Chapter Twelve

Four years later

 

Flames burned high in the central fire pit, throwing off intense heat. Hundreds of fat white candles blazed along shelves built high on each wall of the sanctum. The smell of melting wax mingled with the more pungent aroma of burning incense.

The gathered sisterhood of the Penestricans entered the sanctum in a double line. Their chanting rose and fell like the ocean tide. As they entered, the women parted in opposite directions to line the rough-hewn walls. Each sister stood veiled in black. Each held a skull in her hands. The tops of the skulls had been sawn off to form crucibles filled with a mixture of soil and female blood.

The chanting rose in intensity. At the entrance a woman robed in black appeared. Her pale narrow face revealed nothing except concentration. It was ageless, unlined, yet gaunt as though a lifetime of challenges had drawn her down to only the essentials.

She was the Magria, supreme mother within the sisterhood. Their chanting beat within her like her own pulse.

For three days she had fasted in preparation for the visioning. She had lain in the sweat chamber, forcing all impurities from her body. Now she stood emptied, ready. Her mind was clear. She had no hesitations.

Behind her, the deputy Anas untied the lacings of the Magria’s robe and pulled it off her shoulders, leaving her naked. The intense heat struck her skin, and the Magria drew in a quick breath.

She walked forward to the sand pit that surrounded the fire. The sand was hot enough to burn the bare soles of her feet. The Magria did not flinch. In her state of heightened awareness, physical pain only served to clarify the visioning. She could have walked across live coals had it been necessary.

The chanting continued, rising in a frenzy around her. She could feel the collective force of the sisterhood around her, sustaining and strengthening her for what lay ahead.

She lifted her hands high in supplication to the stone image of the goddess mother in its niche on the opposite wall. The chanting ceased in abrupt unison, and all was silent. The Magria closed her eyes and reached into the stone box next to the fire pit.

“Within the power of the goddess mother, we call forth these children of the earth,” she said. “Let them tell us their truth. Let us be worthy enough to understand it.”

Her fingers entwined among the knot of writhing snakes inside the box, and she lifted them out. A dozen or more in number, they hissed and coiled about her wrists, but none of them struck her.

The Magria held them high for a moment, then tossed them upon the sand. “Truth-sayers, speak!” she called out.

Retreating from the sand pit, she climbed a tall dais overlooking it and seated herself on the stone chair.

The serpents writhed and slithered across the sand. They were active in the heat, hungry. But none of them made any effort to crawl out of the shallow pit.

Watching, her mind empty with anticipation, the Magria clutched the arms of her chair and waited in silence. She considered the lines drawn on the sand by the snakes, finding the pattern disturbingly clear.

As she had expected ... but she must wait. It was not yet time for interpretation.

Without warning, crimson filled her vision, coating all that she saw. Blood ... or the scarlet hue of rubies. The jewels blazed before her as though a hand had tossed a thousand of them across the sand. They reflected the firelight, glittering with life of their own. One of the snakes opened its mouth wide, fangs unfolding. It gulped down an egg-sized ruby, the jewel bulging through its length.

The Magria swayed in her chair and moaned.

Around her the walls ran with blood. It pooled on the floor, then ran in streams into the pit where the sand soaked it up.

Feeling the power, the Magria moaned again. Her heart pulsed stronger and stronger. The veiled sisters began to chant again, very soft and low, while the flames hissed and blazed.

The snake continued to eat the rubies, faster and faster, gorging itself on them until its length was swollen and lumpy. At last it lay still and sated, its mouth open. Another snake began to eat the jewels that remained.

The Magria swayed in her chair, biting her lip to hold back her cries. She must be strong. She must hold the vision until it was finished. But this one was very powerful, far more so than she had expected.

Fear lay on her like sweat. Around her blood puddled at her feet, welling up between her toes, staining her skin with its warmth. The wet, heavy scent of it filled her nostrils.

The second snake was still gobbling rubies. So few of the jewels remained unconsumed ... so few.

Across the sand pit, the remaining serpents rolled themselves together into a writhing wad. When they abruptly separated and slithered apart, the Magria saw there were now only seven.

One was colored a rich green. Another was blue; another gold; and yet another black. The fifth was striped with crimson bands. The sixth was speckled gray and brown. The seventh was white, its skin loose, stretching. The Magria saw that it was shedding its skin. The others surrounded it, coiled and hissing, their forked tongues flickering in and out as they waited.

The Magria felt pain inside her chest as though anticipation had drawn it too tight. She forgot to breathe.

Then the gold-colored serpent moved away from the black snake that companioned it. The crimson-banded serpent approached the gold one, but it veered away. The green and blue snakes surrounded the gold one, but the black serpent intervened and drove the gold serpent back toward the one with crimson bands. Gold and crimson entwined themselves together, and the black serpent retreated. Green and blue faced each other, rearing high. The green shook rattles on its tail in warning. The blue flared out a hood. Swaying with mutual menace, they struck in battle, lashing and coiling about each other in a fury.

Meanwhile, the pale molting snake emerged wet and glistening. It was five times larger than any of the others. It looked like none of the others, white as death, an unholy thing that seemed to grow larger while the others fought.

Then the gold serpent, lying so still around the one with crimson bands, tightened its coils and began to squeeze. When the crimson-banded one struggled, the gold one struck at the vulnerable spot at the back of its head.

Pain speared the back of the Magria’s skull. With a scream she threw herself back in her chair.

The gold serpent raced across the sand, pursued by the green and the blue. The black snake tried to follow but found itself cut off by the gray speckled one. The two fought furiously until at last the black twisted free. It reared up, seeking the gold serpent, but before the gold serpent was round I he white snake of death uncoiled its mammoth, sluggish body. It rose up, stretching high above the dais itself. And it swallowed the Magria.

* * *

Hours later, she awakened on the stone of revival, the granite smooth and cool beneath her back. Around her stood the rough walls of the small, private chamber cut into the rock just beyond the sanctum. The air was cool and refreshing. She could feel dried sweat on her skin. Her body seemed weightless, as though only her spirit anchored her to the stone. Exhaustion had melted her bones to nothing.

Someone came to her and laid a cool cloth across her forehead. The Magria could smell restorative herbs scenting the water that had moistened the cloth. She closed her eyes to seek the multiple points of relaxation. Cool hands continued to minister to her. Soothing hands.

After a short time, the Magria opened her eyes and looked up into the face of her deputy.

She forced open her lips, felt them tremble. “Anas,” she whispered.

“Gently, “Anas soothed her. She spread a blanket across the Magria and smoothed its folds. Then she washed the Magria’s face gently with cool clean linen. “Take your time. I have brought wine for you.”

The Magria nodded, sitting up, and Anas brought the cup to her lips. The Magria drank deeply of the golden liquid. It was dry, yet rich with flavor, supremely restorative.

She sighed, feeling strength flow back into her veins. But her fear and disquiet did not lessen. Taking the cup, she gestured Anas away.

The deputy folded her hands within her sleeves and stepped back. Well trained, she waited with serene eyes.

The Magria pushed away the blanket and climbed off the revival stone. She leaned cautiously against it for moment until she had tested the strength of her legs. She was drained entirely. She longed to sink back into oblivion and sleep for a thousand years.

Then with a blink, the Magria’s memory returned. She recalled the vision and its terrible message. Her mouth went dry, and when she tried to sip more wine her teeth chattered against the cup.

“There is no hurry,” Anas said. “Rest longer, Excellency, until you are stronger.”

The Magria turned her head sharply to look at the deputy. “Did you see it?” she demanded. “Any of it?”

Anas hesitated, then lowered her gaze. “I saw blood,” she admitted.

The Magria hissed and slammed down her cup. “Anything else?”

“No, Excellency.”

The Magria glared at her and said nothing. After a moment Anas raised her eyes and met the Magria’s steadily.

“You know the danger of that,” the Magria said, deliberately letting anger fill her voice.

Anas did not flinch. “I could not withstand all of it. Blood seeped from the walls. It ran among us, filling the floor. The hems of the sisters’ robes were soaked with it.”

The Magria turned away to hide her own fresh rush of fear. “Did anyone else see this?”

“No. All remained veiled.”

Relief steadied the Magria. That at least was a mercy. She was in no mood to conduct a purge. Not now when there was so much to do. “The sisterhood has grown lax,” she said, keeping her voice harsh. The tone masked much, and she did not intend for Anas to know anything other than what she chose to reveal. It was not easy to come to terms with a vision of her own death. She needed time for that, time that she did not have.

When she turned back to the deputy, she was in command of herself again. Her gaze was icy, and this time when she raked it across Anas, she had the satisfaction of seeing her deputy frown.

“Forgive me, Excellency,” Anas said. “I alone transgressed.”

“You have been trained better than this.”

“Yes.”

The Magria studied her, critical and still angry, but finding new shades of meaning in what had transpired. Anas was making no excuses, no justifications. That meant there was no deceit involved.

“You did resist.”

Anas nodded, looking troubled. “With all my strength. I know it is forbidden to share a vision. I know the dangers.”

The Magria narrowed her eyes. Yes, Anas knew the dangers very well. Her predecessor had been a fool who let driving ambition overcome caution. She had interfered in several visionings, until the day one of them killed her. Watching a visioning occur unveiled, yet resisting the temptation to share in it, was the final stage of training for a deputy. Until a sister passed successfully, she could not be considered a true ally, or an eventual successor to the Magria.

Anas had always been levelheaded and intelligent. She let patience temper her ambitions, which was the foundation of wisdom. She had much potential, and the Magria liked her.

If Anas said she could not resist, then that meant she had tried very hard. She must be afraid, although she hid it well. The Magria studied the deputy and found the skin around her eyes a bit tighter than usual. Her serenity was impeccable, but proving hard to maintain.

Satisfied, the Magria ceased to blame Anas for the mistake. The vision had been extremely strong, and that meant they had little time in which to act.

She glanced at the exit that led back to the sanctum. “Are they waiting?”

Anas shook her head. “I dismissed them. You have been unconscious for nearly six hours.”

“Ah.” More evidence of the power of this vision. And its truth. The Magria walked back into the sanctum, feeling the grit stick to the salve that Anas had smeared on the burned soles of her feet.

Anas followed, carrying a robe folded neatly over her arm. The Magria ignored the unspoken hint. She was not yet ready to be clothed. Robes were artifice and concealment. She wanted to think without either restriction.

Climbing the dais on legs that remained weak, she sank onto the stone chair with a faint sigh and frowned at the sand pit below.

All lay quiet. The candles had burned out, leaving the sanctum plunged in shadow. Anas moved about without haste, lighting fresh ones. Only cold ashes remained of the fire. The serpents had been left in the sand pit. They were ordinary brown snakes again, restlessly seeking prey.

The Magria extended her hand, and a small pale mouse appeared on her palm.

She released it into the sand pit. The snakes sensed it at once and turned. The mouse scampered back and forth in increasing panic, then froze, whiskers quivering, as the first snake reached it.

We are mice, the Magria thought, turning her gaze away from the creature’s destruction. Our time is dwindling quickly.

She stared at the mutilation scars on her arms, remembering the past when her old dugs had been firm and ripe, when her body had been strong and young, when she had felt the five powers coursing through her, sustaining her where she had no wisdom.

“Excellency,” Anas said softly. That one quiet word revealed her worry.

The Magria turned to her. “No, I am not slipping back into the void,” she said wearily. “Fear not.”

“You are troubled.”

The Magria pushed aside her emotions. “Stop hinting. I shall tell you soon enough. I must.”

Anas betrayed herself with a tiny smile. She had always possessed poise beyond her experience. And now that the Magria had not reprimanded her for having shared in the visioning, it seemed her natural confidence was returning.

She said nothing else, but she was waiting. It was her place to be told first, ahead of the sisterhood. She would expect the whole truth, not just part of it. That was her right, as well as her responsibility, for being the deputy.

But the Magria had no intention of sharing everything. Until her fear was mastered, she did not dare.

“At last, I have been shown the future of our world,” the Magria said. “The world approaches ... chaos.”

Anas blinked. “This is hardly unforeseen,” she said impatiently. “Death is coming to the emperor. There are few in the world who have known anyone but him as its center.”

“He will die soon. This final incarnation will not be as long as the others,” the Magria said firmly.

“Then the rumors that say he will find the means to bargain anew for his life are false?”

“Yes.”

Anas drew in a satisfied breath. “Ah.”

“The laws of time have been bent as far as possible, and the shadow gods are impatient to end the bargain. They will claim him soon.”

“He shall be glad to die,” Anas said with a lack of mercy that made the Magria flinch. Anas stood straight and slender in her black robes. Her eyes were blue and clear. “A thousand years is enough. Most men would find it an intolerable burden.”

“Most,” the Magria agreed wearily. She sipped again at the wine she had brought with her, needing its help. “But he is not like most.”

“He will die in the arms of Beloth,” Anas said fiercely.

“He will find death ten times harder, to match the number of times he has cheated it.”

“His death will come from the hand of one he trusts,” the Magria said bleakly. She glanced up. “When does the bride arrive for our training?”

“Lord Albain has sent word. She comes to us in two weeks.”

The Magria sipped her wine and let the silence grow.

Anas’s eyes widened. “Our future empress will—”

The Magria lifted her hand in warning. “Much of that remains unclear,” she said. But her mind was busy turning over the interpretation of her vision. The empress-elect would resist her training, would resist the emperor. As for the blue and the green ... who were these men? Blue would be Prince Tirhin, but the green? No answer came to her. A mystery. The woman whom destiny had chosen as Kostimon’s final empress would be embroiled in that mystery.

And I, thought the Magria, will die when the emperor dies.

Death she did not fear. Death at the hands of Beloth, god of destruction—yes, she feared that most implicitly.

“And the child we want from this union?” Anas asked, bringing the Magria’s thoughts back to the present. “Was it foretold?”

“Unclear.”

“How are we to train this bride if we do not know—”

“We have more to do than teach a girl how to become a queen,” the Magria snapped. “Civil war is coming. The land will inn bloody, and we will not be able to stand apart from what transpires,”

“Are we in danger, then? All the Penestrican orders?”

“The gravest,” the Magria said grimly. “Beloth has awakened.”

Alias’s eyes widened. “And . . . Mael?” She spoke the dreaded name very quietly. It was unwise to invoke the name of the goddess of destruction, that fearsome mate of Beloth. She walked clothed in famine and plague. With the distaff of suffering, she spun the fates of the doomed. The return of both was only a matter of time, thanks to Kostimon’s opening of the gates.

The Magria shook her head. “I was shown much. I shall have to meditate long to understand it all.”

“Will you try another visioning?”

The Magria did not answer.

Anas compressed her lips. “When will we have the answers we seek? Every delay only drives us farther away from power. How are we to train the bride if we do not understand the path that will be victorious for our purposes?”

There it was, the hunger and ambition that drove Anas, revealed for an instant like a flash of lightning at the window. The Magria tucked the knowledge into a pocket of her mind, satisfied that Anas had not yet completely mastered her emotions. Until then, she remained an ally, not a threat.

“What is to come is not yet determined. Destiny does not speak it. Another visioning will tell us no more than we know now.” The Magria glanced up sharply. “Be assured the Vindicants know nothing more than we do. No one has the advantage right now.”

Anas began to pace back and forth. Her black robes rustled about her, and in sudden impatience she untied her lacings and took off the garment. Leaving it beside the Magria’s, she seemed freer and more at ease. She had the kind of body that pleased men, but she was not destined for such a purpose.

“What are your instructions?” Anas asked. “Do I change the bride’s training?”

“Yes.”

Anas slopped pacing. “Resta has prepared the usual course to teach the girl receptiveness to seduction and the arts of—”

“No,” the Magria said sharply. She pressed together the scars that crisscrossed her palms, remembering their legacy. “I shall teach her myself.”

“You!” Anas said in complete astonishment before she tried to master herself. “But—”

The Magria lifted her brows coolly. “You have objections?”

“No, of course not, but—it’s just that you have taken no personal interest in the training of any of the imperial brides.”

“Only the first,” the Magria said softly. Her mind folded back to the memory of a tall, clear-eyed woman with a fiery temper and a will of iron. Fauvina came from a warrior family, a mob of squabbling warmongers who were finally defeated and tamed by Kostimon. Fauvina had been the object of truce, the bride, the settlement. She had gone to Kostimon’s bed like a tigress, unwilling and furious. But genuine love had been born of their initial passion and hostility. With love came liking, and with liking came an alliance of both hearts and minds. As empress Fauvina had used her intellect well, fashioning many of the laws under which the empire still operated. She had been tough but fair. She often fought, but she could also listen. She had heeded the Magria’s training, and under her sponsorship the Pen- estrican orders had spread and flourished. Women had known equality in the first century of the empire. They had owned property and could speak up for themselves.

“Kostimon loved her,” the Magria said softly. “She believed in him, in what he could do. She took his dreams and made them hers. She gave him all the hope in her soul, and it strengthened his arm when he forged the provinces into an empire and changed the world forevermore. For that, he loved her.”

“Fauvina refused his cup of immortality,” Anas said flatly, appearing unimpressed by the sentiment of this  recollection. “She lies as dust in her tomb, and we have an emperor who still seeks to cheat death.”

Not until after her death had things changed. The purges under the Vindicants had been a horrible time. The Magria remembered sisters who had been burned alive, those who had been hunted and used by dreadots, moags, and worse for the entertainment of the new noble class. Some sisters had been tortured in ways far beyond physical torment by the inquisitors of the Vindicants.

This dark time of persecution and injustice had driven the Penestricans apart. A schism formed between those who wanted to cling to the true precepts of the goddess mother and those who wanted to forsake the gentle power of the earth for the vicious power of the goddess Mael. Finally they had broken apart, to be forever enemies, but the harm remained. Although through time the Penestricans had achieved some measure of trust again, they had never forgotten what Kostimon had allowed. And of late there had been a scattering of disturbances and incidents that warned that open persecution might return.

Now, however, after centuries of waiting, the Magria almost had the tool of her revenge in her hands. She thought again of her vision, aware that death awaited her. But, like Kostimon, she had lived a long time. It would be worth everything to see a woman of her training on the throne again. It would be worth everything to have some hand in the destiny of the new emperor who would follow Kostimon’s reign.

“I shall train the bride,” the Magria said firmly, lifting her head high. “No one else, not even you, will have the governing of her lessons until I am finished.”

Anas still looked troubled. “Do we dare stir up old animosities?”

“If we don’t act now, we shall never act! Don’t be a fool, Anas. I chose you as much for your courage as your intellect.”

Color stained Anas’s cheeks. She bowed her head. “Yes, Magria. As you say, so it shall be.”

“Our banner shall once again fly with respect everywhere,” the Magria said. “All the old wrongs shall be righted. And what Sien and his followers plan for us shall be thwarted.” She smiled, and in her heart she drew a sword. “The revenge begins.”