Chronicles of the Last Days Chapter 4

Chapter 3

T

he Aralel and the governor’s mistress were in the outer chamber, and they spoke as if they were alone and unobserved, unaware that Myril was listening. She wondered whether they would have changed anything they said if they’d known that she heard every word. She closed her eyes and pictured the scene within while the young priestess fidgeted, looking bored.

The Aralel was wearing some of her older robes. They made a soft, muffled sound when they moved. Myril heard her sit down, sigh, and brush back a loose strand of hair.

“Won’t you send for tea?” Tiagasa asked the Aralel. Her voice was as crisp as the cloth of gold in her scarf, and bright as the crinkle of her hair dressings.

“I think we’d better have wine for this,” the Aralel said. “It is yours to pour.”

Tiagasa sniffed at the insult. The Aralel’s rank eclipsed hers, but at the palace, Tiagasa was second only to the governor, and he was in her sway. The Aralel ruled all priestesses, including Tiagasa, and as such, she was the governor’s equal, if not his superior. Tiagasa didn’t argue about the pouring, but she made her show of deference a sloppy one. A drop fell out onto a page. Tiagasa was nervous, or at least not accustomed to pouring her own wine. Neither of the women drank at first.

“Please sit,” the Aralel said. “I trust you have news of some importance, to come yourself?”

Tiagasa’s clothing rustled and the Aralel

tsk

ed at the spill of wine on her worktable, then wiped it away, making Tiagasa wait for her attention.

“I do have news,” Tiagasa said at last. “Perhaps you’ve noticed that we have more foreign traders than usual this year? They want the temple’s treasures.”

“That’s no news. Foreigners have always wanted our treasures, but as any novice knows, they would misuse them, and they belong to the dragons and the dragons’ loyal priestesses.”

“Ships sailed out to Enomae, Ganat, and Cerea as soon as the seas rose. They’ll carry news. All the world will all know that we’re in peril. They will come and take what they want. They have armies and strong fleets. I say that it is better to trade for what we can while we still have possession of our land.”

“The dragons own the land we call home,” the Aralel said levelly. “The treasures are part of that. If the dragons want to take the land, they may take their treasures, too.”

“You’d like to see them wasted at the bottom of the sea? That is careless of you, if I may say so.”

“You may not,” the Aralel said. “It is greedy as well as blasphemous for you to try to take the temple’s riches to serve your own ends. It would upset the balance of power to see so much shift to your palace.”

“It is not only in my interest; it’s for the temple, too. I am sure you’ve noticed that the balance of power is shifting already, and there’s nothing you can do to stop it. Some control goes to the governor’s palace, but some goes further, out through the merchant docks. I pity Calar, not even crowned yet. He has an army of Cerean soldiers at his back, but they only obey his orders when it suits them. A shame, to see the land fall into their hands, even a miserable little province.”

“Salara certainly seems to have thought so.”

Tiagasa was silent for a moment, having nothing to say about Slaradun’s fall into the sea. That had not been part of her plans. “The messengers say that Tiadun did not sink when we did. Its shoreline stands unchanged,” she said.

“Interesting. That province has no ruler at present, as well as an absent dragon.”

“The tribunal will be held as soon as Calar arrives, at most only another two or three days from now. Whether or not his challenger arrives is another question. It will all be decided then.” Tiagasa’s silks rustled as she poured more wine into her cup.

“And you think that Calar, the murderer, and his foreign army will prevail?”

“He’s not proved a murderer, and in any case, it would be highly unusual for a princess to take a prince’s throne, even if she bothers to come to the tribunal.”

“It has been known to happen. There are two or three cases in our history.”

“That was long ago. Besides, a dead woman cannot take a throne.”

The Aralel stilled. “Do you have reason to think that Darnasa is dead?”

“No one has seen her,” Tiagasa said, her voice rising into a bit of a lilt. “She may have been in Slaradun when that catastrophe came, besides which, as you no doubt have heard, Calar is offering a price for her head. She can hardly best him under those conditions. She’s really just a scrappling still.”

The Aralel moved some papers around. “Darnasa is a priestess and a guildswoman as well as a prince’s daughter. Don’t you think that offering such a large bounty suggests that Calar fears her?”

“Nonsense,” Tiagasa said. “He’s merely being thorough. He only needs to be confirmed as prince of his land to conclude his arrangements with his Cerean allies.”

“Cerean masters, more likely,” the Aralel muttered as she picked up a few disordered scrolls and tapped them on the table. “In any case, he has not come to the temple, asking us for aid. He seems to know better than that, at least.”

“He may help the Cereans against you, if you offer him nothing. They offer more. You should let me speak to Calar’s Cereans on your behalf when they arrive.”

The Aralel’s grunt suggested that she did not think much of that proposition. “Commerce with foreign lands is the palace’s domain, not in the temple’s sphere at all. So, that is the point of this, is it?”

“You may think that this temple is strong, but even a small force of armsmen could raze it in the time it takes to walk from here to the palace. I’m sure that you see the importance of protecting your priestesses from the assault of these sailors and soldiers.”

“More than you do.”

“I have as good an understanding as I need,” Tiagasa huffed.

“I don’t think that you do,” the Aralel said. “Shall I tell you what happened to one young priestess in Getedun? She was scarcely out of the novitiate and ten men of Cerea broke down the gates of her temple. They raped her for days. Days. Without food, almost without water. They left her for dead.”

Tiagasa’s breath grew shallow.

“One of the girls in Tiadun died. Calar ignores this, or if he asks his so-called allies to go quietly, they see no need to follow his command. You must know they are not much under his control, and yet he’s leading them to Anamat. You and your consort, our governor, are obliged by duty to drive them off.”

“How did she live?” Tiagasa asked.

“The girl from Getedun? She is only the worst of a dozen cases like that. Some villagers came to the temple after the Cereans had left, to see what could be saved. The young priestess begged them to kill her, but they would not. They nursed her as well as they were able to and carried her here on a stretcher, all the way to Anamat. She arrived last night. You might go see her, if you wish.”

Tiagasa shook her head.

“The priestesses in Galamun have fared better because their prince uses his guardsmen to ensure that the foreigners are not allowed to molest his people or his province. That prince, at least, still honors the dragons and the priestesses. You should have Parnet follow his example.”

“The governor is not mine to command,” Tiagasa said.

“Don’t be a fool. Everyone knows that Parnet asks your counsel in all things, as he should. As his consort, you rule this city as much as he does.”

Tiagasa gave a sniff of annoyance as a jewel came loose from her hair. She tucked it back in place before she stood. “I do not rule him. He rules me, as is good and proper.”

The Aralel snorted. “How can you listen to those fools? There’s nothing in the Cereans’ philosophy which brings advantage to women.”

“Not to women like you.”

The Aralel drew herself up. “Women like me – and like you – are the root of all civilization, especially here in Theranis. The dragons would never have let humankind settle these shores if Ara had not spoken to Anara when the first settlers landed, and they will not continue to tolerate our presence if we forget them.”

“The dragons can be killed. They say that Tiada was.”

“And what of Tiadun’s harvest last year? Do their seeds still sprout?”

“I’ve heard only rumors,” Tiagasa said. “They certainly had a harvest, but since your sources are so much better than mine, perhaps you should tell me.”

The Aralel leaned over her table and picked up a piece of parchment. “Tiadun’s temples are shuttered. The harvest came in, not much less than usual, and the villagers had adequate seed grain for the spring planting. The new season’s grains have sprouted poorly, though, and if things continue as they are, this winter will bring famine.”

“And all the priestesses from Tiadun are here now, for you to feed?” Tiagasa asked.

“We have enough here to provide for any who might come. Anara still lives, even if you no longer see her.”

Myril could imagine Tiagasa’s frown. The governor’s mistress did not like to be reminded that she, too, used to be able to see the dragon. “You’ll only have enough to eat if there are still farmers here to harvest it.”

“The farmers will be true to their lands.”

“Don’t be so sure of it,” Tiagasa said. “Where are those other priestesses who did not come here?”

“If I knew, I wouldn’t tell you.”

“I don’t wish to betray my fellow priestesses,” Tiagasa said, sounding like she was smiling a very thin smile.

“So, you admit that you are still one of us?”

“No. I

have been

one of you, but that was long ago. I’ve seen the error of our ways, but I still remember my sister priestesses here and would not like to see them come to such an end.” The cloth of her robes rustled brightly again as she straightened.

“You have no sense of history, Tiagasa, but you were a priestess, and you are still one, even if you refused all but your favorite petitioner.” The Aralel paused. “We all knew about that. You were foolish to even think that you could be ambassadress, but I supported your ambitions. I thought that seeing you go, seeing you destroyed, might have taught Iola better sense.”

“You would have sacrificed

me

to teach that fool who –”

“Enough! Iola is not like the rest of us,” the Aralel said.

“I couldn’t agree more, but it’s not a virtue in her. She’s a madwoman, unhinged,” Tiagasa said, as if she hadn’t just been scolded.

“She is our ambassadress and an extremely gifted priestess, even if she is not as practically minded as you or I.”

“You, practical? Then hear this: I say that it is easier to placate armed men than dragons. It’s better, too. Parnet and I have been taking instruction from the best Cerean philosophers since we took charge of the palace. Their land is no larger than Theranis, and yet they rule half the world sea. They will rule us, too, if we don’t drown first. We cannot drive them off, so we must take what advantage we can with them.”

At least she knew that her small force of guardsmen was no match for the Cereans’ armies.

“Even if you cannot conquer the Cereans in your own territory, the dragons can.”

“They didn’t in Tiadun.”

“But they did in Slaradun,” the Aralel said.

“Those were Ganateans,” she muttered. “Listen, old woman! I came here to offer you safety, a proposition you cannot in conscience refuse. Will you at least hear it?”

The Aralel sipped her wine. Myril could smell it through the open casement window, a delicate, fruity wine, some of the temple’s best. “Tell me,” she said.

“The Cereans want to take your priestesses as bed slaves, because they think that’s what we are already. I have tried to explain to them that we – that you, the priestesses of Theranis, the priestesses of the dragons – are also scholars and healers, that we have more to offer than mere sex.”

“More to offer?” the Aralel’s sneer came through in her voice. “How flattering that we can be so useful to them. So, did they hear you?”

“At first, they only laughed, but I have persuaded some of them to consider the women of Theranis as more than mere chattel,” Tiagasa said, as if this was to her own credit. “We are not like their women, if what they tell me is true. They are kept indoors, always subjugated, and even their noblewomen do not learn to read. It has taken them some time to get used to the idea that here we are mistresses of our own fates, to a point. The leader of their trade delegation has said that he will persuade his men to stay away from the temples if you pay him tribute.”

“Through you, of course. How much does he want? Is there any reason to believe he will honor his promise?”

“He has a reputation as an honest trader and is the most trusted emissary of the king of Cerea. He speaks our language better than any of the rest of his countrymen.”

“Has he traded here long?” the Aralel asked.

“Girizit?” Tiagasa said his name slowly, pensively. “He cannot have traded here very long,” she said, seeming to savor the thought of him. “He is young enough that his beard shows no white hairs, and his skin is scarcely wrinkled. He’s a fine-looking man, well dressed.”

“And I imagine that would sway you,” the Aralel muttered under her breath.

“What was that?” Tiagasa asked.

“You did not answer my question. How much does he want?”

“He will send a chest to be filled every day until your treasuries are empty, and then he will take the contents of the library and the peresi’s chambers. He will leave the elders’ courtyard and the sanctuary for last.”

“Until the treasury is empty?”

Tiagasa ought to have known that it was far too much to ask, but she asked anyway. This Girizit – or Giri – had some sway over her, as he’d once had over Darna. Was he a magician of their people? Neither Tiagasa nor Darna were fools, but he’d drawn them in.

“The offerings will buy you some time,” Tiagasa said. “He will only take a little now, before Midsummer, only one chest a day, and there are not so many days remaining until your precious Iola flies to the dragons’ realm again.”

The Aralel drew in a sharp breath and was silent for a moment before letting it out slowly.

“We have ten days until Midsummer Eve. We can arrange for ten chests to be sent, but I want five guards from the palace to stand watch at the front gate, another five at the back. You can spare them.”

“Only if you send us some of your treasure for safekeeping as well,” Tiagasa said. “Scrolls will do nicely. They’ll be safer from the waters up on the hill, and Parnet is collecting a library.”

“Parnet cannot read.”

“Ah, but I can. I can read to him.”

“It would serve you well to do so, then,” the Aralel said. “You read tolerably well when you were here among us. I trust that you have not forgotten how.”

“Don’t tell me my work,” Tiagasa snapped. She poured herself yet another cup of wine and drank it in one gulp. “We don’t need to send guards. Maybe the Cereans will keep their word.”

“Maybe this Cerean emissary can control his men and the ones who are coming from Tiadun. Maybe he can’t. Send us men. I will see about the scrolls.”

“You’d better send them. I can’t stand to think what would happen to you if I’m wrong about Girizit’s influence with his people.”

“You’re a common viper, Tiagasa. You say that you would protect us, but only if it serves your own purposes.”

“Am I any different from you in that?” Tiagasa asked. “I think that I am simply better at it than you are.”

“Get out of my rooms!”

Tiagasa straightened the folds of her robe at a leisurely pace, one stiff pleat after another. “You have until morning to consider my offer.”

“You will have my answer then,” the Aralel replied.

Tiagasa was thoroughly wrapped up in her own thoughts as she swept out of the Aralel’s chamber. She snapped her fingers for the young priestess to follow her, not noticing Myril until she reached the stair.

“You?” she said as she turned the corner. “Have you been listening again, you busybody?”

“Busybody” was a foreign word, one that had been introduced to common speech in Anamat only two or three years before. It had crept in when no one was looking, much like the Cerean tutors had crept into the keeps and palaces over the past few generations, bringing their way of thinking to Tiagasa and her ilk.

“Never mind,” Tiagasa said. “It will go badly for you in the end.”

Myril had a brief image of that poor young priestess bleeding in an abandoned temple, raped until she wished only for her own death. She felt faint with sympathy, but in the same heartbeat she knew that would not be her own fate. Prophecy is mostly a curse, but sometimes it can keep fear at bay in the face of empty-headed threats.

She heard a great rustle of documents from inside and a clatter as the Aralel swept her table bare, then banged the almost-empty carafe down on it. Myril stood in the open doorway and waited to be noticed.

“Chronicler,” the Aralel said after a bit. She waved Myril in. “How much of that did you hear?”

“I arrived when you were asking her to pour the wine.”

The Aralel smiled weakly and pulled out a box. “Sit, then, and write all that you can recall of that exchange while I consider what I need to do. You will leave –” She looked around the room and shook her head. “After that, you may relay whatever it is that you came to tell me. As you can see, I’m in no position to offer favors to the guilds, not even one as old and esteemed as the Chroniclers.”

“Yes, Your Holiness,” Myril said.

“Good,” the Aralel said. With that, she went into her inner chamber, where she gave out a long sigh as she lay down to rest.

#

After a time, the Aralel sent for tea and food, and the young priestess who brought the tray set some before Myril, too. She ate without tasting as she concentrated on her writing. A few of the newer peresi came to speak with the Aralel over the course of the afternoon. Sometimes, their words broke through Myril’s concentration.

“No, he didn’t strike me,” one said, “but he said he’d heard that they do so in Cerea.”

“He won’t be admitted again. Give his description to the treasurers.”

Another came in a while later, coolly composed. “We don’t have many petitioners, not compared with last year,” she complained.

“It will be easier when the foreigners leave after Midsummer. Don’t worry; you’ll be provided for.”

Myril wrote on, picturing Tiagasa in her gold-threaded robe trying to outshine the Aralel. She hadn’t succeeded, and she’d been a fool to think that she could. Myril had never liked Tiagasa, but she was a beauty and not unintelligent. She was greedy for power and bent all her best qualities to expanding her influence. No wonder she sought agreements with the Cereans. It was late afternoon by the time Myril finished the document to her satisfaction. She stood at the entrance to the Aralel’s inner chamber, where she hesitated before calling out.

“Your Holiness?”

“Who? Ah, Myril. I didn’t hear anyone at the outer door. Come in.” She was lying on a couch with a cloth over her eyes, her pale gray hair spread on the pillows around her like a halo. She inhaled deeply before taking the cloth from her face and sitting up. Myril presented the parchments. The Aralel squinted at the writing, nodded, then took the work to a dark corner of her room.

“You should know where this box is,” she said. “If anything were to happen to me, to the temple, I hope that the invaders will miss it.” An invasion was coming, then; the Aralel was sure of it.

“Why me? Surely, some elder priestess would be better entrusted with this secret. I don’t even live in the temple.”

“Therefore, you have a better chance to survive,” the Aralel said. “You have as much knowledge as some of our elders, yet you’re still young and strong. Geta knows of this cache, but she’s frail. She may not survive the winter; you will.”

As she made that pronouncement, she rolled back the corner of a carpet to reveal a square paving stone, not obviously different from the ones around it. She pushed down on one end, which made the other end tilt up like the lid of a box. Myril held up the lid while the Aralel looked for a stick to prop it up with. It fit into the floor as closely as any of the other paving stones, matching their colors perfectly. The Aralel laid the new parchment pieces inside, on top of a bundle of scrolls and a few small packages containing dragon stones.

The Aralel looked up and away, as if she could see through the walls and across the city to where Tiagasa sat in the governor’s palace, holding court for the Cerean emissary.

“I think I may know something more about that Girizit,” Myril said.

The Aralel startled up. “You do? Tell me what you know, but let’s close this up first.”

Myril loosened the stick and tried to ease the stone down without dropping it, but it clanged noisily as it shut. Too many drops, or a drop at the wrong angle, and the stone would split. “Darna could probably devise some cushion for this,” she thought aloud.

“Darna? I should say, Darnasa. She was in Slaradun. So many there were drowned. Is she alive?” the Aralel asked.

Myril nodded.

“I would like to see her,” the Aralel said.

“She needs to take refuge in the temple, if it’s safe here from her uncle and his assassins. Is it?”

“Mostly,” the Aralel said slowly. “We’ll need to make special arrangements. I’m sure that we can find a way somehow. Gallia, her father’s old mistress, has been safe enough here since last Midsummer. Yes, we can offer her refuge. Is she well?”

Myril paused to listen for a moment. No one was in the outer chamber or on the porch to overhear them. “She’s changed, but she’s alive and mostly well. She survived the fall of Slaradun.”

“It might be better for her if she looked sickly,” the Aralel mused, as if she hadn’t heard Myril at all. She looked away, abstractedly, then reached a moment of decision. “Have her come in the very early morning, before full light. I’ll give you elders’ robes, and in the dark, if you draw lines around her face with charcoal, she will look like an elder priestess.”

“She doesn’t hobble anymore.”

“All the better,” the Aralel said. “I look forward to her report of what happened in Slaradun.” She smiled so that the wrinkles around her eyes spread out until they reached most of the way to her hairline, which was receding.

“Darna would like to speak with Gallia before the tribunal.”

“Of course,” the Aralel said. “I’ll make all the arrangements, one way or another.”

Myril worried that it might not be safe for Darna to stay with her even for one night. Midsummer meant drunken men in the streets, and even Theranians could make trouble. No one had broken down her door yet, but others hadn’t been so lucky.

“Darna also knows more than I do about this Cerean Tiagasa mentioned, Girizit,” she said as she prepared to leave.

“Really? How?”

“You’ll have to let her tell that tale,” Myril said, “and there’s another matter, one that I should have come to you about half a moon ago.”

“I am ill equipped to grant favors, and keeping Darnasa here is more than I should do, but she is one of ours, so I will make an exception and meddle in the affairs of princes,” the Aralel said. “Go on, though. The parchment you wrote there is worth at least some repayment.”

“It’s not for myself; it’s for the Chroniclers’ guild,” Myril explained. “We have to hide our histories, our scrolls, and as much of our library as we can. Parnet wants to take our texts to the palace, saying that it’s for safekeeping. Tiagasa wanted the temple’s texts too, I heard.”

The Aralel shook her head. “So, as you heard, the Chroniclers’ texts will be no safer here than they are at the guildhall. The only safe place for those secrets may be at the bottom of the sea.”

“But they’re our histories, our knowledge,” Myril said. “The Chief Chronicler hopes that you can keep our most precious scrolls in the temple until the floods recede or until we can find another way of keeping them safe from the Cereans.”

The Aralel laughed mirthlessly and shook her head. “I would guard them if I could, but you see I can’t. The best I can do is to keep the girls safe, and I’m not even sure I can do that. If some of our peresi hoard their offerings and whatever else they can take from the temple, I can’t fault them for it. Your Chronicles would be no safer here than they are in the guildhall, probably less so. More young women, ones I don’t know, are coming in every day. You heard our precious Tiagasa. We must keep our treasure to buy them safety however we can, even if it means selling everything but their bodies to the Cereans. Some are leaving already for Ganat and Enomae, where they think it might be safer.”

“Like the tradesmen from along the waterfront.”

“You know that I can’t save the Chronicles.”

She was not lying, but Myril had to bring the Chronicler some solution. “Tiagasa asked for a box of scrolls for the palace, as part of your payment. Suppose I brought you some from the guild, to pay her with. We can choose some of the more common ones, ones well known even to provincial novices, ones we have many copies of.”

“Tiagasa will notice,” the Aralel said.

“She might if she takes the time to inspect them closely, but she won’t be able to say that you cheated her. Meanwhile, she’ll send guards. I know that Sunna was working on –”

“Sunna is doing as well as she can, but she is away much of the time, and the girls she tried to train this spring are young and none of them are as big or strong as armsmen. We have a dozen half-trained girls with weapons built for men, and Sunna will soon be called away by her other order, I fear.”

“I heard you tell one of the young peresi that things would be better after Midsummer.”

“I only hope so,” the Aralel said. “I like to lend hope where I can, even if it’s half wishful thinking. As I’ve said many times before, I’m no prophetess, but I believe we’ll have half a year of quiet before those fools open the trading season again, if any of us lives that long.” She steered Myril to the door. “I’m sorry; I can’t even safeguard the scrolls we have already. You’ll have to find some other way. If you do, come get what you can from our library before the Cereans take it. If you can bring those common scrolls for me, though, I’ll find some other way to repay your guild.”

“I’ll tell the Chief Chronicler that,” Myril said, “and I’ll keep trying to find some other way.”

“I expect to see Darna here tomorrow morning. I’d like for her to tell Iola about what happened in Slaradun, too. Perhaps she can dissuade our ambassadress from throwing her life away while the world is falling down around us.”

Myril almost laughed at that. “Surely, you know Iola too. The fear of death won’t keep her away.”

“No, I suppose it won’t, but I’d like for her to live. So many priestesses are afraid of the change in the dragons now that they’re trying to leave Theranis like common tradespeople.” The Aralel paused. “When you are looking for a place for your scrolls, are you looking beyond our shores?”

Myril shrugged. “I have thought of it. If the waters keep rising, they won’t be safe here.”

“I wonder where the rest of us will go when it ends,” the Aralel said. “I know of nowhere that’s safe for priestesses. If you hear of a place that’s safe enough for the dragons’ secrets, will you tell me? Perhaps the priestesses can go there too.”

“I’ll see what I can learn,” Myril said.

“Do that, then,” the Aralel replied, and then she sent Myril off with a threadbare robe for Darna’s disguise.

#