is entirely understandable. What mother would not feel as you do? But the healing powers we possess come not from ourselves, but from the gods. We give our entire lives to service as their conduits, but we may dictate outcomes no more than you can. I have faith in the gods, and in your son’s eventual recovery, but I must wait, as must we all, to learn what they will do.”
“Have you ever spoken with these gods of yours?” Arian asked. “Face to face, I mean? I would pay a great deal more than we’ve already given you to speak with one of them myself. Can they be summoned?”
The priest looked shocked. “Lady, surely … You are overwrought.”
“Am I?” She felt helpless to staunch the flood of rage rising within her. “Where I come from, Father, the gods are no longer hidden behind mortal conduits. They appear in person, to exercise their will — for better or for worse — out in the light where all can see. If your shy gods can do nothing more to heal my son, perhaps I should use our remaining funds to petition one of my own nation’s more visible deities for help.”
It was a ridiculous, even childish thing to say. Initially drawn, somehow, by the mad girl Green, the gods of the Stone Coast appeared when they would, intervened as they chose, and vanished again just as abruptly — though not before leaving great swaths of turmoil and destruction in their wake, as often as not. Arian had spoken, in her youth, with people who had seen it happen with their own eyes, but she knew as well as they would that no amount of wealth or prayer could bend a god to someone else’s bidding. Still, she was so deathly tired of humoring these impotent thieves and liars. The giant ruins scattered all about her husband’s island kingdom might suggest that there had once been gods in Alizar, but she felt certain that if even one such still remained here, it would have stricken all like this oily priest dead centuries ago for such empty presumption.
“That would be most unwise, my lady,” said Duon. “For yourself, your husband, and your son.”
“Do you threaten me, priest?” Arian hissed, certain there was nothing left to save between them now. “Will you produce one of these gods who cannot be moved to save a child’s life then after all, just to punish his mother?” Whatever she and Duon had agreed to call themselves at the beginning of this meeting, he knew as well as she did that her power and authority exceeded his considerably, and for all these years of polite pretending, would dislike her no more after this encounter than he had all along. They’d just be able to admit it finally, which might even make him easier to manage.
“I threaten nothing,” Duon grated. “I but warn you, Lady Consort, that challenging a thousand years of Alizar’s spiritual tradition and conviction will not endear you to your husband’s people — especially in such times as these. You are surely as aware as I of the growing discontent already brewing in this city’s streets. I would not stir that ant’s nest carelessly.”
“That unrest has not sent our people running to your priesthood either, has it, Father?” she parried, unwilling to let him think her so easily cowed. “I’m told the marchers answer to this so-called Butchered God’s priest these days — not to you and yours. His god was visible, at least. How do you suppose our people might react to the arrival of a living god, summoned by their Factor rather than by the Mishrah-Khote? A god that could be seen and heard without such costly intercessors.” Let him wonder if it could be done, she thought with bitter satisfaction. A man like this could know nothing of gods anywhere, and still have so little fear of them.
“Our gods have never stooped to idle show as yours do, it would seem, but I think you’ll find that they protect Alizar and her people quite effectively from outsiders, as the dead god recently washed ashore here may well have learned, to his dismay. You may wish to ponder that before attempting to summon any more vainglorious tulpas from your homeland.”
So, he did suppose it possible. The ignorant fool. She just managed not to spoil things by laughing. Not that she had anything to laugh about, of course. She hardly dared imagine how Viktor would react when she confessed her dreadful conduct here to him. Shying from such thoughts, Arian noticed an uncertain, calculating look cross Duon’s face, as if he too, perhaps, weighed the possible consequences of this exchange.
“As chance would have it,” he added in a slightly more conciliatory tone, “I was informed, just last night, of a rather remarkable new healer recently emerged among us. I have not had time to evaluate this new prodigy myself, and have unavoidable business on Home for the remainder of the day. Tonight, as you surely know, I am dining with the Factor, here. But I will make that assessment my first priority upon returning to the temple afterward. Who can say, my lady? Perhaps the gods we serve have already addressed your concern by sending such a talent to us at this moment. If you wish, I will send a messenger to you in the morning with the results of my inquiry.”
“I would appreciate that, Father Duon. Immensely.” She could not prevent the tiny pang of hope that leapt up in her breast, though she was highly skeptical of this suddenly produced, and absurdly convenient, bit of news. To hide her own confusion, she rose from her chair and walked to one of the room’s elaborate, teak-framed windows, pretending to gaze at the manicured grounds below. A peacock strutted across the lawn, tail flared in preening display. “Thank you for your understanding, Father. I’ll not keep you any longer, then.” With that, she glided from the room without waiting to hear what if anything else he might have to say.
Stupid, stupid, stupid! she berated herself silently as she fled the room. It was all she could manage not to break into a run. Away from what she had just done. Away from the Factorate House itself, from her hopelessly unwelcomed and isolated existence here, from Konrad’s dreadful illness, and her husband’s insoluble problems — let alone Alizar’s. Only when she’d reached her private chambers and slammed two sets of doors behind her did she allow herself to breathe again — to gasp, in fact — for air.
Drawn, clearly, by the sounds of Arian’s arrival, Lucia appeared from within her own small quarters there. At first sight of Arian’s obvious distress, her blue eyes went wide and she came rushing forward. By the time she arrived to take Arian’s hand, there were tears leaking from Arian’s eyes.
“Is it … Has Konrad …?” Lucia whispered.
Arian shook her head, further angered with herself for this self-indulgent little scene — added to all her other lapses of the past half-hour. “I’ve just been the biggest fool, Lucia!” she groaned, still weeping reprehensibly.
“Oh! Certainly not,” Lucia cooed, putting an arm gently around Arian’s waist, and guiding her toward a set of chairs beside the windows. “There is no less foolish person in all these islands than yourself, my lady.”
At that moment, it hurt Arian just to hear my lady from Lucia’s lips. They had been practically sisters since childhood. That was why Lucia had agreed to come here all those years ago when Arian had left Copper Downs to wed Viktor. As had Maronne, off, at this moment, watching over Konrad. This place had put my lady even between herself and such close friends. “Why did I ever think I could be happy here?” she asked as they sat down together.
“Oh, now, my lady —”
“Please! No more my lady, Lucia. Not here in my own chambers. Not now. Can no one ever just call me Arian anymore? Am I no longer allowed a name?”
Lucia gazed at her quizzically. “Very well then, Arian, my love. Since I am invited to be forward, I would remind you that you have been happy here. I have seen it with my own eyes. Many times. Watching you look after Viktor. We both know you love him. I’ve seen the delight you take in your son’s inquisitive mind and tender heart. I have watched you throw yourself with something very like gleeful abandon into caring for the people of these islands — in ways no one else I’ve known here seems to do. And I’ve no doubt you will be happy here many times more in years to come. The air in Copper Downs never smelled of flowers like this, even in spring, did it? In how many other lands does summer rule eternal, and winter never come?”
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sp; “I do not care how the air smells, Lucia,” Arian said wearily. “There are troubles which cannot be covered with perfume.”
“What has happened to put you in such a state?”
“I have just openly declared war on the Mishrah-Khote — to the Father Superior’s face — and at the very moment when my son’s life may depend on their good graces.”
Lucia’s comical expression of astonishment might have made Arian laugh if there’d been any room left for laughter in her world just then. “Surely … you exaggerate.”
Arian shook her head. “I called him and his priesthood frauds — or as close as makes no difference.” She realized she needed this rehearsal before going to confess it all to Viktor.
Lucia shook her head. “Well, it’s long past time someone said it, I suppose. A dose of truth can only do those pompous mummers good.”
“Oh, Lucia, no, it can’t,” Arian protested. “Open conflict with the Mishrah-Khote is all Viktor needs right now. I’m supposed to help him — not hasten his demise!” Knowing that she mustn’t stop until she’d said all of it aloud, Arian took one more deep breath. “I threatened to divert the funds we’re paying them to summon gods from Copper Downs instead … Since their gods can’t seem to help Konrad.”
Lucia almost laughed. Arian saw it come and go, just before her face went slack with realization that her mistress wasn’t joking. “Oh my,” Lucia murmured. “That … may have been somewhat … overplayed.”
“I think he believes it may be possible.” Arian sighed. “Which means there will be even more loss of face involved — for both of us — before all this is over.” She stood up, feeling short of breath again. “I must go speak with Viktor before any of this reaches him some other way. Before he dines with Duon tonight, we must decide how best to distance him from what I’ve done. Please, Lucia, find me something looser to wear. Something more modest — that I can breathe in.” She took a swipe at her drying tears, and the hand came away smudged with kohl. “And help me remake my face. Any chance that Viktor might still listen to me now will vanish altogether if I go there looking this deranged.”