Tylar’s heart sank. No wonder Perryl’s command to stay this trial had been ignored. They had their own knight, newly arrived, to argue otherwise.
“Let him be soothed,” the woman said from the bench. “The truth will be known.”
Tylar was pulled back into the single red chair. His manacles were unlocked and he was roped in place.
The red-robed mancer, his face cowled and shadowed as was custom, stepped before the bench. He bowed deeply, arms crossed and folded in his sleeves. As he straightened, he pulled a small silver bowl from one sleeve and a glass repostilary from the other. The latter vial glowed with an inner fire, a mixture of blood and other humours, an alchemic blend known only to the soothmancers.
Kneeling, he placed the silver bowl on the floor, whispered prayers of thanks, and poured a few drops into the basin. He stoppered the repostilary, and it vanished up a sleeve. With his hands free, he dipped his fingers into the bowl, wetting each tip with the glowing crimson mixture.
The mancer stood and crossed behind Tylar’s chair, his robes sweeping the floor.
“Are you ready to put him to the word?” the mancer asked the court.
“We are,” the trio at the bench responded.
Tylar braced himself. He hated being soothed. It was a violation like no other.
Wet fingers reached from behind and touched him at temple, forehead, and behind the corner of his jaw. The touch was fire, searing into him, seeming to reach into his skull. He gasped at the burn. The guild of soothmancers bowed to the gods bearing the aspect of fire. The unique blend of alchemies required the blood of such a god.
As the Grace-fed fire burned through his will, winding to the center of his being, the mancer spoke. “Put him to the word. Let the truth be judged.”
Near blind from the pain, he heard the first question. “Did you slay Meeryn?”
“No!” he gasped out.
There was a pause as the adjudicators turned their attention to the soothmancer. Tylar had no trust in such a one. He had been soothed before, questioned upon the murder of the cobbler’s family. His answer had been the same: denial. But the mancer had stated he was lying to the court. It had made no sense. Tylar knew the soothmancer to be a good and honest man. He had served the court of Tashijan for many decades. How could he make such a mistake?
Only much later did Tylar understand. In his heart, he had indeed felt responsible for the death of the cobbler and his family. They had been slain by the Gray Traders to discredit him. So in a way, he had been the cause for their bloody deaths. The soothmancer at Tashijan must have sensed this deeper guilt in Tylar’s heart and answered honestly.
Still, it was a mistake. Truth was more complicated than what was written in one’s heart. Justice could not always be found so easily there.
But he felt no guilt for Meeryn’s death. “No!” he repeated to the court before the mancer could even respond.
“How do you find?” the lead adjudicator asked.
The soothmancer responded slowly, strained. “I . . . I am having difficulty reading this one’s heart. There is a well of darkness beyond anything I’ve ever soothed before, beyond anything I could burn through to the truth. The corruption inside this man has no bounds, no depths. He is more monster than man.”
Tylar squirmed under the other’s fiery touch. “He lies! I am no worse nor better than any other man.”
Fingers broke from his skin, releasing him. “I cannot read this one. His very touch sickens me. I fear he will corrupt the purity of Grace I bear.” The mancer fell away, legs trembling with true horror.
Tylar stared at the accusing eyes. The soothmancer’s words doomed him, claiming him evil beyond measure. Only such a corrupt spirit could slay a god.
He saw the judgment firm in the eyes of the adjudicators.
“We must find how he killed Meeryn,” the Shadowknight said.
“How?” the elder woman asked. “How without the guidance of a soothmancer?”
“There are other ways to loosen a stubborn tongue.” Darjon ser Hightower shifted closer, his cloak billowing outward. “Older ways, cruder ways. He has slain our Meeryn, murdered our realm into a godless hinterland. Let him face the tests of truth from those same barbarous lands.”
“What do you propose?”
“Let me put him to the torture, make him scream the truth.”
Tylar closed his eyes. He had worn this healed body for such a short time, and it was already going to be taken from him, broken again.
“So be it,” said the woman behind the bench.
4
BLOOD MOON
NOW IT ENDED.
On the seventh floor of the Conclave’s tower, Dart sat in a chair, hands folded in her lap. She tried not to stare at the row of girls seated in chairs along one side of the hall, and especially not at the dwindling number of girls that stood between her and the closed doors at the end of the hall. The sigil of the healers, an oak sprig, was carved into the door’s lintel.
In preparation for the night’s ceremony, they were to be tested, and examined, judged whether or not they were pure enough to kneel before the gods’ Oracles.
Dart already knew her fate.
Tears threatened, a mix of terror, guilt, and sorrow.
The door opened again, releasing another girl, a fourth-floorer, who fled along the rows of chairs like a frightened sparrow. But from the smile on her face, it was not fear, but delight that was the wind under her wings. On her forehead, she bore a smudged blue cross, a mix of oils and dyed unguents, marking her as pure by Healer Paltry. She could attend the ceremony this night, opening the way to being chosen as a handmaiden.
Matron Grannice appeared in the open doorway. All the seated girls stood. Dart did the same, well aware of the ache in her loins, a dull bruise of the former pain.
Matron Grannice waved for the next girl, seated nearest the door. “Come, Laurelle. We’ve a long day ahead of us.”
Laurelle curtsied. On this day, she would be the first of the thirdfloorers to be tested. As was custom, the sixthfloorers were checked first, then the fifth and fourth, leaving the thirdfloorers for last. It would be the first time for Dart’s class to be presented before the Oracles, the blind servants of various gods, who arrived with the first full moon of summer to pick handmaidens and handmen for their gods.
Draped in white silk, her feet slippered in snowy soft velvet, Laurelle crossed to the door. She was the embodiment of purity. While it was a rarity for a thirdfloorer to be picked, what Oracle, blind or not, could fail to see the perfection that was Laurelle mir Hothbrin?
Pausing at the threshold, Laurelle glanced back at the line of remaining thirdfloorers. The powder on her face could not hide the blush of heat in her cheeks. Nervousness. She tried to smile bravely at the others, but it came out sickly.
All eyes, including Dart’s, followed Laurelle as she disappeared into the healer’s chamber. The door closed.
Now one girl sat between Dart and the door: Margarite. Like Laurelle, Margarite was dressed in white finery, down to the flowered tassels on her slippers.
Dart fingered the simple white shift and sash she wore, trying to pluck some semblance of beauty from it. Still, no amount of linen, silk, or the finest embroidery could make her pure again.
“Quit fidgeting!” Margarite spat under her breath, quick-tempered from her own anxiety.
Dart’s hands settled back to her knees.
For the past seven days, she had hidden all signs of the attack. But it had not been easy. Ripped and sore, she had continued to spot her underthings and bedsheets for the first three days.
On the second night, it came to the attention of Matron Grannice. Dart had hurriedly told the third floor matron that the bleeding was from her first menstra. With a frown, the portly woman had pulled Dart into her private study.
Panicked, Dart had expected her corruption to be bared, but Matron Grannice had merely sat her down and spoken kindly and gently. “The bleed is nothing to be as
hamed of,” she consoled. “It is your first step into womanhood.” She then went on to instruct Dart in how to control her seepage and keep herself clean. Afterward, the matron had given her a long hug, a rare showing of warmth and affection from the large woman.
Dart had cried. It was not just relief that drew out her tears. Wrapped in Matron Grannice’s bosomy embrace, Dart was reminded how much she was about to lose. It was more than the roof over her head and the warm meals in her belly. It was the familiar faces she had known since a babe, the everyday routines of the only life she knew. Here was her home, her family.
She had cried for a long time until finally Matron Grannice had gently shushed her, wiped her tears, and sent her back to her bed.
A few days later, here she sat, awaiting the end. She would be stripped and spread on Healer Paltry’s bench. Experienced fingers would touch her shame and find her broken and spoiled, unfit for a god, too corrupt to even walk the halls of the Conclave. She would be whipped and cast out to the streets, spurned by all.
Master Willet had ripped away more than her virginity and innocence on the floor of the rookery. His rutting had torn down the very stone walls around her, broken her home into a bloody ruin. Had the monster known this? Had this been part of his black pleasure?
Master Willet’s disappearance had not gone unnoticed by the Conclave. Talk, rumor, and innuendo had quickly spread: that he had been waylaid by brigands outside the Conclave and his body dumped in the Tigre where it was washed away; that he had taken a whore for a wife and fled the First Land; that he had been practicing some Dark Grace and been sucked into the naether, never to be seen again. The less fanciful supposed he simply took service with some other caste and had left before his current contract was contested. But there were three in the Conclave who knew the truth: Dart, Pupp, and the person who had sent Master Willet up the stairs to attack a lone girl.
This last remained hidden, as much an accomplice in that dark play as those up in the rookery. No one came and pulled her aside, accused Dart in private or public of the crimes in the high tower. But someone knew.
Dart’s eyes settled to the hall’s stone floor. Pupp lay curled, his body steaming gently, his molten brass surface glowing brighter with each breath, then dimming as he exhaled with a wheeze of flame. She had experimented with him in solitary moments, testing various humours to see if anything besides blood would allow her to touch his phantom form. Nothing did, not saliva, yellow bile, or even tears.
Only blood.
In the dark, she had planned horrible strategies upon the body of the one who had sent Master Willet up the stairs. But now she would be cast out before her vengeance was complete.
The door at the end of the hall opened again. Laurelle strode out, back straight, eyes flashing. None needed to see her satisfied smile or the blue cross on her forehead to know she had passed judgment. “Margarite!” Matron Grannice called from the doorway, startling them all. “Don’t drag your heels, child! Get in here!”
All the girls popped to their feet. Margarite hurried through the door. Dart moved two steps over and took the girl’s abandoned seat. It was still warm from the fear of each girl who had sat there before.
The door closed.
Laurelle stood a few steps down the hall, basking in the envy of her fellow pupils. “It was nothing,” she consoled the others. “It is no more frightening than the yearly physique. Only much more thorough.” She spoke this last with the authority of a master to apprentices, then pressed the back of her hand to her forehead. “I have never felt so completely tested, so sure of my purity and readiness to be a handmaiden.”
Murmurs of approval and assurances that she would be chosen wafted down the line of seated girls.
Her words awakened the terror in Dart’s heart. As she stared at the closed door, her eyes traced the oak leaves and acorns on the lintel. Normally the sigil signified the art of healing: soothing balms, calming teas, all the gentle Graces to ease a body. But now the meaning had darkened; beyond that door, her life ended.
A touch on her shoulder made her jump. She turned to find Laurelle bent before her. All the girls watched, ready to see what new mischief Laurelle meant to inflict on Dart for their amusement.
Pupp was already on his feet, passing through Laurelle’s gown, his molten skin roiling with agitation.
“I know your secret,” Laurelle whispered, so softly no other could hear. “I know about the blood.”
Dart tensed, her vision darkened at the corners.
Laurelle continued. “I overheard Matron Grannice. Having your first menstra is frightening enough, but to have it mere days before the full moon ceremony . . .” Her fingers found Dart’s hand and squeezed ever so gently, then let go. “You’ll be fine.”
The sudden kindness caught Dart unprepared.
Laurelle straightened. “It’s not like you have any chance of being chosen this night anyway.”
Snickers and giggles met her words.
But Laurelle seemed deaf to the others. As she turned away, she carried a haunted look to her eye, and a touch of something else, the hint of envy again.
Studying her closely, Dart watched Laurelle struggle for a more confident smile. Dart had always been the invisible one, the girl in the shadows, as much a phantom as Pupp at times. For the first time, she wondered how much of a burden it was to always stand in the light.
Laurelle moved down the line of girls, offering little words of encouragement and praise. But Dart saw how her shoulders trembled slightly, burdened by the weight of all the expectations placed upon her. Not only by the girls, Dart suspected, but by her family, too.
The creak of hinges drew all their eyes back around. Margarite appeared, head high, a blue cross shining brightly on her brow.
“Margarite!” Laurelle cried, rushing to embrace her. “You passed!”
The girls laughed, dancing in each other’s arms.
Matron Grannice shooed them farther down the hall. “Dart, you’re next. Let’s not keep Healer Paltry waiting.”
Dart stood, but with her first step, she came close to falling. Her knees had turned to porridge, her thighs to rubber. Only a quick hand to the wall saved her.
“It’s not a walk to the gallows,” the matron grumbled and helped her stand straighter with a grip on her elbow.
Dart was half led, half dragged over the threshold.
“Why does she even bother?” Margarite said behind her. “Who would pick such a weed when there are flowers like us to choose?”
Matron Grannice closed the door behind Dart, shutting out the rest of the thirdfloorers. Dart wondered if she’d ever see them again.
Behind her, Pupp pushed through the door, trotting to Dart’s side. The healer’s illuminarium was bright with candles and smoky with burning stems of dried herbs. The scent of witchweed and briertail almost made her swoon.
“Come, child.” Matron Grannice led her past the cramped antechamber and into the illuminarium proper.
The room was circular in shape with small cots aligned along the wall like the markings on a sundial. The beds normally comforted the ill, but they had been emptied for this hallowed day. Privacy was necessary to adequately judge the potential servitors to the gods.
In the center of the room, a single bench rested, shaped like a reclining figure, arms and legs spread. Dart had never seen such a bench, but she had heard of it.
Along with the four sacred illuminaria that surrounded it.
Above the bench, a chandelier blazed with fist-sized bulbs; the glass globes held small drizzles of a fire god’s humour, burning brightly. Below, a crystal basin brimmed with water, its surface stirring in a constant whirlpool, blessed by a single tear from a god of water. And to either side rested the remaining two illuminaria: a small glass terrarium containing a full-grown, miniature oak tree, perfect down to its pin-sized acorns, and a lightning box that held a billowing cloud behind glass, flashing and roiling. They represented loam and air respectively. Each aspect was r
epresented to verify the purity of the supplicant.
As Dart stood at the threshold, she sensed her doom. Even if she could somehow hide her shame from mortal eyes, the four illuminaria would reveal her corruption.
“Off with your clothes,” Matron Grannice said with a trace of impatience and boredom. “Pile them on the bed over there, then return to the bench and lie down.”
Dart undid her buttons with shaking fingers. “Mistress . . .” she began, sensing she might fare better if she revealed all now.
“Shush, Dart. Now is not the time to speak. Here comes Healer Paltry.”
The head of the Conclave’s healing caste entered through a back door. He was dressed in a simple robe of blue silk with a hatching of oak leaves around the collar. He was not a tall man, barely Dart’s own height. His eyes were the deepest blue. His hair, long to the shoulder, was as dark as any raven’s feather. Though barely thirty years past his birth, his skills in the Arts were known throughout Myrillia. It was said he even ministered to Chrism himself at the Grand Castillion. And here at the Conclave, there was many a girl who feigned fever or stomach churns just to be near him.
Even Matron Grannice tugged a loose strand of hair into place behind an ear, smoothing it down as he strode to them.
Though busy, Paltry still offered Dart a tired smile. “Be welcome, child. There is nothing to fear here.”
Nodding despite the lace of terror around her heart, Dart shimmied out of her outers. Then after a moment’s hesitation, she stripped bare of all, even her scuffed slippers. There was no reason for shyness with Healer Paltry. Twice yearly, the man gave the girls their physiques, confirming their intact virginity. He was always gentle, teasing with light words, his hands always warm.
“Onto the bench with you, child,” Matron Grannice said with a nudge, bumping her back to the moment.
But Dart found herself frozen in place, knees locked together. “Mistress . . .”
Paltry cupped her chin. “This will be quick.”
His calming touch released her from the spell of her fear, and she stumbled stiffly to the bench. With gentle directions, she lay back, spreading her arms out and her legs along the joists. Her hands nearly touched the illuminarias of loam and air. Overhead, the fire globes blazed hotly, and below, unseen, Dart felt the stir of the basin’s waters in her own stomach.