The Drowning City: The Necromancer Chronicles Book One by Amanda Downum Page A
Authors: Amanda Downum
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realized she was going
to the temple. It had been too long.
She walked the edges of the Floating Garden, where moonlight rippled silver over black water and night-blooming lilies glowed
milk-blue in the darkness. Trees rustled in the breeze, bobbing in their anchored wooden tubs. Webs of moss embroidered the
surface, soon to be washed away when the rains came and the river rose. The night was too quiet; the few people she passed
moved quickly, hunched as if expecting a blow.
The River Mother’s temple was always open, though at this hour it was all but deserted. The candles and lanterns had gone
out, but witchlights glowed in the elaborate spiraled channels that covered the center of the floor. The drip and murmur of
water echoed in the vaulted chamber.
A curtain rustled and a veiled priestess emerged from an alcove, lantern in hand. Zhirin curtsied and the woman inclined her
head. Eyebrows rose above her veil, a silent question.
Zhirin had thought perhaps to light a candle and sit in peace for a time, but now she realized she needed more than that.
“May I use the pool?” she asked softly.
The priestess hesitated a heartbeat, then nodded, gesturing with her lantern toward the far end of the hall.
Zhirin still knew the way, though it had been years since she’d used it. She still dreamed of the temple some nights, dreamed
of her imaginary life as a priestess. Her mother had been intent on sending her to university with Sia, the first of the Laiis
to attend. Apprenticeship at the Kurun Tam had been their compromise.
At least she had met Jabbor.
The priestess opened the antechamber door and lamplight rippled across the low domed ceiling. A small room, with benches and
racks for clothing and a shower; acolytes scrubbed the pool at least twice daily, but courtesy suggested one track in as little
grime as possible. The veiled woman found towels and a robe in a cabinet and set them on a bench, and cocked her head in another
question.
“That’s all I need, thank you.”
She nodded and closed the door, leaving the lantern behind.
Zhirin paused as she unbuttoned her shirt—for a moment she feared she’d have to hurry after the priestess to beg a comb, but
no, she still had one tucked into her pocket. She set it aside as she stripped and folded her clothes. Her toes curled against
the cold marble floor, gooseflesh crawling up her legs.
The water from the tap was cold too, and she stifled a yelp as it splashed over her shoulders. She worked the braids and knots
from her hair, watching long strands slither down the drain. When all of her was cold and wet and clean and her hair clung
like lace-moss to her arms and back, she shut off the tap.
Leaving the lantern in the antechamber, she took her comb and padded dripping to the inner room, footprints shining behind
her. As she shut the door she conjured witchlight; the steps were slick already and she had no wish to miss one in the dark.
If she listened, she thought she could hear the river’s pulse through the stone.
The pool filled the center of the room, deeper than a man was tall. Only a foot of water stood in the bottom now. No taps
or faucet in this room—either the river came to you here or she didn’t.
Zhirin descended the shallow steps into the pool, water lapping gently around her ankles as she reached the bottom. The wooden
teeth of her comb bit her palm, and her own nerves saddened her. Once she’d never have doubted that she could call the river.
She raised the comb to her dripping hair and began to hum softly.
For a moment she feared she’d been gone too long. Then the water began to ripple, welling from tiny holes in the stone. Cool
but not biting, it slid up her calves, over her thighs and hips, lapping higher with every stroke of the comb.
Once, the stories said, before the Assari built their dam, the reed-maidens would sit on the banks combing their long green
hair before the floods came. They said
to the temple. It had been too long.
She walked the edges of the Floating Garden, where moonlight rippled silver over black water and night-blooming lilies glowed
milk-blue in the darkness. Trees rustled in the breeze, bobbing in their anchored wooden tubs. Webs of moss embroidered the
surface, soon to be washed away when the rains came and the river rose. The night was too quiet; the few people she passed
moved quickly, hunched as if expecting a blow.
The River Mother’s temple was always open, though at this hour it was all but deserted. The candles and lanterns had gone
out, but witchlights glowed in the elaborate spiraled channels that covered the center of the floor. The drip and murmur of
water echoed in the vaulted chamber.
A curtain rustled and a veiled priestess emerged from an alcove, lantern in hand. Zhirin curtsied and the woman inclined her
head. Eyebrows rose above her veil, a silent question.
Zhirin had thought perhaps to light a candle and sit in peace for a time, but now she realized she needed more than that.
“May I use the pool?” she asked softly.
The priestess hesitated a heartbeat, then nodded, gesturing with her lantern toward the far end of the hall.
Zhirin still knew the way, though it had been years since she’d used it. She still dreamed of the temple some nights, dreamed
of her imaginary life as a priestess. Her mother had been intent on sending her to university with Sia, the first of the Laiis
to attend. Apprenticeship at the Kurun Tam had been their compromise.
At least she had met Jabbor.
The priestess opened the antechamber door and lamplight rippled across the low domed ceiling. A small room, with benches and
racks for clothing and a shower; acolytes scrubbed the pool at least twice daily, but courtesy suggested one track in as little
grime as possible. The veiled woman found towels and a robe in a cabinet and set them on a bench, and cocked her head in another
question.
“That’s all I need, thank you.”
She nodded and closed the door, leaving the lantern behind.
Zhirin paused as she unbuttoned her shirt—for a moment she feared she’d have to hurry after the priestess to beg a comb, but
no, she still had one tucked into her pocket. She set it aside as she stripped and folded her clothes. Her toes curled against
the cold marble floor, gooseflesh crawling up her legs.
The water from the tap was cold too, and she stifled a yelp as it splashed over her shoulders. She worked the braids and knots
from her hair, watching long strands slither down the drain. When all of her was cold and wet and clean and her hair clung
like lace-moss to her arms and back, she shut off the tap.
Leaving the lantern in the antechamber, she took her comb and padded dripping to the inner room, footprints shining behind
her. As she shut the door she conjured witchlight; the steps were slick already and she had no wish to miss one in the dark.
If she listened, she thought she could hear the river’s pulse through the stone.
The pool filled the center of the room, deeper than a man was tall. Only a foot of water stood in the bottom now. No taps
or faucet in this room—either the river came to you here or she didn’t.
Zhirin descended the shallow steps into the pool, water lapping gently around her ankles as she reached the bottom. The wooden
teeth of her comb bit her palm, and her own nerves saddened her. Once she’d never have doubted that she could call the river.
She raised the comb to her dripping hair and began to hum softly.
For a moment she feared she’d been gone too long. Then the water began to ripple, welling from tiny holes in the stone. Cool
but not biting, it slid up her calves, over her thighs and hips, lapping higher with every stroke of the comb.
Once, the stories said, before the Assari built their dam, the reed-maidens would sit on the banks combing their long green
hair before the floods came. They said
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