9780981988238

by Leona Wisoker

  Juric opened his eyes and smiled at her.

  “They are safe,” he repeated, then doused the lantern. She heard him sliding the panels near him open, and a chill breeze filtered in through the latticed windows.

  “He will not harm them. Sleep.”

  She twisted her lips in a silent snarl, then sighed. He clearly had no intention of telling her anything else; but his advice made sense. She didn't have anything else to do, and her head still felt thick with exhaustion. As she stretched back out, he draped a thick blanket over her. It occurred to her then that she still didn't have any clothes on. For some reason, that didn't bother her at all.

  Dawn had just begun to streak pale colors across the dark sky when they came to a halt. Unable to sleep, Alyea had finally taken refuge in an aqeyva trance. The shift in movement shook her out of the meditation; she opened her eyes and looked at Juric.

  He leaned forward and laid her robe across the foot of the bed, then stood.

  “Dress and come out when you're ready, ka-s'a Alyea,” he said. He offered her a deep bow, an odd maneuver in such a cramped space, before leaving.

  She took a deep breath, reaching for the calm from the aqeyva trance, but it had shattered beyond recovery. Her whole body seemed filled with a buzzing tension: not quite anxiety, not quite expectancy. She'd passed one test; would she pass another, and one more after that?

  She pushed the blankets aside and slipped the robe over her head. Juric had called her ka-s'a: honored lady. It meant progress: she'd earned status in his eyes at least. She held to that thought as she stepped out of the carriage.

  Juric and the comisti were nowhere in sight. A chunky spire of worn rock towered before her, easily two hundred feet high and almost that wide. Two tunnel openings were visible from where Alyea stood; one seemed hardly large enough for a child to crawl through, while the other stood wider and taller than a large man's reach.

  A woman stood in the wider tunnel mouth, watching Alyea. She looked to be shorter than Alyea, unless distance deceived, and considerably rounder. She wore a robe of either deep green or black; hard to say in the still-dim light. When she saw Alyea looking at her, she lifted a hand in an unmistakable beckoning motion.

  Alyea stopped an arm's length from the plump woman. Up close, the robe color proved a deep, rich green. Probably past childbearing age, the woman had dark hair marked with the distinctive iron grey streaks of an aging deep southerner, and her angular face held a network of thin lines. She studied Alyea with dark, lively eyes; after a moment, her sober expression split into a wide smile.

  “Welcome to the Qisani,” she said in a thicker, more musical accent than Alyea had ever heard before. “Please follow to me.” She started walking away as Alyea puzzled out what had been said.

  Alyea hurried after the woman, catching up in a few swift strides.

  “No need to run. I do not move so fast. You could take nap and still catch up.” The woman laughed, the sound bouncing rich and full from the curved stone walls around them.

  Alyea slowed her pace and looked around as they walked. Just past the entrance, the tunnel took a sharp turn to the right and narrowed briefly. Sturdy doors leaned loose against the wall before the turn. They looked just the right size to wedge into the tunnel as a barrier; Alyea remembered tales of skin-shredding sandstorms in the deep desert and shivered.

  The walls around them held few tool marks, as if mostly blasted through by years of sandstorms. Alyea glanced back over her shoulder, wondering how often the storms came.

  Lamps were set every few feet. Alyea paused briefly to examine one: it seemed a simple oil lamp, a rough, lumpy glass globe set in a sturdy iron bracket; but bright green liquid showed inside, and the flame burned whiter than any she had ever seen.

  She put her question about that aside with all the others; one day, she promised herself, she'd sit down with a native and twist his arm as hard as she could until she had everything answered.

  Ahead, the passage opened into a wide room. Alyea followed her guide into the room and stared, mouth open in unabashed shock. A deep pool of water filled most of the room. Trays of plants floated at the edges, supported by some sort of inflated bags. Alyea recognized some of the herbs, but most of the plants were foreign to her. More than one bore brightly colored flowers. Wide stone benches lined the walls of the room, some with thick, colorful cushions on them. The room felt warm and humid, and seemed empty of other people.

  Light without a source filled the room; looking up, Alyea noticed several slanted openings in the ceiling and the gleam of mirrors high above. That had to be Sessin's craft; she'd heard of such things in tales of what the palace had once been. The s'iopes had long ago made sure to smash all such “demon-spawned” things in Bright Bay beyond recovery.

  Some people had said, very quietly, that “demon-spawned” meant anything Wezel or his priests did not understand.

  Alyea took another long look at the room, marveling, before focusing her attention on the woman.

  “This is the ishell,” the woman said, looking around with a satisfied air. “Do you need to empty your bladder?”

  “Yes,” Alyea said.

  The woman pointed to the opposite side of the room and politely turned her back. Alyea moved around the edge of the pool and found a chamber pot that seemed to have been carved from solid rock. She lifted the heavy lid carefully, holding her breath against the expected stench; but the pot looked as clean as if it had never been used. A large pile of clean moss, beside the pot, had an obvious purpose. When she finished, she set the lid back on the pot and walked back to join the woman.

  “Refresh yourself,” the woman said, indicating the pool of water.

  Alyea hesitated. This didn't seem like a common bathing room, somehow; it felt like a place for sacred ceremonies, with chanting, drumming and prayer. Dunking her whole body in seemed disrespectful. She settled for kneeling at the edge and dipping her hands in, with a silent moment of gratitude for the presence of so much water in such a dry place. She wiped her damp hands over her face and stood, turning to face her guide again.

  The woman nodded, seeming pleased. “You are cautious. That's good. Water is to honor. Even the water you passed will be used for curing lizard skins. Nothing is wasted here.”

  She seemed to expect a reply, but Alyea couldn't think of one.

  “Come,” the woman said after waiting a few moments, and turned to leave the room. Alyea followed her, increasingly confused; had she failed the test already?

  Her guide turned down a side passage that Alyea hadn't noticed before, probably because it slanted sharply back towards the entrance. This passage also led steeply down; rough ridges had been carved in the floor to improve footing. The lamps they passed sat in deep alcoves and gave off a more muted light than the ones by the main entrance.

  No other passages seemed to branch from this tunnel, but Alyea stayed too busy watching her balance and footing to look around. At last the slope leveled out, and the tunnel widened into a cavern: man-made this time, with smoothed-over chisel marks all over the walls.

  A large, curved table took up half of the room, with matching benches arranged on either side. Four women in plain white linen robes sat on the benches, eating what looked like stew from small bowls. A large black pot, identical to the one Juric's slaves had used, sat to one side, supported on a thick metal tripod over a small fire pit. Only faintly glimmering coals remained beneath, but steam still rose from inside the pot.

  “Sit,” the plump woman said. “I will get you food.”

  Alyea thought about refusing; she'd had enough of the spicy stew already. But it seemed rude, and she might need the nourishment, so she nodded and sat down near the other four women. She picked a spot carefully, not too close to be intrusive, not so far away as to seem unsociable; they looked up at her, offered bright, friendly smiles, and went back to eating without a word.

  “They are under vow of silence,” the plump woman said, returning with a bowl and wooden s
poon. She set them on the table in front of Alyea and moved to sit across from her, exchanging nods and smiles with the others.

  “Why?” Alyea asked, hoping it wasn't a rude question, and prodded at the stew with her spoon. She couldn't see any cactus peppers, and the stew looked and smelled different than Juric's had; she risked a bite.

  It tasted creamy rather than sharp, the vegetables soft and the broth thick. Not long ago she would have thought it bland; now she thanked the gods it didn't have cactus pepper in it.

  “They have taken shelter with Ishrai for crimes,” the woman said readily. “They do not speak until they fill term of service.”

  Alyea shifted uncomfortably. It seemed tactless to speak about the women as if they weren't there, but none of them seemed the least bit offended.

  “It is all right,” the woman said, catching her discomfort. “They would say to you themselves, but they are not allowed. Ask me, ask anything.”

  “Juric told me about the comisti,” Alyea said. “I assume this is fairly similar.”

  “In many ways, yes,” the woman said. “These women are called ishraidain, and they serve the Qisani until released.”

  Alyea sorted through questions carefully. Whether this conversation served as a test or just a friendly chat, she didn't think she'd be granted unlimited time for questions. Each one had to count.

  “What is the Qisani?” she said at last.

  “This,” the woman said with a broad sweep of one thick arm. “This marvelous, wonderful place. Aerthraim dug out many rooms for us, Sessin gave us glass lamps and oils, F'Heing and Darden have given herbs and plants. All Families, even lesser ones, donated something. All Families support, tithe every year, keep us sustained. This rock has always been sacred place. Conclave gave it to Callen of Ishrai as haven, long time ago, many years ago.”

  After Juric's silence, this woman almost overwhelmed Alyea's tight nerves.

  The woman sat smiling at her contentedly, completely at ease, and said, “I am sorry I do not introduce myself or ask your name. I know to you northerns that is rude. We do not use names here. Only ishai-s'a is allowed to use names. She will be here soon.”

  Alyea took that to mean the woman in front of her wasn't the Callen who would be testing her. Her tension eased sharply, and she turned her attention to the remaining stew with far more appetite.

  “It is good to see someone enjoying stew so much,” the woman said. “We have it almost every day, and so it becomes dull.”

  “I'll take anything without cactus peppers in it right now,” Alyea said.

  “Oh. . . .” The woman looked dismayed, then puzzled. “But it does have cactus peppers.”

  Alyea stopped eating immediately and poked with the spoon through her bowl again, searching. “I don't see any.”

  “We chop up fine,” the woman said. “Oh, I understand. Your comiitaska is from Shakai region. They cut cactus peppers in strips, and leave inner membrane on. That is where heat lives.”

  Alyea nodded, relieved. “Thank you. I was in tears when I bit into one of those strips, but he just dropped one in his mouth and ate it like it was nothing.”

  “Shakain do not think a meal is good unless they burn their mouths,” the woman said. “And they actually like perocce water.” She shuddered. “Tastes very bad. Most people do not drink it unless they have to.”

  “He had something he called perroc-s'etta,” she said. “Is that. . . .”

  Stifled giggles stopped her question. The women around the table stared at her, smothering their amusement behind their hands. The youngest of them turned bright red. The guide rattled off something in the desert tongue to the women, and they dropped their hands and turned their attention back to their food, looking rebuked.

  “Do not say that in public,” the guide said, returning her attention to Alyea. “Is crude, is rude word. Let me think how it would translate for you.” She thought for a moment, then said, “Perroc is cactus; s'etta is male . . . fluid. Do you understand?”

  Her stomach lurched. “Yes,” she said, swallowing hard. “Unfortunately, I do.”

  The guide looked surprised for a moment, then shook her head violently. “No, no,” she said, looking frustrated. “It is only from a cactus, but the Shakain name translates that way. There is not anything mixed in.” She made a face, as if disgusted at the thought.

  Alyea breathed a sigh of relief. “Why do they call it that?”

  “The Shakain are very male,” her guide said. “They celebrate men, do you understand? Everything men. Very unusual for a Shakain to take the path of Comos. Comos is not male, is not female. Callen of Comos must to be . . . neutral. Not sex. Not. . . .”

  She grimaced and made a motion with one hand like scissors opening and closing. “Do you see?”

  Alyea stared at the woman, horror-struck. “They have to be castrated?”

  “Yes, yes, that is the word,” the woman said, cheerful again.

  “Women too?”

  “No, no,” the woman said, waving her hands. “Women understand balance better than men. But they have to be past the time of blood to go out in the world. Younger women stay with their, with their. . . .” She grimaced, shaking her head. “I cannot translate it.”

  “With their teacher and community,” a new voice said from behind them.

  “Yes,” the woman said, and bowed her head. “My thanks, ishai-s'a.”

  “And mine to you. S'a Alyea, if you would come with me?”

  Alyea stood, studying the woman who had just entered the room.

  The ishai-s'a stood easily a foot taller than Alyea. A thick braid of dark hair, pulled forward over her left shoulder, reached to her stomach. Her face had the angularity of an old desert line, but Alyea couldn't place which one. In contrast to the guide, this woman looked as if she didn't have any extra fat on her body, other than in the generous curves that her thin robe did absolutely nothing to conceal.

  Alyea remembered a Bright Bay saying: A woman to make a eunuch cry This woman, without making a single seductive movement, fit that description perfectly. Alyea wondered if that was why she stayed hidden away in the middle of nowhere: surrounded, presumably, only by women.

  The tall woman waited patiently, smiling; Alyea realized she'd been staring. “My apologies, ishai-s'a,” she murmured hastily, dropping her gaze. She could feel a flush starting to climb across her face.

  She heard a series of choked noises from behind her that could have been laughter.

  “No, s'a Alyea,” the tall woman said, “you have not earned the right to call me that yet.” Her dark stare moved past Alyea to the table beyond. The sounds from the other women stopped short.

  “Gods,” Alyea said under her breath. She felt fumbling and hopeless, afraid to even speak now. “I'm sorry.”

  “You only repeated what you heard, and that was a word you should not have heard yet,” the tall woman said, still staring past Alyea at the now-quiet women. “You will learn. Come with me.”

  She led Alyea back to the ishell and motioned her to sit on one of the benches. Eyeing the stone surface, Alyea chose one with a cushion. The woman drew a curtain across the doorway; it looked like hundreds of rough glass beads, strung on individual lines, and settled in place with a gentle chinkling noise, swaying slowly for some time.

  The tall woman moved to sit beside Alyea, turning herself sideways, and sat cross-legged; Alyea copied the movement, careful to keep space between so their knees didn't touch. The woman's presence was close to overwhelming; not sexual, exactly, but powerful. Alyea felt as if she sat within reach of a blazing fire that produced all the impact of heat without burning her flesh.

  “You may call me ka-s'a-ishrait. That translates to 'honored Callen woman of Ishrai,'” the woman said. “If that is too long, simply 'ishrait' will serve.” She smiled. “The other term means 'sister under Ishrai.' It should not have been said in your presence; you do not bear our mark. If you pass your blood trial, you may use that term; not before.”
/>   “I'm sorry,” Alyea said again.

  The ishrait shook her head. “Apologize once. If your words are not accepted the first time, they will never be accepted. It is a weakness to apologize many times.”

  Alyea nodded.

  The woman studied her for a moment, seeming to deliberate, then said, “You are a problem, s'a Alyea. Do you understand that? No. I can see you don't.” She sighed. “The blood trials are not a short process. The trial for Comos alone can take weeks to months; you went through it in less than two days. The trial of Ishrai should take a full year and should come last. You will be given less than a week. You are being given very short trials, and out of proper order.”

  Alyea picked a question carefully. “Why have the trials been shortened for me?”