Misery's Child

by J Belinda Yandell

  “Certainly not,” Lendenican spat over her shoulder, dragging Lillitha away. “Her robes are filthy, her veil and wimple shredded and you let her stand there! Where is your mind, woman?”

  Lillitha risked one backward glance, hoping against hope to catch Scearce’s eyes. But people clamoring to hear him tell what had happened surrounded the young prince on all sides.

  Ersala was arguing with the cadia as much as she dared, refusing to let go of Lillitha’s other hand. “Sister, she is my daughter, I’ve more a right—”

  “Come with us, then! But she has to be examined, immediately, then bathed and purified—”

  Lillitha turned red as she realized what kind of examination the cadia intended. She wanted to make sure no violation had occurred. Then another thought, even more horrible, burst into her mind. She was not Lendenican’s charge.

  “Where’s Yanna? Muma, where is Yannamarie?”

  The withered cadia spoke before her mother could answer. “They took her. At least it appears that way—”

  “Your father and the other men have been searching for you and she both,” Ersala said quickly. “We had hoped she was with you—”

  Lendenican pushed her into a tent. The old woman shouted for water and food at those lingering outside.

  It was dark inside the tent. For a moment Lillitha could not see.

  “You’re all right! You’re safe,” Iafrewn was saying. “I heard all the shouting and was so afraid it was the bandits again—”

  “I told you to stop fretting,” Lendenican said curtly. “They had their chance. They won’t be back. You’re both safe now. No need for hysterics.”

  The shadows seemed to sway around her and her head felt strangely light. Yanna, gone? Oh, it wasn’t possible!

  The last sound she heard was her mother’s voice, calling her name as from a great distance.

  ***

  “How is she, wife?” Rowle had hovered outside the tent for more than an hour before Ersala emerged from the heavy folds.

  “She is well, Oman be praised,” Ersala whispered, motioning for him to follow. “She fainted dead away, poor thing, but there seems to have been no real harm. Her robes are a complete loss; we shall have to burn them. She’ll have to put on her conscecratoria burlang, terrible for traveling but there’s no help for it, she has nothing else—”

  “By the beard, slow down! Why do you walk so fast?”

  “Because I can’t bear the thought of leaving Lilli alone with that dreadful woman—Oman forgive me—longer than I must! I would have sent Marta for her things, but as usual she’s not where she might be useful—”

  “Wife, you’re babbling—”

  “There’s no telling what Lendenican will say, she seems not the slightest concerned for anything but Lilli’s virtue—”

  “Intact, thank Oman?”

  “Husband, you’re as bad as that cadia! Didn’t I say she was unharmed? The poor thing has had a dreadful shock and all that woman can do is keep asking her the same questions over and over. Where did the bandits touch her, for how long? When did she last see Yannamarie? Did Scearce try to touch her—”

  “Scearce!” Rowle roared, grabbing his wife’s arm and forcing her to stop. “He saved her from them! What kind of filthy-minded question is that?”

  “It’s the cadia’s kind of question! Scearce is a grown man and she was alone with him for a whole night!”

  Ersala was crying, sagging against her husband. He could hardly make out the strangled words.

  “What will that woman tell the tribunal? What if, after all of this, they don’t accept her as consecratia?”

  “By Oman’s beard, woman! Would you have rather had our daughter violated and murdered? Carried off by heathen who do not even know His Name?”

  “Do not even say such things!” Ersala’s head snapped up and she pulled away from him. “You don’t know how many horrible fates I imagined! I am overjoyed that she is alive and unharmed. We owe Scearce more than we can ever repay. Which makes it even more worse, that somehow by saving her life he may have cost her the chance to become shallana breda.”

  “Could they really—refuse her? Surely they will understand—”

  “I don’t know, husband.” Ersala wiped her eyes and straightened her spine. “I suppose it all depends on that awful Lendenican, and what face she puts on the facts when she tells them.”

  ***

  The rest of the journey passed in a haze of heat and dust and half-shed tears. Lillitha rode with Lendenican and Iafrewn. Her own litter’s axle was splintered and Rowle thought it hardly worth the time it would take to repair it. Though the Gezana’s conveyance was far more comfortable than her own, Lillitha scarcely noticed. She was too bewildered by the loss of Yannamarie and too stunned by the realization that she had found Scearce again only to lose him forever.

  The mixed emotions made her sick to her stomach. She could hardly keep down the rich foods with which Weodjic and Leodric tempted her. The vidor and vidoress of Gezana fussed about her constantly, out of pity, sympathy and thankfulness that their own precious daughter had escaped such a harrowing experience. She was grateful for their kindness but all she really wanted was to be left alone.

  Lendenican swelled with importance now that she had two consecratia under her care. She did not allow either Lillitha or Iafrewn a moment’s respite; it was as if the three were bound by invisible chains. Lillitha could hardly stand the way the old woman’s eyes seemed to pry into her very soul, but even worse was Iafrewn’s constant chatter. The poor girl was starved for companionship and conversation, neither of which Lillitha had the energy for.

  Lillitha pretended to sleep most of the time, huddled in the corner of the litter with her veils drawn over her face. She was ashamed for it, but she couldn’t help it. She had not known how dependent she’d become on Yanna’s steady, silent presence until it was gone. Now she felt like an anchorless ship set adrift.

  She prayed. For Yanna, wherever she might be, whatever might have happened to her. Not knowing was a torture. Her mind conjured all kinds of horrors. Was she dead? Or had the bandits taken her back into Tor Abat? Or worse, could she be hurt and alone somewhere, perhaps even dying?

  Rowle had assured Lilli that if the latter were the case, the posse would find her. A party of five soldiers, recruited from the troops of the noble houses, had stayed behind to search for the cadia.

  And she prayed, too, for herself. Without Yanna, her mind writhed with doubts and fears; alone, her role as consecratia seemed pointless. Like some sort of idle daydream. How could she go through this without her cadia-techa?

  Surely if Yanna were beside her, she would not keep thinking about Scearce’s warm eyes or the way his muscled forearms had gleamed in the firelight....

  And those horrible, horrible questions Lendenican had asked her, over and over. The old woman wanted to hear word for word, gesture for gesture, everything that had passed between them. He had been perfectly honorable, gentle and kind. As she repeated the tale over and again, it seemed a violation. A betrayal of all his kindness.

  Did Lendenican hear the guilt beneath her words? Nothing worthy of reproach had happened, yet something unmistakable had changed inside her heart. Could the old cadia detect the change in her pulse, the air she breathed in and breathed out?

  Mother Leah, hear my prayers and carry them to the ears of Oman. Let Yanna be found alive and I will never think on Scearce again. I’ll give him up with a glad and grateful heart, only let Yanna be alive.

  Even that was a sin, she knew. Who was she to barter with Oman? As if she had any choice in the matter. Scearce was lost to her forever. Perhaps Oman had seen the true nature of her feelings even before she herself admitted it; perhaps He had taken Yanna as punishment. A warning. Or maybe it was her fault anyway for not having stayed in the litter as Yanna told her to. If she’d stayed hidden inside, perhaps Scearce would have saved Yanna instead.

  Oh, how could she have let this happen? Yanna might be d
ead and it was her fault. She loved Scearce and it was her fault, too.

  What of Scearce? Did he wonder what she might have said to make the old woman so suspicious? Did he understand that she had said nothing to tarnish his honor, that it was only the cadia’s duty to ferret out any possible appearance of indiscretion?

  Perhaps he hated her. Perhaps he wished that he’d left her to the bandits and spared himself this indignity. She would never know.

  By the time she reached Shallanie, she was certain the entire charade was a terrible, terrible mistake.

  Chapter 12: The Isle of Omana Teret

  Excerpt from The Breda Histories by Cadia Harwe:

  Lillitha of Kirrisian was said to be the most beautiful consecratia the Isle had ever seen; the reports of the priests were unanimous in this opinion, yet divided by her beauty’s effect. Some said her radiance was a sign from Oman, a symbol of his favor. Others said that kind of beauty could not possibly exist without vanity and foolishness of spirit. Consequently, they lapsed into the age-old philosophical arguments about beauty and balance, much to the disdain of the cadialana, who found the entire matter irrelevant.

  Upon Lillitha’s initial presentation to the priests, Bene Ecklar flew into a rage. He accused the girl’s mother and cadia-techa of applying false lashes and rouge. Whereby he pulled forth his own cloth to remove the paint and was amazed to draw away a clean handkerchief. The old priest even tugged at the girl’s lashes before he was convinced they were her own and in no way augmented.

  Shamonoza, the capital city of Shallanie, laid squarely in the middle of the province on the banks of the Great River that flowed from one end of the Realm to the other. Second in size only to Glisenheath in Modan, Shamonoza was the oldest city in the realm. It was built upon the ruins of Belah’s own fortress, of which survived only a single wall.

  The grandeur of the older structures was lost on Marta, who saw only the crumbling stonework and statues all but erased with time and the elements. She wondered with annoyance why the Shallanie didn’t tear them down, but didn’t dwell long on it. These relics only existed in the core of the city, Shamonoza having grown several thousand jackles in all directions, even to the other bank of the river. There were plenty of things to look at that Marta could appreciate, things that took her breath away. As soon as her parents were occupied with establishing their tents in the section of the fairgrounds designated for consecratia and their families, she slipped away to explore alone and unhampered.

  She understood now why people called Shamonoza “the White City.” Who would have believed that so much marble even existed in all of Omani, let alone one city? The sun reflected so brightly off the glistening white stone that she could hardly keep her eyes open in the glare. But except for the size and the material, the buildings looked much the same as those at home in Jennymeade, though perhaps better kept. Some of the structures were three or even four stories high; her neck hurt from looking up at them. Many had the most cunning little walled gardens tucked between them. She spent the longest time with her face pressed against the gate of one such garden, marveling at a statue of a fish that spouted water out its mouth into a pool where real fish swam. Only these fish were like nothing she’d ever seen; they were brightly colored in red, blue and yellow. Did the people who lived here eat these fish? Or were they something like pets? Surely they were too small and too pretty to be eaten.

  The streets were paved with smooth stones that looked as if they’d been dug out of riverbeds. Marta greatly approved of this even if she did stumble once or twice on the uneven edges. It was far nicer than the dirt, dust and mud she was used to. No wonder the Shallanie wore such fancy shoes; they could afford to.

  The Shallanie people didn’t look any different than Kirrisians or Gezanas or Jeptallans, except for their funny shoes and the purple sashes they wore in honor of the Single Moon. To Marta they appeared disappointingly ordinary and more than a bit smug. Some of them didn’t bother to hide their annoyance at so many strangers descending on their city.

  “Look where yer goin’, missy,” one old woman grunted.

  “Eh, country tart by the look of her,” said her companion. “Stop gawking and get out of the way, girl.”

  The shops were the most amazing of all. Every one of them had enormous glass-paned windows in which hung merchandise of all shapes and forms. (Only one shop in Jennymeade had real glass windows; that was Danaus’ Jeweler & Goldsmith.) Hats, shoes, glassware, ceramics, perfumes and soaps, jewelry, armor, cushions and furniture—and so much of it! Many stores displayed bolt after bolt of cloth in dazzling colors and patterns, but there were even a few that filled their windows with dresses and tunics already made. What a luxury!

  The smell of baking bread lured her towards an ovenry. She hesitated a moment before going in, wondering if the shopkeeper would be annoyed if she didn’t buy anything. She waited until a trio of women with baskets over their arms came along and then followed them inside.

  Marta stood looking hungrily at the pastries and loaves arranged on trays and wished she had even a copper quarter-placa in her pocket.

  “Careful, lassie,” the ovener laughed as he deposited another tray on his shelves. “You gonna drool all over my lovely kruckas.” He was obviously not a native; he wore no sash and he spoke Shallanie oddly.

  “I’m sorry.” She stepped backwards onto someone’s foot. “Pardon me.”

  “Let me guess. You here for the festival, yes?” His large doughy face did not look troubled; in fact, he seemed greatly amused. He turned to address the woman waiting at his counter with a basket full of brown bread. “Two and a quarter placas, my lady. Oman’s blessings to your house.”

  “I’m here with my sister,” Marta blurted out. “She’s consecratia.”

  “Indeed? What’s your father’s name, child?”

  Perhaps he thought she was making up stories. She told him with her chin tilted defiantly. Scrolls with the names of consecratia were posted all over the city.

  “If your sister looks anything like you, she must be a beauty indeed.” The ovener grinned to show enormous crooked teeth. He reached under the counter and pulled out another basket, from which he plucked a small cake. He tossed it to her.

  “With my compliments, my little lady of Kirrisian. The Mother’s blessing to your sister.”

  She thanked him and hurried out the door so he would not see her devour it in two bites. It was a trifle burned on the bottom; perhaps that’s why he’d given it to her for nothing. The cake was nonetheless delicious, sweet with golden sugar and butter.

  She wandered the open market where all manner of food could be purchased. Remembering the ovener, she smiled brightly at every proprietor who looked her way. The women largely ignored her or, if they saw her at all, narrowed their eyes as if they sensed she was up to no good. From their stalls, she moved away quickly before one of them asked why she was wandering alone.

  Several of the men, however, smiled back and when she told them she was the sister of a consecratia, offered her samples of their wares.

  She tasted chicken broiled in herbs, lamb grilled with lemons, paggies dipped in spun sugar and honey, numerous slivers of fried fish and several morsels she did not even recognize. By the time she noticed the sun hanging low in the sky, her stomach was full and her hands greasy.

  The crowds were thinning as people made their way to their homes or lodgings. Several of the shops had closed their shutters.

  She had turned down several streets before she realized she was lost. She had not remembered passing any of these buildings, most of which were taverns. Through the open windows she could see their tables filling with men and even a few women. Laughter and loud voices lifted through the air as if carried on the glow of the tavern lamps.

  A man in a window called out a lewd suggestion to her and she quickened her step. Oh, her mother would kill her if she found out she’d wandered into the tavern streets. She had to get back to the camp quickly.

  Women hun
g over a balcony up ahead. When they saw her coming, they burst into laughter.

  “A little young, ain’t ya, dearie?” the prettiest of them called. “Well, never too young to learn a trade, my da always said.”

  Her companions seemed to find this particularly amusing. Marta glared up at them as she trudged past, taking in their tightly laced bodices and unbound hair, the too-bright mouths and gaudy jewelry. They were younger than Tanra Jille, and prettier, but they were doubtless the same kind. So such things went on even in the White City?

  Shadows moved against the curtains behind the women and she instinctively knew they were male even before the deep voice shouted out a name: “Abshira!”

  The prettiest one sighed dramatically and rolled her eyes at her companions. “Coming, Danaus, my impatient lover, com-ing!”

  Marta’s head flew back in laughter before her hand could reach her mouth. So this was the pressing business meeting he and Tomack were in such a rush to attend!

  She filed the knowledge away with a smile as she hurried back to camp.

  Secrets were almost as delicious as food, and sometimes more satisfying.

  ***

  The Festival of the Single Moon lasted seven days and seven nights. The first two days were deliberately unimportant. Nothing of consequence was scheduled in order to accommodate those who always arrived late. Instead, the first two days were spent finding lodging, for those rich enough to afford the hostelries and rooming houses, or pitching tents, for those who weren’t. Consecratia and their families camped either way, in a segregated section of the enormous common nearest the Bridge to Omana Teret. Great walls of purple cloth lashed to poles surrounded three sides of the consecratia camp, effectively cutting off those inside from the rowdier elements nearby. On the fourth side, the Great River itself stood guard.

  A legion of soldiers, hand-picked by Bastrop of Tira as Keeper of the Isle, stood sentry at the seven entrances to the camp. The guards were there as an honor more than a precaution; no Omani would dream of intruding on the consecratia, though many eagerly paid formal visits if they were so invited. Only the families, issued purple armbands to identify them, and the priests and cadia passed in and out without question.