“I just fell asleep here by Lia very late in my shift,” Ellynor said, lying, but not too worried about it. “But she was resting so comfortably that I thought I could close my eyes—”
Darris looked slightly mollified. “Well, if she still has a fever, you’ll be back here tonight, and you won’t be sleeping.”
But Lia, when examined, was so noticeably improved that even Darris’s sour mood improved. The girl’s breathing was easy, her temperature was down, and when she woke, she could only produce a minor cough. “You’ll stay here one more day, even so,” Darris decided. “Ellynor, if you want to redeem yourself—”
“I’ll watch her tonight,” Ellynor said quickly.
“Good. Then you go get some real sleep now, and I’ll see you back here this evening.”
But late that night when Ellynor returned—rested and fed, since she had been absolutely starving once she left the sickroom—she found a little crowd gathered in the infirmary. Lia was awake and fretful in the way patients sometimes got right before they were completely well—tired of lying in bed but not quite so recovered that they had the strength to leave it. Lia’s best friend, a short, pudgy redhead about Lia’s age, was sitting cross-legged on the patient’s bed, filling her in on events that had transpired while Lia battled a fever. Disposing themselves in various attitudes of relaxation on the other empty sickbeds were Astira, Rosurie, and two other girls who clearly were bored enough to try for any kind of diversion.
“I don’t think Darris would be happy to see all of you here, running the risk of getting infected,” Ellynor said with some concern.
“We’ll be fine,” Astira said. “Most of us have already caught the fever and recovered.”
Rosurie, who had not, merely shrugged. “I’m not afraid of getting sick,” she said.
“Oh, please don’t make them leave,” Lia begged. “I’m so bored. There’s been nothing to do all day, and Darris just kept telling me to rest some more. I’m tired of resting.”
“How are you feeling?” Ellynor asked, and laid her hands on Lia’s clear skin. No heat; no clutter in the blood. “Much better, I think.”
“So can we stay?” the redhead asked.
Ellynor settled on the sickbed next to Astira. “I suppose so.” She glanced over at her friend. “Thank you for what you told Darris this morning,” she said. “I don’t know why I slept like that. I never do in a sickroom. And I’m glad everyone else survived the night while I was snoring!”
Astira shrugged. “I felt so much better that I got up a few times and made sure everyone else had something to drink,” she said. “You were sleeping so hard. But I could tell you’d done something to help Lia.” She splayed her hands and put a look of mischief on her face. “Some of that spooky Lirren stuff, I guess. You’re always so good in a sickroom.”
Ellynor was silent, not sure how to answer, but Rosurie offered a little laugh. “The Dark Watcher,” her cousin said. “Ellynor has a special place in her heart.”
“What’s the Dark Watcher?” Lia asked. Astira already knew, since they had talked a little about their families when they first became friends.
Before it had occurred to Ellynor that the Lumanen Convent might not be the place to talk about other gods.
Everyone waited for Ellynor to answer, so she smiled and tried to look completely guileless. “The Dark Watcher is also called the Black Mother, like the Pale Mother is sometimes called the Silver Lady,” Ellynor said in a light voice. “In the Lirrens, the Dark Watcher is the goddess that most people revere. She wraps her hands around us to keep us safe—she hides us from our enemies—she counts us every evening to make sure no harm has come to us while she was away on the other side of the world.” She glanced around the room. Rosurie was yawning, and Astira was faintly smiling, but the other girls were wide-eyed and fascinated.
So Ellynor continued her story, telling it like some old half-forgotten myth. Instead of the reality she lived with every day. “There are certain women who have always seemed to have a deep connection to the goddess,” she said. “Who seemed to carry a special power of healing in their hands—a gift directly from the Black Mother. It is said that all these women are direct descendants of Maara, whom the goddess loved above all others.”
“Why did she love Maara?” Lia asked.
Ellynor leaned her back against the wall to get more comfortable. “Well. One day many, many, many hundreds of years ago, Maara got up early to tend her garden. The sun had just risen and none of the birds were stirring. No one else in the whole world was awake! But as Maara stepped into her garden she saw a strange sight—a little girl lying in the dirt, so motionless that she might be dead. Maara hurried over and found the child still breathing, but in very bad shape. She seemed to have fallen when she twisted an ankle, and hit her head and maybe broken an arm. She was unconscious, she was bleeding, she was having trouble breathing. She was very close to death.
“Maara forgot all about her gardening. She carried that child inside and laid her on her own bed, and she tended her the entire day. She wrapped the girl’s wounds and put honey on her tongue and sang her lullabies when the girl started crying. Once, when it seemed the child had almost stopped breathing, Maara put her mouth against the girl’s and offered her own breath. When it seemed her heart might stop beating, Maara put her hand on the girl’s chest and pressed that heart back into motion. From sunup till sundown, Maara did nothing but keep that girl alive.
“The minute the sun dropped below the horizon, a magnificent dark-skinned woman strode into Maara’s house. Maara had never seen her before, had no idea who this woman could be, yet she instinctively fell to her knees in awe. ‘You have saved my daughter’s life,’ this woman said. ‘All day you have cared for her, when I was far away and could not come to her side. Yesterday she was playing, and she ran from me, and I could not catch her. I saw her fall, but I could not reach her. Already the sun was rising, and I had to flee to the other side of the world. I thought she would die before I could return. But you have saved my daughter’s life.’
“Well! Then, of course, Maara realized that this terrifying stranger was the Dark Watcher herself! She bowed her head even lower to the floor and babbled out some kind of answer about how she was happy to be of service to the Black Mother. And the goddess said, ‘Hear me, Maara. For the gift of my daughter’s life, which you have given me, I will present you a gift in return. For as long as you live, and the daughters born to your body, and their daughters, and theirs, you shall be able to call on me. If you find someone bleeding and broken—or fevered and ill—you may raise your voice and pray, “Great Mother, give this one a single night.” And I will keep that soul alive one night. One night, so that your human medicines have time to take hold. No matter how close to death that person is, he or she will live at least until the next sunrise—longer, if your skills succeed. I have promised this, and it is true.’ ”
Ellynor paused, but there was utter silence in the room. Rosurie still looked bored, but the younger girls were rapt, and even Astira seemed intrigued. “And does that happen?” Lia asked. “Are there women among the Lirrenfolk who can keep someone alive like that?”
Ellynor smiled. “Well, it’s just a tale,” she said. “I don’t know anyone who’s ever called on the goddess that way. But there are a number of gifted healers among the Lirrenfolk, and all of them give credit to the Black Mother.”
“Do you?” Astira asked abruptly. “I mean—Lia—and that old woman in Neft. She was so sick until the night you nursed her—”
“We nursed her,” Ellynor said sharply.
“Well, I don’t think I did anything except wipe her face down. But you were in the room with her first. And everyone knows how good you are in a sickroom. Do you—do you think you get some ability from this Dark Watcher? This Lirren goddess?”
Rosurie was picking at her fingernails, not even interested in the conversation. It was still a wonder to Ellynor that her cousin could have so completely renounced
the Black Mother within weeks of stepping inside the Lumanen Convent. Rosurie felt no fugitive fear, held no divided loyalties in her heart. Was not at all worried that someone might discover she loved a goddess other than the Silver Lady.
“I think that maybe the goddesses are sisters and hold each other in affection,” Ellynor said. She did not have to pray that the Black Mother would forgive her for what she was about to say. The dark goddess understood all about secrecy; she knew there were things best not confessed. “But only the Pale Mother has any power in Gillengaria. It is she we worship at Lumanen Convent and she who spreads her glory around us.”
Astira sat back, seeming satisfied. Rosurie flicked Ellynor one look of quick, sardonic amusement—she understood both the answer and the unspoken words—and returned her attention to her hands.
“I don’t think Darris or Shavell would want to hear us talking about other goddesses,” Lia said hesitantly.
“Certainly not!” Ellynor exclaimed, exaggerating her reaction so the other girls would laugh. “So if you don’t want to get me in trouble—”
“It’s just a story, after all,” the redhead said.
“Just a tale,” Ellynor agreed. “So, Lia, are you sleepy yet? Should I chase everyone out of the room? That’s right, all of you, better go. And tonight I will not fall asleep at my patient’s bedside.”
In a few minutes, the room had cleared and Lia was drowsing on her pillow. And Ellynor was sitting upright in her chair wondering what the jealous Silver Lady had thought of her story and whether or not she would whisper tales in the Lestra’s ear.
TWO days later, the Lestra summoned Ellynor to her office. Ellynor’s first thought, which left her tight with fear, was that Lia or Astira or one of the other girls had repeated her account of Maara and the Dark Watcher. But she was almost immediately relieved of this dread.
“Sit down, Daughter,” the Lestra invited her in a kind voice, and Ellynor took a seat. She tried to look around without being too obvious; it was rare a novice had a chance to see the Lestra face-to-face or be inside this closed sanctum. The room was large and shadowy, swathed with black velvet hung from the ceiling and creating what was almost an indoor tent. Although there were candles placed in strategic corners, a large yellow-glass globe in the center of the room was the primary source of light. Ellynor guessed it held four or five candles inside, although their light was so evenly dispersed that the sphere looked like a single round ball of creamy color. Dangling from the velvet overhead were silver chains hung with star-shaped charms and milky moonstones. Bookshelves and cabinets and storage chests made bulky shapes against the walls. The Lestra herself sat behind a large desk carved from some ebony wood. Ellynor faced her, perched primly in a straight-backed chair, Shavell beside her in a chair that looked just as uncomfortable as Ellynor’s.
“I have a special task for you to do,” the Lestra continued. Her voice was so beautiful it was almost hypnotic; Ellynor found herself leaning forward a little just to hear it. “I need you to return to the bedside of Paulina Nocklyn.” She must have noted Ellynor’s mystified expression, for she added, “Serra Paulina is Jenetta’s mother. The sick woman you tended.”
“Is she better?” Ellynor asked.
“Indeed. So much so that she has been up and about the house, which proved to be unwise, since she lost her balance and fell.”
“Oh, no! Did she hurt herself?”
The Lestra nodded. “Broke her leg. A not insignificant injury for a woman her age, though the doctor says it will heal in time.” The Lestra glanced briefly at Shavell, who sat there silent and thin-lipped. Ellynor thought Shavell must not approve of whatever was coming next, which made Ellynor even more curious. “The serra has requested the attendance of one of my novices, to sit with her while she recovers and to help her with her prayers. Jenetta said her mother was most adamant and will not be satisfied with the services of a maid or a girl from town. It must be a novice.” The Lestra inspected her. The hard, square face was impassive, but the black eyes were bright with intelligence. “She specifically requested you.”
“Me? I don’t think we spoke more than three words. The first night she was sleeping the whole time I was in the room. The second night—she asked for a drink of water, and then she wanted me to open the window. I didn’t even tell her my name.”
“Nonetheless, she remembered you, and she described you to Jenetta. I am not normally eager to send my novices into the world to suit the whims of the nobility—”
“It’s ridiculous,” Shavell snapped. “Any servant girl would do to tend that old lady’s wounds.”
The Lestra inclined her head, as if in acknowledgment of Shavell’s words, but spoke as if they had not been uttered. “And yet, Jenetta is my cousin and very dear to me. Her mother is sister to the marlord of Nocklyn—a very rich man. I think it would enable us to win powerful friends if we could grant this small request.”
The musical voice held a questioning note, as if the Lestra was actually asking Ellynor if she was willing to take up this commission. Ellynor wouldn’t have expected to have a choice in the matter, but if she did, it was certainly clear. To return to Neft! Unguarded and unwatched! “I would be happy to sit with your cousin’s mother and help her raise prayers to the goddess,” she said formally. “When would you like me to leave?”
“As soon as you gather your things,” the Lestra said.
Shavell turned to Ellynor, her pinched face even tighter with warning. “You will not speak with the guards who accompany you, except as required by courtesy or your own direct needs,” she said. “You will remain inside the Gisseltess house at all times. You will consider Jenetta Gisseltess to stand in my stead, and obey her, and give her respect. You will serve the Silver Lady with all honor, so that every report we hear of you will be full of praise.”
“How long do you think I will need to stay there?”
“A week, perhaps,” the Lestra replied.
“I am happy to go,” Ellynor repeated.
“Good. Then pack your bags and meet Shavell at the front door as quickly as you can. Carry the light of the Pale Mother with you so that she shines on the ill, the infirm, and the sick at heart. Go gently with the goddess.”
AS it turned out, serra Paulina was not much interested in singing the Silver Lady’s praises or having a convent novice say prayers with her while she lay, shivering and suffering, on her sickbed.
“You can pray all you like, but do it when I can’t hear you,” the old lady said five minutes after Jenetta had left Ellynor in her mother’s bedroom. It was early dark, since Ellynor’s small party had arrived in Neft just as the sun was going down, and Jenetta had wasted no time delivering Ellynor to her mother. Ellynor had set her travel bags down in the corner of the room, made a little curtsey when Jenetta departed, then lit a single candle to set in the room’s wide window. This would signal the Pale Mother that a soul of piety resided within.
Then she had turned to the bed where the old woman sat, one leg curled beneath her, the other one stretched out, wrapped to immobility between a pair of splints. “If you give me your hands, I will pray with you,” Ellynor had said in a quiet voice.
Serra Paulina had made her extraordinary reply. Now Ellynor sat down in her chair and tried to think what she should say next.
The old woman snorted. She looked much better than she had the last time Ellynor had seen her. She was still thin and pale, with high cheekbones so sharp they looked ready to cut through the skin, but her eyes were clear and remarkably blue. And her mouth was twisted in a grimace of disdain, not pain. “I know, I told my daughter to fetch you so you could weep and moan over me, call down moonlight or whatever it is Coralinda claims she can do, but I just said all that so they’d make you come. Never cared much for that Silver Woman, Silver Lady, whatever they call her. Never thought too much of Coralinda, if it comes to that. Arrogant and dangerous, and more ambitious than anyone realizes. Don’t understand why no one can see that.”