“You know the least deviation from procedure causes side effects! I don’t want you to get sores and lose your hair! I’m only thinking of you!”
Sure, what do you know of the procedures, Harachne? You’re just an academy marm—a glorified baby-sitter! Pyra pushed through the door hangings. Mother sat on a stool, face buried in her hands. Harachne hunched over her like some sort of bent leering troll woman. Both looked up at Pyra when the hangings flapped shut.
“Your mother and I were just having a discussion,” Harachne explained and then stomped from the room.
Pyra went to her mother and held her head to her chest. “Why do you let her do this?”
Her mother looked up. “Please, darling, don’t you go off on me too.”
“I’m not mad, Mauma, I’m trying to understand. You’re a daughter of the High Priestess! I swear, I’ll tell Pandura if she does this again.”
“Darling, you mean well, but that would violate my autonomy. Pandura does not value herself as a mother. I’m sentimentally attached to the old-style family relationships. That’s why you and I get along so well.”
“Do we?”
“What do you mean, child?”
“Do we get along?”
“Of course we do! We have spats—just like I had with Harachne…”
“No!” Pyra said. “Not like you have with Harachne! Never like that! I don’t call you names even when I’m very mad at you! I’ve never heard you call anyone a bad name, either, least of all me.”
Pyra’s mother hung her head. “That’s true.”
“So why do you let her?”
“Harachne’s under a lot of pressure, sweetheart. Mistress Ataena gave the Council a poor recommendation and Harachne’s been passed over for promotion again. She’s not really mad at me—she cares for us.”
Pyra realized that it was like talking to the sundial. Just as the sundial could only speak the time of day when the sun acted upon its form, so her mother seemed incapable of going beyond the outside forces—mainly Harachne—that acted upon her life. If you’re so autonomous, Mauma, why do you need that woman so much that you’ll put up with this? Am I not also a force in your life? Maybe Pandura is right and we are mere slaves of the material forces. No! Mnemosynae has seen too much inside us for that to be true! Harachne does not trap me, at least not inside!
“I’m going to bed, Mauma.” Pyra released her mother and stomped off to her chamber. Soon I must release her forever.
Sleep did not come easily. Her window faced the sacred laboratory, with its sparkling colored lights. Sometimes the hum of the ventilation engines lulled her asleep, but not tonight. At times, she thought she heard garbled voices screaming up through the air shafts for release—probably just the way the sea breeze played off the vent grates.
She closed her eyes.
The dream came before Pyra even realized she had fallen asleep.
A harsh blue light bobbed down the short hall toward her mother’s chamber. Pyra rose and followed it. There were people in the greeting room.
She pushed through the door hangings of her mother’s sleeping alcove. Harachne sat on a floor cushion with eyes wide open in an opium stupor. Priestess sages and thin, strange-looking men with pale faces and large eyes gathered around the bed of Pyra’s mother. Pandura and Mnemosynae were also there. The odd-looking men stuck huge syringe needles under Mauma’s skin and injected her with vials of thick black liquid.
“Mauma?”
Pandura and Mnemosynae glared over to where Pyra stood at the door hangings, their eyes startled and angry. Mnemosynae smiled at her star pupil and walked to her with a strange spiraling quickfire light in her hand.
The Mistress of Memory’s violet eyes pierced Pyra’s soul. “It is only a dream, child. Go back to bed and sleep peacefully.”
When Pyra woke just before dawn, she only recalled bits and pieces of disturbing sounds and images mixed with pleasant memories of her mother. She didn’t know why, but her eyes and pillow were wet from crying.
THE PALADIN’S ODYSSEY | 367
One assumption that drives the frenzy to map the human genome is that all human behavior is of genetic origin. Behaviors that in previous times were attributed to environment or moral choice are now being attributed to genetics. High profile scientists claim to have discovered the genetic basis for a host of behaviors and characteristics, including alcoholism, homosexuality, promiscuity, I.Q., and violence. Serious scientific doubts about these claims are commonly given little attention, leaving the public with the impression that science is on the verge of solving some of society’s greatest concerns. The wide acceptance of genetic explanations for these probing social problems, whether grounded in solid science or not, has created an ideological climate that has grave implications for human dignity.
—Jim Leffel
Engineering Life: Human Rights in a Postmodern Age
THE PALADIN’S ODYSSEY | 367
4
Chosen
P
yra’s head still spun, and her body ached all the way through, when she awoke the morning after her graduating coven’s initiation festival. All she recalled of the previous day was a disjointed tumble of swaying faces and rhythmic bodies intertwined, laughing madness intoxicated by the divine ambrosia. She had not expected to hurt this much afterward, or the gnawing void in the pit of her stomach.
She tumbled out of her new couch in the novice dormitory. Though just across the sundial courtyard from where she had lived all her life with her mother until yesterday, it seemed a world away. It surprised her when she rolled onto the floor instead of rising to her feet. Her head throbbed.
“A bit like being joyfully trampled to death by an invading army, isn’t it?” said the laughing voice of Khallio’Phe much too loudly.
Pyra felt like slapping her. “Shut up, ‘Phe. I hope the Old-world Titans feel just half of this under the feet of At’Lahazh!”
“Now, now, darling, don’t be blasphemous on the commencement of your sacred calling. You should have seen me the day after my initiation. Talk about war’s wreckage!”
Pyra pulled herself back up onto the edge of her couch and finally got her feet under her. A stumble toward the mirror confirmed her worst fears. “I look like a unicorn pie!”
“After somebody stepped in it—that’s why they give you three days off the Court rotation before starting your regular hours.”
“Tactless bynt! Why’d I ever want you as dorm under-mistress?”
Khallio’Phe laughed. “Who else would put up with you? Besides, anything must be an improvement after living under Harachne’s thumb.”
Pyra covered her ears and held her head. “Even your shrill voice!”
“I could sing for you.”
Pyra winced. “Not this morning.”
“What morning? It’s an hour past noon, you slug.”
Pyra splashed her face from a bowl of water on the mirror stand and attacked her rumpled hair with a brush.
“So what do you plan to do with your free time once you recover from last night?”
Pyra swiveled on the mirror stool to face ‘Phe. “I need to spend some of it with my mother.”
“How is she?”
“‘Bout as well as can be expected. She’s showing now—after just two months. Is that normal?”
‘Phe softened her voice at this to near tolerable levels. “The process accelerates growth.”
“Has your mother ever told you how it works?”
Khallio’Phe shook her luxuriant black curls. “Never. Mnemosynae can be as tight-lipped as your Pandura when she wants to be.”
“Or when she needs to be.”
“More likely—here, let me brush out the back for you.”
Pyra surrendered her brush. “I’m afraid for her,” she said.
“Can’t say I blame you.” ‘Phe carefully pulled through a tangle.
“All the stories say they never come back.”
“The mistresses say not to be
lieve the stories.”
“Even the strangest legends are often rooted in at least some fact,” Pyra answered, quoting Khallio’Phe’s mother.
“Then we live to serve and sacrifice,” ‘Phe quoted back from the Novitiate’s Oath Pyra had taken yesterday afternoon.
The emptiness spread from the pit of Pyra’s stomach to become an amorphous shadow folding like a carrion gryphon’s wing over her entire life.
“It’s normal for me to be concerned, isn’t it?” That must be it—I’m just apprehensive about Mauma.
“Sure. Just don’t let it take over. You’ve got to think of yourself too. If I were you, I’d bring it up at our rotation’s monthly dialogue. Priestesses need support-of-the-heart too. You can’t just give and give and give. Nobody will look down on you for it. It’s perfectly acceptable to share your feelings there—even the really bad ones.”
To be quietly written down for review by over-mistresses—maybe as ‘dangerous thoughts?’ Pyra wondered all of a sudden why she made that connection. If she had not known better, she would have suspected that she was angry and afraid.
W
orking the Court of Meeting settled into its routine of worship hours, off-Court dialogues, and advanced novitiate level classes. Pyra now had access to the lower security areas of Epymetu’s Temple complex, among them a large menagerie of animals under the Court of Beasts where she liked to spend her leisure hours with Taanyx. ‘Phe complained that she really ought to mix more with the other priestesses, but Pyra had always been somewhat of a loner. She rather enjoyed the mystique.
The menagerie was where her mother had gotten the now rapidly-growing sphinx. Pyra had many warm memories of it and other places where Mauma had taken her for outings as a little girl. She had first discovered her ability to talk to the beasts in the menagerie, which made it a magic place.
She whispered to herself, “How is Mauma?”
Pyra felt a pang of guilt for not visiting since early last week. Her mother’s condition had looked so awful that she realized she was dreaming up excuses to stay away. I can’t keep doing that. Time is too short.
She slung her lyre back over her shoulder. I shouldn’t be playing to the animals when I could play for her instead.
Pyra trilled for Taanyx and headed for the menagerie door. The guard outside nodded a friendly greeting. She smiled back at him, which by the fire in his eyes, seemed to make his day. The children’s academy would still be in session, so at least she wouldn’t have to worry about Harachne.
She found her mother bedridden, with curtains pulled over the windows and skylight. A rank odor filled the bedchamber. Pyra had difficulty seeing her until her eyes adjusted.
“Mauma?”
The form on the divan was too large for Pyra’s mother, swollen abnormally about the face and limbs. Only the sunken eyes were familiar, though filled with unaccustomed pain. Patterns of bruises traced up and down her arms and legs.
“Mauma, what are they doing to you?”
“Darling, it’s necessary,” whispered the woman on the bed.
“Why?”
“I’m building the future—your future.”
“What future?”
Pyra heard the door hangings move behind her.
“Let your mother rest, darling.” Pandura swept around to the bed, her gold red hair the only color left in the room. She poured the contents of a small black tincture bottle into Mauma’s mouth.
“What’s that?”
Pandura wiped her daughter’s lips. “It will help her sleep and ease the pain.”
“Why does it hurt so, Grandmother?”
Pandura stood up and turned to Pyra. “Her creation codes are being altered so she can give birth to a divine being. Rapid changes are taking place inside her body. Soon it will ease up for a few months. Then she’ll be able to receive visitors. Run along. I’ll take good care of her.”
T
he golden skies echoed the call of sea birds gliding out over the Yawam Rahabim. Garden fountains lined the causeway where the two young priestesses ran their arms through the jeweled droplets as they passed. For the moment, everything seemed fine—a time for feeling, not thinking.
“Why can’t more worshipers be like that last one?” Pyra said to her dorm mistress as they walked back from the Court of Meeting.
Khallio’Phe grinned. “Was it total magic?”
“I don’t know. I guess.”
“Enjoy it while it lasts, darling. Those are few and far between.”
“‘Phe, I don’t mean to sound blasphemous, but it felt like he was worshiping me instead of the Goddess.”
“He was.”
“What?”
Khallio’Phe said, “We are the vessels of harmony. There is divinity in all of us—even those outside the Temple. Here, we simply develop our own divinity as the gods guide us more closely. It shouldn’t surprise you when they worship you. To them you are the Goddess.”
Pyra laughed. “I’m too young to be a goddess!” The idea seemed funny until it bit into her like a barbed hook. “But you’re right. Most are not like him. You’ve read my journals…”
“Far more interesting reading than the average novice fare—you have a way with words, and see things the others miss.”
“Thanks. I have this fellow I call ‘the Lumpy One,’ but his real name is Gorvox. His mother forced him to come to Temple, if you can imagine that. He’s clumsy, shy, and not all that bright. He keeps coming back to me, but all he does in the sanctum is sit there with his head hung, while he feels like he has to steal quick glances at me whenever he thinks I’m not watching. The first time I saw him he was so scared he almost cried; poor thing.”
“Does he talk?”
“He’s starting to a little, but not much. I ask him questions and mostly get ‘yes’ or ‘no’ answers in grunts. Yesterday he told me I looked like a girl he grew up with, except for my spots—I suppose that’s something. ‘Cept for that, he just turns into a lumpish piece of furniture for the whole session. I’ve not forced any worship on him.”
They passed into the novice dorm.
Khallio’Phe said, “That’s good. Some priestesses are too pushy over form and forget the substance. Sounds like you’re making progress though. You’re wise to go slow. One must draw people out of their inner worlds carefully. You’re doing great!”
“You really think so? I mean sometimes I don’t know if I’m doing them any good at all. It seems the worship is just mechanical for most—like a form of exercise. I keep looking for something spiritual to happen—like your mother talks about—but I can’t see it yet. Is that normal?”
‘Phe said, “What about your magic one?”
They entered the sleeping chamber, where Pyra plopped down on her couch. “I s’pose. It was exciting enough, but not what I’d hoped—fun, but not deep and rich the way I used to imagine. The way your mother describes working the Court always sounds so high and noble…”
Khallio’Phe sat down next to her and cut her off. “Between you and me, Mnemosynae hasn’t worked the Court in decades. Mother tends to romanticize past glories a bit much. I wonder if middle age does that. Oh, speaking of my mother, her courier left you a message. She wants you at her shrine after you freshen up. She thinks you might have a gift for divination. The constables have a real need for that in the outer city these days.”
“I heard the noise out there last night from all the way up in the Court of Beasts. If I didn’t know better, I’d guess the war was at our gates.”
“Not that war.”
Pyra went to the mirror table, where she quickly checked her appearance. A few quick brush strokes and she said, “I’m off.”
“Greet her for me, will you? Tell her that her daughter isn’t too busy for a visit. My sacred concert is still a week off.”
Pyra nodded and rushed out of the chamber.
Mnemosynae’s shrine sat in a small grove of tamarisks on the garden side of the Temple Mound.
The
Mistress of the Soul rushed out of her sanctum just as Pyra arrived. “Ah, good, follow me, Pyra. I’ve been called down to the harbor-side to divine for the constables again. Did you hear the ruckus last night?”
“Yes, Mistress, I was just telling your daughter that it sounded like the war had reached our gates.”
Mnemosynae slowed her pace and smiled. “How is ‘Phe?”
“She’s the best dorm mistress ever.”
“I arranged that for you, darling. You have real talent. I want to see it developed properly.”
They reached the innermost ring avenue and turned onto the stair causeway of iron pyrite crystal down toward the waterfront far below.
“Thanks. ‘Phe also sends her greeting. She misses you.”
Mnemosynae slapped her own forehead. “Oh! Her concert isn’t this week, is it?”
“No, Mistress, next week.”
“Thank the Goddess! The Council has me so busy and now the constabulary!”
Three ring avenues down, they passed under the gates of the Temple complex into the outer city, where the golden pyrite stair turned into gray stone. The contrast between the Temple’s clean well-manicured grounds and the shabbiness of the city beyond always amazed and saddened Pyra. Both zones shared the same basic architecture: multi-storied fronts with stone pillared colonnades and inner courtyards.
The outer city, except the waterfront, had grown around the Temple in the last century-and-a-half. That made it relatively modern as cities went. Yet it seemed worn out before its time. Garbage spattered the streets, and roving mobs of young looters had defaced many building facades.
The Chief Constable met them in front of his fortified blockhouse near the harbor. The tired-looking heavyset man knelt before Mnemosynae and kissed her ring. “Thank you for coming personally, Mistress,” he said with a gravelly voice. “Last night was havoc festival all over the city. This latest cluster attack is worse than any I’ve seen.”
“Cluster attack?” Pyra clipped her words off at a sharp glance from Mnemosynae.
The Constable explained anyway. “Night marauders get worse each year. Most are just youths. Used to be they came from poorer families—harbor scum and the shanty sellers. Now, most are middle class and from the wealthier sections of town—they’re the worst—more gold to pay for their vices. They rove in packs and grab women and children off the street to meet up with other bands at prearranged sites for what they call ‘havoc festivals,’ which are just drunken riots and gang rape. Occasionally they get crazy and kill the victims afterward. Last night was really ugly.”
The Paladin's Odyssey (The Windows of Heaven) Page 6