Behind her she heard a crow of delight from Arelnath and a smothered chuckle that she was certain came from Jaren. For a moment, she was astonished at herself; then she gave a mental shrug. What did she have to lose? The priests would never allow her to interfere with anything really important, but in little things, at least, she could force them to bend to her wishes. The thought gave her confidence to meet Lanarsh’s startled stare with a cold look of her own. The priest bent his head a fraction of an inch.
“If you will join us, Chosen One?”
Ranira allowed herself an infinitesimal, cold smile, copied from a seamstress who had occasionally deigned to patronize the Inn of Nine Doors, and stepped forward. She would have liked to take one last look at Mist and Jaren and Arelnath, but it would have spoiled the part she was playing, so she let the cell door clang shut behind her without turning.
“This way, Chosen One,” said Lanarsh, beckoning toward the stairs. The High Master of the House of Correction looked as if he had bitten into a sour string-fruit. She nodded as gravely as she could and began the long climb up the stairs.
When they reached the top, the guards paused while Lanarsh locked the door and opened one of the others. In silence, they escorted Ranira down a long hall that twisted and turned and branched until she ceased trying to remember which turns they had taken. At last the guards stopped, and Lanarsh flung open a door. Ranira gasped in spite of her determination to maintain a cold demeanor.
The room was almost as large as the dining hall of the Inn of Nine Doors. Intricately embroidered hangings covered the walls and draped the chairs, golden candelabra stood on marble tables, and the floor was buried under a thick wool carpet. An inner door stood open, revealing the barest glimpse of a bedchamber furnished in equal luxury. In the doorway stood a veiled figure, which bowed deeply as soon as Ranira entered the room.
“Mornah, the Chosen One is to be bathed and suitably attired,” said Lanarsh. “The High Master Gadrath will wish to see for himself that the ceremonial robes for tomorrow are perfect. You may expect him later.”
Despite herself, Ranira shivered; Lanarsh chuckled as he bowed and left the room. She stood staring at the door without moving until she heard the key turn in the lock. Only then did she become conscious of Mornah’s patient silence. Forcing a smile, Ranira turned.
Immediately, the other woman bowed again. “I am yours to command, Chosen One. What will you prefer? There is a bath with many perfumes, or you may choose more suitable raiment. There are healing ointments.” Her eyes flickered briefly over the bruises on Ranira’s face and then dropped again. “And there are rare dishes and wine. You have only to request, Chosen One.”
The woman bowed a third time. It made Ranira uncomfortable. “My name is Ranira,” she said. “Call me that; I am not used to titles.”
“I could not dare to be so greatly familiar, Chosen One,” said Mornah with yet another bow. “I am but a humble serving woman.”
Ranira looked at the woman with growing irritation. “Until a few hours ago, so was I. And stop bobbing like that. It makes me dizzy.”
“The Chosen One must have the respect that is due her exalted station,” Mornah recited. “I am here only to wait upon your wishes. I may not presume upon my great good fortune in being permitted to serve you, Chosen One, for when the Festival is over, I will return to my regular duties in the Temple.”
I can guess what those are, thought Ranira. Then comprehension dawned. “You’re afraid of the Eyes!” she said. “You think you’ll be punished later if you do something they don’t like.”
Fear flashed in Mornah’s eyes before she bent forward again. “I am here to serve the Chosen One,” she murmured.
“Oh, I give up,” Ranira said in exasperation. “Go get me a veil; I don’t want to walk around like this any longer than I have to.”
The serving woman trembled, but did not move. “Alas, Chosen One, I am not permitted to bring a veil, for the High Priest has decreed that nothing shall hide the radiance of the Chosen One. I sorrow that I cannot obey, for I am here only to serve the Chosen One.”
Ranira sighed. “Yes, I know; you must have said so at least a dozen times. Well, if you can’t bring me a veil, at least you can show me what other clothes you have here. And you did say something about a bath, didn’t you?”
“Oh yes, Chosen One,” Mornah said in obvious relief. She beckoned Ranira into the bedchamber and drew aside a curtain that covered one wall, revealing a long row of elaborate garments. Ranira made a show of examining them, but her mind was on other things. The wave of anger which had supported her spirits was receding, leaving a deep depression in its wake. She found Mornah’s pathetic eagerness to please oppressive, and she could not forget Lanarsh’s parting words.
Why did Gadrath want to see her again? Ranira could not believe it was her appearance that drew him; she was attractive enough, she supposed, but not out of the ordinary. Gadrath’s interest was no more than the casual arrogance common to all Temple priests, who assumed that no one would dare to refuse their slightest whim. At least, she was sure that was all Gadrath had felt until her overly enthusiastic refusal had humiliated him and prompted this revenge. But surely the High Master would not be spared from his Festival duties simply to gloat over her!
The problem preoccupied Ranira throughout the long afternoon. She submitted to Mornah’s ministrations; the long bath and the healing ointments were welcome indeed. Even more welcome was the smith, who made a brief visit late in the afternoon to remove the iron bracelets that she had worn for six years. The luxuries could do little to set her mind at rest, however, and by the time she was ready to dress, she could not muster even a token enthusiasm for any of the rich garments.
Finally, Ranira allowed Mornah to choose one of the gowns herself and coax her into it, but to the serving woman’s dismay, Ranira refused even to sample the carefully prepared dishes laid out in the main room. As the woman became more insistent, Ranira grew more and more exasperated. Finally she ordered the serving woman from the room. When a knock sounded at the door, Ranira was seated at the marble table, staring moodily at an empty silver goblet.
The sound made her jump. She forced herself to remain seated, and called as steadily as she could, “Enter.”
The door was already swinging open; the knock had been a warning, rather than a request for permission to enter. Gadrath’s eyes met hers as he stepped into the room. “You may go,” he said over his shoulder. Two Temple guards behind him bowed and stepped back into the hallway. Gadrath’s eyes never left Ranira. “Quite an improvement, my dear,” he said as the door swung shut behind him. “You do credit to your position.”
“Should you not address me with more respect? Or are you exempt from the rules of the Festival, since it is to you that I owe my… position?”
Gadrath’s lips curled. “Lanarsh told me of this amusing conceit of yours. He was a fool to encourage you. Your ‘position’ in this Temple, my dear, is exactly the same as it was this morning, except that you are permitted to enjoy a few of the lesser comforts that are available here. What the pilgrims outside think, is of little concern to any of us.”
Ranira’s hands tightened on the silver goblet. Gadrath’s smile broadened. “But you have not tasted any of these excellent dishes!” he said. “You should certainly do so while you still have the opportunity. After all, your time here will be brief.” When Ranira did not respond, the priest went on. “Perhaps you do not care for the food, but the wine at least you should enjoy. Allow me to pour you some.”
Without waiting for her to answer, Gadrath reached for the crystal decanter in the center of the table, along with the mate to the goblet in Ranira’s hand. He poured wine for himself, then stretched his arm toward Ranira’s goblet. She held it while he poured, not trusting herself to speak. Silently, she raised the goblet to her lips.
The High Master returned the decanter to the table and seated himself across from her. “I drink to your very good health, my dear.”
Ranira angrily set the goblet down and demanded, “What is it you want of me, High Master Gadrath?”
“What I want of you, my dear, you seem curiously unwilling to give,” he said, leaning back in the chair. “Or did I only imagine being pushed so rudely into a fruit stand?”
Shaken, Ranira gulped at the wine. She could not prevent her eyes from turning toward the door to the bedchamber. Gadrath smiled. “There is no need for you to be afraid yet, my dear. It will be three days before you are given to the god; no one will touch you until then.”
“You are disgusting!” Ranira cried, jumping up. “Leave me alone. Haven’t you done enough?”
“Why, I have done nothing at all,” Gadrath replied. “I would think you would welcome my company. After all, this is a great improvement over a small, unlit cell filled with foreign witches, is it not?” He waved a hand negligently at the luxurious room.
Something in Gadrath’s tone seemed false to Ranira, but she was too angry to pinpoint what. “At least the foreigners were courteous,” she said, turning away.
“I am not concerned with their manners,” Gadrath said. “After all, they are witches, are they not?”
That was it. Ranira was glad she was not facing the priest—he would surely have seen her reaction and guessed the cause. Gadrath wanted evidence against Jaren and his companions; that was what he was here for. Another thought struck her—Mist had been right! If the cell had been watched, there would certainly be no need for Gadrath to seek proof by questioning Ranira.
“How should I know whether they are witches?” she said. “I was only with them for a little while, and in a dark cell, as you say.” She turned back toward the table, careful to keep her eyes from meeting Gadrath’s.
The priest shrugged casually, but Ranira could feel tension in him. “It is easy enough for people to forget they are not alone in the dark. I thought perhaps you might have heard something we could use as proof. Of course, it does not really matter; they will die at mid-Festival in any case.”
Ranira thought of the flames and wondered why Gadrath was so anxious to burn Mist and the others. “They sounded like ordinary, frightened people to me.” She sipped her wine.
“You are certain?” Gadrath’s eyes were sharp and oddly bright. Ranira took another swallow of wine to avoid his gaze. “It might be that another could become the Bride of Chaldon if you can help me. Such things have happened.”
“You lie!” Ranira hissed. The violence of her reaction surprised her. “Do not toy with me. The High Priest has already sent out word that I will be the Bride of Chaldon. You cannot change that.”
“Why should I deceive you, my dear?” Gadrath said. “It is very simple, really; a false name for you and a pretty slave to take your place during Festival are all that are needed. Surely the foreigners said something while you were with them.”
Unexpected hope turned Ranira’s bones to water. For a moment she could not speak. It was possible; someone else could take her place. Words jostled against each other in her mind, framed in a glow of silver light: “We are not being watched.” “I can hold the watch-spell.” Softly, a voice whispered among them, “I owe you a life.” Her head ached; she fought to think clearly. Why would Gadrath give up his revenge so easily?
The silence was growing uncomfortable. Ranira raised her head and looked at Gadrath. Instead of speaking, she deliberately took another sip of wine. She set the goblet down carefully and looked up again.
“Why should you keep your promises once you have what you want? Even if I thought you would do as you say, I do not like the idea of owing my life to you, nor of giving you so great a hold over me,” she said. “In any case, it does not matter; the foreigners said nothing unusual. Or would you have me make up tales so that you may prove them false? What good would that do me?”
Gadrath laughed. “You are cleverer than I thought, my dear. I will have to resort to other methods.” He smiled and shook his head regretfully. “Unfortunately, none of them will involve you. The Bride of Chaldon must not have a marred body. Still, are you certain there is nothing you can tell me? There are ways to make your fate easier.”
“Nothing,” Ranira repeated. Her tongue felt thick. She blinked, trying to clear away a sudden fuzziness in her vision. Gadrath was standing over her now. How strange; he was supposed to be sitting on the other side of the table.
“Perhaps I was wrong,” Gadrath said, half to himself. “Perhaps there is nothing for you to tell. You have lasted far longer than I expected. I doubt that you could lie to me now. No, they were careful, and I will have to find some other way to accuse them. Now, finish your wine, my dear. You must be in good spirits tomorrow, you know. The pilgrims will expect the Bride of Chaldon to smile.”
The priest lifted the goblet to her lips and forced the remaining contents down her throat. Ranira’s last lucid thought was that she should have guessed he would drug the wine.
CHAPTER
SEVEN
For a long time, Ranira floated in a world of light and color. She did not notice at what point she again began to be aware of what was going on around her; the change was much too gradual. It began with voices, fading in and out. Gadrath, peremptory and brusk: “See that she is ready in time, or you will be beaten again. If the drug seems to be wearing off, give her this. But be careful. We cannot have her unconscious during the procession.” Mornah, soft and appealing: “Your robes, Chosen One. Your slippers, Chosen One. Allow me to braid your hair, Chosen One….” Lanarsh, sharp-edged and perpetually cross: “She’s still that far away? No, don’t give her that; can’t you see she’s drugged enough already? Gadrath overestimated again. Well, we haven’t time to do anything. At least she’ll do as she’s told, and this time it will not matter if there are permanent effects. The god demands an unmarred body, not a sound mind.”
Footsteps echoed in a long, twisted corridor. “This way, Chosen One.” Unfamiliar skirts rustled around her feet, gold and silver embroidered on black. How pretty! Black crystal jewels glinted from lacy waves around her throat. She twisted, trying to see them more clearly. A sudden wash of light made her blink. “Wait here, Chosen One.” Why should she move? People milled in the Temple courtyard. Such fascinating patterns they made!
A face appeared in front of her—Gadrath. She blinked at him; her vision was blurred. “You are fuzzy around the edges,” she told him.
“Listen to me, my dear,” he said. “You are the Chosen One. You want to please the people. You will sit and smile at them while we move through the city. Sit and smile. Do you understand?”
Ranira was confused. She did want to make the people happy, but how could she move and sit at the same time? It would be so much easier to stay here and smile. She didn’t like Gadrath; she couldn’t remember why. She wished he would go away, but he was coming closer. “Sit and smile, my dear. Do you understand? Or I will hurt you, like this.”
A knifing pain in her arm penetrated the haze surrounding her. She cried out. The pain stopped. She whimpered and rubbed her arm. Gadrath’s face thrust itself close to hers. “Do as I say, my dear. Sit and smile. It is really very easy.” Still confused, but too frightened to antagonize him further, Ranira nodded.
“Good,” said the priest. “This way, my dear.”
Just then she caught sight of the three foreigners. Mist, Jaren, and… Arelnath. She was very pleased with herself for remembering their names. They were standing in a group at one side of the courtyard, surrounded by guards. She wanted to wave, but Gadrath was holding her arm. Then she remembered—she was supposed to sit and smile, not wave. But there was nowhere to sit. She frowned. There was something she wanted to remember.
Gadrath stopped, ending Ranira’s speculations. “You will sit here, my dear. Sit and smile. Remember.”
Ranira was barely listening. Her eyes were on the huge open carriage drawing up in front of her. It was gold, with three black horses and three white ones harnessed in front. A tall throne of carved gold rose f
rom the seat at the back. It was even larger than the High Priest’s conveyance standing just in front of the courtyard gates. Why, she would be sitting far above everyone. She would be able to see everything!
There was a rattling noise, and a group of Templemen came up to the rear of the carriage. A moment later, more guards arrived with Mist and her companions. The foreign witches were being chained to the rear of the carriage. How nice! she thought. They will be close by. But she could not remember why it would be nice.
Temple guards lifted her into the carriage. A priest arrived, muttering, and spread her heavy skirts over the cushions of the throne. She sat and smiled. Her head was beginning to ache, and the courtyard swam before her eyes, but she smiled; Gadrath was watching. The iron gates ahead swung open, and Templemen began marching out of the courtyard. It seemed to take a very long time.
A small man in black climbed onto the driver’s platform at the front of the carriage. He raised his whip and made a chuckling noise. The carriage moved forward. She smiled. They were through the iron gates and into the streets of Drinn. A blurred sea of faces surrounded the carriage, shouting and cheering. Ranira still could not think. She was beginning to be annoyed by the way her mind was wandering. She could not remember why she was here, and somehow she was sure it was important.
The procession approached the river. In spite of the Temple guards striving to clear a way for the carriages, the bridge was crowded. Progress slowed to a crawl, then stopped altogether. Ranira heard angry shouts and curses from the Templemen. The horses pranced nervously, and her driver whistled softly through his teeth as his fingers worked the reins.
The carriage inched onto the bridge, its sides so close to the edge that Ranira could easily have stepped from her seat onto the guard wall. She looked curiously down at the river, already swollen with the early winter rains.
[Lyra 02] - Daughter of Witches Page 5