Priestess of the Dragons' Temple

Chapter 5: Myril’s Petitioner Returns-2

“You will conclude the rite you began at Midsummer and that is all,” Geta said quietly.

Lerat the Roper regarded Myril with a steady, sea-blue gaze. The lamplight shivered in a gust of wind. “Yes,” he said, “I understand.”

Myril opened the curtain, inviting him in. He bowed to her feet, as if they were going to journey through the whole rite again.

“I can’t… the trance,” Myril said quickly.

He nodded. “I have waited a long time for this, whatever it holds. I am under your command, priestess, as always.” Then he chuckled. “Not that I know how to be under anyone’s command but my own.”

“I’ll be right here,” Geta said to Myril as she stepped outside. Myril could see the edge of her robe at the door. It reassured her.

The petitioner seemed nearly as nervous as she was. She would have been much more nervous if she’d had to perform the whole rite again. For a moment, his disappointment entered Myril as if it were her own. An odd trace of longing brushed past her, throwing her off guard. She looked back at him, feeling fully awake. No traces of dragon-mind coiled around her – the tea had chased that away. She felt as if she were not a priestess, but just looking at him as an ordinary woman.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll be careful, very careful, now that I understand what can happen.”

“There’s no cause for concern tonight,” Myril said. “I won’t be entering the trance, but let’s do what we can to conclude the rite.” She took his hand, feeling only its calluses and fleshy warmth. Her own hands were cold. She dipped her fingers into the water and sprinkled him. He didn’t shiver as Myril would have in the cold, with the damp. He was warmer, taller, and physically stronger than she was. She wasn’t used to that. She was tall and broad-boned compared to most of the priestesses. It was strange to feel small again.

She sat next to him on the edge of the altar. She was touching him, but only lightly.

“I think this is where we were sitting when you were lost,” he said, “when you stopped speaking, stopped responding. Tell me, where did you go?” He leaned in close. Myril could feel the heat from his body.

She took a deep breath and edged away. “The dragons’ realm takes me, sometimes with little warning. I hear that it doesn’t happen so often with other priestesses.”

“No,” he said. “With you I knew that the rite was real, not just an empty custom, not… not what they say it is in Cerea.”

Myril shook away that thought, let it go, and remembered what she had seen at Midsummer. It was as clear in her mind as it could be, as if it had only happened that afternoon. “I rode down,” she said in the sing-song voice of one recalling a dream. “I went the way the ambassadress goes, along the dragonways. They were constricted, a dark red color, not the blue and open sky, nor the white light of clear vision. They carried me like a leaf in a stream, or a bit of thistledown. The currents reached out into the sea, onto another land, and curled back black at the horizon, retreating as if poisoned or ill. Then came a clear yellow light, a flash of green, a bird – a crow, or maybe a seagull, a common bird, strong on the wind. I saw the sea tossing its waves toward the sky, and then the light dimmed to gray and the seas calmed and I was back in the dragonways, floating, not tossed so violently, and it was clearer, but still more bound up than it should have been.

“I am not sure about the rest,” she said. “In time, I woke, and was back here. Much of it I cannot say, I cannot find the words for it.” She opened her eyes and looked around. Three lamps still burned in front of the statue of Helana, and incense on a brazier. Through the door, she could glimpse a bit of the night sky – three bright stars – and she could hear Geta breathing on the porch outside.

Lerat the Roper leaned against the cushions, looking at her incredulously. “You remember all that, from so many moons ago?”

Myril shook her head. “I hadn’t thought about it,” she said, “but when I looked back, it was there.”

“So, then, did the dragons grant me their blessing?” Lerat asked.

“I think so, but you are on a course fraught with danger,” Myril said. “You will live, and sail again, but the foreign shore is poisoned.”

He heaved himself up and set his feet on the floor. “That’s what I might have expected any priestess to say, even without a trance.” He looked at Myril. “Not that I doubt your vision, but that shore could hardly be more poisoned than this one.”

“But there was a very clear sign in what I saw, that black, dry death of the dragonways. It is interesting that you return to me now, when I have learned a little more about divination than I knew at Midsummer. I might not have been able to interpret it then.”

He nodded and stood up as if to go, but he hesitated before ascending the stairs. “I think it is… Can we talk about it more?” he asked.

“I suppose so,” Myril said. She draped one of the blankets around herself for warmth and stood up, stepping away from the altar. Lerat returned to sit on a cushion on the chamber floor, not beside the altar.

“I’ll send for tea,” Myril said. She wanted to know what he had to say, wanted to know more about his life in the city and on the seas, in the world outside the temple. She leaned out to speak to Geta.

“Could we have tea, do you think?” Myril asked.

“You’re safe then?” Geta said. “Good. I’ll send for it, and perhaps a little bread.”

“Thank you, thank you so much for being here,” Myril said. “Don’t go too far, please?”

Geta patted her hand. “Don’t you worry, I won’t,” she said. Then she turned and gave a hand signal to a priestess on the far side of the courtyard.

Myril returned to her petitioner and set up a low table in front of him. She positioned herself so that Lerat could see the image of Helana behind her and so that she could see the door out to the courtyard behind him. They waited in silence until Lenasa delivered a tray with tea and cakes, then hurried away.

Lerat the Roper told Myril about his travels, a Cerean princess, and the courts across the seas.

“She said that she wanted me to marry her, but I knew that the people of Cerea wouldn’t have had me in their ruling city,” he said. “They are as wary of foreigners as we are, possibly even more so. So I came back to Anamat. I had business to attend to, warehouses to clear out, exchanges to be made. I had been away a long time, three or four years, and some of the men and women I had left in charge of matters had taken too much into their own pockets, while others had become lazy. Apart from a short sail to Enomae, I’ve been here since the Midsummer festivities.”

Myril took a sip of tea. “But, you went to Enomae? When the ambassadress was under the earth?”

He half-laughed. “I always sleep on my ship,” he explained, “so I’m always on the waves, in the realm of the sea dragons. They don’t keep the same seasons as the realm dragons of Theranis. They’re fickle, but they’ve blessed me so far. Besides, the foreigners don’t observe our autumn ban on travel, and sometimes I need to work by their rules to turn a profit.”

“I see.” Myril nodded slowly, trying to imagine the lives of the foreigners. She hadn’t seen any for years, apart from the two who’d accompanied the governor to his tea. She really knew nothing at all of them, except that they came in trading season and were not permitted to stay beyond that time, much like the scrapplings. She wondered if, like the scrapplings, some of them outstayed their season now.

She toyed with one of the pieces of bread as she thought, then realized how careless that must look and snatched her hand away. She tried to think of something to say. “Did you ever hear of a Cerean trader, possibly on the king’s ship, who came here seeking an amulet?” she asked. She hadn’t meant to ask about that, but it was always the first thing she thought of when it came to the Cereans. “There would have been a boy, too, who learned to speak our language.”

Lerat’s brow wrinkled and he was silent for a long moment, almost as if he had slipped into trance himself. “I’m not sure,” he said. “There was a very young man who returned from here shortly after I took up residence in the king’s court, but he never spoke to me. I always thought it odd, the way he avoided me, but then he left for some other port, and I forgot all about it until just now.” He paused. “What was it you said they were seeking?”

Myril hesitated. “It is a bit of a secret.”

“And secrets are a priestess’s stock and trade,” Lerat said. “Never mind then, I’ll find out another way, and see what I can trade for the king’s favor, if I need it.”

Before he could ask her more, Myril thought of another thing that puzzled her. “You said, earlier, that this shore was poisoned, too. What did you mean by that?”

Lerat shrugged. “The governor’s palace is a vipers’ nest,” he said, indifferent to the blasphemy of his phrasing. “There are half a dozen men angling to replace him now that he’s beginning to grow frail. He’s certainly an old man, but they’re too eager for his end. Most of them won’t make much of a showing, too weak, but the others …” He shook his head.

Myril nodded, recalling the men they’d been shown to at Midsummer. “What are these men like, the ones who would be governor?” she asked.

“No one I would want as captain of one of my ships,” Lerat said. “But that’s not their trade, I suppose, and you girls can keep them in check.”

Myril nearly choked on her bread with surprise. “You think we can?” she said.

“Isn’t that the role of the priestesses, to keep the governor and princes from running amok, give the lords and chieftains a taste of a greater power?” Lerat said.

Myril swallowed. “It is, but…”

“But most can’t summon the dragons as you can, and some are little more than ornaments to the princes,” he said. “There should be more like you, truly a power to be reckoned with.”

Myril blushed at the flattery and shook her head. “I’m not, though,” she said. “I can’t even manage my own trance, can’t handle that power myself.”

“You have that power, though,” Lerat said. “It’s very clear, I can’t deny it exists anymore, not since Midsummer. Since then, I can see how I’m bound to it, to the dragons and to this land, in a way I never could see before. The Cerean princess’s claim on me seems weak beside it. Her people wouldn’t have had me anyway. You’re still young… not that that’s a bad thing, but later, when you’re older, I believe you’ll be able to hold that power, to wield it, rather than being swept away by it.”

The image of a great wave drawing back overwhelmed Myril’s mind’s eye. She shook her head and buried her face in her hands. From the doorway, Geta looked in.

“Do you need me, Blessed One?” Geta asked.

The sound of her voice brought Myril back. “Thank you,” she said, “but I think I’ll be all right.”

Lerat was looking at her with concern. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have tried to tell you your trade. It seems a shame, to let that all go.” He fumbled to find the package he’d brought with him. “I brought a little something for you, more a gift than an offering.” He held it out to Myril, who took it but didn’t unwrap the cloth. “If you should ever leave the temple, or take up the rite again…”

Myril shook her head firmly.

“So you’re going to be one of the maiden elders, then?” he asked.

“I don’t know where the dragons will have me go,” Myril said. She shivered. The effects of the tea were wearing off.

“Let me know where you are, if you will,” Lerat said. “I would be honored.”

“I can promise nothing,” Myril replied.

Outside, Geta shuffled her feet, and Myril took that as her signal to begin the dance of parting, a short series of movements that she recalled well enough despite being several months out of practice. She sent Lerat on his way into the cold early morning, half hoping that she never had to see him again. Still, part of her did want to know where he went, just as he wanted to know what her future would be. He was her only petitioner, and she, somehow, his one priestess.

§

Iola returned to her chamber to take a final petitioner in the quarter-night before dawn. For the occasion, the Aralel had permitted her to take as many petitioners as she liked. It was the final and most perilous stage of the ambassadress’ journey, and any blessings to speed her on her way were welcome. The mountain passes were blocked with snow, and custom kept most at home in the winter season. Almost no one traveled to Anamat to celebrate the ambassadress’ return. Besides, Midwinter was not always a time of celebration: there had, in legend, been times when the ambassadress had not returned alive. Even most valley farmers kept their vigil quietly inside, tending their fires through the night. Only the citizens of Anamat city itself, and of course the priestesses, came out to greet the ambassadress on her return and to see Anara.

The head of the guardsmen at the governor’s palace came to Iola, asking for a peaceful year.

“Is there any reason it wouldn’t be?” she asked.

“And a healthy year for the governor,” he said.

“I will remember him in my prayers,” Iola said. She remembered him from his visit just before initiation. He had had a neatly trimmed white beard and lively eyes. “Where is the governor tonight?” she asked.

The guardsman shrugged. “At the palace. A priestess is visiting him there.”

Iola bit her lip. The governor was supposed to go to the temple on festival nights. It wasn’t right that he stayed in his own bedchamber, or even his own shrine room, if he had one.

“He’s old, you know,” the guardsman said by way of explanation. Then he grinned. “But I’m here, so let’s speed Anara on her way!”

Some petitioners just didn’t come to the rite with the proper attitude. Iola resolved to show him, though this one might be harder to lead than most.

“I can’t come at Midsummer, on account of the foreigners and all the bonfires and those cursed scrapplings,” the guardsman continued. “These quiet festivals, these I can enjoy.”

Iola smiled tightly and took her veil up from the altar. “Let’s begin.”

The smell of incense wafted in from neighboring chambers. Iola lit a handful on the coals before Salara’s statue, along with a bit of fragrant wood the petitioner had brought. She danced and led him, easing into the rhythm of the rite. She settled into its familiar pattern, comfortable now in it even as the petitioner startled and gasped when the energies of the dragons danced around him.

He left before first light. Iola meditated as the sky brightened in the east and the stars began to fade. She combed her hair, knotted it, splashed off her face, and checked her reflection, then walked out into the last moments of that cold, clear night. The full moon eased toward the western hills. Smoke drifted up in calm columns from firesides all over the city. Someone bustled into the garden from the entrance by the main sanctuary. It was one of the elders, one of the healers, going over to the locked gate into the ambassadress’s garden. She tested the lock then hurried away.

Tiagasa crouched outside her doorway, looking tired. She screwed up her face. “Clazan,” she grumbled to no one in particular.

As the sky brightened, the peresi gathered around the tea cauldron by the sanctuary gate, shivering in the chill. They waited there, talking in whispers if at all, until the gong sounded to summon them to the procession.

“Blessed dawning,” Iola said to Myril, as she joined the others.

Myril stifled a yawn. “May its blessings grace us all,” she replied. She took a cup and filled it, then passed it to Iola.

“It’s such a beautiful morning,” Iola observed. Feathery clouds turned pink overhead as the sun’s rays shot out over the far-away mountains.

“A bit cold, but it is beautiful,” Myril said. “Darna reminded me that she and I might leave now, with the Aralel’s permission. I thought that I wanted to go, but looking at that sunrise, I almost wonder what it would be like if I stayed.”

“Why don’t you?” Iola asked. True, the trance had been hard on Myril, but she could see Myril’s bond to the dragons, feel it almost as surely as she felt her own love of Anara.

Myril pulled her robe tighter around herself and looked away.

“The Ambassadress is coming, she’s on her way,” Iola said. That was the important thing now. She didn’t like to think about Myril’s leaving.

“I know.” Myril closed her eyes. When she spoke again, her voice had shifted higher and far away. “She’s crossing the third threshold,” she said. “She’s tired. Anara’s pushing with her wings…”

Tiagasa and Savasa looked at her, suddenly silent. Darna dashed over and pushed the others aside, grabbing Myril by the hand. Lenasa hurried in and supported her from the other side. Myril shuddered and blinked. She opened her eyes just long enough to see Iola then nearly collapsed into Darna, dropping her tea. The cup shattered on the paving stones. Geta rushed up and pressed a cup of hot broth into Myril’s hands. She glared at Iola, who suddenly felt like she’d been displaced.

“At least you could help clean this up,” Darna told Iola as Geta led Myril to a nearby bench. Darna started picking up pieces of the broken cup and Iola joined her, moving more slowly. It seemed an ill omen, but she didn’t know why. She should study augury more, like Myril did. She should study more altogether. Myril’s eyes were still fixed on her cup of broth, or tea, or whatever it was Geta had brought her.

“It is thin at crossing-times,” Iola said.

“It is,” Darna said, but as if she were trying to change the subject. “I almost thought I was going into trance last night. I didn’t, but I almost might have.” Then she looked at Iola and stopped talking.

Maybe Darna would keep trying to be a priestess, Iola thought. The thought of Darna leaving the temple always struck her as absurd, whether to Tiadun keep or to the guilds. Darna was a priestess of the dragons. She belonged in the temple, Iola was still sure of it.

§