by Ailx Nichols
“Free with her body like many noble-born women, despite our tradition. Despite what our religion prescribes. She hadn’t saved herself for her future husband.”
“I wish she had,” Jancel said. “Not going to lie about it. That being said… She may have been spoiled, and wanton, but she was never prideful. I didn’t judge her then, and I’ll never judge her for how she lived before me.”
Iyatt smirked. “At least, she’d given her body to other men for pleasure, not exposed it for money.”
“You know what?” Jancel cocked his head. “I don’t think I’d judge her even if she’d done it for money.”
Iyatt searched his friend’s face, and saw something he hadn’t expected.
He knit his eyebrows. “Are you judging me now for the way I feel about these things?”
Jancel didn’t respond at first. When he opened his mouth to speak, his expression had softened. “What I don’t understand is why chastity matters so much to you.”
“The Book of Xereill—”
“I know, I know. It’s what Divine Aheya expects of us. But do you think it’s that important to the Goddess? More important than our honesty and kindness and how we treat our loved ones? Do you think she cares more about what we do with our bodies than what we do with our souls?”
The truth? He didn’t think that.
“It’s just…” Iyatt clasped his hands over his head.
How could he explain to a friend something he didn’t quite understand himself?
“I think it’s more about a person’s self-respect than about pleasing Aheya,” he finally said. “Unie had self-respect. Haysi… I don’t know. She dances for strangers, half-naked, inducing sexual arousal in them… How can I respect a woman like that?”
Jancel surveyed him. “Maybe you can’t. Maybe respect isn’t something you can command. But there’s something else you cannot command.”
“What?”
“Your heart,” Jancel said. “You can’t command the affection you feel for someone, even if you disapprove of their behavior.”
“Is that how you felt about Nyssa when you bedded her?”
Jancel nodded.
“But not about the lamented Hawina,” Iyatt said. “Wasn’t it amazing to be able to respect her and love her at the same time? She was an angel.”
“Yes, she was.”
“And the two of you had tied the sacred cords before you made love.”
An uncommonly mischievous look flickered across Jancel’s face. “That’s the official story.”
Iyatt’s eyebrows shot up. “What in Xereill?”
“I’ve never told anyone, but I guess there’s no point in keeping it secret now.” Jancel gave a little laugh. “Hawina, my friend, was expecting—at least eight weeks along—when we tied the sacred cords.”
Recalling Jancel’s revelation about his first wife brought Iyatt right back to the conundrum that had ruined his sleep every night since the trip to Norbal.
If he, Samurai Iyatt Martenn, was as upright and principled as all that, then he had to act.
Too bad that Haysimina Lommen had flawed morals and an indecent profession. Too bad she’d been free with her body and bedded other men before him. Those things were outside his province.
His own integrity, however, was within it. He, Iyatt Martenn, had had sex with Haysi on Norbal. And he intended to do it again.
But was he a man enough to marry her?
The next morning, Iyatt walked into the tattoo parlor, his mind in turmoil.
He exchanged some small talk with Maggi while Haysi finished inking a client.
When the client left, Maggi went out on an errand.
“Any news?” Iyatt asked Haysi. “Has Unie been in touch?”
“No.” She rubbed her hands with a liquid that reeked of antiseptic. “I would’ve reached out to you if there was anything new.”
He didn’t doubt it.
She cleaned and disinfected her tools.
He told himself he should leave.
“When’s your next client coming in?” he asked instead.
“In an hour.”
“Will you ink me while you’re waiting?”
She spun around and gave him an amused look. “Aren’t you inked enough?”
“My back, yes,” he said. “But the rest of me is unmarked. An immaculate vellum waiting for an artist’s hand.”
She laughed her silvery laugh. “I don’t see you for a week and suddenly you’re a poet?”
“I’d like a small tattoo on my bicep, please,” Iyatt said, ignoring her dig.
“Do you have a design or an idea in mind?”
“Surprise me.”
She drew closer and undid the top buttons on his shirt. “You might regret it.”
“I won’t.”
“That will be ten drinars.”
“Fine.” He fished two five-drinar coins from his wallet and placed them on the counter.
She pulled the lapel of his shirt down, baring his shoulder. His muscles tensed. Some of it was apprehension over the pain to come. But most of it was awareness of her hot gaze on his bicep, of her body so close he could kiss her, of her fingers against his skin. Stroking it.
As if waking from a reverie, Haysi stepped back and pointed to the reclining chair. “Remove your shirt, please, and sit down.”
When she grabbed her needles and got busy, his skin burned a bit. But it was nothing. This level of pain was minimal compared to how much it had hurt when he’d been inked in the quarries.
“Take deep breaths,” Haysi advised, drawing her needle in and out, her touch sure and surprisingly soothing. “I’m almost done. Don’t look yet.”
A few minutes later, she was wiping the site with a towel and dabbing on a fragrant ointment.
“Can I look?” he asked.
“Wait.” She led him to the mirror. “What do you think?”
She’d tattooed the word Rateh across his bicep in gorgeous, brush-style lettering, reminiscent of old Raish inscriptions.
“I love it,” he said.
She grinned.
Once he’d been bandaged, got dressed, and told what to do and not to do, Iyatt said goodbye. He went to the door… and turned around.
“You’re not like the other Lanterns women,” he said. “You’re special.”
He wasn’t sure why he was telling her what she must already know. Maybe he was telling it to himself.
She skewed a smile. “Funny how you changed your tune. Two weeks ago, we were all the same to you.”
“I was wrong.”
“Actually, you weren’t.”
He drew his eyebrows together. “What do you mean?”
“The other women—and men—who live and work here, they aren’t monsters, you know? They’re like me, just trying to make the best of it.”
“They’re not like you,” he said. “What they do is deplorable.”
He refused to exonerate them on the account of the circumstances they’d been born into or the hardship they’d seen. Iyatt’s childhood had been just as rough. True, he’d never starved, but he knew what misery was. And his transgression? He’d done penance for it. He’d keep atoning for it until his last breath.
“Want to know what I find deplorable?” Haysi asked, staring daggers at him. “The self-righteousness of those who vilify harlots.”
“In other words, people like me.”
She stood with arms akimbo. “Prigs and moralists. Including the matrons who have no compassion at all for their less fortunate sisters. They’re the worst.”
“Why?” He couldn’t help admiring the passion with which she defended her friends.
“Because they’re evil,” she said. “But, deep inside, they know they’re lacking.”
“Lacking what?”
“Where do I begin? Sensuality, joy, a sense of humor… The only thing they have going for them is their so-called virtue.”
“But most are fine women,” he said. “In fact, the best.”
>
For some reason—maybe because a part of him could see Haysi’s point—he felt compelled to argue the other side of the story. The side he knew to be true.
“These women are the foundation of our society,” he said. “They carry the world on their shoulders.”
She pouted.
“You hate them because you’re jealous of them,” he added.
That was unkind. But she’d been asking for it.
She let out a snort. “What a load of scat!”
“You think?” He arched an eyebrow. “I think you would’ve liked to be one of them.”
She raised her palms in a not me gesture. “I like my life, Iyatt. It was my Ma who dreamed of a more respectable future for me.”
“Ha! See?”
She gave him a feeble smile. “One of her protectors was a widowed banker. He treated her well. And you know who gave her more grief than anyone, ever?”
“Who?”
“His sisters.” She balled her fists. “They called her terrible names and shamed their brother for seeing her. They told her she was too soiled, too dishonorable to set foot in their part of town.”
“I’m sorry your mother had to suffer that.”
Haysi jaw tightened. “The real reason matrons revile women like my Ma and me?”
“Tell me.”
“Pure self-interest,” she said. “Calling us damaged makes them look whole in comparison.”
He rubbed his neck. “Hmm… Don’t you think your theory is a little too”—he searched for the right word—“simplistic?”
“Maybe,” she admitted, surprising him. “But it’s worth reflecting on.”
“I promise I will.”
“That’s a start.”
“Will you come with me to a Nine Blessings ceremony next week?” he asked, surprising himself now.
“Me?” She stared at him, incredulous.
“Yes, you.”
“Who’s getting blessed?” she asked. “A little nephew or a niece of yours?”
He shook his head. “A bunch of kids in my orphanage. The vestals hold a collective ceremony once a year, and I never miss it.”
He didn’t mention that he was the ceremony’s sponsor. For the last decade, he’d paid for the food and drink, the gift bags, the magicians, and the acrobats. He’d made sure the little ones looked forward to that day.
“Thanks for inviting me,” Haysi said. “It’ll be an honor.”
Eighteen
Reverend Zammi tied the ouroboros string around the child’s neck, chanting the first blessing.
Seated in the front row with Haysi by his side, Iyatt tried to gauge the boy’s age. Seven or eight, judging by his size. Except his eyes were those of a much older child, someone in his early teens. It wasn’t uncommon for a kid who ended up here to be so severely malnourished and underdeveloped that they looked half their real age. Often, they didn’t know how old they were. Sometimes, they’d forgotten their name.
“May the love of the Goddess cleanse you of evil like the rain cleanses earth and air,” Reverend Zammi intoned, anointing the boy’s forehead with oil. “May your heart be peaceful, your step steady, and your word true.”
She carried on with the next few blessings. As always, when she got to the sixth one, in which Aheya wished the child a pathway lit by his parents’ unconditional love, Iyatt winced.
So did many others in the room.
He knew there’d been some debate among vestals whether the Nine Blessings ceremony should be adapted to orphanages. So far, the temple resisted tweaking the sacred texts, arguing that Aheya’s words couldn’t be altered, and that every orphan could be adopted one day, gaining parents in that way.
Except, of course, orphans like Iyatt who had living parents and were not adoptable.
Yes, I have parents all right, Iyatt thought.
What he didn’t have, and never would—not after what he’d done—was their love.
That autumn evening, over two decades ago, nothing had presaged the dramatic turn Iyatt’s life was about to take. He was twelve, a tall and naturally strong boy. His family finished dinner. He stood up from the table forgetting to thank Mother for the meal. That was enough for Father to reach for his belt and order Iyatt to drop his pants.
Iyatt should’ve known better than to forget his manners—he’d been punished for far smaller offenses than that.
Whenever Father came home drunk or in low spirits, he didn’t even need a specific reason to punish Iyatt. His being a pigheaded, defiant, disobedient child was enough.
Generally, Iyatt took his frequent punishments as an unpleasant fact.
But that evening, as he looked at Father’s loveless, almost gloating face, something snapped in him. He didn’t drop his pants, didn’t bend over. Instead, he ran to the kitchen.
Father ran after him, his belt in his hand. “Pants off! On your knees, boy!”
“No.”
“No?” Father stepped forward and swung his hand.
Iyatt looked around for something to defend himself with. Mother’s biggest kitchen knife lay on the worktop. He grabbed it.
“Put that down,” Father growled and lurched forward.
Iyatt stretched his arm out. The blade, all five inches of it, poked into Father’s stomach.
Father stopped and stared down with incredulity at the blood staining his shirt crimson.
Iyatt ran past him, out of the kitchen, out of the house, toward the woods…
Reverend Zammi’s shrill voice reverberated in the room as she pronounced the eighth blessing. “May you have faith in Divine Aheya for she will put you in harm’s way but will give you hope and a future.”
Iyatt grimaced anticipating the next part of the ceremony, the singing of “Sweet Grace,” which preceded the final blessing.
It was a beautiful ballad, its tune easy and its lyrics uplifting, albeit tinged with sadness. But performed in Reverend Zammi’s earsplitting voice, with all the tone-deaf zeal she was capable of, “Sweet Grace” was going to be five minutes of torture.
He’d cover his ears if it weren’t considered rude.
Next time, Iyatt promised himself, he’d have some cotton wool in his pocket, to discretely plug his ears for the duration of the song. And Haysi’s ears, too.
He turned to her, about to warn her about the rough spot ahead, when Sister Noys ran up to Reverend Zammi and whispered something in her ear.
Reverend Zammi’s face expanded into a broad smile. “Her Royal Glory Prioress Aynu Eckme has just arrived at the orphanage! She will conduct the rest of the ceremony.”
Despite her young age, Prioress Eckme was one of the most admired people in the realm. Her royal blood had something to do with it, but mostly it was due to her actions during the war. She was Areg Sebi’s best friend, and Iyatt knew she’d helped him get off-planet, taking a huge personal risk. He respected the woman greatly.
And he felt happy for the children who were about to get her benediction.
Incidentally, it was also a huge relief that it would be Prioress Eckme, and not Reverend Zammi, singing “Sweet Grace.”
Because, by Aheya, the prioress could sing! If she hadn’t been a vestal, she could’ve become the star of the Choir of Eia, perhaps even risen to galactic fame with that voice of hers.
“I’ve never seen her so close before,” Haysi whispered in his ear when Prioress Eckme joined the other vestals on the stage. “She’s freaking magnificent.”
Iyatt smiled. “Wait until she sings.”
“Why? Is she so damn good or so damn—?”
A singularly pleasant voice filled the room, making Haysi interrupt herself midsentence and turn toward the stage, her mouth agape. Iyatt closed his eyes and listened, thanking the singer and Divine Aheya for this respite from the mundane world.
When Prioress Eckme finished the song, she sprinkled blessed water onto the children’s ouroboroses and pronounced the ninth blessing, “Today, my child, you have joined the Community of the Temple of Xer
eill. May you be worthy of that honor. May you live a life full of love and light until Divine Aheya calls your soul back by her side.”
A few tears were shed, and then Prioress Eckme descended from the stage. On her way out of the room, with her longtime steward Leehash close behind her, she passed Iyatt.
She gave him a small nod. “Samurai Martenn.”
“Your Royal Glory.” He bowed deeply before exchanging a salute with Leehash.
Prioress Eckme knew about the Association through her friends Areg and Marye. That much Iyatt was sure of. What he was less clear on was if she’d heard about the Refuge or if she read the rebels’ newsletter or how deeply she sympathized with the cause.
Sometimes he wondered if the rebels should try to secure her support. But, ultimately, only she could decide if she wanted to serve the Goddess or the people of Eia. Or the Goddess through the people like she’d done during the war.
After she left, the unofficial part of the ceremony began. The part that every child in the orphanage loved most. The party. Food and drink were served in the hall. Performers entertained the youngest, and a small band of musicians played for older children and grown-ups.
Soon, everyone around Iyatt began to dance—Reverend Zammi, Sister Noys, other vestals, staffers, and children. Haysi.
Nowhere remotely close to the erotic number he’d watched in Lanterns, her movements at present were decorous and small. No sharp hip thrusts, no shoulder shakes or shimmies. With her arms snaking upward and her long skirt whirling around her slender ankles, Haysi swayed with a restrained, elegant grace.
And yet… there was an undeniable sensuality to her elegance, a seduction in her grace.
Standing in the middle of the room, Iyatt watched her, unable to look at anyone or anything else, bewitched.
Someone laughed behind him. Someone with a shrill, piercing voice. He turned around.
“May I suggest that you go for a brisk walk outside, in the cold,” Reverend Zammi said to him before lowering her voice to a whisper. “You know, before children start asking me questions about the funny change in your anatomy.”
His face warming, Iyatt strode out the door and headed to the chapel across the gardens.
Haysi caught up with him on his third round. “Are you all right?”