Misery's Child (The Cadian Chronicles) (27 page)

“Yes. Rather than
address the true issue in their own nature,” Saluda agreed, “they prefer to
blame the women.”

That was the crux
of the difference between the theology of the bene priests and that of the
cadia. All too often, the bene seemed to be looking for perils and temptations
that came from without, while the cadia were convinced that every truth lay
within the human heart.

“Ridiculous,” spat
Ofred. “They’d mow down a garden just to save themselves the temptation of
picking a single flower. We all know women who waste time and energy with empty
vanity, but I see none of that in Lillitha. I don’t think the girl even
realizes just how lovely she is.”

“Then we are
agreed?” Osane stood up, putting her hands to her aching back and stretching.
“All in favor of Lillitha of Kirrisian, show your palms to Oman.”

For a moment, it
looked as if Kittanning was going to fight, but finally she lifted her hand
with all the others. Only Koesta’s hands remained by her side.

“Koesta, your
protest has been recorded in the minutes,” Osane said. “Will you lift your hand
for your sister-nictes?”

“As my sisters
have voted,” the nicte said, raising her hand, “so I must give my consent.”

“Good. Then we
have a unanimous choice. May Oman bless Lillitha of
Kirrisian.
Now go to bed, my sisters.”

***

While Ofred was
making her case on Lillitha’s behalf, the girl herself was pleading illness.
She might have stomached the gray-coated men with their probing and questions,
but the shallan’s glassy stare was more than she could stand. She would die if
she had to stay a moment longer.

She’d stood
patiently as the receiving line moved past the shallan’s couch at a snail’s
pace, staring at the floor or the robes of Iafrewn in front of her, until
suddenly she was standing before Varden himself. Propped up against his
pillows, his balding head looked like a skull barely covered by papery skin,
all sunken hollows and red-rimmed eyes that burned up at her out of a death’s
head. She had been unable to tear her eyes away from the
miraculously-breathing
corpse before her until Chancellor Paglia grabbed her hand, trapping it between
both of his slightly moist, cold palms. She scarcely heard his words, nodding
automatically as she fought the rising tide of nausea. Death and despair
hovered in the air and seemed to reach out for her, threatening to draw her
into those dead eyes.

She stayed as far
as possible from the shallan for the rest of the evening, only to find
Chancellor Paglia dogging her every move with all the grace of a spoiled lap
hound. When it looked as if the chancellor was not going to allow her to leave,
Lillitha did something she never thought she’d do. She pretended to faint.

Paglia himself
called for a litter and escort to see her back to the encampment, admonishing
her with that merry grin of his to get some rest and be more careful of taxing
her delicate nature.

She threw herself
on her cot and sobbed into her pillow. The shallan was more horrible than
anything she’d ever imagined. How could he look so dead and yet still live? The
thought of those gnarled claws touching her, the sour sweat of the grave mixing
with her own breath— oh, it was not to be borne!

She told herself
it was wrong to judge him based on physical appearance; old age was a fact she
herself would face one day. The mind and spirit inside that wasted skeleton
might be beautiful, stunning in the depth and breadth of its knowledge. But try
as she might, she couldn’t convince herself. If only he’d shown some spark of
humanity, anything at all except that stony stare. The emotions she’d picked up
from him were strange and overwhelming, so completely foreign that she could
not even name them.

Then there were
the bene. Some of them weren’t too terrible but the majority had studied her
with a clinical detachment that made her feel as if she were an animal being
looked over at market. Bene Ecklar, the same horrid little gnome who had
embarrassed her so upon their first meeting, had actually discussed her with his
colleagues as if she weren’t standing two feet away from him.

As shallana, she
would have little interaction with them. Chancellor Paglia was another matter.

In his own way, he
was as disturbing as the shallan. Paglia was barrel-chested and completely bald.
She could not be sure of his age, for his face was oddly naked and boyish
without whiskers or beard. Half a jackle shorter than she, he was not at all
intimidating. His smile first fixed her attention, an expression so warm that
she wanted — desperately — to like him, and yet… yet she could not.

His pale blue eyes
laughed and glittered as if at some private joke, and he looked at her so
steadily, so intently, that she felt as if he were crawling under her skin.
Throughout the night, he’d stood so close she could smell his wine-heavy
breath. She wondered why no one seemed to notice; surely his attentions had
crossed the line of propriety. Every time she turned, there he was, cornering
her against a column or table so that she could not move away without his
consent. He chattered away, seeming oblivious to what he was doing and yet
something in his eyes said otherwise. It had become an odd and frightening
contest of wills.

If only Yanna were
here. Yanna would know if there was a way out. She could not ask Lendenican.
Even the kindly Gevalini intimidated her into silence. Today, when she was
allowed an hour in the cadian libraries, she had searched the histories for any
instance of a chosen shallana being released from her consecration, but no such
occasion had ever been recorded.

Twice she found
mention of a cadiasecratia who had renounced her vows, but never a shallana
breda
. It gave her some hope that if she were not chosen,
she could decide not to take her final cadian vows. Her parents would not be pleased
but they would understand once she explained. Scearce was wealthy and generous;
he would not allow his wife’s family to starve.

If she were
chosen—she couldn’t bear to think of it. It would mean at least six
summers spent on the Isle of Omana Teret with the shallan and Chancellor
Paglia. Six summers of nights spent trying to coax the seed of life from a
corpse who looked at her with loathing. Could she do it? Could she open her
body to the shallan without crying out in fear and revulsion? Not just once,
but night after night?

And
Chancellor Paglia….
Something
deep inside her recoiled from the hinted knowledge in his pale, glittering
eyes.

Mother Leah, please forgive me, but I cannot do
this. I am not worthy to be shallana or cadia. Please, I beg you, let the
choosing pass me by.

Tomorrow would
decide matters
one way
or the other.

Lillitha of
Kirrisian slept little that night.

Chapter 15: The Ceremony of the
Choosing

Excerpt from the
private journals of

Cadia-dedre
Osane:

     
I have just come
from an audience with Varden and cannot sleep. Paglia was there, too, of
course—otherwise I should be sound asleep. Varden, I suspect, did not
really wish to see me at all; it was Paglia who had me summoned from my bed. I
could not tell whether he had found out about the caucus or not, but his smile
was even more smug than usual. Paglia asked me many questions about each of the
consecratia, but the only one he was truly interested in was the Kirrisian. I
could tell by the flicker of his eyes and the change in his respiration. Why
does the man think he can lie to me?

     
As for Varden, he
showed no interest in our conversation, though at one point Paglia asked him
rather baldly if he wasn’t impressed by the Kirrisian’s beauty.

     
The shallan
rolled his eyes balefully and growled, “Do you think I am so near the grave
that I need your eyes to tell me what is beautiful? As if makes the slightest
difference.”

All eyes squinted
painfully as the noon sun hit the marble of the city amphitheater. The
semi-circle of steps, which stretched to the height of a two-story building,
had been filled with people determined to get a good seat since the night
before. Only the front three rows remained empty, cordoned off with purple and
scarlet banners to reserve those places for the consecratia, their families,
and such members of the cadia and bene who were not seated on the raised dais.

Marta accompanied
her parents and brother to their seats. Her future husband and father-in-law
were permitted to sit with them and she knew Danaus was swollen with pride,
even though he tried to hide it by scowling and complaining of the sun. Tomack
sat woodenly
beside
her, no doubt trying to comprehend
the sudden turn of events which saddled him with a betrothed and good-parents
so quickly and so completely without his even being consulted.

She sat stiffly
hoping she wouldn’t crush the fabric of the new dress that Danaus had presented
her. He’d given one to Ersala as well. The burlangs were not from his stock, as
the merchant did not deal in ready-made garments. He must have purchased them
in the city. Rowle had frowned but he could not refuse when gifts were
customary upon betrothal, not just for the bride, but the entire family.
Marta’s pride stung knowing that Danaus was afraid of his future family looking
like paupers when they rose with the rest of the promised couples seeking the
shallan’s blessing. But she swallowed her ire for she adored the dress: a cool,
pale green cotta, so stiff it would stand on its own, trimmed in gold braid and
real Bethossian lace. It was a trifle snug, but she was thrilled to see the way
the bodice hugged her bosom and enhanced her cleavage. For the first time, she
could wear the medallion Danaus had given her outside her clothes. For the
first time in her life, she felt truly noble.

Marta had risen
early just to help her mother wash and dress her hair, fussing over Ersala
until the older woman laughed and cried for mercy. The scarlet and gold burlang
was nearly too large for her but a few pins remedied the situation. Rowle,
always handsome in Marta’s eyes, wore his vidor’s tunic, possibly the only
garment in the House Kirrisian that was whole and just a little faded because
it was only worn for special occasions. Marta had caught him polishing his
battered boots the night before, coating them with tar to hide the scuffs and
scrapes.
 

When I am the lady of Tomack’s house, my father
will have new boots every winter whether he needs them or not. And
Muma
will have silver combs for her hair and a medallion as
large as an onion on a golden chain, and no one will ever pity my parents
again.

She was happy
enough to be generous in her daydreams. Handsome, moody Tomack and all his
ships were as good as hers. The negotiations had been awkward at first, both
Rowle and Danaus prickly with pride, dancing around the issue until Marta
thought she might scream. But in the end it had been settled, wine had been
drunk and promises exchanged. Danaus had even waived rights to her dowry until
the next summer when
the
marriage would actually take
place.

No one had spoken
of it, of course, but Marta’s dowry depended almost entirely on the outcome of
today’s ceremony. She slammed the door on her heart and prayed that Lillitha
would be chosen. It was too bad for her sister, but the choice didn’t belong to
either of them anyway; she couldn’t be blamed for hoping for the best for
herself, just as Lillitha was doing. Even now, the foolish thing didn’t stop to
think about anyone but herself and her precious Scearce. Luckily, the throngs
of people in the amphitheater dampened the echoes of Lillitha’s anguish and
made it easier to ignore.

It took nearly an
hour for the cadialana to complete their promenade from the Isle through the
city to the chairs on the dais. People who hadn’t been able to get seats for
the actual ceremony stood crowded along the route to cheer and wave banners as
the silent women passed, smiling benevolently left and right. Marta could hear
the voices spiraling down into the bowl of the amphitheater as if the sounds
were raining from the sky.

She squinted to
get a good look at the dedre and was disappointed. Osane was indistinguishable
from the others except for the prayer book dangling from her waist and the gold
trim of her larat. It was impossible to think this was the most powerful woman
in the Realm.

The seven
consecratia followed. In their white burlangs, wimples and veils, they were as
indistinguishable as sheep, except for the thickest one that Marta knew
immediately had to be Iafrewn. She kept looking this way and that as if she
were going to wave to the crowd at any minute. Twice she nearly tripped over
her own feet.

The bene priests
came next in a double file of some thirty or forty gray-coated men with heavy
circles of gold and glittering stones over their shoulders. Their heads
revealed varying degrees of baldness. Marta wondered if there were no young
bene. Unlike the cadia, they did not smile.