watched the soldiers stride from their barracks, through the courtyard and out the great gate. What would it be like to get to know one or two of them, form a friendship with a man who had not been approved by her father? But more trouble lay down that road than she was willing to risk, so she would watch them a moment or two, and then look away.
She found herself fascinated by the religious ceremonies, by all the rituals designed to honor the Pale Mother. She loved the circles the novices formed every night, the slowly slimming and burgeoning shapes designed to reflect the changing phases of the moon. She loved her moonstone bracelet, glittering with a private fire that she could always feel as a definite heat against her wrist. She was curious about this goddess who seemed so powerful, so pervasive, and yet so elusive, shyly hiding her face one week, brazenly staring down from the heavens the next. Capricious and beautiful— like Rosurie , she thought wryly—the Pale Mother was a bewitching mistress who held everyone at the convent in thrall.
Ellynor herself loved a different goddess, but they were sisters; surely they did not mind sharing worshippers.
In the Lirrens, there was only one deity—the Black Mother, the Dark Watcher—the great goddess of the night, whose attention was just as close and protective as that of anyone in the sebahta . It was said she knew the name of every child, every crone, in every clan, and spent each night counting them over again before she fled the oncoming day. Concerned that something might have happened to her people during the hours she was gone, as soon as the sun went down, the Black Mother hurriedly spread her shadow back over the Lirrenlands and began her counting all over again. To help her in her task, the Lirrenfolk often turned to face the eastern horizon right at sunset and softly offered up their names. Ellynor. Rosurie. Wynlo and Torrin. I am here where you left me last night .
Ellynor had worried, just a little, that the Black Mother might not be able to follow her over the Lireth Mountains, that when she left her family, her sebahta , and her country behind, she might leave her goddess as well. But the Dark Watcher was here in Gillengaria as she was in the Lirrens, comforting and omniscient, wearing as always her scattered jewels of starlight. Whenever Ellynor looked up to sing her praises to the Silver Lady, the Black Mother was always there as well. In fact, most of Ellynor’s hymns and obeisances were offered up to the Dark Watcher, not the Pale Mother, but no one had to know that but Ellynor herself.
AT midnight, the quarter moon dissolved—at least the one on the ground, shaped by novices—and the girls moved slowly through the courtyard, up the stone steps, and into the convent. The massive doors opened onto a huge hall, echoing and not particularly welcoming. The high ceiling, ribbed with supporting stone arches, was lit by wheeled chandeliers; the stone floor was cold underfoot even in the middle of summer. Ellynor always moved as quickly as she could through this space and into one of the labyrinthine corridors that honeycombed the five-story building. For the first two weeks she had lived here, she had been lost every day. Now she took the twists and turns without thinking.
Rosurie was in the room they shared, but not asleep. There was a single candle burning in the window, similar to candles set in every window of the convent, and faithfully lit as soon as the sun went down. In addition, the room was illuminated by a branch of candles pulled over by Rosurie’s narrow bed. Rosurie was braiding her long chestnut hair for the night.
“Shavell will be furious if she sees you’re burning candles this late,” Ellynor commented as she stepped inside.
Rosurie shrugged and blew them out. The room instantly filled with shadows, only the flame in the window giving any light to see by.
She found herself fascinated by the religious ceremonies, by all the rituals designed to honor the Pale Mother. She loved the circles the novices formed every night, the slowly slimming and burgeoning shapes designed to reflect the changing phases of the moon. She loved her moonstone bracelet, glittering with a private fire that she could always feel as a definite heat against her wrist. She was curious about this goddess who seemed so powerful, so pervasive, and yet so elusive, shyly hiding her face one week, brazenly staring down from the heavens the next. Capricious and beautiful— like Rosurie , she thought wryly—the Pale Mother was a bewitching mistress who held everyone at the convent in thrall.
Ellynor herself loved a different goddess, but they were sisters; surely they did not mind sharing worshippers.
In the Lirrens, there was only one deity—the Black Mother, the Dark Watcher—the great goddess of the night, whose attention was just as close and protective as that of anyone in the sebahta . It was said she knew the name of every child, every crone, in every clan, and spent each night counting them over again before she fled the oncoming day. Concerned that something might have happened to her people during the hours she was gone, as soon as the sun went down, the Black Mother hurriedly spread her shadow back over the Lirrenlands and began her counting all over again. To help her in her task, the Lirrenfolk often turned to face the eastern horizon right at sunset and softly offered up their names. Ellynor. Rosurie. Wynlo and Torrin. I am here where you left me last night .
Ellynor had worried, just a little, that the Black Mother might not be able to follow her over the Lireth Mountains, that when she left her family, her sebahta , and her country behind, she might leave her goddess as well. But the Dark Watcher was here in Gillengaria as she was in the Lirrens, comforting and omniscient, wearing as always her scattered jewels of starlight. Whenever Ellynor looked up to sing her praises to the Silver Lady, the Black Mother was always there as well. In fact, most of Ellynor’s hymns and obeisances were offered up to the Dark Watcher, not the Pale Mother, but no one had to know that but Ellynor herself.
AT midnight, the quarter moon dissolved—at least the one on the ground, shaped by novices—and the girls moved slowly through the courtyard, up the stone steps, and into the convent. The massive doors opened onto a huge hall, echoing and not particularly welcoming. The high ceiling, ribbed with supporting stone arches, was lit by wheeled chandeliers; the stone floor was cold underfoot even in the middle of summer. Ellynor always moved as quickly as she could through this space and into one of the labyrinthine corridors that honeycombed the five-story building. For the first two weeks she had lived here, she had been lost every day. Now she took the twists and turns without thinking.
Rosurie was in the room they shared, but not asleep. There was a single candle burning in the window, similar to candles set in every window of the convent, and faithfully lit as soon as the sun went down. In addition, the room was illuminated by a branch of candles pulled over by Rosurie’s narrow bed. Rosurie was braiding her long chestnut hair for the night.
“Shavell will be furious if she sees you’re burning candles this late,” Ellynor commented as she stepped inside.
Rosurie shrugged and blew them out. The room instantly filled with shadows, only the flame in the window giving any light to see by.
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