The Mother

  * * *

  Alandra left the temple once the night was quiet. The taverns had been cleared and the masses had retired to their beds. The streets were empty but for the occasional guard, but they would not stop a child of the temple. Most of the guards were orphans themselves, boys who had been raised by the Mothers. The boys were kept in a separate camp to the girls, as they could not become Mothers themselves, but no orphan was left out in the cold. The Mothers would raise any child who had no mother of their own, boy or girl, sickly or well.

  The occasional lamp still burned along the street, though they burned low, their oil close to running out. She was dressed all in black, ready for complete darkness. Her eyes had been blessed by a Mother to see well with little light, therefore the stars would be enough to find her way by. She would not begin her work until she felt she moved unseen. Her work was as secret as it was holy.

  The houses stood in neat rows beside the cobbled street, as orderly as their inhabitants. She followed the route she had been given, as though it was a way she knew well. She took a left and found herself on the market street, which was wide enough to allow tradesmen to set up stalls during the day. Then a right, passing through the street of taverns. They were all silent and empty, as she knew they would be, but still she hurried past. She had heard stories of the evils that happened within, and did not want to absorb any energies lingering in such places.

  Moving back on to a residential street, she realised she was approaching her target. The lamps had all burned out now and she was ready to begin her work. Her fingers tingled in anticipation and her heart beat in a stronger, faster rhythm. She patted the shape of the knife within her shirt and felt comforted, then scolded herself. The Goddess's support should be enough; she should feel safe.

  She tried the front door and found it locked. She frowned. The people had no crime to fear since the influence of the Mothers had spread, but still some clung to old habits. She moved to the window instead, and began to work her fingers around the frame. All the windows in the town were made to the same design, and with the same weaknesses. She carefully pulled up the lower half of the window and locked it in place against the top half. It was a small space but her frame was slight and well-suited for the task. She slid her head and shoulders through the gap and wiggled through, walking her hands along the wooden floor for support. She dropped her knees gently to the ground and sat back upon them, listening. A clock ticked on the wall, telling the same time that was told in every house on the island.

  Alandra would never speak any thought that might be construed strange by the Mothers, but she was glad she was not one of these people, that she was kept separate and different. She wondered if they realised how mapped their lives were, and almost pitied them. As an orphan she had not been given many choices in her life, but she considered those made for her well thought out. She had been chosen not to be a Mother, but to be an assassin, because the role better suited her skills and temperament. Unless the Mothers or the Council intervened, because of a shortage elsewhere, everyone followed the professions of their parents, whether they were suited to the tasks or not. Only children whose parents were lost, for whatever reason, were liberated. As she had been.

  She crept carefully towards the stairs, and proceeded to work her way up, step by step, treading only on the very edges to avoid any creaks lurking in the wood. There was no guarantee her targets were sound sleepers.

  While the ground floor had been in order, as per regulations, the upper floor was somewhat of a mess. The wide landing was littered with carved wooden animals, and the marks had been removed from the doors. She had suspected the layout of the upper floor would not be correct. Whatever these people were guilty of, and she would never have the gall to ask, they were apparently not model citizens. Still, she went to the door that should have been the master bedroom, and very slowly turned the handle. She allowed the door to swing inwards only a crack, and slipped her nimble body through into the room.

  The double bed had been removed from the room. A child's bed stood in its place, leaving an unnecessary amount of floor space for the child to play on. More toys were strewn across it than on on the landing, though a space had been cleared for someone to reach the bed. A large chest had been left open in the far corner of the room, and fabric faces peered at her from within it, unblinking.

  She should have left the room at once, since she had not been sent for the child, but she was curious. What sort of spoilt child slept here, that its parents had made it so many toys? She padded softly towards the bed, and stopped when her feet reached the soft, hairy rug on the floor beside it. Not one child but two lay in the small bed, their faces pressed into a thick pillow, one facing each way. They were both equally small, she guessed they were still too young to learn a trade, and they had no doubt been birthed on the same day. She should have known there were two from their breathing, and realised she had allowed herself to become distracted. She took a moment to focus herself, and backed away from the bed.

  The parents would be in the room set aside for the children, then. She slipped into this room as easily as she had the first, and was rewarded by the sight of her targets lying side by side, snoring softly. The man's mouth hung open, the woman's was hidden as her face was against his neck.

  Alandra pressed the tips of her fingers together. The Mothers wanted to be sure their victims were known to have angered the Goddess, that her retribution struck them down. So they had lent Alandra one of the dark powers. With a touch which would not even wake them, she could inflict these sinners with the same plague people prayed daily in the temple to avoid. She doubted these two had made such prayers however, and knew she did no wrong as she approached the bed, drawing her fingers apart and feeling the surge of power there.

  A sudden loud snore from the man disturbed his wife, who moved her head from his shoulder and rolled to face the ceiling. Her eyes remained closed but Alandra stiffened, the hairs rising on the back of her neck. The face looked familiar, and for a girl who had rarely left the temple complex her whole life, that meant something was wrong. This woman should not be known to her, but she knew that wide mouth, she knew how it would smile, she knew the exact shade of green those eyes would be, were they to open. She knew how the curls of dark hair would feel in her fingers, curls so like her own. Her legs became weak beneath her and she sank to the floor, holding her hands before her and staring at the flesh of them. If she did not use the power soon it would dissipate and be wasted. Her first mission would be a failure.

  Yet she could not move. She knew the woman in the bed. The details of the face had been locked away, behind some wall in her mind she did not remember making. Or perhaps she had not made it herself, perhaps the Mothers had built it there. Was she not a child of the temple at all, if her own mother still lived? Whatever sin her mother must have committed to become a target, surely it was terrible enough to require her death to appease the Goddess?

  Before she could focus again upon her task the power left her fingers and the decision was taken from her. She could use her knife, but then the deaths would seem like murder, and no lesson would be drawn from them. She would have to apologise to the Mothers, and beg to be allowed to try again another night. If she could do it.

  She stood and looked again on the woman's sleeping face. She knew her as her mother, and yet she did not remember being with her. Her memories had been reduced to images, pictures of this woman sitting in the sunlight, her mouth open in song, or smiling. A picture of her beside a stove, and then on a mountain. Some mountain far away. Was it even on the island? Had her mother brought her from some other land?

  The Mothers did not permit useless questions but her head was buzzing with them. She turned to go, trying to shut them out, to forget the images. She made it to the door before she faltered. She felt an irrational affection for this woman, her real mother. Perhaps she could find a way to have her spared, or warn her so that she could flee the island. Maybe the man's death would be enough fo
r the Goddess, if the crime had not been too great. She could beg the Mothers for this one favour, as she had begged them for favours when she was small.

  She turned back to the bed. If she killed the man now, with her knife, she could call it an error. She could tell the Mothers she had struggled with him, and the struggle woke the woman who then managed to escape. She could tell them the mission had gone wrong, and beg their forgiveness. She reached into her shirt for her knife, looking down at the man's sleeping face, wondering why he meant nothing to her when her new-found mother meant so much.

  His mouth snapped shut and his eyes opened. One hand shot out and grabbed her by the wrist and the pressure forced her to let go of the handle of her knife. He drew her hand out from her shirt, empty.

  “Wake up!” he barked, and in her confusion she thought he was commanding her.

  “What is it?” The woman, her mother, sat up and screamed.