“She is coming.”
“But how do you know, Oreltia?”
She shrugged. It was three days later, and she’d seen much in her dreams since that first awakening, when Mekesta aided her in the slaying of the two guards. So much, in fact, she was having trouble separating past from future, imagination from prophecy.
She turned her head, let her eyes fall upon Faylena. The strong, vital-looking woman seemed far more ill at ease than was normal, despite their luscious surroundings. The two of them were sitting in comfortable chairs in a private lounge, looking out of the temple’s glass wall, flutes filled with orange-diluted wine in their fingers. It was an obscenely-warm afternoon for Yunara and the sun shone brilliantly across the grass, Joran’s glorious face beaming out across the city. The sky was cloudless sapphire blue. As was usual for such a nice day, many rich nobles and merchants had crawled out of their holes and were walking and talking, conducting their business conversations in the peaceful gardens before or after their healer appointments. Lots of the senior Sisters had taken their classes outdoors, and droves of lucky pupils were sitting in drifts of pink crystalblossom or on benches along the canals’ banks.
“So, did the Dark Lady send you a vision?” Faylena went on. “Was it a dream, its messages disguised? Or did she speak directly to you?”
Oreltia noted the bitterness in her rival’s tone; she turned and smiled knowingly.
“So your prayers haven’t been answered?” she asked sweetly.
Faylena frowned, and tipped her glass at her lips to hide her disappointment.
Oreltia laughed. “Oh, Lena, you do amuse me. Did you think Mother-Chaos would respond to you, when all you do is fret over your position, your hair,” she said the word with a lashing of contempt, “instead of looking at the big picture?”
“I do look at the big picture!” Faylena leaned forwards, the hunger in her eyes and voice drawing Oreltia out of her reverie with its intensity. “I was the one who supported you, when you killed the Sisters –“
“That really was the goddess, you know –“
“Stop it! And before we even created the ritual, it was me who brought in Bennerswent…”
Oreltia chuckled, hearing Faylena’s own derision made manifest. If there was one topic on which Oreltia and Faylena saw eye-to-eye, it was despising the highborn.
“Why won’t you let me in? Why do you insist on keeping me at arm’s-length, when all this is going on?”
“Because,” Oreltia took a sip of the citrus wine, “it irks you.”
“You’re damn right it irks me! If you’re willing to gamble our temple –“
“Our temple, our careers, are in no danger. I have assurances.” She set down her glass, folded her hands neatly in her lap and sighed. “You want my position, Lena, but what you really crave is ascendancy. Luckily, I’ve been shown a way for you to have it.”
Faylena’s lower lip started to wobble. “H-High Healer of Wythyldwyn, me?”
Oreltia shook her head firmly. “You’ll see.”
Her vision had shown Faylena consumed in black fire, coils of smoke lifting off into the sky. If that wasn’t ascendancy, she didn’t know what was. And it was a better end than Ullton and Bennerswent received. Theirs hadn’t been half as fast as Faylena’s would be – the Mother must have been feeling merciful towards her for some reason.
“Come on.” Oreltia got to her feet. “She’ll be here in a few minutes. Best we’re ready for her at the gates.”
They made their way out of the lounge and along the corridor towards the doors. The white-belted initiates all bowed deeply as they passed by, but the priests and high priests (with belts of silver and gold respectively) merely gave a humble head-nod, as was their right. The Temple of Compassion itself was mostly a one-floor structure, and so it didn’t require any stair-climbing to find those she sought. On her way into battle, Oreltia collected certain Sisters – those she knew to be dependable, those who would take her side in any argument. Sister Morrowost, chief augur. Priestess Xalior, treasurer. Lady Bhelios, High Priestess of Her Inviolable Arms, the shrine on Danamir Row. A simple gesture and smile was enough to invite their company, and she regarded them with satisfaction as they exchanged mystified glances with one another, Faylena alone keeping her eyes to herself.
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Once the five of them were together, the air of superiority gathered tight about them, many of those they passed had jealousy written on their faces as they bowed their heads. Oreltia led them through the wide-open doors at the top of the entryway, out into the brilliant winter sunlight. It was every bit as warm as it looked from indoors, save for when the wind blew and she felt the shivers race deliciously up her spine. Chit-chatting about the weather, they descended the broad, low stair that took them to the path and then strolled along it, crossing the bridge and heading to the gates. Only briefly did one of them, Sister Morrowost, whisper about the rumours concerning the enigmatic deaths of two of the church-leaders in the last three days. Oreltia gave the answer by rote now: the magisters had gone away baffled and were apparently investigating potential darkmage involvement. Morrowost’s own prayers hadn’t availed her, despite her predilection for visions; the High Healer kept her face straight, but internally she shrilled in triumph:
Again, the Mother of Darkness defeats the Maiden of Light! Even here in these hallowed halls, she cannot see the slaughter of her children!
When they reached the great gateway with its latticework of silver bars depicting hundreds and hundreds of open hands, the Warden-Sister on duty bowed smartly. She directed her band of initiates with a series of crisp commands; the few common folk entering and leaving, rich men and women no doubt, were swiftly and politely shooed-aside, making space for the quintet of eminent Sisters to depart.
Oreltia crossed the threshold and stepped out beyond the shadows of the disused gatehouse, then halted her group there, not ten feet onto Dandelion Way, drawing some surprised looks from the Warden-Sister and her retinue just behind the delicate bars of the gate.
Some surprised looks from the nearby magisters, too, Oreltia noted. They were the ones to watch. They were outside her ability to control, and the Magisterium diviners who would later be tasked with finding out what happened here today would lend much credence to their observations and opinions.
Just have to make sure it looks right. Looks like Wythyldwyn’s doing.
Not that that should prove too difficult. Aside from the mist turning a bit caustic under the hill, there wasn’t a single indication Oreltia had been spurned by her chosen deity. She could still cleanse water, summon light, heal wounds… Once Kanthyre had been chastised, everything would go back to normal.
“If you’d pardon my asking,” Lady Bhelios said, looking square at her, elvish cheeks blooming with a soft blush, “High Healer, what in the name of Celestium are we doing here in the street?”
“The work of the goddess,” Faylena said at once, her tone fervent, her faith undeniable.
“Excommunication,” Oreltia gave her own answer, packaged up neatly in a single word.
“Excommunication?” Lady Bhelios’s lineless brow furrowed. “Of whom, pray tell?”
Oreltia pointed down the road. “Need you truly ask? The whore!”
Kanthyre was on her way, and she was in a dishevelled state; Oreltia was certain it wasn’t just her own bias making her misinterpret the sight before her. The outland cleric waddled with reluctance in every footfall, her cloak swishing side-to-side. The tangles of copper-orange hair hung limply on her shoulders, knotted and dark with perspiration; sweat was running freely down her forehead, her round cheeks. Every now and again Kanthyre pawed at her weary face with the cuff of one of her long sleeves, but it was no good; the gleaming rivulets sprang up again in seconds, tracing glistening lines across her skin. She looked truly miserable, exhausted, at the end of her rope.
The medallion of the Maiden at her neck was glowing faintly, however.
Troubling.
She only seemed to notice the five of them when she was ten yards away; she looked up, then almost stumbled, seeing them in the street in front of her.
Oreltia fought down the urge to grin.
“So!” she called. “The dell-dweller returns! Welcome, Sister Vael. What can we do for you today, dragonslayer?”
Kanthyre halted, and looked left and right. Oreltia and her renowned priestesses had already started to draw something of a crowd, watching from afar – then there were the gate-guards, the magisters…
Let’s see how you fare with an audience hanging on your every word, girl.
She wouldn’t even meet Oreltia’s eyes. “Ex… excommunication,” Kanthyre said through numb lips, staring down at the scintillating paving stones between her feet.
She heard me?
Oreltia wrinkled her nose. “Indeed, Sister Vael. First you must account for your transgressions. Breaking your vow of chastity –”
“A disgrace,” Lady Bhelios murmured.
“Obscenity!” Priestess Xalior snapped.
“– should be your primary concern,” Oreltia continued smoothly. “I understand that the dreamers of Yune were willing to perform the ceremony –”
“Blasphemers…”
“Revolting!”
“– but where is the contrition, Sister Vael? Where is your learning? Surely you knew that you should have removed your insignia the moment you turned to a man –”
The two sycophants behind her made almost identical choking sounds.
“– and yet you continued in your ministry regardless. This wilful recklessness alone has brought you to the Temple’s gates.”
Oreltia felt the weight of all the eyes on her. She forced a sweet smile onto her lips.
“Yet Wythyldwyn is not the Maiden of Compassion for naught! Give up the symbol of your power, and submit your marriage for dissolution. After a moon or two in acts of penitence – I’m sorry, what was that?” Kanthyre had spoken, too quiet, too meek to be heard under Oreltia’s tirade. “You’ll have to speak up, Sister, unless you wish to accompany me inside presently? We can talk in private, if you wish.”
“Th-this hurts, more than anything I’ve ever had to do.” Kanthyre finally met her eyes, and she saw the girl was barely holding back a flood of tears.
“I know, Sister.” Oreltia felt her smile become a smirk.
“It’s for the best,” Morrowost said softly, pityingly.
“No – I mean… excommunication.” Kanthyre gulped in air, then slowly drew her wet hair back behind her ears, clearing it from her face. “I’m afraid we can’t go inside. You can’t, anyway. Not anymore. Your – your authority’s revoked, Oreltia Overbrent. You are the High Healer of Wythyldwyn no longer.”
* * *