Daughter of Witches: A Lyra Novel (9 page)

Mist stretched her hands out before her, until they hovered barely a hairsbreadth above Jaren’s side, while Arelnath held the light steady above them. The only sound was the low, continuous murmuring of Mist’s voice chanting the spell. Ranira found herself holding her breath and willing the attempt, whatever it was, to succeed. Suddenly, the tension drained from Mist’s body and her hands fell away. Beneath them was unbroken skin; not even a scar remained.

“Thank you,” Jaren said as he pulled his leather garb back into place. “Whatever we have to face will be easier now that I am in one piece.”

“I have never done so difficult a healing,” Mist said absently. Her eyebrows contracted, and she stared thoughtfully into the air. “Something was opposing it; the injury itself was not unusual. Almost until the end, I feared I would not succeed; then the resistance collapsed.”

Before Jaren could reply, the yellow glow illuminating the cell winked out. Into the startled silence came the sound of a key scraping in the lock. “Someone comes,” Arelnath said unnecessarily.

T
HE DOOR OF THE
cell swung inward. Smoky yellow light spilled through the rectangular opening, silhouetting five of the dark figures in the corridor beyond. The sixth, standing at the rear with a torch, was the only one whose face was visible, but the voice that came from the small shape in front instantly identified it as the High Master Lanarsh.

“Come here, girl. The High Priest Benillath has sent the proclamation, and you are to be moved at once.”

“That’s no way to speak to the Chosen One,” muttered one of the guards.

Lanarsh chuckled. “I doubt you can do anything about it. Not even Benillath dares to trifle too much with this House. Well, come along, girl. Don’t just stand there! I would imagine you’d be glad to be out of here.”

Ranira felt fear rising in her once more as she moved slowly forward. This was the final separation, the death of hope. She swallowed hard, determined not to show her fear before the Templemen, yet knowing they saw through her pretended bravery. She looked at the three foreigners, their faces dim and shadowy in the torchlight, and blinked to clear away the tears. As she passed Jaren, she heard him whisper, too softly for the guards to hear, “I owe you a life. Remember.”

Though she did not see what good the implied promise could do her, Ranira found Jaren’s words oddly comforting. She paused a moment before the torchlight could make her fully visible, and her hand jerked upward toward her uncovered face. She saw Lanarsh’s face twist into a smile, and suddenly her fear was drowned in a wave of anger. With an abruptly determined motion, she threw back her hair and stepped forward.

“Benillath may not dare to trifle with you, old man, but I have no such reservations,” she said in the most arrogant tone she could muster. “You will treat me with proper respect or know the wrath of Chaldon when he comes for me.”

Behind her she heard a crow of delight from Arelnath and a smothered chuckle that she was certain came from Jaren. For a moment, she was astonished at herself, then she gave a mental shrug. What did she have to lose? The priests would never allow her to interfere with anything really important, but in little things, at least, she could force them to bend to her wishes. The thought gave her confidence to meet Lanarsh’s startled stare with a cold look of her own. The priest bent his head a fraction of an inch.

“If you will join us, Chosen One?”

Ranira allowed herself an infinitesimal, cold smile, copied from a seamstress who had occasionally deigned to patronize the Inn of Nine Doors, and stepped forward. She would have liked to take one last look at Mist and Jaren and Arelnath, but it would have spoiled the part she was playing, so she let the cell door clang shut behind her without turning.

“This way, Chosen One,” said Lanarsh, beckoning toward the stairs. The High Master of the House of Correction looked as if he had bitten into a sour string-fruit. She nodded as gravely as she could and began the long climb up the stairs.

When they reached the top, the guards paused while Lanarsh locked the door and opened one of the others. In silence, they escorted Ranira down a long hall that twisted and turned and branched until she ceased trying to remember which turns they had taken. At last the guards stopped, and Lanarsh flung open a door. Ranira gasped in spite of her determination to maintain a cold demeanor.

The room was almost as large as the dining hall of the Inn of Nine Doors. Intricately embroidered hangings covered the walls and draped the chairs, golden candelabra stood on marble tables, and the floor was buried under a thick wool carpet. An inner door stood open, revealing the barest glimpse of a bedchamber furnished in equal luxury. In the doorway stood a veiled woman, who bowed deeply as soon as Ranira entered the room.

“Mornah, the Chosen One is to be bathed and suitably attired,” said Lanarsh. “High Master Gadrath will wish to see for himself that the ceremonial robes for tomorrow are perfect. You may expect him later.”

Despite herself, Ranira shivered; Lanarsh chuckled as he bowed and left the room. She stood staring at the door without moving until she heard the key turn in the lock. Only then did she become conscious of Mornah’s patient silence. Forcing a smile, Ranira turned.

Immediately, the other woman bowed again. “I am yours to command, Chosen One. What will you prefer? There is a bath with many perfumes, or you may choose more suitable raiment. There are healing ointments.” Her eyes flickered briefly over the bruises on Ranira’s face and then dropped again. “And there are rare dishes and wine. You have only to request, Chosen One.”

The woman bowed a third time. It made Ranira uncomfortable. “My name is Ranira,” she said. “Call me that; I am not used to titles.”

“I could not dare to be so greatly familiar, Chosen One,” said Mornah with yet another bow. “I am but a humble serving woman.”

Ranira looked at the woman with growing irritation. “Until a few hours ago, so was I. And stop bobbing like that. It makes me dizzy.”

“The Chosen One must have the respect that is due her exalted station,” Mornah recited. “I am here only to wait upon your wishes. I may not presume upon my great good fortune in being permitted to serve you, Chosen One, for when the Festival is over, I will return to my regular duties in the Temple.”

I can guess what those are,
thought Ranira. Then comprehension dawned. “You’re afraid of the Eyes!” she said. “You think you’ll be punished if you do something they don’t like.”

Fear flashed in Mornah’s eyes before she bent forward again. “I am here to serve the Chosen One,” she murmured.

“Oh, I give up,” Ranira said in exasperation. “Go get me a veil; I don’t want to walk around like this any longer than I have to.”

The serving woman trembled, but did not move. “Alas, Chosen One, I am not permitted to bring a veil, for the High Priest has decreed that nothing shall hide the radiance of the Chosen One. I sorrow that I cannot obey, for I am here only to serve the Chosen One.”

Ranira sighed. “Yes, I know; you must have said so at least a dozen times. Well, if you can’t bring me a veil, at least you can show me what other clothes you have here. And you did say something about a bath, didn’t you?”

“Oh yes, Chosen One,” Mornah said in obvious relief. She beckoned Ranira into the bedchamber and drew aside a curtain that covered one wall, revealing a long row of elaborate garments. Ranira made a show of examining them, but her mind was on other things. The wave of anger which had supported her spirits was receding, leaving a deep depression in its wake. She found Mornah’s pathetic eagerness oppressive, and she could not forget Lanarsh’s parting words.

Why did Gadrath want to see her again? Ranira could not believe it was her appearance that drew him; she was attractive enough, she supposed, but not out of the ordinary. Gadrath’s interest was no more than the casual arrogance common to all Temple priests, who assumed that no one would dare to refuse their slightest whim. At least, she was sure that was all Gadrath had felt until her overly enthusiastic refusal had humiliated him and prompted this revenge. But surely the High Master would not be spared from his Festival duties simply to gloat over her.

The problem preoccupied Ranira throughout the long afternoon. She submitted to Mornah’s ministrations; the long bath and the healing ointments were welcome indeed. Even more welcome was the smith, who made a brief visit late in the afternoon to remove the iron bracelets that she had worn for six years. The luxuries could do little to set her mind at rest, however, and by the time she was ready to dress, she could not muster even a token enthusiasm for any of the rich garments.

Finally, Ranira allowed Mornah to choose one of the gowns herself and coax her into it, but to the woman’s dismay, Ranira refused even to sample the carefully prepared dishes laid out in the main room. As the woman became more insistent, Ranira grew more and more exasperated. Finally she ordered the serving woman from the room. When a knock sounded at the door, Ranira was seated at the marble table, staring moodily into an empty silver goblet.

The sound made her jump. She forced herself to remain seated, and called as steadily as she could, “Enter.”

The door was already swinging open; the knock had been a warning, rather than a request for permission to enter. Gadrath’s eyes met hers as he stepped into the room. “You may go,” he said over his shoulder. The two Temple guards behind him bowed and stepped back into the hallway. Gadrath’s eyes never left Ranira. “Quite an improvement, my dear,” he said as the door swung shut behind him. “You do credit to your position.”

“Should you not address me with more respect? Or are you exempt from the rules of the Festival, since it is to you that I owe my… position?”

Gadrath’s lip curled. “Lanarsh told we of this amusing conceit of yours. He was a fool to encourage you. Your ‘position’ in this Temple, my dear, is exactly the same as it was this morning except that you are permitted to enjoy a few of the lesser comforts that are available here. The pilgrims outside may believe otherwise, but that is of little concern to any of us.”

Ranira’s hands tightened on the silver goblet. Gadrath’s smile broadened. “But you have not tasted any of these excellent dishes!” he said. “You should certainly do so while you still have the opportunity. After all, your time here will be brief.” When Ranira did not respond, the priest went on. “Perhaps you do not care for the food, but the wine at least you should enjoy. Allow me to pour you some.”

Without waiting for her to answer, Gadrath reached for the crystal decanter in the center of the table, along with the mate to the goblet in Ranira’s hand. He poured wine for himself, then stretched his arm toward Ranira’s goblet. She held it while he poured, not trusting herself to speak. Silently, she raised the goblet to her lips.

The High Master returned the decanter to the table and seated himself across from her. “I drink to your very good health, my dear.”

Ranira angrily set the goblet down and demanded, “What is it you want of me, High Master Gadrath?”

“What I want of you, my dear, you seem curiously unwilling to give,” he said, leaning back in the chair. “Or did I only imagine being pushed so rudely into a fruit stand?”

Shaken, Ranira gulped at the wine. She could not prevent her eyes from turning toward the door to the bedchamber, Gadrath smiled. “There is no need for you to be afraid yet, my dear. It will be three days before you are given to the god: No one will touch you until then.”

“You are disgusting!” Ranira cried, jumping up. “Leave me alone. Haven’t you done enough?”

“Why, I have done nothing at all,” Gadrath replied. “I would think you would welcome my company. After all it is a great improvement over a small, unlit cell filled with foreign witches, is it not?” He waved a hand negligently at the luxurious room.

Something in Gadrath’s tone seemed false to Ranira, but she was too angry to be able to pinpoint what. “At least the foreigners were courteous,” she said, turning away.

“I am not concerned with their manners,” Gadrath said, “After all, they are witches, are they not?”

That was it.
Gadrath wanted evidence against Jaren and his companions; that was why he had come. Ranira was glad she was not facing the priest—he would surely have seen her reaction and guessed the cause. Another thought struck her—Mist had been right! If the cell had been watched, there would certainly be no need for Gadrath to seek proof by questioning Ranira.

“How should I know whether they are witches?” she said. “I was only with them for a little while, and in a dark cell, as you say.” She turned back toward the table, careful to keep her eyes from meeting Gadrath’s.

The priest shrugged casually, but Ranira could feel tension in him. “It is easy enough for people to forget they are not alone in the dark. I thought perhaps you might have heard something we could use as proof. Of course, it does not really matter; they will die at Mid-Festival in any case. Still, a witch-burning would be a greater spectacle than a simple execution.”

Ranira thought of the flames and wondered why Gadrath was so anxious to burn Mist and the others. “They sounded like ordinary, frightened people to me.” She sipped her wine.

“You are certain?” Gadrath’s eyes were sharp and oddly bright. Ranira took another sip of wine to avoid his gaze. Gadrath waited, then leaned forward and said, “It might be that another could become the Bride of Chaldon if you can help me. Such things have happened.”

“You lie!” Ranira hissed. The violence of her reaction surprised her. “Do not toy with me. The High Priest has already sent out word that I will be the Bride of Chaldon. You cannot change that.”

“Why should I deceive you, my dear?” Gadrath said. “It is very simple, really; a false name for you and a pretty slave to take your place during Festival, and the thing is done. Surely the foreigners said something while you were with them.”

Unexpected hope turned Ranira’s bones to water. For a moment she could not speak. It was possible; someone else could take her place. Words jostled against each other in her mind, framed in a glow of silver light: “We are not being watched.” “I can hold the watch-spell.” Softly, a voice whispered among them, “I owe you a life.” Her head ached; she fought to think clearly. Why would Gadrath give up his revenge so easily?