uncomfortably. They shared a sweaty glance and wrapped their hands on the grips of their swords. The priestess stepped forward. Her foot planted on the trail of wine. She looked down at the burgundy staining her boot.
“Tell me,” she said in a voice clear and sharp as a polished trumpet, “why you two thought it wise to get drunk on wine when you have a duty to perform?”
One of the soldiers cleared his throat. “My deepest apologies, Sister Ialane Donra. We merely had a glass to celebrate Harvest Festival. You have my word not another drop will touch our lips.”
The woman called Ialane said nothing. Her serpent lazily lifted its head, flicking a pink, forked tongue toward the lower city. Ialane brushed her fingertip beneath its jaw as her robe rolled with a gust of wind.
After a pause just long enough to become uncomfortable, Ialane dropped her hand from the creature. “I’m curious why you celebrate Harvest Festival. Enlighten me.”
Once again, the soldiers exchanged glances. The same soldier licked his lips. “Because we must give thanks for a year of plentiful food so the next will be just as plentiful.”
“You must give thanks?” Ialane strummed her fingers on one of her sword’s hilts. “Why must you celebrate it?”
“Because, ah, because the king has blessed the celebration, and we would not go against Good King Sol’s wishes.”
Mara frowned. Harvest had nothing to do with the king. It had everything to do with the Burning Mother. It was for her they lit the paper lanterns that carried their prayers to the stars.
“Good,” Ialane said, her back still to the men. “Because our king would not be pleased to know his men thought that whore, the Burning Mother, would ever grant them kindness or care about their stupid paper lantern prayers. Has anyone passed into Upper Sollan? The low folk should know better, but they’re drunk tonight, and tonight more than all others, we need to keep the trash out of the true city.”
“None have passed. We have kept careful watch like you commanded. The, ah, the trash know to keep far away from Upper Sollan tonight.”
“Yet I feel as if that little fact is not known to all who prowl the streets this evening. Keep an eye out, and if I catch you leaving your post again, my serpent will be spitting out the remnants of your manhood by morning. Then you can join the trash. I hear the Floatwaif has use for men like that.”
Ialane whipped around, finally facing the soldiers. Somehow the men both managed to stand even more rigid than before. Mara watched the priestess march back into Upper Sollan. Her serpent’s eyes gleamed like Olessa’s polished rubies, their cold stare sweeping one last time across the lane.
The priestess disappeared beyond the archway. Mara squatted in her hiding spot. Her babe weighed on her already tired arms. She adjusted him against her shoulder and watched the men, hoping they might return to their wine now that Sister Ialane left them in peace.
Mara waited. A cricket picked up its chirping. The soldiers didn’t move. They didn’t speak. She might not have known they were more than statues had she not just witnessed the encounter with the priestess.
If she could just find a way to distract them, she might slip through unnoticed. Frustration tied a knot in her chest. She knew no other way through and feared wandering around to find another gate would lead her away from her goal.
I needed you, Tag , she thought bitterly. No longer did she smile thinking of him licking butter from his thumb. I needed you and you left me to this.
After a few moments thinking in the shadows, she noticed the cricket no longer chirped its song. A gaze weighed on Mara’s back. Her heartbeat quickened. She tightened her grip on her son and slowly turned.
Instead of a small, empty alley, a silent son stood tall and imposing. His black robe blended perfectly with the darkness and framed his pale, expressionless mask.
Mara lurched to her
“Tell me,” she said in a voice clear and sharp as a polished trumpet, “why you two thought it wise to get drunk on wine when you have a duty to perform?”
One of the soldiers cleared his throat. “My deepest apologies, Sister Ialane Donra. We merely had a glass to celebrate Harvest Festival. You have my word not another drop will touch our lips.”
The woman called Ialane said nothing. Her serpent lazily lifted its head, flicking a pink, forked tongue toward the lower city. Ialane brushed her fingertip beneath its jaw as her robe rolled with a gust of wind.
After a pause just long enough to become uncomfortable, Ialane dropped her hand from the creature. “I’m curious why you celebrate Harvest Festival. Enlighten me.”
Once again, the soldiers exchanged glances. The same soldier licked his lips. “Because we must give thanks for a year of plentiful food so the next will be just as plentiful.”
“You must give thanks?” Ialane strummed her fingers on one of her sword’s hilts. “Why must you celebrate it?”
“Because, ah, because the king has blessed the celebration, and we would not go against Good King Sol’s wishes.”
Mara frowned. Harvest had nothing to do with the king. It had everything to do with the Burning Mother. It was for her they lit the paper lanterns that carried their prayers to the stars.
“Good,” Ialane said, her back still to the men. “Because our king would not be pleased to know his men thought that whore, the Burning Mother, would ever grant them kindness or care about their stupid paper lantern prayers. Has anyone passed into Upper Sollan? The low folk should know better, but they’re drunk tonight, and tonight more than all others, we need to keep the trash out of the true city.”
“None have passed. We have kept careful watch like you commanded. The, ah, the trash know to keep far away from Upper Sollan tonight.”
“Yet I feel as if that little fact is not known to all who prowl the streets this evening. Keep an eye out, and if I catch you leaving your post again, my serpent will be spitting out the remnants of your manhood by morning. Then you can join the trash. I hear the Floatwaif has use for men like that.”
Ialane whipped around, finally facing the soldiers. Somehow the men both managed to stand even more rigid than before. Mara watched the priestess march back into Upper Sollan. Her serpent’s eyes gleamed like Olessa’s polished rubies, their cold stare sweeping one last time across the lane.
The priestess disappeared beyond the archway. Mara squatted in her hiding spot. Her babe weighed on her already tired arms. She adjusted him against her shoulder and watched the men, hoping they might return to their wine now that Sister Ialane left them in peace.
Mara waited. A cricket picked up its chirping. The soldiers didn’t move. They didn’t speak. She might not have known they were more than statues had she not just witnessed the encounter with the priestess.
If she could just find a way to distract them, she might slip through unnoticed. Frustration tied a knot in her chest. She knew no other way through and feared wandering around to find another gate would lead her away from her goal.
I needed you, Tag , she thought bitterly. No longer did she smile thinking of him licking butter from his thumb. I needed you and you left me to this.
After a few moments thinking in the shadows, she noticed the cricket no longer chirped its song. A gaze weighed on Mara’s back. Her heartbeat quickened. She tightened her grip on her son and slowly turned.
Instead of a small, empty alley, a silent son stood tall and imposing. His black robe blended perfectly with the darkness and framed his pale, expressionless mask.
Mara lurched to her
Similar Books
