Tears of Idrissa: A Story of the Realm Read online

The doors to the tabernacle had been forced open and stood askew on their broken hinges, raw splinters of the white wood vivid against the polished surfaces.

  The Cup of Tears stood in its accustomed place but instead of being filled with silk, it was overflowing with what smelled like horse piss.

  Mirielle picked up the cup to see if the Tears were at the bottom, and spilled some of the rank liquid on her hand.

  The only thing near to hand to wipe them off was the altar cloth, which had been shredded.

  “Forgive me,” Mirielle murmured as she scrubbed the fabric over her hands.

  Behind her she heard a gasp and turned to see the Nameless Daughter standing still and shocked in the doorway as she took in the desecration.

  “The Tears?” she asked in a voice rusty from disuse and Mirielle had to shake her head.

  “They’re gone.”

  “Oh no,” the old woman said. She picked up one of the overturned benches and set it upright before sinking into it.

  Covering her eyes with the palms of her hands, she began reciting a prayer from The Book of Idrissa, something about asking for the goddess’ help in times of calamity. Mirielle barely listened, her mind already occupied rehearsing the conversation she was going to have with the Holy Mother.

  Mirielle knew she would be blamed for the theft and rightfully so.

  She put her hand on the Nameless Daughter’s shoulder to get her attention.

  “I must inform the Holy Mother,” she said.

  The other priestess nodded. “I will keep vigil,” she said.

  Locking the barn after the horse has been stolen, Mirielle thought, but knew the other woman meant well.

  She left the chapel with a heavy heart.

  The theft was one thing, and bad enough, but there had been something poisonous and personal in the way the chapel had been wrecked. Upside-down rainbows, a symbol of the fundamentalist followers of Jaire, had been scrawled on the walls in what looked like smeared excrement, and the juxtaposition of the filth with the pristine white wooden furnishings and pure white walls was shocking.

  As she approached the Holy Mother’s inner sanctum, Mirielle felt her steps dragging and she had to force herself to keep moving forward.

  She knew the Holy Mother did not like her. It was not that she mistreated her or singled her out for harsh words, but whenever Mirielle was in her presence, she felt her superior’s disapproval radiating from her. She hadn’t understood that when she was a little girl and she’d gone to Berthe in search of comfort.

  “Holy Mother hates me,” she’d sobbed while the cook dried her tears with the rough cotton apron she wore to protect her sky blue robes from stains.

  “The Holy Mother doesn’t hate anyone,” Berthe said and even as a child, Mirielle had known that was a lie.

  “It’s just that she has so many of us to care for that she cannot give too much attention to any one Daughter. It wouldn’t be fair to the others, do you see?”

  Mirielle had nodded because she knew that’s what Berthe wanted her to do. Sometimes, if Mirielle was especially miserable, Berthe would give her a treat--a crisp yellow apple or a thick slice of buttered bread spread with birberry jam.

  As she grew older, Mirielle came to realize that Berthe was a sad soul who found joy in the kitchen. She liked feeding people she told Mirielle, and she loved the warmth when the ovens were roaring and baking. She had been born in the Iron Mountains where it is always cold and until she came to the Temple, she told Mirielle, she had never really been warm.

  Or well fed, she would add, laughing at her ample figure.

  Mirielle had wanted to be apprenticed to Berthe because she thought that cooking for the temple would be more interesting than the more contemplative life of a temple Daughter, but the Holy Mother had taken her away from Berthe. Out of spite, Mirielle was certain.

  Mirielle found her daily life dreary and she worried that when she prayed, the Goddess would think she didn’t really mean the words she said

  “I wouldn’t worry about that love,” Berthe had said when she’d confided this fear. “The Goddess values a kind heart and good intentions more than she does grand shows of piety and submission.”

  Berthe never said so outright, but Mirielle knew she disliked the Holy Mother.

  Mirielle knocked on the door of the Holy Mother’s chamber and had to brace herself against the door jamb to keep from falling over when a fresh wave of pain blossomed in the back of her head.

  As was her custom, the Holy Mother was already robed in her sky blue habit, her hair covered with a pure white veil edged in gold to denote her position.

  She turned as Mirielle staggered in.

  “My daughter,” she gasped. “What has happened?”

  “I was attacked Holy Mother,” Mirielle said.

  “Alais,” the Holy Mother called and a strawberry blonde waif tumbled through the door of an adjoining room, barefoot and still fastening her veil.

  “Yes Holy Mother?”

  “Fetch Tara,” the head priestess ordered. “But put some shoes on first. This floor is filthy.”

  Alais blushed, for it was her job to mop the floors each morning and the comment was a rebuke for her laziness.

  “Yes Holy Mother,” she murmured and backed out of the room.

  The high priestess turned her shrewd gray eyes on Mirielle.

  “What else?”

  “The Tears, Holy Mother. They’ve been taken and the little chapel desecrated.”

  “How could you let this happen?” the head priestess demanded, accusation sharp in her voice.

  “I’m sorry Holy Mother,” Mirielle said miserably.

  “Yes, of course you are,” the Holy Mother said, “but that doesn’t alter the circumstances does it?”

  The older woman walked over to her bedside table and picked up a covered carafe. She shook it and there was a sloshing sound. With a dark look at Mirielle, she poured a cup of the pale violet water she took as a tonic every morning, grimacing at its taste.

  “I suppose I should ration this,” she said, “no telling when we’ll be able to make more.”

  Oh for the sake of tears, Mirielle thought, it’s not as if she doesn’t have casks of the stuff stored away in her private chamber.

  “I’m sorry,” she said again, with eyes downcast.

  “You will get them back,” the Holy Mother announced.

  For a moment Mirielle thought perhaps she’d misheard the woman.

  “Holy Mother?”

  “Yes,” the Holy Mother said, as if the idea were coming to her from the goddess Herself. “You are the one responsible for their loss, you will be the one to bring them back.”

  “How…?” Mirielle began and then stopped because Tara, the temple’s healing sister had arrived.

  “How can I serve you Holy Mother,” she asked, her eyes flicking over Mirielle and dismissing her.

  “This clumsy daughter fell and hit her head,” the Holy Mother said with a warning look to Mirielle. ”Let me see,” Tara said, abruptly pulling Mirielle’s veil away from the wound. The pain was excruciating, but Mirielle did not cry out as Tara poked and prodded at it.

  “Get me a clean cloth,” she snapped at Alais, who looked at the Holy Mother for permission before disappearing to carry out her errand. She returned with a handful of faded sky blue cloth, the remnants of someone’s holy robe. Tara took the cloth and produced a vial of yellow water from a sack tied around her waist. She poured into onto Mirielle’s head and she heard it sizzle as it soaked into her hair.

  The water stung, which did not surprise Mirielle. She had bathed her hands in the astringent healing potion more than often enough to experience the sensation.

  “I do not think you have any fractures of the bone,” Tara said, almost sounding disappointed, “but if you do, the Jeune will stop the bleeding and knit the bone.”

  It took Mirielle a moment to understand what Tara had said, for hardly anyone still used the old word for the yellow boneset poti
on.

  Moments later, the healer patted the excess moisture from the wound and handed the blood-stained cloth to Alais, who took the wadded up mess gingerly.

  “Eat sparingly today, but drink as much water as you can. If you feel dizzy, sit down before you fall down.”

  With that, Tara took her leave.

  “Leave us,” the Holy Mother said to Alais, who fled.

  The moment she was gone, the head priestess continued her conversation as if she had never been interrupted.

  “You will find the Tears. If you do not bring them back within a seven days’ time, I will have you denounced as a thief.”

  “But Holy Mother,” Mirielle said. “I have no idea where to look.”

  The older woman took another deep draught of her violet tincture and then put her cup aside.

  “Be glad I am giving you that much time.” She peered at the girl with predatory eyes. “How long do you think you’ll last in the city if people believe you have stolen a holy relic from a the home of the goddess?”

  It was clear she expected an answer.

  “Not long Holy Mother,” Mirielle said, but that was all she would say. She would not give the hateful old woman the satisfaction of seeing her cry, or hearing her beg.

  “Be away before the sun sets,” the Holy Mother said. “I’ll see you in seven days.”

  As Mirielle turned to go, she added, “And no word of the theft to anyone. I do not want this news bandied about in the marketplace.”

  Mirielle nodded.

  But as she walked back to her room, Mirielle noticed the little knots of Daughters who fell silent at her approach. No doubt the story of the missing Tears will be all over the temple before I reach my room, Mirielle thought sourly, wondering how long Alais had been listening to her conversation with the Holy Mother. The little Temple Daughter was known to be a terrible gossip.

  It was only as she entered her own room and began to search for her outside shoes that she realized the head priestess had been angry, but not surprised at the theft. Moreover, she hadn’t immediately gone to the little chapel to see the desecration for herself. What that meant, Mirielle could not say, but it seemed odd to her and she tucked the thought away to ponder later.

  Chapter Five

  “They say the Queen of Thieves is a beautiful woman,” the barkeep said to the blind man as he served him a cup of Zoorish wine.

  “All women are beautiful,” the blind man answered, “but that does not mean they are not dangerous.”

  —Overheard in a tavern in the heart of Idrissa

  Mirielle changed out of her sky blue robe and into one of the ordinary dresses hanging in the narrow clothes cupboard in her room. All the Daughters had similar garments, either as reminders of their previous lives or attire they donned for those times when they had personal matters to attend to and the dress of a Daughter was inappropriate.

  If Mirielle was to make any progress searching for the missing Tears, she would have to go to places where a Daughter of Light would not normally go. Her presence would cause questions to be asked and she knew the Holy Mother did not want that.

  And she also knew that many never really looked a Daughter in the face. They saw only the robe and the veil. She counted on that now. Most of the people she saw every day probably couldn’t have said what color her eyes were. She didn’t expect anyone to even recognize her.

  To test her hypothesis, she went into Madame Cheloque’s bakery and purchased several cheese buns. The woman had glanced at her without interest and wrapped the buns without comment.

  Florin, however was another matter.

  The urchin spotted her halfway across the market square and came running up to her.

  “You have hair,” he said.

  “Of course I have hair,” Mirielle said.

  “I always wondered,” he said. “They say the Daughters shave their heads when they enter the Temple and that’s why they wear veils.

  ‘That’s not true,” she said.

  “Then why do you wear veils?” he said.

  “It’s traditional,” she said.

  “What’s tradition?” he asked.

  “Something that you do because it’s always been done that way.”

  “But what if you want to do something in a new way?” he asked.

  Out of the mouths of babes, Mirielle thought.

  “People like you to do things the way they’ve always been done.”

  “That’s stupid,” Florin said. “Is it true that someone’s stolen the Tears?”

  She gaped at the boy.

  “Where did you hear that?”

  He grinned, delighted that he had shocked her.

  “It’s true then?”

  “No, it’s not true.”

  He looked at her with his eyebrow raised and the expression was so cheekily adult on his baby face that she had to laugh.

  “Yes,” she said finally, deciding Florin might know something of the thief. “It’s true. And that’s why I’m here. I’m looking for someone who might have taken them.”

  Florin nodded as if it wasn’t odd that she would be the one looking for the Tears and not a member of the guard.

  “If you had something that went missing, who would you talk to get it back?” she asked.

  “No one would dare take anything from the temple,” he said, “not without asking the Lady.”

  “You mean ‘the Queen of Thieves?’” Mirielle asked.

  Florin tensed and looked around quickly to see if anyone had overheard Mirielle.

  “She doesn’t like to be called that,” he said.

  “The Lady then,” Mirielle amended.

  “Do you have any food?” Florin asked hopefully.

  Mirielle handed him one of her remaining cheese buns. The boy took it hastily and stuffed nearly all of it into his mouth as if he was afraid someone might snatch it from him.

  Someone might very well snatch it from him, Mirielle thought, remembering the hungry days before her grandmother had brought her to the temple and given her to Idrissa.

  “And where would I find the Lady?” Mirielle asked, growing impatient.

  “She’ll find you,” Florin said. “But you can find Arnaude at the wine seller if you hurry. I saw her there earlier.”

  Of course I can, Mirielle thought. She saw the woman warrior almost every time she came to the market, skulking about in the gold-plated armor that she had stolen from a Zoorish pirate, or so they said.

  Stolen from a dead Zoorish pirate they also said, and stripped from his body while it was still bleeding. But no one had ever asked the woman warrior if that was true.

  No one knew what her relationship was with the queen of thieves--some said she was her sister, others whispered that they were lovers, but whatever the bond, it was close and not to be questioned.

  Mirielle gave Florin the last of the buns.

  “If the Lady kills you,” he said, “I will say a prayer for you.”

  The boy’s words sent a chill up Mirielle’s spine but she answered lightly enough. “Thank you Florin.”

  Arnaude had left the wine seller by the time Mirielle arrived and the proprietor claimed he did not know where she had gone. “She’ll find you,” he predicted, echoing Florin’s words, and so after that, Mirielle simply made a show of going from shop to shop.

  She was coming out of a tailor’s when she found her way blocked by the woman she sought. Arnaude stared at her without speaking, so long that Mirielle began to feel uncomfortable. “Come,” she said at last, and Mirielle understood it was not an invitation but a command.

  She followed Arnaude to a long alley that led to a wooden door fortified with long strips of iron bolted to it. There were two locks in the door and Arnaude unlocked them with an elaborate key.

  “She’s waiting,” Arnaude said and stepped aside to allow Mirielle to enter.

  Fighting a sense of panic, Mirielle stepped across the threshold and into the dark interior of what seemed to be an abandoned thea
ter.

  A tall woman stood at the back of the space, gazing out of a window that overlooked a lush hidden garden.

  The Queen of Thieves was beautiful until she turned to face Mirielle full on and revealed the scars on the left side of her face. She had been mauled once, by a tiger and the beast had left its mark on her. One eye was dead, milky white like a ghost’s but the other was a remarkable golden amber.

  She was dressed in unadorned black, but her robes were made of wool and silk and her cloak was lined with the cream-spotted black fur of some exotic animal.

  She crooked a slender finger and beckoned for Mirielle to come closer.

  “You wish an audience with me?” she asked and her voice was smooth and sweet as poisoned honey.

  “Yes my lady,” Mirielle replied with what she hoped was the right mixture of respect and bravado.

  “So a thief is looking for a thief?” the woman asked. Mirielle struggled to keep her face blank.

  How much does she know, she wondered.

  “I am not a thief,” she said hotly and then immediately bit her tongue, fearing that she had given offense. But the woman laughed.

  “We’re all thieves here, little daughter.” The woman chuckled and looked at Arnaude who was standing with her back to the door. “What do you think Arnaude? Should I give the girl the jewels?”

  Mirielle had not sensed the Tears nearby and when the Lady issued her taunt, she was convinced. The jewels were not in the thief’s possession.

  “You don’t have Tears,” she said boldly. “Nor do you know where they are.”

  The Lady lost her smirk.

  “That may be little daughter, but you do not know where they are either. And so perhaps there is an alliance to be made here.”

  Mirielle pretended to consider the offer but before she could say anything, the Lady said, “Or perhaps they are long gone.”

  “No,” Mirielle said, with more passion than she intended. “The Tears are still in Idrissa.”

  The Queen of Thieves seemed to stop breathing. “You’re sure,” she said, and it wasn’t a question.

  Oh blue, Mirielle thought, and quickly said, “The stones belong to Idrissa, they cannot be taken away.”