Priestess of the Dragons' Temple

Chapter 10: The Hunger of Her Heart-2

Iola curled into herself and sat, back to the wall, looking at a spot of sunlight on the arch above her offering place. “I should go,” she said. “The ambassadress needs me nearly all the time.”

“How is she?” Thorat asked, catching the worry in Iola’s voice.

She shrugged noncommittally.

“The governor’s sick. He thinks he’ll die soon, maybe in a month or two.”

“The governor?” Iola’s mind whirled around the possibility. “But if he dies, who will choose the new ambassadress?”

“Doesn’t the Aralel choose, and the dragons?”

Iola shook her head. “She said the governor has to choose.”

“Is the ambassadress not able to go on another year, one more journey to the other realm?”

Iola shook her head. “No one is supposed to know, not even in the temple, though I think most of the priestesses guess. We’ve all been worried. Most only last a few years, some fly only once. But you mustn’t speak of it.”

“I won’t,” Thorat promised. Sunna had not told him that the ambassadress was ill, so if she did know, it was a secret important enough for her to guard, even from her fellow Defenders.

A bell sounded outside. Iola moaned. “It is late. You’ll have to go. Can you come again?”

Thorat glanced towards his nearly empty pocket by the door. “I don’t know. I’d love to, but I don’t get paid much. I’m just a junior palace guard.”

“Oh.” Iola hadn’t given much thought to the petitioners’ offerings, though some of the older peresi had told her that she should use some of it to buy new drapes or a robe of even finer cloth. She didn’t need much. “I can give you some,” she said, starting to open her offering chest.

Thorat stood abruptly. “No. Don’t. It wouldn’t be right, not a proper offering.”

Iola glanced up at the statue of Salara. Thorat was right.

“You’ll have to come out of the temple to see me, with Darna and Myril,” he said.

Iola hesitated. They hadn’t told her, hadn’t invited her. She told herself that it didn’t matter. The seat of her power was the temple. In the past half-year, she had come into herself within its walls, in a way she never could have in the outside world. She would have to be different out there. She didn’t know how, but she did want to see Thorat again.

“I’ll try,” Iola said. “It won’t be right away, not until the ambassadress is out of seclusion.”

“When will that be?” Thorat asked.

“About a quarter moon. Then I’ll come.”

“Good.” He pulled her to him and they kissed again.

§

As the winter sun set in its gray-clouded sky, Iola finally sent Thorat away. She watched him go covertly, from inside her chamber door, hoping that none of the others would see her there. Surely they would know that she had violated the strictures of their calling, that she had laid her body down not only in honor of the dragons but also for her own pleasure. They would know that she was yearning for a man, one man in particular. That would not do.

She went back in and straightened the sheets in her sleeping nook, as if that could erase what had passed there in the hours before, as if it could could make her fully devoted again. She washed herself briefly with a pitcher and towel, then carried her linens down to the laundry and went to the bath.

She reached the refectory just in time for the evening meal. No one seemed to notice her day’s absence. She ate quickly and then, head bowed, hurried back across the temple to attend the ambassadress. She met Myril at the gate.

Myril was coming out of Jasela’s chamber with a tray of empty bowls and cups. She nodded to Iola but said nothing, just walked on, keeping her eyes averted.

Iola gazed after her. “Wait!” she said, and ran to catch up with Myril.

Myril slowed her pace but did not stop. “I’m replacing Ganie,” she said, not looking at Iola. “The Aralel ordered it.”

“Oh. But where will Ganie go?”

“Away,” Myril said. “I don’t know exactly where. She’s in the infirmary now, if you want to visit her.”

“Do you think I should?”

“No,” Myril said, and she finally stopped walking and turned to face Iola. “The ambassadress needs more lamp oil. Why don’t you go get it?”

Myril was pushing her away. Iola didn’t know how to bridge the distance between them. She went into the cellar where the lamp oil was stored and carried it back to Jasela’s chamber. She filled the lamps in the garden before she entered, as if she feared what she might find inside.

At first it looked as though the ambassadress was sleeping. Iola turned to leave, but then Jasela sat up.

“Iola,” she said. “Is that you?”

Iola nodded and went back inside.

“Your friend Myril.” She paused. “She’s to take Ganie’s place. How long did you know, about Ganie?”

“I only found out yesterday,” Iola said.

“You should have noticed earlier,” Jasela said. “Maybe after you fly with Anara you’ll be able to see better, but it was clear as anything. I think even Savasa suspected.”

“I’m sorry,” Iola said. “But if she’d been doing the rite properly every time, then how?”

Jasela snorted. “No one does the rite properly every time, not even the ambassadress, probably not even the Aralel herself.”

“No one? Really?” Iola said. She should have, would have been disgusted, but now she only felt relief … then dread. What if she had seed taking root in her now?

Jasela peered at her. “Not you, too?”

“I don’t know! I don’t think so. Oh, I don’t know anything,” Iola wailed.

Jasela looked at her a long time then sighed. “I’m tired,” she said. “Go keep watch out in the garden until one of the others comes.”

“Yes, Most Blessed One.” Iola dipped her head low and left that gold-domed, lamplit chamber. She stepped out under the dark dome of night and its cold, far-away stars, then took the blankets from their chest. She curled up on the bench outside Jasela’s door, praying for the forgetfulness of sleep.

§

Iola woke a little after dawn, her muscles stiff from the cold night on the hard bench. The outer gate was rattling. Savasa and Tiagasa entered. They never came one at a time, only together.

“Where were you all day yesterday?” Savasa asked as they approached.

“Blessed dawning to you,” Iola replied with a yawn.

“Busy, as usual,” Tiagasa said. She pursed her lips at Iola. “We’ve got a lot of work to do. Old Geta says we have to repair the ceremonial robes. You’re good at that kind of thing, aren’t you?”

Iola shrugged. “I’ll help,” she said, “but I’ve got to get some tea and bread first.” She noticed that Tia and Savasa had come empty-handed. “Shall I get some for the Most Blessed One, too?”

Savasa nodded. “And for us, if you don’t mind.”

“Since you were lounging around all day yesterday while we worked,” Tia added.

Iola said nothing, just stood to go.

“You know, it’s not always about you,” Savasa said as Iola reached the outer gate.

Iola paused. What did she mean? Then she saw Myril coming and reached toward her. Myril slowed her pace, but only a little.

“Myril?” Iola said. “What did she mean?”

Myril had a momentarily blank expression, as if she had no idea what Iola was referring to, but then she nodded. “You know Savasa said that out of spite, but maybe it’s true. You know we’re all worried about Ganie, and Jasela, too. And then there’s the governor.”

“What about the governor?” Iola said.

Myril shrugged and looked around to make sure no one was near. “I heard one of the elders say that he’s very ill, probably dying some day soon.”

“Oh,” Iola said. “And you?”

“I don’t want to be ambassadress. You know that. They can’t choose me. I couldn’t do it.”

“But the dragons want you,” Iola said. “The Aralel says so, too.”

Myril shook her head. “That’s what the augurs said, that I had to be here. It doesn’t mean that I can do what you do, that I could do it without breaking.”

Iola thought of Thorat again. “I’m not sure I can, either.”

Myril drew a shallow breath and the black center of her eye grew large. “No,” she said, in that far-away, half-tranced voice. “You can.” Myril swayed, as if she might topple over. “You’re the only one of us who – ”

Iola grabbed her roughly by the wrist and tugged. “Stay!” she said. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know, yesterday. I mean, I knew what I saw but I forgot that it was in you. I’m sorry.”

Myril withdrew her hand. “I’m back now. Thank you. I’m sure you mean your apology, and I accept, but you won’t mind now if I try to stay a bit away? It’s too much for me, and around you … ” She gazed off, past Iola, and Iola turned to follow her gaze but there was no one there, only a patch of some rare herb she hadn’t learned about, growing beside the ambassadress’s reflecting pool.

Iola nodded. “I’m sorry,” she repeated. “There’s hardly anyone dearer to me than you. I mean that, though I know I haven’t acted like it. I’ll show you someday, I will.”

“I need to go now,” Myril said, and she turned away and went on, into the ambassadress’s quarters, unguarded.

§

Iola did keep her distance, as much as that was possible under the circumstances. Myril had no time for her work in the Aralel’s study, or in the library. Now all of her mornings in the kitchens were devoted to mixing poultices and teas for the ambassadress under the elders’ watchful eyes. They treated her with a new deference and she didn’t like it.

On the eve of the ambassadress’s emergence, Myril accidentally pounded her finger under a pestle as she was mixing up the trance-blocking herb with a bundle of mint and a bit of honey.

“Ow!” she exclaimed. She put her finger in her mouth, and though it really didn’t hurt that much, it did hurt, and so did everything else all of a sudden and she started to cry.

Honored Geta hobbled over as quickly as her gnarled feet and cane could carry her.

“There, there, little one,” she said, putting a hand across Myril’s shoulder.

Myril tried to laugh. She was taller than Geta, not little at all. Geta only came up to her shoulder, but still it hurt. Everything hurt.

“I’m not little,” she said through her tears. “It’s just … I don’t know what it is.”

Geta sat down on the stool next to hers and took the pestle and pounding board away. She ground the herbs together then scraped them into a cup.

“I know, it’s a strain, especially for you,” Geta said. “I was almost chosen once, a long, long time ago almost before anyone here except maybe the Grandmother can remember. I was terrified. I love Anara, but flying with her? Going under the earth? That’s for dragons, not for us short-lived mortals.”

Myril nodded. She sniffed and reached for a towel to try her nose and eyes. “Do you think they’ll choose me?”

Geta frowned. “It’s not for me to say, or for any of us to choose, except maybe the Aralel. Do you think the governor would rather lie with you than with one of the others?”

Myril shook her head.

“That’s what seems to matter these days, and never mind the signs from the hollow earth. It’s not the true way of the dragons, but we walk across the ways of men, too.” She jerked her head toward the palace hill. “Especially those men.” Geta spat on the paving stone, gave the pounding board one last scrape, and got to her feet. “Go on,” she said. “Take that to poor Jasela, and pray she won’t have to fly again.”

Myril nodded. “Thank you,” she said. Geta knew about things, she told herself, and if she had a sinking feeling as she walked into the ambassadress’s inner garden, she would not have to feel it for long, if Anara heard her – or any of Jasela’s other attendants – at all.

§

Three, four days to go, one cloudy day after another if the weather held, Darna thought. The days might be lengthening somewhere up behind the veil of clouds, but it still felt dark, especially inside the temple. She wished that the Aralel would let Myril go, but now she seemed set on keeping Myril in the temple forever, whether or not she could make the rite. The Aralel had told Darna that she was to meet the master of the planners’ guild, but it hadn’t happened yet. She’d said that everything had been arranged – whether Darna liked it or not, apparently. This was what Darna had asked, had worked for, what she’d always wanted. But in the temple she now had a chamber more beautiful than any place she would ever find outside those walls, and petitioners to bring her offerings of praise and jewels. With the prospect of leaving so close at hand, the thought of staying in the temple seemed better than it had been before, as if she might someday even feel at home in its stiff, closed world.

She forced herself to go back outside of temple despite the threat of men from Tiadun and the more general prohibition on young priestesses walking out unattended. She couldn’t find anyone to go with her so she went alone, and whether it was her imminent departure or just carelessness, the Grandmother allowed her out unescorted. Even when she was alone, though, no secret byways appeared to her as they had in her scrappling days. She found one place where the planners were at work, repairing an old street-corner shrine, and she waited in the shadows hoping to see them without being noticed.

She returned to the peresi’s courtyard in the early afternoon. Sunna sat on her bench, rubbing the back of her leg and arching her neck in the sunlight. She waved Darna over to sit beside her.

“How was your walk in the city?” Sunna asked.

“I don’t know. It’s not the same as I remember it,” Darna said.

“Things are shifting,” Sunna said. “There was a drought last spring.”

“That would explain some things,” Darna said. “Why are there scrapplings here even in winter, and where have all the hidden ways gone?”

“The hidden ways?” Sunna asked.

“You know, like the one I almost found one day by the washing-place beneath the temple, the ones that connect the canals. I used to find them everywhere.”

Sunna re-arranged her robes and picked up her other foot to massage. She wriggled her toes pensively. “I don’t know many of them, myself,” she said. “I can only see the ones I’ve been shown. The city has a changing nature that most can’t see. If it’s hiding itself from you, too, that’s not a good sign.”

“Among other bad signs, I take it?”

Sunna nodded, but changed the subject. “So you sent young Thorat to the temple treasurers with his guard pay?”

“We only told him that Iola wouldn’t come out.”

“Hmm. So he came to her, and now he’s borrowing bread,” Sunna said.

“He did? I didn’t see him, though I suppose she wouldn’t parade him around, would she?”

“Shh. Tia and her crowd will never let her forget it if they hear.”

Darna sat back down. “He can’t have had enough beads.”

“I wouldn’t think so, either,” Sunna said. “He won’t be coming again any time soon.”

Darna wasn’t so sure. Had Sunna seen the fervor in his eyes? Iola could be very persuasive, too. “He’d better not,” she said. “I’m going to go find him.”

“I wouldn’t recommend that,” Sunna said.

“Why not?” Darna demanded. “Is he gone again? And what’s this he said about minstrelsy?”

Sunna chuckled. “Just a diversion,” she said. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were a jealous lover.”

Darna blushed, then bit back. “Are you keeping him as a lover?” she asked.

Sunna laughed again, loudly enough to bring Irean to her door.

“What’s going on?” Irean asked sleepily.

“Nothing,” Sunna said, waving her away. “I don’t keep lovers, not lovers like that,” Sunna whispered. “I don’t have time. Trust me.”

Darna frowned but nodded. She did trust Sunna, even with all her secretive comings and goings, or maybe because of them.

“You’d better not run after him, either,” Sunna warned.

“All right, I won’t,” Darna promised reluctantly. Still, she couldn’t stop herself from imagining the two of them, imagining the boy she’d once known grown to manhood, imagining him sacrificing his seed on Iola’s altar, all the fleshy wonder of him, and his eyes. She was jealous.

“I think I’ll take a petitioner, if the gate priestess will send me any,” she said.

“That’s one way,” Sunna said. “Good luck.”

Darna walked away, trying not to think of Thorat, or of Iola.

§

When that was done, Darna went out again as the afternoon cooled into evening. She went to see what was going on at the shrine building site, but if anyone had come, they were gone for the day. A pile of stones stood ready to be mortared into an arc over a bent wood form, a scaffolding still only half-erected. Darna ambled through the quarter around the planners’ guild where carpenters and stonemasons plied their trades.

She walked on, walking and walking until well after nightfall. She went into a tavern and drank two tall tankards of ale, speaking to no one but the barmaid and vowing to herself never to take a petitioner again. It was no good. She wasn’t a true priestess, and she wasn’t even sure she would want to be anyone’s lover.

As she wove along the streets to the side-house, she thought about what it would be like to be a guildswoman. She did want it, if she could have it and her freedom without the prince’s meddling. Ganie was gone and once Myril went and Iola flew with the dragons – or even if she didn’t – Sunna would be her only real friend in the temple. There was nothing to keep her there, except for its protection, and that wasn’t what she lived for. If she’d wanted the enclosure of walls, she could have gone back to Tiadun years before. No, she wanted to move those walls, to break out and build them again, to uncover whatever secrets the stones held inside. She would leave, she had to.

§