by Kat Parrish
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Tears of Idrissa
A Story of the Realm
Kat Parrish
Dark Valentine Press
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, places, organizations, or persons, whether living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
TEARS OF IDRISSA
Copyright © 2017 by Kat Parrish
Published by Dark Valentine Press
Cover design and formatting by Indie Author Services
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems — except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews — without permission in writing from its publisher, Dark Valentine Press.
Please contact the author at [email protected] if you experience any formatting or readability issues with this book.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Coming Soon: Storm Over Idrissa
About the Author
Also by Kat Parrish
Chapter One
Tradition says that the seven multi-colored gemstones collectively known as “The Tears of Idrissa” are actually the crystalized tears of the goddess whose name they bear, a gentle goddess whose sigil is the rainbow and whose tears are said to water the earth.
The gems are roughly the size of a fingernail. Four—the red, the indigo, the yellow and the blue—are faceted, while the violet, green, and orange stones are uncut but glow with an inner fire.
The first known mention of “The Tears of Idrissa” appeared in a scrap of verse written on the skin of a long-extinct animal. Found at the Cave of the Darkest Light, in a sacred grove of willow trees, the fragment is part of a much longer epic poem that has since been lost, but was known to have been called “The Water of Mercy.”
The tears can heal and they can harm, depending on how they are used, what prayers are spoken over them, what combinations of colors are chosen, and whether they are dipped in wine or water or honey or blood. At the main shrine of Idrissa, in the city that bears her name, the jewels are kept in a rock crystal chalice called “The Cup of Tears.” Rainwater drunk from the “Cup of Tears” is said to bestow the power of prophecy.
—Translated from Une histoire de Idrissa
It was Fourth Day, so when Mirielle dressed for the morning’s devotions, she should have covered her head with the traditional pale yellow veil. But since she had snagged the sheer fabric the week before and had not yet mended the tear, instead she chose the plain white cotton head covering the Daughters of Light wore when going about their ordinary daily tasks. She felt certain the goddess would not mind the substitution but felt equally certain that the Holy Mother would be displeased. The Holy Mother was often displeased these days and often, her displeasure was directed at Mirielle.
Morning devotions were held in a room on the eastern side of the temple compound so that the rising sun would fill the windows with the Idrissa’s light. The glass in the windows had been specially made by artisans from Rathe who infused their work with magic. When the sunlight hit the windows, it was split into colorful rays that danced across the room’s furnishings of white lorch wood and turned the chamber into a living symbol of the goddess Idrissa in her aspect of “Bringer of Rainbows.”
Mirielle liked preparing for the morning devotions because with the exception of the Nameless Daughter, who never missed a sunrise service before retiring to her day of silent contemplation and prayer, she was usually alone. She also preferred the Eastern Chapel to the larger room where the sunset services were held because the larger room felt uninhabited to her, as if the goddess herself preferred to visit the little white room in the east and leave the other rooms to the mortal inhabitants of the compound.
The chapel was dark and quiet when Mirielle arrived, so quiet she could hear the humming of the Tears from inside the tabernacle, the blended harmonies of their song resonating deep within her.
She knelt at the altar facing the tabernacle and spoke the Invocation to Idrissa.
The cadence of the familiar words would normally have brought her to a meditative state but this morning she was restless and had to force herself to focus on the prayer and not let her mind wander.
Lately, she had found herself dissatisfied with her role as Temple Daughter. Before the Holy Mother had chosen to alter her destiny, Mirielle had been apprenticed to Berthe, the daughter in charge of the temple’s kitchen. Berthe was as devoted to the Goddess of Light as any of Idrissa’s daughters, but Mirielle couldn’t help but think that the manner of Berthe’s worship was of more use than her own.
The Daughters of Light were a contemplative order and as far as Mirielle was concerned, they spent entirely too much time sitting around contemplating mysteries when they should have been rolling up the sleeves of their sky blue robes and doing something that would benefit people in more direct and useful ways.
Of course the rainbow waters the daughters brewed from the Tears brought health and well-being to all who drank them but the temple did not produce enough to export beyond the borders of the city-state. Moreover, though the rainbow healing waters had once been given away freely, since the ascension of the new Holy Mother, they were now sold in the market place like any other commodity.
The temple’s refusal to pay taxes on the money made from the sales of the healing potions had become a sore spot between the Holy Mother and the Governor-General of Idrissa, who--by ancient charter--shared the governance of the city-state with the reverend mother of the Daughters of Light.
The Governor wanted to send a supply of the rainbow waters to the land beyond the Iron Mountains--to the Kingdom of Daire and the Principality of Kresh and the mostly uninhabited borderland that was known simply as “the Domain”--which had been ravaged by a plague that had killed almost everyone it touched and never been repopulated. The Holy Mother was opposed to the export of the waters, arguing that the people of the northern lands did not worship Idrissa and therefore were not entitled to Her gifts. The Governor would have overruled her if he could have, but short of stealing the Tears and making the medicine himself, he had no choice but to accept her decision.
Still, he grumbled that she was intentionally keeping production low and insinuated that the temple was making a profit that rightfully should be shared by the secular government of Idrissa.
For her part, Mirielle had accepted the Holy Mother’s stance on not sharing the medicines, but did not agree with it. She was especially troubled because it seemed to her that the Holy Mother was growing less tolerant by the day and making decisions that would isolate the city-state from her neighboring nations and the rest of the world in a way that was dangerous.
Refugees from Daire had been pouring into Idrissa since the failed Budding Season and with them came rumors of discontent and disquieting stories of armies preparing for war on their sou
thern neighbor in order to seize food for the present and more fertile land for the future. Idrissa, which lacked a standing army and was patrolled only by the Governor-General’s militia and city guards, would be an easy prize if there was a serious incursion across the borders.
The Iron Mountains were a formidable barrier between the city-state and potential invaders but Mirielle knew that if the situation grew desperate enough, no mountain would be high enough to protect them.
Mirielle was shaken out of her depressing reverie by the arrival of the Nameless Daughter, who slipped into the chapel like a shadow and sat on one of the semi-circular benches that mirrored the seven lorch wood pillars that curved around the altar and supported the bowls in which the rainbow water was made.
With a nod to the elderly priestess, Mirielle focused her attention on the altar and the ornately carved tabernacle that held the Tears.
She unlocked the holy receptacle with a little golden key she wore around her neck and pulled back the doors to reveal the Cup of Tears, a large chalice carved out of a single crystal of quartz.
Inside the cup was a length of sky blue silk. She took the cloth from the cup and unfolded it on the altar, revealing the seven gems that were wrapped inside. As she did so, the Nameless Daughter murmured the traditional words, “She wept.”
“And Her tears were made manifest,” Mirielle responded, according to the liturgy.
“Thank Idrissa,” they said together.
Mirielle carefully lifted the cloth and walked to the nearest of the seven pillars, dropping the first of the gems into the bowl of water that she had filled the night before. Moving clockwise, Mirielle continued around the semicircle of pillars, placing one of the Tears into the remaining six bowls of water.
The water in each bowl immediately took on the color of the gem it contained and each stone would continue infusing the water with its healing powers until Mirielle drained the bowls after the sunset devotions. Mirielle enjoyed that part of her day. Handling the stones and breathing in the scent of the rainbow waters gave her a feeling of peace and contentment.
Returning the now-empty cloth to the cup and replacing it in the tabernacle, Mirielle recited the joyful hymn of thanksgiving that concluded morning devotions.
The Nameless Daughter murmured the words along with Mirielle and then slipped away as silently as she had arrived.
When Mirielle first came to the temple, she had thought the Nameless Daughter was a ghost because she was only ever seen in the morning, and only ever in the chapel.
No one ever saw her eat, and the younger Daughters were convinced that she was so devout she no longer needed the nourishment of food and was sustained solely by prayer and the grace of the goddess.
The old woman never seemed to sleep either, and her whispered prayers were as much a part of the night’s sounds as the striking of the temple clock.
Mirielle admired the Nameless Daughter’s devotion but sometimes found herself wondering what she had been like as a young woman. Had she longed for a life beyond the temple walls as Mirielle so often did? Had she ever dreamed of falling in love? Did she regret she’d never fallen asleep in the arms of a lover?
Mirielle had been brought to the temple as a child by a grandmother who was no longer able to raise her, but she hadn’t been so young that she couldn’t remember the possibilities of that earlier life.
Going to the market every Fourth Day was an escape from routine that Mirielle cherished, and even though she could easily have delegated the chore to another Daughter, she held on to the privilege fiercely.
Returning to her room to change out of the slippers she wore inside the temple and into sturdy boots for the walk to the market, Mirielle found a Daughter had delivered Berthe’s shopping list. As usual, there was no mention of the Fourth Day cakes that Mirielle bought every week. Berthe made an excellent Fourth Day cake and was not happy that the Holy Mother preferred the version made by Madame Cheloque. “She puts too much Zoorish pepper in them,” Berthe sniffed. “A little more than a little is by much too much.”
Berthe had brought her family’s recipes to the temple when she became a Daughter and she had no interest in learning other people’s ways of doing things, especially since her own cooking was so delicious.
Thinking of Berthe’s cooking reminded Mirielle that she had not yet broken her fast, and on her way out to the market she stopped by the kitchen to beg a bit of bread and butter for the short journey.
The cook tried to convince her to sit down and have a proper breakfast but Mirielle knew that if she did, it would be at least an hour before she could leave and by then, the market would be so crowded that all the best bargains would be gone.
Berthe seemed so disappointed to be deprived of company that Mirielle decided she would buy her a treat at the market, some plump, sweet birberries, perhaps, because she they wouldn’t grow in the temple garden and she knew the cook was fond of them.
It had rained the night before, thank Idrissa, leaving the market road muddy, and Mirielle cursed inwardly as the bottom of her robe dragged through a puddle and came up filthy.
The Holy Mother, whose white robes were always spotless, was quick to chastise any Daughter whose clothing was soiled. She considered an unkempt appearance the outward manifestation of an untidy soul and had dozens of little punishments designed to correct wayward behavior.
Mirielle sighed, wondering what onerous task she’d be assigned for her latest failure to live up to the Holy Mother’s standards. In the past she’d had to clean the privy and take the night soil to the garden, wash the bandages from the lazarette, and scrub the pilgrim courtyard with a small brush and rank-smelling pleth oil.
Blue, she swore, but knowing there was no sense in worrying about things before they happened, she consciously shook off her sour mood the way a dog shakes off fleas.
Chapter Two
1 hen’s egg
4 palms of oats
1 measure of butter
1 measure of brown beet sugar
½ measure sweet syrup
1 measure of rising powder
2 pinches Zoorish pepper
1 pinch dried orsec root
1 pinch dried greenfruit rind, grated
1 sprinkle of salt
Mash the butter and sugar together.
Add the egg and sweet syrup to the mixture and set aside.
Mix the oats and the spices.
Combine the egg mixture and the spice mixture.
Pour into a baking pan.
Top with an additional sprinkling of brown beet sugar.
Bake until the top of the cake is golden brown and springy.
Cool and cut into slices.
—Berthe’s family recipe for Fourth Day Cake
Being out and about in the city was a guilty pleasure for Mirielle. Though she’d been brought up on a farm, she enjoyed the bustle and noise of the city. Today, though, the crowds did not feel friendly.
The marketplace was buzzing like a hive of angry bees. Idrissa had always been a cosmopolitan city, attracting scholars to its university and pilgrims to its temples, but now the population had grown to almost three times the normal number, swollen both by refugees and the annual influx of merchants who came to trade at Idrissa’s yearly mercantile fair.
Members of the city guard seemed to be everywhere, rainbow-sashed uniforms a reminder that order would be kept, no matter how many people spilled into the market square.
And today the space was unusually crowded.
She saw a prosperous-looking woman stop to give a sweet to a ragged Daire refugee child, only to have the candy snatched away by the child’s father, and flung into the street in contempt.
“My child needs milk and bread,” the man exclaimed. “Give him that or give him nothing.”
The woman recoiled, humiliated by the rebuff, and walked on as the child turned to his father. “But I’m hungry papa,” he said. The man’s response was to cuff him on the ear. The boy flinched away and fell sil
ent.
Mirielle felt her fists curl at the injustice of it.
She reached into the purse with her shopping money and pulled out a silver fifth. It would be enough for some bread and milk, and a small wheel of cheese.
She caught up to the Dairish refugees and before she could say a word, the father began backing away.
“We’re not pilgrims, Daughter. We have no money for alms.”
“I am not asking for alms,” she said, and held out her palm so he could see the coin.
A look of shame passed over his face as pride warred with need.
“For the boy,” Mirielle said simply. “A gift from the goddess.”
The man looked her in the eye then. “Thank your goddess for me,” he said, “and I thank you too.” He touched his heart with his open hand, in the manner of the followers of Jaire, then
snatched the money from her hand as if afraid she might change her mind. Not wishing to humiliate him further, Mirielle turned away just as swiftly and walked toward the bakery.
Along the way she passed two tall cloaked and hooded travelers whose clothes marked them as being from the divided kingdom of Eindar which was inhabited by humans but ruled by vampires. The younger of the two men smiled as they passed but the older simply gave her a grave nod, the red fire in his hooded eyes almost invisible in the sunshine.
Vampires, Mirielle realized with surprise, and wondered what might have brought them to her land, abroad in daylight. The night-dwellers rarely ventured from their own domains, so it was said, and she had only ever seen one other vampire in her short life.
There were no customers in the bakery when she arrived but Madame Cheloque did not look up from her perch behind the counter nor greet her with her usual warmth as Mirielle entered. “How can I help you Daughter?” she asked, as if Mirielle was a stranger to her and not someone who’d been in and out of her shop every week for the past ten years.