She turned to Cyrus. “Then she shouted at me as I was beating a retreat, said to ‘tell the ox to get his arse back over there, cleaned up and all’, whatever that means.”
“Oh gods, that’s me,” Cyrus said, ducking down the hallway into a washroom. A bronze tub sat in the corner, big enough that Cyrus could sit in it even with his armor on. Polished faucets hung over it, as well as into the sink on the opposite wall. A metal privy filled with water sat next to the sink.
Martaina poked her head through the open door as Cyrus looked at himself in the mirror. Dried blood encrusted his armor, and a few drips had settled on his face. “Facilities are at least as nice as what we have back at Sanctuary, eh?” The elven ranger smiled at him.
“Good thing, too,” he agreed. “After all these years, I doubt I could go back to using a chamber pot.” Ignoring her chortle, he tossed her his helmet, which she caught.
He leaned down, plugging the stopper in the sink, running the cool water until it filled the basin. While it did, he unstrapped his breastplate and backplate. He slipped the chainmail shirt over his head, sending it clinking to the ground. He reached down, cupping his hands in the frigid liquid, and brought a handful up to his face, scrubbing as hard as he dared, trying to remember where the problem areas had been.
He looked back to the mirror, and the blood was gone. Wetting his hands, he tried to slick back his long, brown hair. Tangles within his locks fought him, and from behind him Martaina let out a soft giggle. He turned to her, ready to snap in annoyance, but she reached over him to let the water out of the basin. Cyrus looked down; the liquid had a deep crimson tinge.
“This is not going to work.” Cyrus sighed, then looked down, realizing he had stripped to barechested in front of Martaina without even thinking about it. A flush crept over his cheeks and he felt his back teeth grind in embarrassment.
“You’ll make it,” she said with a chuckle. “And if you’re a few minutes late, it’ll be good for that old broad; I doubt she’s ever had anyone make her wait.” Replugging the sink, she opened a nearby drawer and removed a brush. She ran it through his hair, drawing a wince from Cyrus. “You get stabbed and sliced open in battle, but tangled hair makes you cringe?” She shook her head and laughed. “Human warriors! The Society of Arms teaches you how to keep from flinching from a sword blow but come near you with a brush and you freak out.”
“Hair pulling is not part of our combat training,” Cyrus replied. “At least not beyond the hand to hand combat or wrestling practiced within the Blood Families.” Martaina slowed the brush strokes with which she was straightening his hair, and he felt the loquacious elf turn into a pit of silence and unease behind him. “Thad told you, didn’t he?”
Cyrus could see her reflection; where she had worn a smile only moments before, it was replaced with a drawn look, sorrow behind her eyes. Her nod was slight, but there. “It’s not a big deal,” he said, trying to make eye contact with her through the mirror.
“It was horrible, what they did to you.” She stooped to pick up his chain mail. He took it from her and slid it over his head. “Thad told me it was nothing less than a miracle that you survived, that you were the first—because you were the toughest—”
“If I was the toughest,” he interrupted, “it was because of that. I think you’re discounting the other warriors the Society has trained.”
She fastened his breastplate and backplate together. “I can’t tell if you’re being falsely modest or if you’re really that delusional to downplay—”
“It’s done,” he said with quiet finality. “That’s all that matters.”
“As you say,” she said, skepticism lacing her statement. She handed him his helm. “Not quite perfect, but as good as you’ll get without a full bath and time to clean up.”
“Thank you.” He turned, taking his helm from her and replacing it on his head. “As for the other thing...if you could keep it to yourself, it’d be appreciated.”
Sadness filled her eyes. “You have nothing to be ashamed of. I mean, I’m not a follower of Bellarum, but Thad says you should be proud—”
“It’s in the past,” Cyrus said. “I’d like it to stay there.”
She stepped aside and he moved into the hallway and back to the entry to the house, where he paused in surprise. Vara stood there, her hair around her shoulders. Her expression was prim, her lips taut.
“Hello,” Cyrus said, approaching her slow, uncertain.
“Good morning. Mother has asked for our presence on the street in one minute. You have a guard force allocated to stay behind?”
“I do.” He swallowed, hard. “You look lovely.”
One of her eyebrows inched upward. “I don’t see how; I have had neither the opportunity nor the inclination to do anything more than bathe and let my hair down. It’s amazing what fighting for your life in the dead of night will do for one’s complexion, I suppose.”
Cyrus felt a tightness in his chest. “I’ve never been to a Chancel before. Am I...” He hesitated. “...presentable?”
She looked him up and down in a cursory manner. “You’re no worse off than the unwashed masses that will stand in the back of the Chancel.” She tilted her head toward the door. “Come along. Our time is up.”
Chapter 19
Cyrus followed Vara, Odellan and Martaina behind them with a few other elves. Chirenya waited in a carriage with Isabelle, its doors thrust open. Vara climbed in, seating herself on the bench next to her mother. Cyrus found himself sitting next to Isabelle, who pushed herself against the wall of the carriage to allow room for his armor. Even so, his left arm pressed against hers, prompting him to smile in contrition.
“You’ll have to forgive us,” Chirenya said without a hint of apology. “Our family’s carriage is designed to be pulled by beasts, not seat them.”
“It is also several sizes to small for your rudeness,” Vara said.
Odellan appeared at the window. “I have a column ready to follow you. The driver is at your command.”
“They always are,” Chirenya said under her breath. “Very well, Endrenshan. Proceed.”
With a clatter, the wagon lurched into motion. Vara stared out the window, as did Chirenya, while Isabelle playfully nudged Cyrus with her elbow. Chirenya took notice, sending her eldest daughter a scathing look. “Really, perhaps you should have let your sister sit with her ox.”
“Mother, please,” Isabelle said with a shake of her head. “With their armor, they could not possibly get close enough to keep from bursting out of the carriage.”
“It would not be difficult to imagine the two of them in much more intimate positioning than this.”
Cyrus choked, prompting all three women to look at him. “Why must you keep accusing your daughter of such... unpleasantness—”
“If it’s unpleasant,” Chirenya said, “you’re doing it wrong.”
“I meant,” Cyrus’s face reddened, “you continue to accuse her of things that she is telling you she is not doing—”
“Things?” Chirenya spoke with cringe of distaste. “Can you not speak plainly? You are a ridiculous man, and thoroughly unworthy of the honor of thrusting yourself between my daughter’s legs.”
Cyrus clenched his teeth so tight that he thought he heard them crack. “The only thrusting that goes on between your daughter and I is the thrust of her wit, my parry and riposte, and so forth.” He looked across to Vara for confirmation, but she had returned to staring out the window, impassive, her hair cascading down her shoulders.
The sound of the wooden wheels clacking against the cobblestones dominated the oppressive atmosphere in the carriage. Cyrus dared not look at Chirenya, for fear of beginning another conflict. Similarly, he averted his gaze from Vara after the paladin sensed him staring and looked at him with a quizzical expression. Isabelle smiled at him, and they exchanged a look every few minutes until Chirenya glared at them both. Finally, Cyrus gave up and looked out the window.
It was obvious they
had left the more moneyed district where Vara’s parents lived. The houses were constructed in rows, just as in her neighborhood, but the dwellings were smaller, the streets were less kempt and filled with a throng of elves. They moved along in silence, men and women, as one. Cyrus stared out, something odd about the scene tickling the back of his mind, but he dismissed it.
The smell of food sold by street vendors filled the air, filtering into the stuffy carriage where the aroma of the three women was offset by what he had to concede was his less than ideal scent of days of travel and battle. The quiet chatter outside the carriage was a welcome break to the silence within it. The coolness of the outside air was warmed by the bodies close to him in the carriage, particularly Isabelle. Even through his armor, he could feel her breathing against his side. He looked across once more to Vara, who was still watching out the window, and wondered what it would be like to have her breathing against him.
The ride took twenty minutes, by which time Cyrus’s legs ached to move. The carriage ground to a stop in front of the Chancel. As he stepped out he reflected that although he’d seen bigger buildings—the Citadel in Reikonos and the Eusian Tower in the Realm of Death sprang to mind—he’d never seen any quite so ornate. The architecture of the Chancel was impressive, with a dome atop the squared building. At each of the four corners of the structure was a smaller tower, and after a moment Cyrus realized that it was from within the towers that the tolling of the bells came.
On every wall were stained glass windows capped by friezes that were carved in such small detail that Cyrus could tell even from hundreds of feet below that craftsmen must have labored on the Chancel for over a hundred years. Columns stretching hundreds of feet in the air lined the entrance and stone steps led up, filled by people answering the call of the bells.
Cyrus reached a hand up to help Vara, who ignored it and stepped down. Isabelle took his extended hand and kept the other on her robes, raising them so that the white hem did not touch the muddy road. Chirenya also accepted his proffered hand, stepping past him so quickly that Cyrus realized she didn’t want to acknowledge his assistance.
A phalanx of Termina Guards arrayed themselves around the party, Chirenya exhorting them to “Get moving, knaves.” The other parishioners moved aside, and Cyrus caught a glimpse of Odellan walking outside the perimeter of the soldiers.
As they neared the top of the stairs, the entrance doors awaited them behind a small courtyard of columns. A voice cried out in elvish, a gentle and melodic chant of some beauty. Cyrus found he understood some of the words. “It’s the traditional call to worship,” Isabelle whispered in his ear. Her breath was sweet, filling the air with a wash of mint.
“Chirenya, mother of the shelas’akur.” On a pedestal a few feet above the crowd stood an elven woman with dark hair. She wore an expression of utmost serenity, and very little else. Her robe wrapped around her waist, hugging both legs to below her knees but leaving her groin exposed. Her shoulders were covered by a silken cloth that stretched down both arms to cuffs at her wrists, and circled her neck with a simple band. From that band, the cloth ran below her arms, leaving her bosoms visible, along with her belly. “I greet you and your blessed offspring in the name of She who grants life.”
“Arydni, High Priestess of Vidara,” Chirenya said with a bow. “I offer my humble greetings and present both my daughters to Vidara’s grace.”
Cyrus felt his stare burning into the Priestess of Vidara’s uncovered body. Such a thing would have been unthinkable in Reikonos, where the clothing covered the zones of the body that the Priestess’s seemed engineered to display. “She’s not wearing much,” Cyrus said in a hushed whisper to Isabelle.
“She’s a High Priestess of the Goddess of Life,” came the healer’s amused reply. “Her vestments are designed to accentuate the life-giving and sustaining parts of the female body.”
Cyrus watched the High Priestess bow to Chirenya, unable to take his eyes off her. Her skin was supple and free of any blemishing. Her face was pretty and youthful and his eyes lingered a moment too long. He felt a sharp impact on the back of his head, knocking his helm over his eyes. When he readjusted it, he turned to see Vara glaring at him. “Don’t leer.”
The Priestess turned her attention to Vara and her smile brightened. “The shelas’akur. We are honored to count you among our faithful this week—as we are any week that you deign to grace us with your presence.”
“I’m certain,” Vara said. “And of course, I am pleased to be here, blah blah blah, you know the rest of the idle pleasantries.”
Chirenya’s mouth went agape. Cyrus watched Isabelle stifle a laugh and turn away, shaking her head.
If the High Priestess was offended by Vara’s response, she did not show it. Cyrus had fixated once more on her exposed bosoms, and this time he moved too slowly; she caught him looking. Instead of scowling, she smiled. “We welcome you, honored guest, with the blessings of She who is the source of all life.”
Before he could answer, Vara spoke for him. “He doesn’t speak elvish.”
“I understood what she said.” Cyrus took his eyes off the Priestess to glare at Vara. “I’m learning; I may not be able to speak your language, but I understand most of what’s said.”
“She who grants life welcomes all races to her sacred Chancel,” the priestess said in the human tongue. Her voice was melodic even in the rougher language of the Confederation. “Welcome to our shrine to Vidara. In honor of you, I will conduct the worship in the Human language.” She bowed to him, catching his gaze, which he averted to find Vara scowling at him once more, hand raised and eyes narrowed.
They were ushered past the High Priestess’s pedestal into the Chancel. When they entered, Cyrus was unready for the scale of the room that greeted him. Big enough for several of Sanctuary’s Great Halls to be encased within it, the Chancel stretched forward, benches all lined in concentric circles around a center pedestal. There were four aisles allowing the parishioners to be seated and the benches were already growing full as Chirenya badgered the guards toward the place she wanted to sit.
They seated themselves on a bench that Cyrus would have bet was the place Chirenya regularly sat; she went into the row first and immersed herself in conversation with an elven woman of her same approximate age, who cast curious looks at Cyrus. Vara followed, sitting next to her mother but ignoring the conversation taking place in favor of staring at the pedestal in the middle of the room.
Ensconced on the pedestal was a statue of a womanly figure at least ten feet tall. She was nude, with a baby nursing at each of her breasts. The statue captured her hair swirling around her shoulders with a benign expression on her face. He looked first to Vara at his right, but found her expression curiously blank as she stared at the statue.
Cyrus turned to his left, where Isabelle sat between him and the aisle. She was looking at him and answered before he could ask. “Vidara, of course.”
The air was thick with the smell of burning incense, and Cyrus realized that the bells had ceased tolling sometime after their entrance. A gong sounded from behind him, and a rhythmic chant rose as a line of elven women streamed down the aisle, lighting the candles that were placed at the end of each bench. They moved in a procession, almost dancing, each attired in the same revealing garb as the priestess outside and twirling staves that held a lit flame at the end. It reminded him of something he had seen during a carnival in Reikonos, something artful and beautiful, the chanting in perfect time with the lighting of the candles and the movements of the procession.
Down the aisle to his left came the High Priestess, clad as she was before. Cyrus found himself once more transfixed, this time more comfortable in the relative anonymity of the crowd. He watched her as the dancers made way, not interrupting their rhythmic movements. The High Priestess did not dance but instead walked with grace and dignity.
Isabelle leaned over to him. “How does it feel to ogle women that are at least five millenia older than you?”
Isabelle looked back with a twinkle in her eye. “Yes. All.”
“I figured maybe they were less than a millenia old...they look so...” He blushed. “...you know.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Comely? Attractive?”
“I meant youthful.”
Isabelle chuckled, a light laugh that was only just audible over the chanting. “Elves maintain their graceful looks until the mid 5,000s.” She nodded at the High Priestess, who was ascending the pedestal. “How old would you estimate she is?”
Cyrus looked to the center of the room, where the High Priestess stood, arms open in a welcoming gesture as the dancers threaded their way around the pedestal. He looked at her dark, flowing hair, her golden skin, glowing under the light of the candles around her. “You said they were all in the 5,000s, so I would guess early on that scale. 5,100 maybe?”
She shook her head. “5,500 or so. She’ll take the turn soon—that’s what they call it when we begin to look old. Of course, that will take many decades.”
He looked down the bench to Chirenya before turning back. “How old is your mother?”
“It’s impolite to ask.” Cyrus turned back to see Chirenya hissing at him. “But I’ll have you know I’m not a day over 4,500.”
The High Priestess clapped her hands together, a sound that resonated throughout the Chancel that was followed by a gong. “In the name of the life-giving All-Mother, I summon you to worship.” She spoke for several minutes as the congregation listened. Cyrus watched the crowd as the High Priestess completed a ceremonial call to worship and concluded with a hymn sung by the dancers, who were circled around the base of the pedestal upon which she stood.
The Sanctuary Series: Volume 03 - Champion Page 14