“Eris-tae,” Rina said brightly, looking up. “Tollel iv, sit and join us.”
The strange sense of calling intensified when Eris stepped onto our section of rush matting, like a dream only half remembered. I struggled to marshal my thoughts for a welcome as she dropped to one knee and then the other, very close to Grannine, a little nearer to Rina than to me.
Eris put on her good cheer, drew the smile across her features like a mask. She reached out a hand to Rina, and a fraction later, extended the other to me.
“And how are we this fine day, lovelies?”
“Eris-dae, my life is full of good omens,” Rina offered me a faintly apologetic look. “You find us in a delicate moment.”
“I’m not intruding, I hope.”
“Not at all,” I said, almost without thinking. I squeezed her hand, perhaps too tightly. My thoughts were still whirling. “I’m…I’ve just learnt something rather unsettling.”
“Ask an answer from a druid, learn a thousand questions,” Eris said. Rina laughed.
“You are wise in our ways, Eris-tae. But I will tell you I had not thought this would be the moment of two hundred and forty-three questions.” She cast a look at me that was at once curious and apologetic.
I felt strangely, dreadfully uncultured, as though I were some wild woman, some savage who had forgotten the powers of speech. Yet my heart was humming with tension, unvented frustration, curiosity—and at the look I received from Eris, I felt just for an instant like we were back in my chamber at Saint Isaac’s with a summer night breathing through the window.
“Rina’s just informed me that the druids recall two thousand years of recorded history.”
“Cyra molok,” Eris said, as casually as though we were discussing the price of salt. “The Years of the Risen Empire. You know this.”
“Hardly.” I let go of Eris, the better to rest my hands in my lap. “You’ve told me about the Queen, the Templar, and the like yourself—I know Frydain has a long history. I…”
“Hadn’t thought it was that long?” Eris let out a breath of amusement. Despite the dreamlike feeling of nostalgia, my temper rose again at her prodding.
“I had hardly thought it was as brief as the Church’s count. Even by their own text, God’s chosen kings reigned for seven generations before the Fall. Seven generations, four hundred years? Perhaps? But still—” I gestured to Rina. “Hardly two thousand!”
“Mari, I start the story of Queen Frydda by telling you it happened two thousand years ago.” Eris shook her head. A genuine grin was starting to threaten her guise of good cheer. “The druids’ history is a long one.”
“Just so,” Rina looked to me. “For this reason I tell you not to fear when we call you suuna’astrea.”
At the sound of this title, one of the men working nearby glanced over in our direction. I met his eyes without intending, and he was the first to look away, almost with a bow.
“Rina-al,” Eris said, carefully applying the suffix like a brush of her thumb. “May I ask what it means? I know stories…”
“What suuna’astrea means?”
“I know what it means.” My own voice sounded bitter. “The Inquisitors named me the same.”
“Bemespe?” Rina turned a twinkling look of skepticism upon me. In the face of her smile, I felt once again wild, uncultured, unfinished. “An Inquisitor named you suuna’astrea, the word of Molok?” She signed the ve berem with her hand, flicking her palm casually to one side.
“Well–no, not as such. But he named us a revenant of the Succubus, which is our word for suuna’astrea.”
“Wrong.” Rina’s smiling rebuttal spurred my temper, already wounded by the day’s ordeal. She gave me no time to voice the building outburst. “You speak our tongue by the gift of your astrea, Mariead-dae, but you are not Molok. Your mind seeks to understand, but you have not understood rightly here.”
“Fine, then,” I said, as calmly as I could. “If I’m so sorely mistaken. What does suuna’astrea mean, if it doesn’t mean what I am?”
“It means what you are.” This had the tone of a concession. Rina nearly managed to keep from smiling, which did not help my temper. “But not what you are.”
Eris laughed.
“Ask an answer of a druid,” she repeated. Rina laughed.
“Forgive me, Mariead-dae, you are too easy to tease.” She held up a hand as if to calm me. “I will explain. You are qualdae. This word you know, yes? You are drawn to women.”
I wondered at the ease with which she said this. Aloud, in the midst of the Fire-Hall, where any passerby could have overheard. Yet where the word suuna’astrea had drawn attention even from passersby, here I saw no recognition nor reaction. Even the men who worked over their boiling cauldron showed no sign of having so much as blinked.
“I know,” I said.
“It is a good thing to know,” Rina grinned. “But qualdae does not mean only women like us.” She tapped her ear. “Many are qualdae. Men and women and tema. This word qualdae means you, but it does not mean only you. So it is with suuna’astrea.”
Too many thoughts at once. Many of them questions. Too many. My attention drifted from Rina and her necklace of rough stones. A group of children played in and around an unattended table not far from us; I thought I recognized one of the children of Caer Lunan among them.
A sulphurstar is a flower. But ‘sulphurstar’ does not mean flower. Scarlet halos swam at the edges of my vision, and I recognized the gentle touch of Grannine. Was that thought my own?
If I am this, but this does not mean me–
“There are others.” My mouth had gone dry. My heart once again was beating, not with fury but with a dreadful kind of hollowness that I did not dare to touch too closely. “Rina, there are others?”
“There were. Whether there still are, I do not know. They were hunted.”
They were hunted.
Quick as it had come, the hollow feeling in my heart was quenched. Stillborn hope in the bitter cold of a Church’s wagon. The cold, dark night of madness I had passed in Bridgeport, praying for a virtuous death. The fear of damnation. The fear of an Elysium withheld. How much fear I had harbored! Drawn to the warmth of Grannine like a moth to a candle-flame, yet torn with every hearbeat by the knowledge that what I hungered for was ordained to destroy me.
I had half-thought the grief boiling in my heart was a sorrowful emotion. I did not expect it to be as hot and all-consuming as molten pitch, rising until I felt it might choke my throat. The filth of fear in my heart flashed to a black and smoking hatred.
Again I felt the weight of that title fall upon me.
There were more, We thought. They were hunted. Only I remain.
“They ask me for blessings, Rina,” I whispered. “They bow to me.”
“We are children of Bor.” Rina’s eyes twinkled. “We bow to everyone.”
“Rina, please.”
She held out a hand to me. Grannine reached for it. I felt for a mad instant as though I were the ghost, and Grannine were the living woman, and half-expected my hand to pass away like mist in the morning—but then Rina’s grip closed around mine.
“We are honored by you, Mariead-dae. We are proud to have you. A suuna’astrea is a thing of our past. Like the legends of your Saints, but true. With you here, the people are glad. We are braver, and the world feels for us whole. As for blessings–” Here, she regained a semblance of a smile. “A druid would ask a blessing of a mouse, if she judged it to be an auspicious relation.”
I tried to divine from her expression whether or not she was serious.
Before I could come to a conclusion, Eris spoke.
“Rina-al,” she said quietly. “A moment alone with Mariead, please? I’ve been trying to track her down all morning.”
I started to speak. So much I had yet to ask. In the thrill of philosophical discovery, I had entirely forgotten to voice a single one of Faith’s requests. Yet even that sudden realization was dwarfed by the bitter way in which Eris had spoken my name. It was that, and nothing else, that stifled my voice.
“This can be done.” Rina gestured to me expectantly. “Mariead-dae, tell me the Thought you have learned.”
My mind was already racing, and I found it impossible to rein in my thoughts. It was Grannine who supplied the answer.
“Thiir li-oc-kota,” I said. Rina looked pleased.
“Very good. Meditate on this. You have a Speaker’s mind, Mariead; you see what the thought means, but also what it does not. We will continue.”
“Rina–” I rose to my feet as she did. Grannine. “Later—remind me, I have something to show you.”
“Bemespe? Then we will both learn today.” She slung the black-and-gold mantle around her strong shoulders, pinned it back into place. She bowed to Eris, once, and to me, twice. “Eris-tae, Mariead-dae, astrea-tan, sime’sala. Find me when you are again ready.”
“Si-sa,” I said. Rina laughed again, leaving me with sudden doubt as to the meaning of the word. Before I could ask, Rina strode with momentum out from our pocket of calm and into the clamour of the Ix-akad, threaded her way carefully through a group of children carding wool together, and passed out of sight behind a row of blankets hung out to dry.
The air between us grew brittle in Rina’s absence, and I feared to break it with the wrong words. We sat together half-hidden between a blazing oven and a busy table where, I was beginning to suspect, two men were working on infusing grey into clothing for druid Hunters. I tipped my hand, and Grannine twined Her fingers through mine. Her hand felt warm, realer than real.
When Eris finally spoke, it was in a careful, circling tone.
“We said we’d talk, Mari.”
A moment too late, I realized I had been lost pursuing that dreamlike feeling of calling, trying to hunt down the distant sound of my name on the wind.
“We did,” I said, quickly. “I’ve been busy,” I added, as though it might serve as an apology.
Eris almost smiled.
“Busy,” she repeated. “So at least you know you’re not talking to me.”
“I’m talking to you right now.”
“I’m patient, Mari. I’m not ignorant.” Eris had such a command of her voice, when she chose to exercise it. She used it now, and the edges cut into me. “You’re avoiding me.”
“We see each other every day.”
“Doesn’t that make it the more mystifying?” Eris leaned forward. “We share the same bed, but we still haven’t–”
“Eris!” My cheeks flushed, and I cast a quick look toward the part of the Ix-akad that was visible to us. From here I could see only a fraction of the crowd, this vantage blocked foremost by the men who stood dyeing fabrics. If they understood our conversation, they gave no sign, but their presence put me ill-at-ease. Small blessing that no Churchborn of Caer Lunan was nearby to hear.
“–talked,” Eris concluded, with a bitter smile on her face. “Either.”
She shook her head, nursing a silence, steeping in it. I wanted to speak up, to say something to ease the hurt in her voice. I found nothing to suffice.
What could I say? I fear this demon in my heart is driving me to madness. There is a depth to this grey culture that frightens me. Each ‘suuna’astrea’ feels like lead on my back. None of this is a fear over which you have any power. None of this you could do a thing about.
I would rather be cruel by omission. Yet even this resolve was fracturing.
“Mari,” Eris said, so softly that I had almost missed it in the clamor of the Fire-Hall. “We made it. We’re free. You’re acting like we’re still at the convent. At least there, we had–”
She reached out her hand.
I faltered.
The very thought of the abbey reminded me of her. Of her absence. To stay silent! When she was waiting! How could I? But by the time I reached back, she had withdrawn her hand.
“Could we discuss this elsewhere?” I’m not even sure where to begin. But we could start. I could try.
“What does it matter where we are?”
Her response was forceful enough that one of the men nearby looked over in curiosity. I dared not meet his eyes.
Eris stopped. Perhaps seeing the look on my face. Perhaps only to restrain herself, for her next words were low, delivered in a hiss. “You haven’t talked to me anywhere else.” She faltered. Hesitated. “Mari, if you…if you don’t want…this, us–”
“No!” The word was torn from me. I leaned forward, reaching for her. “Eris, I…”
The man who had overheard us returned to his work. He said something quiet to his companion, who chuckled. I felt my heart seize, turned a mute look upon Eris. She stared at me. I faced down her anger, hoping her glare would serve as penance and balm. Thoughts swirled in my head.
“I don’t know where to start.”
“Just talk to me.” Eris turned fully to face me, and took my hands in hers. “Please.” She stared into my eyes as though seeking Grannine. At length, she shook her head in dismay. “I don’t even know what you’re thinking, Mari. We used to be that close.”
“It’s not that I’m…” I could barely speak the word. “It’s not that I don’t–damn it all.” This last broke out almost on its own, as I felt tears boiling at the edges of my eyes. The imprecation startled a laugh from Eris, and her grip tightened convulsively on mine.
“I miss you,” she said, more gently.
“And I, you,” I whispered. “Eris, forgive me, I’m…”
She shook her head.
“No apology.”
“I wanted—I want to tell you everything, I just–” I ran out of breath. A shuddering exhalation stifled my thoughts. I shook my head in a vain attempt to clear them and plunged on. “I want to. I want—you.”
“I was starting to wonder.”
I stumbled over my words in the rush to repudiate even the thought.
“That’s not–”
“My Lady!” The unfamiliar voice startled me so badly that I thought I might leap from my skin and leave only Grannine to mind me.
Creed Fuller was a bright-eyed boy of fifteen with his mother’s wild black hair. He was the leader of the trio that now crouched around the far side of the oven, all looking wide-eyed and wild. Behind him, Arran Scour’s grandson Honor stood taller but more reserved, with little Kendrick Stewardson hiding behind him.
I pulled my hands from Eris. Too late.
“Boys,” Eris said, her voice still a trifle sharp. She let out a breath. “Snuck up on us there.”
“Sorry, Eris. M’Lady,” Creed looked as though he were thinking about bowing, which he evidently considered sufficient. “It’s…you’re needed.”
“It’s Mercy Angelson,” Honor stepped forward. He was holding a small hat in one hand which was being wrung for its life. “M’Lady.”
“Mercy–” I half-pushed to one knee. “Already?”
“Yes’m.” Creed shuffled backward as I came to my feet, keeping his distance. “Mama said to find you.”
“Mercy’s asking for you,” Honor added.
“Layla says the baby is coming now,” Kendrick Stewardson, hardly more than eight, looked delighted by this news. Now the nervous animation of all three boys made sense.
“Good God.” I rose to my feet. “Eris–”
“Go.” She shook her head. “I’ll…I’d just be in the way.”
“I’m sure–” I stopped. “Later, we–”
“Go, Mari,” Eris said. “She needs you.”
I faltered. A dreadful sense of ribbon-thin suspension pulled me taut.
“Creed,” I said. “Find Speaker Rina. She’ll know what to do. She was making for the Kuura-akad.”
“Yes’m,” Creed said. He bobbed his head again, and the three boys shoved through our little circle of solitude, rushing past the men on the other side.
“Mari,” Eris said. “You don’t–”
“No, wait.” I stood already half-gone in mind, trying to recapture what I’d meant to say. “Eris, my heart. I’ve…I’ve owed you too much time for too long. God help me.” I folded my hands, clenched them tight into fists beneath my shawl. It was so easy at Saint Isaac’s. “When it was—we were just–”
When we were doomed.
“Mari, go. I’ll be here.” Eris held up her hands in a shrug that was hamstrung by her bitter little smile. “When you’re done. We can’t keep Mercy waiting.”
“I still want this,” I blurted. Easier to say when I was already poised for flight. “Eris. I still want—you. You’re my life. I just don’t…”
Her face softened, only a fraction, and relief sprang like a sulphurstar in my heart.
“Later,” she said. Warmer, now. “You’ll come to me later.”
“I will. I promise. Eris, I promise–” I lunged to her, took her hands, pressed the knuckles to my lips. “Later. I love you.”
So much time spent and worry wasted on finding the right words, and yet that was thoughtless. I had even forgotten to see whether anyone was listening. I forgot to look again now as Eris smiled.
“I love you, Mari.” She squeezed my hands, and let them fall. “Now go, you madwoman! Mercy and her wain won’t stay waiting on you.”
“Inconsiderate,” I said, without thinking. The laugh I won from Eris sped me on my way.
*
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