He kept pace with the wolves that tailed his parents, irrespective of the challenges of the landscape. After several leagues, his father veered sharply to one side, into the deep forest that smothered lands to the north and west of Cranak, right up to the foothills of the Orys, the permanently snow-bound, forbidding, jagged peaks that separated Dorvek from their hostile neighbours, the trolls of Heethl. Almost as soon as Dorll changed course, Gorren caught the scent of the herd of deer that his father was chasing. Gorren lengthened his stride in anticipation of hot, coppery blood and dripping, juicy meat. This was the other reason for only partaking of one hunt, en masse, in a year: should they have adopted this custom on the night of every moon, there would have been no game left in the kingdom. As it was, there would be little, barely even puddles of blood, for the hindmost of the pack to partake of.
It was a cloudless night. The moon was brilliant and obscenely fat. No errant mist obscured her beauty. Gorren gave himself over to the euphoria of that cold glow, he allowed the chilly light to fill his bones and blood with heat, and he ran.
Before he quite comprehended what had happened, Gorren realised that he was running abreast of his father, ahead of the rest of the pack, far ahead of the rest of the pack.
It was a mistake, a terrible mistake. Such a show of strength was direct challenge to his father. Dorvek was ruled by a royal family, but the title was not hereditary. The strongest wolf was the king. Yes, it rang true that their offspring often inherited their genetic superiority, and the crown could pass through a bloodline for generations, but anyone, from the lowliest field hand to the most prominent courtier, could challenge the king. Should the king lose the contest, he would have to take his family and leave Cranak Hall to make way for the victor.
On any of the full moons of Dythegg of the years previous to this, Gorren's speed and strength would have been remarkable only as a credit to his bloodline, but word had reached the residents of Cranak that Gorren had rejected his place in the royal family. That put a new slant on his position during the run. Now, as a wolf swift enough to keep up, strong enough to stay the course, he was positioning himself as a worthy challenger to the seat of power.
His father responded to that challenge. Dorll left the scent of the game he had been chasing. Gorren could feel the ripple of confusion that the action caused in the rest of the pack, but he could not dwell on that tumult, because his father was barrelling towards him.
Jaws snapped. Claws slashed and swiped, shoulders barged....
Searing pain shot through Gorren's shoulder as his father had landed a significant bite. It was not an injury that might win a match, but it was no inconsiderable wound. The long furrows gouged by his father's sharp teeth immediately began to bleed freely.
Gorren dropped until his belly hit the ground, curled his tail in tight, and flattened his ears. The wound was not disabling, he had fight left in him, but he wasn't stupid. If he continued this futile impudence to the bitter end, his father would have to kill him, to nullify a potential threat, or - far more unlikely - Gorren might find himself in the position of king, and he did not want that, not at all.
Gorren shuffled backwards, feeling sick to his stomach at the submissiveness he was forcing himself to exhibit. It went against every cell in his being, everything that he was physically and mentally, to be so obsequiously subservient, but it had to be done. He might be allowed to slink away with his life, he would certainly bear the evidence of his father's teeth for several days.
As he increased the distance between him and his father, who still had his ears forward and hackles up, Gorren noticed that his brother and mother were nearby. He lurched to his paws, unable to keep up the pretence any longer. Fortunately, he was far enough away for the challenge to have been negated. Gorren realised that he and his father were the source of curiosity for a sizeable crowd of beasts. That so many of his kinsmen had witnessed his humiliation made shame roil in his stomach until he had to swallow back actual vomit.
Gorren felt a nudge at his uninjured shoulder. Jorm was by his side. He felt the increased warmth of presence as Delban and Ornef joined them. His friends had not deserted him. They were courting the king's displeasure by siding so obviously with a challenger, but Gorren thought everybody knew, or that everybody should know, that it was not a serious challenge. He was too old for such an adolescent tantrum; he needed to become more circumspect in his behaviour.
Without making a sound, Gorren turned, giving his father his vulnerable back, and trotted off, heading in the direction of the town. The mass of furred bodies parted to let him through. His friends turned as he did and followed him unquestioningly. They would not taste the trophies of this night's hunt. Gorren determined that he would make that forfeit up to them somehow. For himself, he no longer cared about the blood and fresh meat. He wanted only to treat his wounds and to lie in his bed where he could try not to dwell on the ever-widening chasm between him and his family.
Chapter Five
Elthrinn sighed with relief as she closed the woven straw lid of the hive. Her gloves were sticky with honey. The honeycomb was safely in the bowl that she carried, and the bees, for the most part, appeared not have noticed her presence. Or, if they had noticed, they were ignoring her. It didn't much matter, as far as Elthrinn was concerned, as long as they didn't sting her.
She didn't fear bees as she did wasps. Wasps were horrid, vindictive, evil insects. Bees generally only tried to protect themselves, or their homes. But having a hive-full chase you, buzzing madly, was a memorable experience. However much sympathy Elthrinn had for bees, it was unlikely that she would ever forget again to light the stumpy candle in the lidded jug, half-filled with pine needles. The smouldering green shards produced an aromatic smoke that calmed the bees, if it had been lit in advance of the hive being opened.
Wasps did not care for smoke, or sunlight, or anything much at all. If anything came near them, they attacked it. Elthrinn thought them quite ungrateful to have been created in the first place.
The hives were close to the shores of the lake that surrounded the temple of Doohr. The temple rose out of the lake with hardly any dry land surrounding it. There was barely enough sand in front of the doors on which to beach the shallow skiff which was used for crossing the water, without a body getting their feet wet before they crossed the threshold. There certainly wasn't any room for hives or gardens. All the land that was used to grow crops, and to sustain the livestock that in turn sustained the residents of the temple, was located beyond the lake. Elthrinn had to balance the bowl in the curved bottom of the skiff as she punted it slowly across the placid water.
Elthrinn delivered the pilfered honeycomb to the temple kitchen. She pulled off the leather gloves that protected her arms up to the elbows, taking care to try not to touch the sticky residue that coated the fingers. She draped them over the edge of one of the rough wooden benches that were used for food preparation. Once her hands were free, she removed the wide brimmed hat that was covered with a fine, gauzy muslin that draped over her head and fell to her waist. She cleaned the gloves, and put the protective clothing away in its proper place, along with the jug containing the now extinguished candle.
The high-pitched bells rang, signalling the call to prayer. Elthrinn stifled a wince. Although she had acclimated to the way of life in the temple, she had not learned to love the prayers, or the goddess. She still did not believe that the whispered entreaties for peace had any effect at all. The six hours of her day spent in supplication, until her knees ached, were only torture; a monotonous, never-ending torture. Just the sound of the bells seemed to induce a dull pain in her lower joints.
She followed the crowd like a good acolyte, and murmured, and knelt, and was silent, as she had been taught. Whilst the other priestesses communed with the goddess, Elthrinn worked to make sure that the rumbling of her stomach could not be heard over the murmured chants. These were the noon prayers that took place before lunch was served. She would be hungry for a while longer
yet.
Finally, the hour's devotion was over. Elthrinn knew that the others must have been starving, too, but no one moved quickly. Everyone stood and bowed and processed out of the prayer hall at a sedate pace. Before she could satisfy her hunger, the priestesses divided into two groups. One group departed to the kitchen to begin preparing the food, the other walked to the food hall to begin arranging the tables and benches and utensils. Everyone helped with the serving of the meal, and everyone worked in silence. The priestesses were well-versed in their roles and worked seamlessly, if they did need to communicate, they used hand signals.
The midday meal this day was a thin vegetable stew with bread. Elthrinn hadn't eaten meat in a meal since she'd been resident in Senthirr. The temple kept some animals, but they were kept for their sustainable produce, their eggs and milk. By the time they died, they were often thin with age, and their meat was not fit for consumption. Elthrinn had to lock her muscles to keep from falling on the food like a starving beast.
On this day, she was not one of the group tasked with clearing and cleaning the dishes and utensils. Instead she made her way to the weaving room. Once there, she took a seat in front of a loom, and prepared to spend hours passing the shuttle between the drab weft threads. The three-legged stool was hard and uncomfortable. There was no pattern to the weaving, and the threads were uninspiring in every way. Elthrinn hated this task most of all. Of all the duties she had to undertake, save prayer, this was the most mindless, and because it was the most mindless, it was the one during which her mind was most likely to roam.
Weaving was the time during which her mind fled back to Senthirr. Elthrinn hardly ever thought of Thrissia. She thought of her father and her brother, but not in the context of that location. She thought of them in terms of the events she remembered, birthdays, summer days, storms, Twelfth Night celebrations, but not in terms of the city itself. Elthrinn thought most of often of the country town, of the chickens and Bexus the goat. She thought of the valley filled with aromatic trees. She thought of the family that she had had there with Serwren, Ulli, Mara and Aileth. She thought of the way that she'd been forced to leave that life because she was powerless to protect herself, because there was no one strong enough to protect her. She thought of all that and felt regret, shame and fury. She thought of all that and felt alone. No, she did not enjoy her time spent at the loom.
Elthrinn had lost track of time, as she often did when weaving. There were no timepieces in the temple, at least none that she'd ever found. She supposed there must be at least one, somewhere, probably with that infernal set of bells. Even though they could be heard throughout the temple, and although they sounded like small, delicate, tinkling things, Elthrinn knew that the bells that sounded the calls to prayer were hung at the top of the sole minaret of the temple. She had never been in the minaret; the door at its base was always locked. If there was a priestess that rang the bells, Elthrinn had never met her. If the peal was triggered by some automated mechanism, the machine never faltered.
It was the third moon of Taan, but the temple seemed to be immune from heat. It was as if the goddess had an agreement with the other deities, or the weather itself, that nothing would allow her worshipers to be discomforted. The temperatures in the temple were never so cold that anyone experienced more than a mild shivering, and it was never so hot that anyone should feel that they could not move for the heat. Elthrinn worked, and her muscles were warmed from the movement, but the shadows of the stone walls kept a comfortable temperature in the room. When an unexpected hand landed on her shoulder, she nearly shrieked.
Elthrinn turned, or rather twisted, sharply. The stool that she had been sitting on wobbled and threatened to tip over. Before she could calm her heartbeat and properly regain her seat, she realised that the priestess who had startled her was beckoning for Elthrinn to follow her.
Elthrinn was afraid, but she stood and followed as she was bid. She wondered if she was to be called into the presence of Belieth, the head priestess. She wondered if anyone had noticed that she never paid attention during prayers, or if her lack of affinity and respect for the goddess had become something that she could not keep hidden. She worked hard at all her other duties, no matter how mind-numbing, but Elthrinn found it hard to fake devotion to a deity that she did not believe in. She wondered if they were going to turn her out and, if they did, where she could go.
She was not at all soothed when her colleague led her to the room that doubled as both Belieth's personal quarters and office.
Elthrinn knocked timidly on the wooden door as her guide returned the way they had come, her robes whispering over the stone floor. Once upon a time Elthrinn had not had a timid bone in her body. Her life during the past three years had been peaceful and boring and not what she would have wished, and she had not been abused in anyway, but it seemed that the perpetual silence, the lack of opportunity to use her voice, to talk with people, or to laugh, had broken something inside her. In addition, the ever-present fear that her sanctuary would disintegrate made her fearful of causing offence.
The door opened and Belieth waved Elthrinn inside. Apart from a brief conversation when she had first taken up residence the temple, Elthrinn had not talked much with Belieth, in the same way that she had not talked much with anybody, but Elthrinn found that she liked their silent leader immensely. Belieth radiated goodwill out of every pore, and although she appeared to never have gained more height than a ten year old girl, her presence commanded respect, without any need for words. Elthrinn didn't know how old Belieth was, but the skin on her hands was as thin as parchment, and was stretched over bones that were swollen at the knuckles. Taken with the deep lines around Belieth's eyes, Elthrinn believed her to be very old.
Belieth put her cool, almost translucent, hand on Elthrinn's wrist. The old woman looked up at Elthrinn, and from under the cowl of the ocean-hued robes, Elthrinn caught an expression that was full of concern. At first Elthrinn didn't understand, and then a masculine voice rumbled with a cough, the clearing of a throat. Elthrinn turned, spinning around in the direction of the noise. Erkas, Serwren's brother, was standing in a corner of the room.
Elthrinn's attention was claimed by her superior once more, as the old woman patted Elthrinn's wrist. She gave a gentle squeeze before she released Elthrinn, and left her alone in the presence of a near-stranger. But in that tiny gesture, and in the glint in her eyes, Elthrinn had understood that Belieth would be right outside the room, should Elthrinn need her.
Erkas cleared his throat again once the ancient priestess had left the room. "Cousin Elthrinn, I do hope you don't mind me calling you cousin?" He continued without waiting for a response. "It's so good to see you, and looking so well. The robes of Doohr suite you."
Elthrinn tried to speak, and found that she couldn't. She knew she hadn't lost the ability, but she had lost the habit.
She tried again, and managed to croak out, "Erkas."
Erkas' brow furrowed. There was a mug on the mantelpiece that ran over the empty hearth. He picked it up and brought it to Elthrinn. It was water, no doubt brought by one of the priestesses for Erkas' refreshment. Elthrinn took it gratefully and sipped at it, until she thought her throat might cooperate.
"Erkas." He smiled when she managed to address him without choking. "Why are you here? Is there something wrong with Serwren? With Ulli?" Elthrinn's own voice sounded foreign to her, it had been so long since she'd heard it. It seemed deeper, or maybe it was only rough from lack of use.
Erkas' smile broadened. "No. Not at all. She left that hovel in the country and has moved back to civilisation."
"She's in Thrissia?" Serwren herself had prophesied a return, but Elthrinn hardly believed it.
"Yes, yes." Erkas nodded and his lips curved into a satisfied smile. "In the palace."
Icy fingers stroked Elthrinn's spine. she knew Serwren would not have moved back to the palace itself without duress of some kind, and she was certain that Erkas would have been behind that duress
somehow. Elthrinn doubted that Erkas' visit was going to prove beneficial to her in any way, either.
"Did she send any message?" Elthrinn asked hopefully.
"Oh." Erkas did his best impression of embarrassment, but Elthrinn could tell it was not sincere, it was almost a caricature of the emotion. "Oh, no. How careless of me. I should have asked her. She doesn't even know I'm here."
None of this was making any sense to Elthrinn. "Why didn't you tell her you were coming?"
"I thought I could surprise her with news of your well being."
Elthrinn retreated. She wanted to be anywhere, out in the fields pulling weeds from the endless rows of corn, in the prayer hall kneeling on agonisingly solid stone, anywhere but in this room with Erkas. She hadn't trusted him all those years before, and now he was blatantly lying to her. Not only did she not trust him, she feared him.
"Why have you come?"
"Are you not simply glad to see me, cousin?"
Elthrinn shook her head. "Don't call me that. I'm not your cousin."
Erkas dismissed her denial with a flick of his fingers. "As good as. Your brother was so close to my sister."
Searching the Darkness (Erythleh Chronicles Book 2) Page 4