Misery's Child

by J Belinda Yandell

  Then there were the bene. Some of them weren’t too terrible but the majority had studied her with a clinical detachment that made her feel as if she were an animal being looked over at market. Bene Ecklar, the same horrid little gnome who had embarrassed her so upon their first meeting, had actually discussed her with his colleagues as if she weren’t standing two feet away from him.

  As shallana, she would have little interaction with them. Chancellor Paglia was another matter.

  In his own way, he was as disturbing as the shallan. Paglia was barrel-chested and completely bald. She could not be sure of his age, for his face was oddly naked and boyish without whiskers or beard. Half a jackle shorter than she, he was not at all intimidating. His smile first fixed her attention, an expression so warm that she wanted — desperately — to like him, and yet… yet she could not.

  His pale blue eyes laughed and glittered as if at some private joke, and he looked at her so steadily, so intently, that she felt as if he were crawling under her skin. Throughout the night, he’d stood so close she could smell his wine-heavy breath. She wondered why no one seemed to notice; surely his attentions had crossed the line of propriety. Every time she turned, there he was, cornering her against a column or table so that she could not move away without his consent. He chattered away, seeming oblivious to what he was doing and yet something in his eyes said otherwise. It had become an odd and frightening contest of wills.

  If only Yanna were here. Yanna would know if there was a way out. She could not ask Lendenican. Even the kindly Gevalini intimidated her into silence. Today, when she was allowed an hour in the cadian libraries, she had searched the histories for any instance of a chosen shallana being released from her consecration, but no such occasion had ever been recorded.

  Twice she found mention of a cadiasecratia who had renounced her vows, but never a shallana breda. It gave her some hope that if she were not chosen, she could decide not to take her final cadian vows. Her parents would not be pleased but they would understand once she explained. Scearce was wealthy and generous; he would not allow his wife’s family to starve.

  If she were chosen—she couldn’t bear to think of it. It would mean at least six summers spent on the Isle of Omana Teret with the shallan and Chancellor Paglia. Six summers of nights spent trying to coax the seed of life from a corpse who looked at her with loathing. Could she do it? Could she open her body to the shallan without crying out in fear and revulsion? Not just once, but night after night?

  And Chancellor Paglia…. Something deep inside her recoiled from the hinted knowledge in his pale, glittering eyes.

  Mother Leah, please forgive me, but I cannot do this. I am not worthy to be shallana or cadia. Please, I beg you, let the choosing pass me by.

  Tomorrow would decide matters one way or the other.

  Lillitha of Kirrisian slept little that night.

  Chapter 15: The Ceremony of the Choosing

  Excerpt from the private journals of

  Cadia-dedre Osane:

  I have just come from an audience with Varden and cannot sleep. Paglia was there, too, of course—otherwise I should be sound asleep. Varden, I suspect, did not really wish to see me at all; it was Paglia who had me summoned from my bed. I could not tell whether he had found out about the caucus or not, but his smile was even more smug than usual. Paglia asked me many questions about each of the consecratia, but the only one he was truly interested in was the Kirrisian. I could tell by the flicker of his eyes and the change in his respiration. Why does the man think he can lie to me?

  As for Varden, he showed no interest in our conversation, though at one point Paglia asked him rather baldly if he wasn’t impressed by the Kirrisian’s beauty.

  The shallan rolled his eyes balefully and growled, “Do you think I am so near the grave that I need your eyes to tell me what is beautiful? As if makes the slightest difference.”

  All eyes squinted painfully as the noon sun hit the marble of the city amphitheater. The semi-circle of steps, which stretched to the height of a two-story building, had been filled with people determined to get a good seat since the night before. Only the front three rows remained empty, cordoned off with purple and scarlet banners to reserve those places for the consecratia, their families, and such members of the cadia and bene who were not seated on the raised dais.

  Marta accompanied her parents and brother to their seats. Her future husband and father-in-law were permitted to sit with them and she knew Danaus was swollen with pride, even though he tried to hide it by scowling and complaining of the sun. Tomack sat woodenly beside her, no doubt trying to comprehend the sudden turn of events which saddled him with a betrothed and good-parents so quickly and so completely without his even being consulted.

  She sat stiffly hoping she wouldn’t crush the fabric of the new dress that Danaus had presented her. He’d given one to Ersala as well. The burlangs were not from his stock, as the merchant did not deal in ready-made garments. He must have purchased them in the city. Rowle had frowned but he could not refuse when gifts were customary upon betrothal, not just for the bride, but the entire family. Marta’s pride stung knowing that Danaus was afraid of his future family looking like paupers when they rose with the rest of the promised couples seeking the shallan’s blessing. But she swallowed her ire for she adored the dress: a cool, pale green cotta, so stiff it would stand on its own, trimmed in gold braid and real Bethossian lace. It was a trifle snug, but she was thrilled to see the way the bodice hugged her bosom and enhanced her cleavage. For the first time, she could wear the medallion Danaus had given her outside her clothes. For the first time in her life, she felt truly noble.

  Marta had risen early just to help her mother wash and dress her hair, fussing over Ersala until the older woman laughed and cried for mercy. The scarlet and gold burlang was nearly too large for her but a few pins remedied the situation. Rowle, always handsome in Marta’s eyes, wore his vidor’s tunic, possibly the only garment in the House Kirrisian that was whole and just a little faded because it was only worn for special occasions. Marta had caught him polishing his battered boots the night before, coating them with tar to hide the scuffs and scrapes.

  When I am the lady of Tomack’s house, my father will have new boots every winter whether he needs them or not. And Muma will have silver combs for her hair and a medallion as large as an onion on a golden chain, and no one will ever pity my parents again.

  She was happy enough to be generous in her daydreams. Handsome, moody Tomack and all his ships were as good as hers. The negotiations had been awkward at first, both Rowle and Danaus prickly with pride, dancing around the issue until Marta thought she might scream. But in the end it had been settled, wine had been drunk and promises exchanged. Danaus had even waived rights to her dowry until the next summer when the marriage would actually take place.

  No one had spoken of it, of course, but Marta’s dowry depended almost entirely on the outcome of today’s ceremony. She slammed the door on her heart and prayed that Lillitha would be chosen. It was too bad for her sister, but the choice didn’t belong to either of them anyway; she couldn’t be blamed for hoping for the best for herself, just as Lillitha was doing. Even now, the foolish thing didn’t stop to think about anyone but herself and her precious Scearce. Luckily, the throngs of people in the amphitheater dampened the echoes of Lillitha’s anguish and made it easier to ignore.

  It took nearly an hour for the cadialana to complete their promenade from the Isle through the city to the chairs on the dais. People who hadn’t been able to get seats for the actual ceremony stood crowded along the route to cheer and wave banners as the silent women passed, smiling benevolently left and right. Marta could hear the voices spiraling down into the bowl of the amphitheater as if the sounds were raining from the sky.

  She squinted to get a good look at the dedre and was disappointed. Osane was indistinguishable from the others except for the prayer book dangling from her waist and the gold trim of her larat. It was impo
ssible to think this was the most powerful woman in the Realm.

  The seven consecratia followed. In their white burlangs, wimples and veils, they were as indistinguishable as sheep, except for the thickest one that Marta knew immediately had to be Iafrewn. She kept looking this way and that as if she were going to wave to the crowd at any minute. Twice she nearly tripped over her own feet.

  The bene priests came next in a double file of some thirty or forty gray-coated men with heavy circles of gold and glittering stones over their shoulders. Their heads revealed varying degrees of baldness. Marta wondered if there were no young bene. Unlike the cadia, they did not smile.

  “I’ve never seen more sour-looking old men,” Marta whispered to Tomack. “They all look as if someone stuck a lemon up their arses.”

  Tomack barked with laughter before his father shot a glance in their direction. Marta thought with some amusement that Danaus and Ersala were cut from similar cloth when it came to their offspring, always frowning and reproving. It made her feel strangely tender towards Tomack and she squeezed his hand.

  Finally, the Guardians of Omana Teret came marching down the steps. They wore splendid uniforms of purple, tunics embroidered with the Shallanie crest, and golden helmets that sent the sun winking in all directions.

  “Look!” Marta whispered excitedly to Tomack. “The man in front, the one with the sword—that’s Bastrop of Tira, he’s a friend of my father’s.”

  Behind the corps came the shallan himself. The old man was propped up in an ornately carved chair carried on poles by four brawny soldiers. Four more soldiers carried the poles of the blue canopy that gusted above, shielding the shallan from the harshness of the sun.

  The hairs on the back of Marta’s neck prickled. This was the first time she’d actually seen the shallan.

  The old man’s hands gripped the arms of his chair as if sheer will kept him upright in the seat. His blue robes puddled about him, as if only a skeleton was hidden underneath. He might have been a waxen figure except for the viciously alert eyes that moved in the hollows of his face.

  “Sweet Mother, I’ve seen healthier looking corpses,” Tomack breathed in her ear. “Imagine wasting a delicious tart like your sister on that.”

  She was too queasy to be angry with Tomack for his vulgarity. Her stomach rolled and a sudden panic tore through her mind.

  Dear Mother, don’t let it be Lillitha. Don’t let them choose her.

  But it was already too late.

  ***

  Lillitha had no idea how she got through the ceremony. She merely put one foot in front of the other and followed where she was lead, sat where she was told to sit, stood where she was told to stand.

  It was over, all over. Her life, her dreams, her love.... Every bit of it, shattered.

  The cheers of the crowd as she was called forward and draped with the ceremonial garlands still roared in her ears. She vaguely remembered Iafrewn clasping her hands and kissing her cheek with some kind of idiotic happiness, and Osane saying a prayer over her as she knelt before the shallan.

  Lendenican took her hand and led her down the steps into the aisle, where her mother and father waited to join the processional back through the streets of the White City. Tradition dictated that the new shallana breda walk through the throngs of the faithful, who cheered and wept while they reached out to touch her robes as if the very fabric held some blessing.

  She would spend a final night in her tent in meditation and prayer, Lendenican told her, as if she did not already know this. How long had she studied the rites, preparing for just this moment? She was not allowed to eat or sleep during her vigil. At dawn, she would put on the deep green burlang that had magically appeared on her cot. Green, symbolizing the fertility of mother earth.

  Lillitha shuddered.

  In the morning, her father and mother would walk with her to the Bridge of Omana Teret, where Dedre Osane would be waiting to welcome her.

  Bitter tears, unshed, choked her speech, so that she only nodded as Lendenican bid her farewell.

  As soon as the techa was gone, Lillitha began to shake, sobbing silently. She wound her arms about her, hugging herself tightly as if to still the tremors.

  Mother Leah, I know I have no right to ask for your help, but I am alone and frightened and I do not know what to do. I’ve made a dreadful mistake. I should never have taken this path. I’m not fit to be shallana. I’m not even fit to be cadia. Have pity on me....

  She watched the first candle burn as the same silent prayer rolled over and over again in her head. Her knees began to ache but she welcomed the pain. It was almost pleasant to feel a pain that she had the power to end by merely shifting her position.

  She was tired and sick at heart. Surely she had not spent a lifetime preparing for this. Why had she been so stupid? Yanna had tried to tell her but still she’d clung to ridiculous illusions. Shallan Varden was no kindly old man who would kiss her on the forehead like a grandfather; he was death and decay personified, reeking with sickness and obsession. She thought again of the emotions she’d gotten from him, that frightening onslaught of feelings completely unlike anything she’d ever known. She could still taste them, bitter and coppery, like bile and blood on her tongue.

  When the first candle sputtered, she used it to light the second. She did not even feel the hot wax drip on her hand. She looked at the three other candles waiting for their turn.

  When the fifth burned out, the night would be over, and she would be shallana breda.

  Sweet Mother.... What am I going to do? If only Yanna was here; she’d know whether there was any way to stop this.

  She thought of what Yanna would say. Would she tell her again to listen to that small, still voice in her heart? But that voice could only whisper: Run.

  “I’m her sister,” she heard Marta’s voice insisting outside the tent. “I am allowed to see her. I asked Cadia Lendenican’s permission. You can ask her yourself if you don’t believe me.”

  Lillitha jumped to her feet and listened. Her sister’s voice sounded thick, as if she’d caught a sudden cold. Impossible to imagine that Marta was the only one she could turn to.

  “Damn you,” Marta whispered in a choked voice as she pushed the tent flap aside and advanced into the room. “Stop your blubbering, I can’t stand it!”

  A small stab of guilt found its way inside Lillitha’s pain. Her sister looked terrible, her eyes swollen and her nose raw.

  “I’m supposed to be celebrating my betrothal out there, but thanks to you, I can’t stop crying. Oh, it hurts! Can’t you stop it?”

  “Please, please....” Lilli grabbed her sister’s hand, her nails digging into flesh. “You’ve got to help me! I cannot do this! I cannot!”

  Lillitha clung to her as if she were drowning.

  “Stop it, Lilli. Stop it, you’re hurting me—”

  “I’ll kill myself before they make me wed that monster, I swear I will!” As she uttered the words she knew she meant them. She’d rather die than go through with this charade.

  She saw Marta shudder and knew she was wondering that if Lillitha’s grief hurt her this much, what would her death do to her?

  “By the beard, you are mad.” Marta pushed roughly, knocking her to the ground. “I ought to kill you myself, you miserable, puling baby!”

  “I know I’m weak, I know you must despise me,” Lillitha whispered lowly, her voice tripping too quickly over herself. “But there’s a way, if you’d just help me. I swear before Oman I’ll never ask another thing of you for as long as I live, I’ll do anything...anything at all—”

  “There’s nothing you can give me if you aren’t the shallana breda! Don’t you know my dowry depends on you? Can’t you think of anyone but yourself?”

  “If I marry Scearce I can give you whatever you want, don’t you see? I’ll give you a dowry fit for a queen if only you’ll help me get out of here!”

  Marta stared at her, but the idea that was forming in Lillitha’s mind was so simple
she could hardly keep from laughing with relief.

  Marta rubbed at her nose with the back of her hand, glaring open-mouthed at her.

  “Don’t you see?” Lillitha continued, practically giddy. “I’ll just leave. I’ll find Scearce and we’ll be married before anyone even knows we’re gone—”

  “You can’t just leave! You’ve just been chosen, Lilli! Do you think you can just walk out of here, say ‘Oh, so sorry, I’ve changed my mind’? What about Muma and Da? What about them?”

  “It will be all right. I’ll explain and they’ll understand that I love Scearce, and I can do just as much for them as Scearce’s wife as I could as shallana breda! And I don’t care what anyone else thinks. There are six other girls out there who would gladly take my place, let them choose one of them. Let the shallan be angry, let the damned cadia hate me, I don’t care! I won’t do this! I tell you, I won’t!”

  Marta’s lips tightened. “You are mad if you think you can just walk out of this tent past the sentinels—”

  “I could if I were wearing your dress and you stayed here the rest of the night wearing my robes.... No one will come in here to check, not tonight.”

  “I won’t let you do this. I can’t. I don’t give a tinker’s damn about the scriving shallan and that whole lot of Omana Teret but I won’t be part of this crazy idea of yours—”

  Lillitha closed her eyes. In her mind, she gathered all her sorrow and pushed it towards her sister. She hated herself for doing it, wasn’t even sure it would work—