Selen thought, an unhealthy faith, that demanded such ostentatious observances. So, in this bargain, as in all others he ever made, it seemed her father would be the winner; for he would gain wealth and power by selling her to the Vingos, or capital for his soul by selling her to the Daughters.
And whichever way she looked at it, she could only be the loser.
Fighting down her panic, she began to consider her options. She made careful investigations through the women’s network and learned that the Vingos were not known as overly zealous nor cruel people. But when she had brought up the subject of Tanto Vingo, her maids had gone unwontedly quiet, then had hurriedly made up for their hesitation with chatter about his looks and his athleticism, as if that would impress her. And as if she would not have noticed their pause. Fools! So: parcelled off to be the sex-slave and heir-maker for an empty-headed lordling; or delivered into the hands of the dread Daughters of Falla, to devote her life to the cause of the Goddess.
She sighed, her mind shying unhelpfully away from both prospects. She forced it back mercilessly. The former, she could not imagine enduring. Just the thought of a man’s hands upon her flesh made her nauseous. Almost, she was tempted by the latter. At least she’d have her books and time for contemplation; she could garden and live quietly with other women; unless, of course, her faith was ever called into question. And there lay the nub of the problem. Selen had never felt the flame of Falla take fire in her heart and was beginning to find the daily observances a meaningless chore. Could she continue the charade under the watchful eyes of the Daughters? It was said they made tests for their novitiates which none but the truly faithful could succeed in. It was also said that those who failed faced painful sacrifice . . .
‘I wish I had been born a man.’
In her fury, without thought, she had said it aloud. Her hands flew to her mouth. Such an utterance was the greatest heresy of all: she could be burned for even thinking such a thing.
‘Falla, Goddess, Giver of Life: made in your image, I worship you for your generous gift,’ she muttered automatically.
As if on cue, there came the sound of handbells being rung outside the tent, as the Crier carried the call to prayer around the Istrian quarter of the fairground. A few moments later, where there had been the low murmur of chatter and commerce, there was nothing but a deathly quiet.
Selen stared in loathing at the carved sardonyx figure standing on its plinth in the corner of her own tent: its blind eyes, its pitiless smile; its flaunting posture; its inhuman companion creature.
With a wordless cry, she turned her back on the idol, sank to the floor and put her head in her hands.
Four
Vanity
T he next morning Katla woke to the smell of foreign ground and pungent waxed cloth. She opened her eyes. Sunlight was bleaching through the tent: even at this early hour she could feel its heat and the promise of the hot and cloudless day to come. Her father and brothers had so often spoken of the wide blue Moonfell sky and the heat that made it hard to walk about without breaking into a sweat when they had recounted tales of their previous visits to the Allfair as the family sat steaming around the steading’s winter fire with the wind howling and the rain thrashing down on the turf roof, and Katla had thought they exaggerated. Now, though, it was clear they had applied their usual understatement and lack of poetry to the descriptions.
She rolled over in her sealskin, found her boots and with a single quick motion rolled off her pallet and came to her feet. Tucking her boots under her arm, she crept from the booth, stepping over her silent brothers. Halli slept as always on his back, his dense black beard making an obscurity of the lower half of his face; Fent, in contrast, lay curled into the corner of the booth with his skins drawn up around him, like
And whichever way she looked at it, she could only be the loser.
Fighting down her panic, she began to consider her options. She made careful investigations through the women’s network and learned that the Vingos were not known as overly zealous nor cruel people. But when she had brought up the subject of Tanto Vingo, her maids had gone unwontedly quiet, then had hurriedly made up for their hesitation with chatter about his looks and his athleticism, as if that would impress her. And as if she would not have noticed their pause. Fools! So: parcelled off to be the sex-slave and heir-maker for an empty-headed lordling; or delivered into the hands of the dread Daughters of Falla, to devote her life to the cause of the Goddess.
She sighed, her mind shying unhelpfully away from both prospects. She forced it back mercilessly. The former, she could not imagine enduring. Just the thought of a man’s hands upon her flesh made her nauseous. Almost, she was tempted by the latter. At least she’d have her books and time for contemplation; she could garden and live quietly with other women; unless, of course, her faith was ever called into question. And there lay the nub of the problem. Selen had never felt the flame of Falla take fire in her heart and was beginning to find the daily observances a meaningless chore. Could she continue the charade under the watchful eyes of the Daughters? It was said they made tests for their novitiates which none but the truly faithful could succeed in. It was also said that those who failed faced painful sacrifice . . .
‘I wish I had been born a man.’
In her fury, without thought, she had said it aloud. Her hands flew to her mouth. Such an utterance was the greatest heresy of all: she could be burned for even thinking such a thing.
‘Falla, Goddess, Giver of Life: made in your image, I worship you for your generous gift,’ she muttered automatically.
As if on cue, there came the sound of handbells being rung outside the tent, as the Crier carried the call to prayer around the Istrian quarter of the fairground. A few moments later, where there had been the low murmur of chatter and commerce, there was nothing but a deathly quiet.
Selen stared in loathing at the carved sardonyx figure standing on its plinth in the corner of her own tent: its blind eyes, its pitiless smile; its flaunting posture; its inhuman companion creature.
With a wordless cry, she turned her back on the idol, sank to the floor and put her head in her hands.
Four
Vanity
T he next morning Katla woke to the smell of foreign ground and pungent waxed cloth. She opened her eyes. Sunlight was bleaching through the tent: even at this early hour she could feel its heat and the promise of the hot and cloudless day to come. Her father and brothers had so often spoken of the wide blue Moonfell sky and the heat that made it hard to walk about without breaking into a sweat when they had recounted tales of their previous visits to the Allfair as the family sat steaming around the steading’s winter fire with the wind howling and the rain thrashing down on the turf roof, and Katla had thought they exaggerated. Now, though, it was clear they had applied their usual understatement and lack of poetry to the descriptions.
She rolled over in her sealskin, found her boots and with a single quick motion rolled off her pallet and came to her feet. Tucking her boots under her arm, she crept from the booth, stepping over her silent brothers. Halli slept as always on his back, his dense black beard making an obscurity of the lower half of his face; Fent, in contrast, lay curled into the corner of the booth with his skins drawn up around him, like
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