Tears of Idrissa: A Story of the Realm Page 2

  “Five slices of Fourth Day cake, please,” Mirielle said.

  “I’m sold out,” the baker said.

  “But what about those,” Mirielle protested because she could see half a dozen of the unsliced cakes on a shelf behind the counter.

  Madame Cheloque followed Mirielle’s gaze. “I’m holding those for another customer,” she said.

  “The Holy Mother will be disappointed,” Mirielle said, hoping she might be able to wheedle a slice or two from the ends of one of the reserved cakes.

  “You can tell that Holy Bitch that she can take her custom elsewhere,” the baker hissed with such venom that Mirielle took a step back, puzzled by the woman’s sudden hostility.

  “I don’t understand,” she stammered.

  “My late husband was Dairish,” the baker added as if that explained everything and although it took Mirielle a moment to put it together, she realized it did explain much.

  The Holy Mother had been extremely open in her opposition to the Governor-General’s decision to allow the immigrants from Daire into the city. Many were followers of Jaire, the desert-dwelling god beyond the Iron Mountains and the Holy Mother had loudly proclaimed her fear that their ways would lead her own flock astray, entice them away from the Rainbow Path.

  “I’m so sorry,” Mirielle said.

  The baker’s expression did not soften.

  “I do not accept your sorrow,” the old woman said. “And I do not need your pity.”

  Rather than say anything else that might anger the baker further, Mirielle simply gave her a nod and turned away, more shaken by the encounter than she wanted to admit.

  Outside, though it was sunny and warm, she felt chilly. She finished the rest of her shopping quickly, not stopping to chat with the merchants as she usually did.

  She was so lost in her own thoughts that she barely noticed the street urchin who was walking next to her.

  “Don’t walk so fast,” he finally said when she glanced over at him. “I can’t keep up.”

  Mirielle smiled and slowed her pace. “I’m surprised to hear that Florin,” she said, “every time I see you it looks like your legs have gotten longer.”

  “I’m going to be tall like my father,” the boy boasted and she smiled again, even though she knew that the child had no idea who his father might have been and whether he was tall or not.

  “Have you visited Madame Cheloque yet?” he asked hopefully. Mirielle sighed inwardly.

  “I don’t have a slice of cake for you today,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

  She wondered how many more times she would have to say “I’m sorry” before the day was over.

  “Well, next week you can buy me two slices,” he said cheerfully. “Or a slice of cake and one of those sticky buns shaped like a flower.”

  “Those are good, aren’t they?” Mirielle said.

  “They’re my favorite,” Florin said earnestly.

  He stayed with Mirielle as they approached the city gates, making comments about the people they passed in the streets, trying to make her laugh. She knew she shouldn’t encourage him but she enjoyed his quick wit and there was no meanness in him.

  She slowed as she walked into the shadow of the gates, noticing that there were three sentinels on duty where there was usually only one. Florin noticed her interest.

  “They’ve had extra guards patrolling since last First Day,” he said. “the Governor’s own militia too. They’re saying it’s to protect the foreign merchants who are here to sell their wares.”

  He sounded dubious.

  “They say?” she said. “What do you say?”

  “I think they’re worried about all the people coming from the north,” he said. “There are a lot of them and they’re hungry and they’re scared and more than some of them are sick.”

  He touched the rainbow amulet Mirielle had given him not long after they first met.

  “Not everyone has the Goddess to protect them,” he said piously, which made her laugh out loud. Florin had no more religion than a hare and pretended observance only when there were pilgrims around who might find his piety charming enough to reward with a coin.

  “Until next week, Daughter,” he said and then, not wishing to attract the attention of the guards, he peeled away from her side as she went through the gate.

  The guards nodded to Mirielle as she passed through the portal, but their expressions were grim and she shifted her grip on the bags with her purchases as she headed back to the temple.

  Chapter Three

  For centuries, the Iron Mountains—half again twice as high as any other mountain range ever discovered—had marked the edge of the known world. They cut a jagged line across the desert wastes at the heart of the Kingdom of Daire, dividing a vast wasteland of obsidian sand that reflected the sun like a dark mirror. Then one day a man walked out of the desert and into a village at its edge. He did not speak the Dairish language but in signs told the villagers that he was from a land beyond the Iron Mountains, a place he called Idrissa.

  —From: At the Foot of the Iron Mountains

  A Chronicle of Discovery

  A man in the distinctive green and silver uniform of the Governor-General’s personal militia was stationed at the main doorway of the temple compound when Mirielle returned. He gave her a courteous nod as she passed him and asked if she needed help carrying her parcels.

  She smiled at him but said no, and continued to the kitchen where Berthe was preparing dinner as two of her apprentices flitted about like hummingbirds.

  “Mirielle,” cried the youngest one, whose name was Eilen, “the Governor-General is here!”

  She sounded excited.

  “I saw one of his officers,” Mirielle said, amused by the younger girl’s enthusiasm. There had been a time when a visit from the Governor-General would have seemed a novelty to her as well, but recently, she’d found herself somewhat irritated by the man’s presence. She didn’t like the way he gazed at some of the Daughters, as if measuring them for his bed.

  “Humpf,” Berthe snorted. “He came with a retinue and they’re all staying for dinner.”

  Mirielle knew that although she pretended to be disgruntled, Berthe was actually pleased by the prospect of cooking for the Governor-General. Although the Holy Mother had a taste for sweets, she preferred plain, unseasoned fare for meals and Berthe often complained that her artistry was wasted on her.

  Mirielle unpacked her parcels while Berthe commented on each and everything she’d bought, hemming and hawing as if Mirielle had no idea how to judge the quality of a fresh fish.

  “What is the Governor doing here?” Mirielle asked Berthe. “The council meeting isn’t for another week.”

  Berthe shook her head grimly, but said nothing.

  “They say there’s going to be a war,” Eilen said. She was a country girl and inclined to be gullible. “They say Quairi sails have been seen inside the breaker wall.”

  “Surely not,” Mirielle said, for the fierce, sea-dwelling Quairi followed the seasons in their red-sailed ships and were rarely seen in Idrissa’s waters this time of year. First vampires and now Quairi red sails, Mirielle thought. This does not bode well.

  “Peace is good but war drives fish into the nets,” Eilen said, quoting a Quairi proverb.

  “War?” Mirielle echoed, looking at Berthe for confirmation. “Are people actually speaking of war?”

  The cook shook her head, a movement that caused her second and third chins to jiggle.

  “The Governor believes that anti-Idrissa sentiment is being inflamed by the Holy Mother’s policies,” she said neutrally, with a meaningful glance toward the apprentices that suggested she had more to say on the subject but was going to hold her tongue until she could speak with Mirielle more privately.

  “Talk of war is premature.” Berthe fixed her stern glance on her apprentices, “and there is too much work to be done to engage in idle gossip and rumor-mongering.”

  “Yes Berthe,” Eilen said
, somewhat abashed. The other girl just looked disappointed that such an interesting conversation had been curtailed.

  Berthe resumed her examination of Mirielle’s purchases.

  “What is this?” Berthe asked suddenly, picking up a red-fleshed gourd with dark green speckles and a bulbous stem-end.

  “A vendor from Lyraa was selling them,” Mirielle said. “And you told me the other day you were tired of summer squash. I thought you might like to try some of these instead.”

  Berthe smelled the gourd again with a skeptical look on her face. Mirielle knew she was suspicious of anything she did not grow herself.

  “You know when squash get that big their insides get all watery,” she said to Mirielle before tossing the offending vegetable to Eilen. “Chop it up for the pigs,” she ordered.

  Eilen bobbed her head.

  “Waste of money,” Berthe grumbled. Eilen followed the conversation with her eyes wide. It was rare that Berthe complained about anything Mirielle did and the occasion was worth noting.

  “I’m sorry Berthe,” Mirielle said contritely. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  Satisfied she’d made her point, Berthe gestured for Eilen to hand the gourd back to her. “I suppose I can use it in soup,” she said grudgingly, then turned her attention to a blood-red marrow root.

  Mirielle waited until Berthe had pronounced judgment on everything and then brought out the basket of birberries she’d brought.

  “I got these for you,” Mirielle said, “but now I wonder if they’re ripe enough.” She scowled in mock displeasure and pretended to sort through the berries.

  “No, they’re not ripe enough,” Mirielle said and pretended she was going to throw the basket away. Berthe snatched it from her hands.

  “I’ll put them the window to ripen,” she said. “They’ll be fine by Sixth Day.” Her tone was gruff but Mirielle could tell she was pleased and smiled to herself.

  Mirielle’s smile died as a young Daughter came running into the kitchen just then.

  “Mirielle, the Holy Mother wants to see you.

  “Right away,” she added when Mirielle didn’t immediately head for the door.

  “Thank you,” Mirielle said, inwardly cursing. It would be bad enough facing the Holy Mother in her soiled robes without someone else there to witness the humiliation that was sure to come.

  But there was no time to change.

  She followed the messenger out of the kitchen and down the hallway that led to the Holy Mother’s private quarters.

  There was another of the Governor-General’s staff standing outside the door to the high priestess’ personal quarters. This one looked Mirielle up and down in frank appreciation, and smirked as she went past him, trying her best to ignore his inappropriate behavior.

  She forgot about the soldier as soon as she crossed the threshold. She’d clearly interrupted the Holy Mother and the Governor-General in the middle of an argument.

  “I beg your pardon,” Mirielle apologized. “I was told you wanted to see me immediately.”

  The Governor gave her a weary smile. “Ariel isn’t it?”

  “No sir,” she said. “My name is Mirielle.”

  He closed his eyes as if making a mental note. “Mirielle,” he said. “Come in.”

  If it annoyed the Holy Mother to have him treating her private dwelling as his own, the annoyance did not show on her face.

  “I was just leaving,” he added, which surprised Mirielle.

  So he changed his mind about dinner, she thought. Interesting.

  The Governor bowed to the Holy Mother. “Think about what I’ve said Chalise. We’ll talk again tomorrow.”

  The Governor using the high priestess’ given name instead of her title was a shocking breach of protocol and this time the Holy Mother could not keep her irritation from showing.

  “If time permits,” she said, “Alezan.”

  “Make time,” he said, and then left without another word.

  When he was out of earshot, the Holy Mother beckoned Mirielle closer.

  “Tell me what the people are saying in the marketplace,” she ordered.

  Mirielle hesitated, wondering if the head priestess was laying some sort of trap for her.

  “You may speak freely,” the Holy Mother said, “although keep your voice down--the walls have ears.”

  “People are not always candid when they’re speaking to a Daughter of Light,” Mirielle said cautiously.

  The Holy Mother waved her arm impatiently, the rainbow gem on her hand catching the light.

  “You mean they don’t want anyone tattling to me,” she said. “But people like you, they tell you things.”

  It’s true, Mirielle thought, they always have.

  “It’s not so much what people are saying,” Mirielle began again, “as what they are thinking.”

  The Holy Mother frowned. “I was not aware that you could read minds.”

  Mirielle blushed. “No, what I mean is that there’s a feeling of…expectation in the city, a sense that something is about to happen, a sense that events are careening out of control.” She tried to arrange her thoughts in order to express them more clearly.

  “There are extra guards on the gate,” she said, “and throughout the city, the peacekeepers are everywhere.”

  “As well they should be with all the refugees about,” the Holy Mother said.

  “There are rumors of war,” she said, “of armies gathering behind the Iron Mountains. Quairi sea sails have been sighted offshore.”

  “If war comes, it will be started by the Daire,” the Holy Mother said, as if what Mirielle was telling her only confirmed her worst suspicions.

  Mirielle was somewhat alarmed by the intensity of the Holy Mother’s disdain for the Dairi.

  “So far it is just rumors and gossip Mother,” Mirielle said, “gossip and whispers and lies.”

  “I hunger for gossip,” the head priestess said. “He doesn’t understand the Dairi like I do,” she added with a toss of her head in the direction the Governor had taken. “I sometimes think he is the one fueling the agitation for a single, secular government in Idrissa, that he is the one who stokes the fires of dissatisfaction.”

  The Holy Mother’s hands clutched the arms of her beautifully carved dragon-wood chair, leaving gouges in the polished wine-red wood. “He has been meeting with emissaries from the nations in the north,” she said. “I have no doubt he is plotting against me even as we speak.”

  Mirielle listened to this diatribe with growing alarm, wondering if the Holy Mother was suffering from a fever of the brain.

  Something of what she was thinking must have shown on her face because the Holy Mother suddenly stopped speaking in mid-sentence.

  “Have you been rolling in the mud like a pig?”

  Blue, Mirielle swore to herself.

  She had hoped the Holy Mother was so caught up in her other concerns that she would not notice the condition of her robe.

  “Since you clearly need practice keeping your clothes clean, you can do my washing for the next three weeks.

  “Starting tonight,” the head priestess added.

  “Yes Holy Mother,” Mirielle answered because there was nothing else she could say.

  “You may go,” the older woman said.

  Mirielle bowed and gathered up the woven laundry hamper at the bottom of the Holy Mother’s bed without another word.

  Mirielle hated doing the high priestess’ laundry. The robes were bad enough--they had to be soaked and bleached back into pristine perfection--but her handkerchiefs were disgusting and she had a habit of balling them up so they couldn’t be laundered without touching the contents.

  By the time Mirielle finished, it was already close to dawn, so instead of trying to catch a little sleep, she took a bath instead.

  Feeling alert if not refreshed, she dressed herself and made her way to the eastern chapel before the sun had even touched the horizon.

  She yawned as she pushed open
the door.

  Mirielle’s disquiet settled as she entered the little room, which she always thought of as the “heart of the rainbow” and she felt her pulse slow and her breaths grow shallower as tension left her body.

  “Let the rainbow fill me with light,” she murmured aloud and then focused her thoughts inward to commune with the Goddess in the most personal way.

  Mirielle was so deeply into her meditation that she only had time to register a soft footfall behind her before something hard and heavy cracked her on the skull, knocking her unconscious.

  Chapter Four

  The so-called “Seven Tears of Idrissa” have been in the continuous possession of the Temple of Idrissa since the cult was founded. Tradition holds that should the Tears of Idrissa be lost or stolen, calamity will follow in the city that bears the goddess’ name. It is known that at least one attempt to steal the jewels was made by Royant Durval, a thief with connections to anti-Idrissa activists. His attempt to replace the Tears with a set of the replicas sold on every street corner as a souvenir to travelers was foiled by a sharp-eyed pilgrim who noticed that the ruby tear was not the same size as the others and sounded the alarm. Royant was caught and given the choice of life in prison or execution by the rainbow blade. He chose death and for a while became a martyr to the cause of the anti-Idrissa movement.

  —Translated from Les sept larmes

  She woke to a pain so blinding she nearly vomited.

  The chapel had been ransacked.

  The lorch wood pillars had been overturned, the bowls holding the rainbow waters had been broken, their contents spilled on the floor and left to dry to a sticky mess. Belatedly Mirielle realized she had forgotten to empty the bowls the night before and so a whole day’s measure of the healing rainbow potions had been ruined.