left for Chuma, and the humming song of the flies attracted to the small, dead things at the base of Murtuva’s idol.
Each of the idols was veiled; none but the Fathers of the Church were permitted to look upon them. It was said that eyes of the sculptors who carved them had been cut out and their fingers severed after the work was done.
Sisters and Brothers moved around the prostrate and the weeping, whispering words that sounded as chastising as they were encouraging. One of the pale, black-clad creatures approached her, fixing a vacant stare upon her. She was unsure, at first, whether it was man or woman.
“Do you wish to pray and make offering, daughter?”
They were all shorn of hair when they took their vows and observed the sacraments of the Four. Their bodies steadily shrank to skeletal proportions as they fasted repeatedly, and few made it past their fiftieth year; those who did were whispered to be mages harboured by the Church.
“I have no offering to make. I only wish to pray.”
“Without offering, not one of the Four will listen. What is the substance of your prayer?”
“I have a journey ahead. An enemy to overtake. A child to rescue and return home.”
“Then your offering should be made to Voyane. Blood drawn by another’s hand. Fear not,” the trembling creature said. “I have a knife.”
Leste flinched at the notched blade the Brother drew from the folds of his cloak, and at the way he stroked it, caressed it, and looked eager to put it to use. She let him lead her by the hand to the foot of the idol raised in honour of Voyane.
“Make your bows, my child.”
And she did.
“Now, give me your hand.”
And she did.
“Please, try not to scream.”
He cut across her palm with a swift stroke. She did not scream. She felt time grow long as the pain passed through her body, making her nerves sing and her brain ache. She swallowed the pain, only opening her mouth to let out a few ragged breaths. Leste looked to the Brother and saw how his moist eyes adored the wound he had made.
“You have given of your blood, daughter. Now, make your prayer to Voyane, for she has tasted of you and is now listening.”
Clenching her hands into fists, keeping her head bowed, Leste made her prayer.
Voyane, Blood-Creator, hear my words and seal my oath with this blood spilt. I ride against a great enemy. Give me strength to match his strength. Cunning to match his cunning. Will to strike against his will. In your name will I bring an end to his life and thus my oath will be served and this blood unbound. Murta ashe vey.
“She has heard you,” said the Brother. “I feel it in my blood and bones.”
Leste rose to her feet and left, not sparing a glance or a word for the twisted man. There were stories about the Fathers and Brothers—about how they preached strength yet practiced the worst kinds of weakness. She had seen it in his eyes when he cut her hand.
Truly, what good had visiting that rancid place with its whimpering souls done her?
She sighed, and realised she was still clenching her hands into fists. She relaxed her fingers, only to stifle a cry at what she saw on her palm, or rather what she did not see. There was no more blood. The wound was a ridged scar stretching across her palm, as if it had been there for many years. It neither ached, nor throbbed as she flexed her fingers and made a fist again.
Her disquiet with the Church and its Gods grew all the more.
*
Leste went home to prepare for the journey. Despite what Murtagh had said, there was a way out that she could try to use. It would be guarded—she had no illusions about that—but she had to try. She loved Murtagh; however, he did not understand what this meant to her.
It was night and dark in the house. She had crept in unshod so as to gather her things quickly and quietly before leaving the city. If she was swift, she was sure that she could pick up the trail and bring Milanda back. Khale might have used magic to
Each of the idols was veiled; none but the Fathers of the Church were permitted to look upon them. It was said that eyes of the sculptors who carved them had been cut out and their fingers severed after the work was done.
Sisters and Brothers moved around the prostrate and the weeping, whispering words that sounded as chastising as they were encouraging. One of the pale, black-clad creatures approached her, fixing a vacant stare upon her. She was unsure, at first, whether it was man or woman.
“Do you wish to pray and make offering, daughter?”
They were all shorn of hair when they took their vows and observed the sacraments of the Four. Their bodies steadily shrank to skeletal proportions as they fasted repeatedly, and few made it past their fiftieth year; those who did were whispered to be mages harboured by the Church.
“I have no offering to make. I only wish to pray.”
“Without offering, not one of the Four will listen. What is the substance of your prayer?”
“I have a journey ahead. An enemy to overtake. A child to rescue and return home.”
“Then your offering should be made to Voyane. Blood drawn by another’s hand. Fear not,” the trembling creature said. “I have a knife.”
Leste flinched at the notched blade the Brother drew from the folds of his cloak, and at the way he stroked it, caressed it, and looked eager to put it to use. She let him lead her by the hand to the foot of the idol raised in honour of Voyane.
“Make your bows, my child.”
And she did.
“Now, give me your hand.”
And she did.
“Please, try not to scream.”
He cut across her palm with a swift stroke. She did not scream. She felt time grow long as the pain passed through her body, making her nerves sing and her brain ache. She swallowed the pain, only opening her mouth to let out a few ragged breaths. Leste looked to the Brother and saw how his moist eyes adored the wound he had made.
“You have given of your blood, daughter. Now, make your prayer to Voyane, for she has tasted of you and is now listening.”
Clenching her hands into fists, keeping her head bowed, Leste made her prayer.
Voyane, Blood-Creator, hear my words and seal my oath with this blood spilt. I ride against a great enemy. Give me strength to match his strength. Cunning to match his cunning. Will to strike against his will. In your name will I bring an end to his life and thus my oath will be served and this blood unbound. Murta ashe vey.
“She has heard you,” said the Brother. “I feel it in my blood and bones.”
Leste rose to her feet and left, not sparing a glance or a word for the twisted man. There were stories about the Fathers and Brothers—about how they preached strength yet practiced the worst kinds of weakness. She had seen it in his eyes when he cut her hand.
Truly, what good had visiting that rancid place with its whimpering souls done her?
She sighed, and realised she was still clenching her hands into fists. She relaxed her fingers, only to stifle a cry at what she saw on her palm, or rather what she did not see. There was no more blood. The wound was a ridged scar stretching across her palm, as if it had been there for many years. It neither ached, nor throbbed as she flexed her fingers and made a fist again.
Her disquiet with the Church and its Gods grew all the more.
*
Leste went home to prepare for the journey. Despite what Murtagh had said, there was a way out that she could try to use. It would be guarded—she had no illusions about that—but she had to try. She loved Murtagh; however, he did not understand what this meant to her.
It was night and dark in the house. She had crept in unshod so as to gather her things quickly and quietly before leaving the city. If she was swift, she was sure that she could pick up the trail and bring Milanda back. Khale might have used magic to
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