by Lesley Smith
Of all the days, this could be the one where everything changed. Tonight the new neophytes would be inducted into the temple, and in the last dozen generations Aia seemed to favour those of pious heart who were entering her favourite daughter’s service.
Jashri shuddered, and unleashed, the thought was hard to repress. Would Aia call one of them this night?
Technically, of course, an oracle could be called at any time in any city across the world. She herself was from a small oasis far from the city, and had been born one of the Cavari, the Sandborn. Keiue was from Baaren, Eirian had been a daughter of Abbia and Edoi-born, but most of the recent members of the sisterhood—including the youngling, Shaari—were born and raised in Aia’s own city.
The last potential seer to threaten her had been the Heretic and she, Lyse, by virtue of her refusal to leave Baaren, had been discounted. Especially now that she could no longer have visions. That had been almost a decade previously, and the High Oracle shuddered in revulsion. What Darus, her High Chamberlain, had done to Lyse had been barbaric and not sanctioned by her or the temple, and yet she was glad he had acted. The blame lay with him, but the guilt, that was hers alone to bear.
That was a terrible thing that he did to her.
Aia’s voice in her mind was sorrowful, and for a moment Jashri felt the Disembodied Goddess’ displeasure threaten to overwhelm her. Then Aia, sounding as she always did, as if the voices of Iasei, Eirian, and her own mother were speaking together in her mind, gently consoled her.
I will call whom I call. The mantle must always be passed on, and your time will end when it must. Do not grieve that which you must lose. Celebrate that which you have achieved instead.
It was only a matter of time before Aia called someone else. Jashri tried not to consider what would happen if her mantle was taken from her, but tonight it worried her more than usual. It surged through her like the great wave that had elevated her to this position in the first place; an unstoppable torrent of fear which destroyed everything in its path even as Jashri and her sisters walked through Aia’s great city.
The procession started at the city gates, following the route Ishvei had taken on the day she entered the city. It stopped at the site of the baker’s where Jadias had once lived and finished outside the Oracles’ Tower; the ancient site of the servant’s quarters where temple bondsfolk had once lived.
Senara always found it ironic that the most powerful women lived where the poorest had once called home. Still, she was not used to finery and riches, living in the tavern district and the temporary Edoi quarter. She had always dwelled in the crossing spaces between the pleasure houses and the shantytown of the poorest cityfolk, and always felt painfully aware of where Kaiene had lived for the majority of her life.
As a healer, station meant nothing to Senna. Festivals might come and go, but the ill, the dying, and the injured wouldn’t miraculously get well just to give her three days off, nor would riches spare you suffering. She was actually glad most of the other healers had called in all their free days. She had a small group of trainees, mostly eager healer-neophytes who wanted to learn so much they were willing to forgo the usual debauchery and merriment.
In truth, though, Senna was hoping to use the time to continue her work commentating on Uryen’s scrolls. She wasn’t supposed to have access to them, of course, they were kept in the sacred section of the temple library, but Old Beren, the kindly Codexmaster, owed her from the time she had cured pains in his wrists caused by too many hours transcribing, and so allowed her to borrow the old scrolls now and again.
Senna was not a child of this city. Her clan, Evastas, was known for being descendants of Kaiene and Jadias, but there were people in every one of the great cities who could claim that birthright. She had been born in Benai, but had lived in Aiaea so long she might as well have been born there, even if her former life tended to foreshadow her current profession.
She only lived in a pleasure house because the rent was cheap, and it reminded her of her former life as a priestess of Kodia, and offered much-needed companionship. Her widowed uncle, on the day he had realised he could no longer keep either Saiara or his sister’s child, had been sensible. Better to send her somewhere where she could learn than as a bondservant to the temple. Mother Danae had been kind to her, and not all the temple mothers who served Kodia were as good to their charges.
The now dead master-healer, Father Halom Davos, had initially refused her entrance to his Halls on the grounds that she was a pleasure-girl. He conveniently forgot Uryen’s own infamous dalliances with Kodia, and it annoyed her that such silly biases still existed. The gods took pleasure in everything, so why should mortals not do as they did? Since taking his place, she had been careful to ensure anyone with the skill, the compassion, and the potential for wisdom was welcome to apprentice under her.
The cleansing smell of incense greeted her as she stepped into the Hall of Healing. Most of the raised pallets were empty but for one elderly man—Karos of the Afenei, the potters’ clan—afflicted by nothing more terrifying than old age. Senna enjoyed spending time with the old man, listening to his stories, and she made a point to look in on him first.
“Old father?”
“Senna-girl.” Karos’ eyes lit up when he saw her. “Is it that time of the day again once more? How fares this year’s procession?”
“The Oracles just left the Bakers’ Shrine,” she said, and pulled up a stool, smoothing out her red healers’ robes. “There are many out on the streets and the dennabirds are singing.”
“I thought I heard them.” He sounded almost wistful. “My ears don’t work as well as they used to.”
“I’d rather be here,” she replied. “It’s too busy, too noisy, and it will only get more so as the hours go on.”
“And yet?”
“My cousin is taking the green at nightfall.” Senna told him. “I can’t wait to see her become a temple maiden.”
“What’s your cousin’s name?” The old man asked.
“Saiara,” Senna said softly, smiling. “Saiara of the clan Evastas.”
In the hidden district behind the temple the taverns and inns were heaving thanks to the massive influx of celebrants, mainly the Nomadborn Edoi who had taken over the entire quarter as their home away from Abbia. The shops were doing a brisk trade and the entire quarter smelled of food, incense, ink, and freshly mixed perfumes. It was quieter nearer the river, and that was the specific reason why Casparias and his beloved Saiara had chosen to rent a room from Mother Danae.
The forgotten district behind the temple grounds, where the poor mixed with Kodia’s servants and innkeepers, was busy for the three days of festivities which marked the start of another year. It was close enough to the temple that Saiara and Casparias could sneak out without being noticed, but close enough for them to sneak back in as well. That was the most important part about the Return, initiates left, but they needed to be back by nightfall to take their vows.
There was nothing wrong in this, of course. The New Year was traditionally a time when all sons and daughters of the Temple were released to do as they wanted, to visit family or just to enjoy the festivities. Saiara was about to enter Ishvei’s service. Her green robes were lying on her pallet back in the temple dormitories. Casparias was joining her in service as her attendant, her rock. Certain things were expected of them and sneaking off to make love in a pleasure house—even one where her cousin was a resident—was not one of them.
Mother Danae was one of the few Edoi who lived permanently in the city as a priestess of Kodia. She had known they were cousins immediately when she’d seen them, recognising Senna’s colouring in the girl, her natal cousin. Saiara had stopped, eyes drawn to the mural that depicted what one might expect in a temple dedicated to Kodia. Inside, while two of the acolytes had spoken sweet nothings in Saiara’s ear, Caspa had tossed a year’s worth of saved coins into the open hands of Danae’s statue of Kodia.
The day was unseasonably warm and D
anae was glad she had had pitchers of the finest iced wine waiting in all the rooms. Then, with a laugh and a command to the acolytes to cease their teasing of the poor embarrassed neophyte, she had directed them to a quiet room with a fine view of the city. Danae knew they didn’t need the help of Kodia’s chosen, just the space and privacy that the temple didn’t allow them, and she wished them well.
On this day, hundreds of similar couples were visiting the secret side of the city, and indulging in whatever they thought of as bliss. Danae remembered the stories the Edoi told about Ishvei in her pleasure-seeking aspect, now named and given her own identity as Kodia, the messenger with rainbow-hued robes and wings on her ankles. While many in the Temple tried to distinguish Kodia and Ishvei, anyone creative knew inspiration was connected to pleasure, just as prophecy was.
Danae collected the coins, slipped half of them into her purse, and hoped the pair would find the sanctuary they sought. Then she turned her attention to her next customer as fireworks and streamers heralded the procession winding its way through the streets of Aia’s city.
The Three Day Festival was the highlight of the Kashinai religious calendar, commemorating the day Ishvei arrived in the city, the Descent of Arvan a year later and the Conception of Nyssa before the gods left for their own realm. The festivities drew Edoi of all the clans to the sacred city, in particular Danae’s own clan, the Ifunareki. She enjoyed the chance to see her brothers and sisters, to share bread, wine, and bodies with her kin, and it was with that in mind that Danae left her premises to watch the annual procession of the oracles.
Saiara and Casparias lay together in the small room, entwined on the soft cushions and naked but for a sheet and the warmth of Thaeos’ light. Their pale skins were tinted by coloured powder from the festivities and, thanks to their lovemaking, the pair had turned the bedding into a piece of art which could have been hung on a wall in any gallery within the city’s boundaries.
The open window caused the thin veil hiding them from sight to dance gently in the breeze. The only noise was their breathing, the sound of birdsong and soft, almost inaudible chanting and music as the procession wound its way round the city streets.
“What time is it?” Saiara asked.
Caspa had gotten up to refill their glasses with iced wine and was gazing out of the window. The hymns were louder now, which meant the procession was halfway along its route.
“Late afternoon,” he said, and handed her a glass. “We have plenty of time,”
Saiara mused, “The last day of freedom. I wonder how many neophytes will return to the Temple at dusk?”
“All of them,” Caspa said with a laugh. “You know that, the Return is a taste to confirm what we already know: where our path lies.”
Saiara shifted, suddenly unable to settle. Both of them knew she was nervous. Today marked the end of her probation period as a neophyte. Tonight, she and others like her would make their pledge to serve Ishvei for the rest of their days, becoming a fully-fledged priestesses of the Ishveian Order. It was a massive commitment, but the idea of living in the Temple and serving the beloved Lady of Words was the only thing Saiara had ever desired. Her destiny lay in Ishvei’s hands, and she had long ago come to terms with that. Similarly, Caspa would follow her wherever she led him, in joy and laughter.
Outside, people were singing and dancing, quilin players sent music drifting on the breeze, and the entire city was joined in celebration. Neither of them wanted to be out there, they were both happy in their own little world of colour and pleasure.
They—the priestesses and neophytes of the Temple—in conjunction with the artisans, had spent the last lunar cycle dyeing bolts of cloth and pounding colour into pigment. Saiara had enjoyed the work, treating it as she would meditation, but it was exhausting and her bones still ached from the effort.
The blackest of soot was crafted into rich, black ink, and then the calligraphers had copied their favourite verses from the sacred codices onto rainbow-coloured banners and added bells to the fabric. The townsfolk had spent a day hanging them between the kara trees along the Sacred Way leading to the Temple. They tinkled gently in the breeze and accompanied the music, creating a holy symphony
Caspa looked at her arms, streaked in blue, purple and vermillion, quietly hoping Danae wouldn’t charge them extra to have the room cleaned and the bedding replaced. The pigments were sacred to Ishvei, who was a deity of creativity and inspiration, so it was fitting that they be used in her sacred celebration. Colour was drifting in the air, thrown from windows by the crowd until each soul taking part was a living work of art. They were all sacred today, all blessed and all beloved of Ishvei.
Their time in the inn was rare and the price a little steep. That just made it even more worth it, a soft raised bed over a pallet, silence over ceremonial song, and privacy over the dormitory.
“This is bliss,” Saiara stretched and accepted the glass of wine. “I swear, even if Ishvei’s Garden in the Realm of the Gods is anything like the scriptures say it is, I would rather be here.”
Caspa laughed softly, returning to the bed and busying himself by running a cube of ice over her skin. “Worth the coins then?”
“All of them.” She kissed his nose, tail brushing his leg even as she shivered. “Want me to show you how grateful I am?”
He reached for her. “That’s the best idea you’ve had all day.”
The Resting Baelish seemed like a nice inn. Jeiana, Chelle, and little Kei’a found themselves as boarders, and even though neither woman hailed from one of the traveling clans, both were welcomed almost as long lost relatives.
“Ow!”
Sitting on her pallet and swearing, her curse-words drowned by the noise of the procession outside, Jeiana gingerly removed the porous bandages from her back, wincing at blood, pus and orange fluid that leaked from the wound, trying to be calm and appraise the damage with an disaffected eye.
The left tendril had been ripped out, the right torn off and trimmed back by Kavan while she’d been unconscious. A moment of pain, of sharp agony, and then sudden relief as she released the pus and blood, feeling the fluid that had been trapped in the wound on her fingertips. Eventually, they would heal, and she would be half a Kashinai woman, unable to birth daughters of her own unless another person assisted her.
Jeiana had wanted a daughter. The memory was still raw, still vivid, and it hurt. She thought of her own child, her son, who existed in another time and place. She missed him, but their parting was temporary. She suddenly envied the woman whose form she had borrowed, who had been able to pass over with her dearest one and her son and reincarnate somewhere else, together. The ache of her own sterility, of her own inability to conceive a daughter burned, and she quietly wept.
The pain grounded her as she expelled the last of the infection, tears running down her face as she recovered the wound. The material was sticky and she was hesitant to reinfect herself. The sun was nearly set. Jeiana had been careful to avoid exposure as much as possible, sensing nothing good would come of it, but it was time to get proper medical help. So Jeiana stood, pulled on her hakashari, then called to Chelle to let her know where she was going and headed for the Hall of Healing.
She found the building easily enough. Lanterns hung above the entrance and illuminated a tiny statue of Ishvei on a young baelish being led by a man holding its reins. That was Uryen. Jeiana recalled tales of the Bard and the Healer who wandered Reshka and saved the Edoi. Many believed they were the reincarnations of Ishvei and her closest friend. No one knew for sure, but it seemed apt that Uryen, once an Edoi saint, had become as beloved as the Lady of Words and the Disembodied Goddess themselves.
“Hello?”
The reception area was quiet. Three candles were positioned in a triangle on the standing table. They burned with gentle orange flames, and Jeiana heard hurried footsteps on the stone floor. The small stone-carved hall was empty and the voice echoed.
“My apologies.” The woman was dressed in a healer
s’ robes and her patterned tail followed behind her. “Nature’s call comes at the most inopportune of moments. My name is Senara, how can I help you…?”
“Jeiana,” she said, filling in the gap with her name. “My tendrils were damaged; I think they’re infected.”
“Come through.”
Jeiana liked Senara immediately. The woman was confident but not arrogant, compassionate, and perfectly suited to her chosen profession. She was dressed smartly, not a spot of dust on her red robes. Her long hair was back in the half-pinned style preferred by the unjoined, but braided to keep it out of her face as befitting a professional medic.
The pallets were clean and raised off the floor so they were easier for the ill and infirm to use. The healer indicated she should sit with a flick of her hand and wrist. “Please be seated.”
“Thank you.” Jeiana hopped up and winced, swallowing a curse as the drying wound pulled. She knew what pain was, but why in the name of the various planes did it have to hurt so much? “Aia wept!”
Senara’s hand was on her shoulder, a gentle reminder of her presence on the other side of the bed. “Would it be all right if I took a look?”
“Yes, yes.” Jeiana found her hand clenched in a fist as she tried to remember to breathe. If such a small wound caused her suffering, how on Ishvei’s World was she going to deal with the other mishaps of mortality?
“What happened to you?” Senara sounded shocked.
Jeiana opened her mouth, but closed it before the lie escaped. This was Senara the Compassionate and she would see through lies. For Jeiana’s purpose to be served, she needed to be on speaking terms with Senara, so there was no point starting badly. “I was in Caerim.”
“The village that was destroyed? The Edoi were talking about it.”