Tears of Idrissa: A Story of the Realm Read online

  Loic met her gaze. “Clever girl like you? I imagine it would not take you long to build a business selling eggs, trading chickens for other things.

  Mirielle could see the girl calculating the offer from all the angles.

  “And what would we owe the Lady?”

  “You’d owe the Lady nothing,” he said. “But you’d owe me a favor.”

  The light died in the child’s eyes. “A favor,” she repeated slowly.

  “Not that kind of favor littlekin,” he said as Mirielle belatedly realized the child thought he wanted to buy her for his pleasure.

  “What kind of favor then?” the girl persisted.

  “I don’t know,” Loic said. “A bit of information perhaps, or maybe one day I’ll ask you to provide a distraction at just the right time. It won’t be anything difficult.”

  The girl made up her mind and nodded.

  “I will do it,” she said.

  “Good,” he said. “But girl?”

  She turned to him and he grabbed her hand again and slashed an X in her palm with her brother’s small blade. More shocked than hurt, she drew back.

  “What have you done?” Mirielle cried, and at the sound, a city guardian looked over at them, a long measuring stare as if wondering if there was need for his services.

  “If I catch you stealing again, I’ll take the hand.”

  Closing her hand to staunch the blood, the girl looked at him wild-eyed, but ran off, followed by her brother.

  Loic looked after the children.

  “Why did you do that?” Mirielle asked. “She’ll bear the mark the rest of her life.”

  “Better that than wear the glove of fire,” he said mildly and Mirielle subsided. She had seen the dreadful punishment carried out once. A sobbing condemned thief had been forced to dip his hand in liquid lorch sap which was then set on fire. The flames burned so intensely that his hand was burnt to the bone within moments.

  “The girl has been stealing long enough that she’s gotten good at it,” Loic explained. “If her hand was whole right now, it might be too tempting to just claim the chickens and make her brother the chicken stew he hankers for.

  “But this way? She won’t be able to steal until the hand heals and by then, she’ll have another means of making a living. She and her brother might grow tired of eating eggs, but they won’t starve.”

  He pretends to be so cynical, Mirielle thought, and yet he’s more tender-hearted than any Daughter I ever met.

  “Come on,” Loic said. “It’s time for us to move.”

  They came to the door of the temple and Mirielle stopped to take a breath. Loic looked at her sympathetically. “Once we do this, your life as a Daughter of Light will be over”

  “I do not have to be a priestess to serve the Goddess,” she said, squeezing her hand. “And more than anything, Idrissa is a goddess of love.”

  The door to the temple was locked but opened to Loic’s magic.

  “Do any of the Daughters keep vigil at night?” Loic asked in a whisper.

  “The Nameless Daughter,” prays all night,” Mirielle said, “but her devotion is so deep, I doubt she’ll hear us.”

  The corridors of the temple were silent as they approached the Holy Mother’s rooms.

  “Does she sleep alone?” Loic asked.

  “No,” Mirielle said. “She has a young devotee named Alais who sleeps in a room connected to hers.”

  Loic looked grim. “How devoted is Alais?”

  “Very,” Mirielle said. “but she sleeps like the dead. The Holy Mother is always berating her for sleeping so soundly.”

  “Still, that devotion might prove an impediment,” Loic said. “We’re going to need a diversion.”

  “I know someone who might help,” Mirielle said and took him down the corridor that led to the kitchen.

  As she’d hoped, Berthe was at the large wooden table kneading bread dough for the Daughters’ breakfast. She looked up and smiled when she saw Mirielle at the door and smiled even wider when she saw Loic.

  “Mirielle,” she said, “I’d hoped to see you again.” She eyed Loic with appreciation. “And your visitor is most welcome.”

  Loic grinned at her. “We may not be so welcome when we tell you why we’re here.”

  Berthe looked from one to the other and slowly wiped her floury hands on the apron she wore.

  “What do you need?”

  And so, taking turns, Mirielle and Loic told her what they suspected, that the Holy Mother had created a false crisis in order to provoke a war that would wrest power away from the Governor-General and allow her to rule by herself. When they finished Berthe nodded her head, as if they were only confirming something she’d long suspected.

  “The Holy Mother wants war with Daire,” Berthe said, “her hatred of that country and its people is unreasoning.” Her eyes took on a faraway look.

  “Once when I was new to the temple, a Dairish child came begging for food at the door. He was a skinny little thing, with the huge eyes and bloated belly of the true starveling.” I was feeding him bread and warm milk when Chalice came into the kitchen and saw us.”

  Berthe saw Mirielle’s surprise at the use of the Holy Mother’s given name. “She was not yet the Holy Mother,” she explained.

  “Chalice was furious to see me feeding the boy and she took the bread from his hand and threw it into the fire. Then she spilled the milk on the floor and drove the boy away with blows.”

  There were tears in Berthe’s eyes.

  “And to my shame, I did nothing to stop her.”

  Mirielle was horrified.

  “It is a sin to waste food like that,” Berthe said, “and a worse sin to let a child starve. I asked her why she had done what she had done and she turned on me in a rage. ‘Let me tell you about the Dairish,’ she said. ‘They’ll smile at you and pretend to be your friend so long as it suits them. But if you fall onto hard times and if you need a hand and you are not a Dairish, then they will turn their backs on you.’ I could tell she spoke from some bitter personal experience and that the hate was rooted as deep in her as a dandelion. We never spoke of the Dairish again.

  “I’ll create your diversion for you,” she said.

  “What do you fancy as payment?” Loic asked and began emptying his pockets and laying the contents on the wide wooden table where the bread dough was resting.

  He put down a stack of golden merz, the currency the pirates trade in, the coins that were accepted all over the realm.

  “It does not surprise me that you carry pirate gold,” Berthe said, “you have the look of a rascal about you.”

  “I never know where I might need to spend it,” he said.

  “What else have you got?”

  He pulled a blue pearl from his pocket and placed it next to the pile of merz. She opened her mouth but he held up a finger to signal that he wasn’t finished.

  He laid a thin wafer of silvery metal on the table, stamped with the sigil of Duc Leon, the ruler of the principality of Kresh.

  “A handsome devil, that one,” the cook observed. “I met him in my youth,” she said. “And with a sly sidelong glance at Mirielle. “He was a very good kisser. And he had such a lovely …”

  Her reverie was halted by the sight of the three bezel gems that Loic spilled onto the table, their glowing facets winking in the dim light.

  He reached for yet another pocket but the cook stopped him with a gesture.

  “Enough,” she said. “I don’t want your money. But there is something I would ask in payment.”

  “What is that?: Mirielle asked, curious now.

  Berthe looked at Loic shyly. “I would have a kiss from your mouth” she said. “It has been a long time since a handsome man kissed me.”

  “It would be my pleasure,” he said. He lifted his hand and ran it tenderly down her careworn cheek, then bent forward to touch his lips to hers. She opened her mouth eagerly for him and he met her with an open mouth of his own, his tongue darting i
nto her mouth and meeting hers in a kiss within a kiss.

  The cook closed her eyes and moaned with pleasure and he pulled her closer, holding the back of her neck, cradling her.

  She was the one who broke the kiss and when she did, she was smiling.

  “You have a good one there,” she said to Mirielle. “It’s not often you find a boy who is both pretty and kind.”

  Loic and Mirielle trailed behind Berthe as they approached the Holy Mother’s bedchamber. Berthe had smeared her face with bright red loloff juice that made it look as if she was bleeding from some terrible wound.

  As Berthe began pounding on the door, Mirielle and Loic slipped behind the tapestries lining the wall.

  A sleepy Alais answered the door. “What is it Berthe?” Mirielle heard her ask.

  Berthe pushed past the girl. “Wake the Holy Mother,” she ordered.

  “I’m awake,” the Holy Mother said as she emerged from her own room. Her voice was harsh and in that moment Mirielle realized she had never heard the Holy Mother say a kind word to anyone.

  “Thieves!” Berthe said. “Looters.” They’ve broken into the temple. They’ve gotten into our stores.”

  There was a brief pause and then the Holy Mother said, “Show me.”

  A moment later, Berthe came out of the door, followed by the Holy Mother and Alais. The moment they turned the corner, Mirielle and Loic rushed into the room and began searching.

  Mirielle knew they didn’t have much time, but she could hear them singing, louder than usual.

  “The Tears are here,” she said. “They’re telling me they’re here.”

  “It would be useful if they told you exactly where they are,” Loic said as he upended the Holy Mother’s feather mattress. Beneath the mattress of wan iron box containing a necklace strung of

  golden erem gems.

  “Lovely,” Loic said, and slid it into his pocket.

  Annoyance pricked Mirielle, not at Loic but at the sight of the Holy Mother’s furnishings. The rest of the Daughters slept on thin mattresses that were little more than sacks of grain. It didn’t seem right that the Holy Mother slept in a feather bed. But then, the whole bedchamber spoke of luxury and entitlement.

  The Daughters of Light did not take a vow of poverty as the priestesses of other religions did, but they were expected to live plainly and without vanity. And they certainly weren’t expected to have a pirate’s ransom of treasure in their bedchamber.

  Loic looked around as Mirielle rummaged through a clothes chest.

  “Ah,” he said, and in that syllable Mirielle heard triumph. She turned to see him approaching a row of embroidered slippers lined up under the window, each pair one of the colors of the rainbow.

  Loic upended each shoe and finally pulled a silken pouch out of the toe of the yellow shoes which were richly embroidered with bright red lora birds and twining purple leef vines.

  He loosened the drawstrings and looked inside the pouch and smiled.

  “Hold out your hands,” he said. “I’ve found your Tears.”

  Mirielle held out her cupped hands and he poured the gems into them. As they fell she could hear each one singing to her, a slightly different tone that blended with the others into a pleasing hum that melted into her bones.

  As Mirielle held the stones in her hand they sang to her a song of peace and love and healing and life and for a moment she was transfixed. And then the moment was broken by the harsh rasp of the Holy Mother’s voice.

  “You two must be very proud of yourselves.”

  She stood in the doorway of her chamber, holding a sword with a blade that reflected all the colors of the rainbow.

  “The rainbow blade,” Loic said in awe. “I thought it was a myth.”

  “Carry the secret to your grave,” the Holy Mother said, moving faster than an old woman should have been able to move.

  Loic was fast but he paused to shove Mirielle out of harms’ way and so was slow to defend himself as the Holy Mother swung the blade.

  Her first slash separated Loic’s right arm from his body.

  “No,” Mirielle cried, and threw herself at the high priestess.

  Chapter Eleven

  If the bards are to be believed, the rainbow blade was forged by magic, smelted from ore that was liquefied by a dragon’s breath and quenched in a pool of the goddess’ tears. The truth is somewhat more mundane. The name of the maker of the sword has been lost to history but he was likely an armorer in the household of King Robel of Alden, whose kingdom was located in what is now the western part of Daire.

  The sword takes its name from the rainbow iridescence that dances along the scalloped serrations of the blade, which is so wickedly sharp it is said it can be used to divide a hair into three equal strands.

  —From An Informal History of Idrissa

  With an inarticulate screech of fury, the Holy Mother attacked Mirielle, who danced out of the way of the bright-edged blade. “You were always my most troublesome daughter,” the Holy Mother said. She raised the sword for the killing blow.

  With no other weapon, Mirielle instinctively raised her hands and flung the Tears of Idrissa into the woman’s face.

  The dark room suddenly blazed with a rainbow radiance, a shimmer in the air that was as solid as a wall. The sword bounced off the shining barrier harmlessly and the Holy Mother stepped back, her face dotted with red and indigo and green where the stones had touched her. “Idrissa,” she said and it wasn’t clear if it was an oath or a prayer. Or an entreaty.

  Rain-colored winds wrapped around the Holy Mother obscuring her and then when the winds vanished, so did she.

  In shock, Mirielle turned to Loic, who was pale and shivering, holding his bleeding wound shut with his one remaining hand.

  Don’t die. Don’t die. Don’t die.

  “Move away Mirielle,” said a voice she didn’t recognize. She looked up and saw a woman who seemed to be made of pure light. “Idrissa,” she said, and sank to her knees.

  The goddess approached Loic and bent down to say something to him that Mirielle couldn’t hear. Then She picked up his severed arm and fitted it to his shoulder as if putting two puzzle pieces together.

  Loic groaned in agony as a scintillating ball of rainbow light burst from his shoulder. And when the light had faded, he was whole again, although there was a thick line of scar tissue to mark the line where he’d been cut.

  He sat up, his eyes full of wonder. The goddess smiled at him and then turned back to Mirielle.

  “You must take the Tears and go, my daughter,” Idrissa said. “You and your thief must find a home somewhere else.”

  “But what will become of the people of Idrissa if I take the stones away?” Mirielle protested.

  The Goddess smiled and picked up the rainbow blade where it had fallen. She plunged the blade into the floor and where it hit, a spring emerged, the water pure and sparkling as the blade.

  “Behold,” She said, “the perpetual tears.

  “Those who drink the waters will be healed.”

  “Berthe,” Mirielle said in alarm. “Alais. Where are they?”

  And before Idrissa could answer, Mirielle had bolted for the kitchen.

  She found Berthe dazed and blood-stained but alive in the hallway near the pantry. Of Alais, there was no sign at all.

  Berthe saw Mirielle’s confusion. “The girl is gone,” she said. “Fled into the night.”

  The cook took in Mirielle’s wild-eyed appearance. “The Holy Mother?”

  “Gone also,” Mirielle said. “It was a miracle.”

  “Well, the Governor-General will want to know what happened to her,” she said and then she fell silent as Loic approached, followed by the goddess.

  “Why would the Governor ask about the Holy Mother when she is right here?” the Goddess asked as Berthe gaped at her in astonishment.

  Idrissa waved her hand and Berthe’s blood-stained blue gown was transformed to a robe of pure white wool.

  Berthe looked down
in wonder, seemingly more amazed by her clothing’s transformation than by the Goddess’ sudden appearance.

  “I am not worthy,” she whispered.

  “Don’t be silly,” the goddess replied in a voice so like Mirielle’s grandmother that she had to smile. “You have always walked in the light of the rainbow path,” Idrissa said. “you are one of my most beloved daughters.” Idrissa kissed the cook softly on the forehead. “I anoint you Berthe of Idrissa.”

  Mirielle felt tears springing to her eyes.

  Berthe looked near tears herself, but then she looked down at the white robe she wore.

  “This robe will be a blue pain to keep clean,” she said, but she was smiling.

  Idrissa turned to Loic, who had moved closer to Mirielle so he could put his arm around her.

  “My son,” the goddess said, “you have served me well.”

  “It has been my honor,” he said. “For your service has brought me to my love.”

  Mirielle blushed to hear the words but the goddess smiled, pleased with his answer.

  “War has been averted for a time,” she said, “but a storm is coming. A storm that will change everything.”

  The goddess handed Mirielle the silk pouch that had held the Tears. It was heavy. “Take the Tears and leave,” Idrissa said to her for the second time.

  “But how will I hide the Tears?” Mirielle asked

  “Look at them again.”

  Mirielle opened the pouch and poured the contents into her hand. Seven perfectly ordinary rocks tumbled out, rough chunks of unpolished stone.

  “I don’t understand,” Mirielle said.

  “The Tears still have the same powers for good or ill,” the goddess said. The colors never mattered, they were just symbolic. It is the intent that makes the difference, it is the prayers and the vows spoken over them.”

  She smiled again and this time her radiance enveloped both Mirielle and Loic.

  “You will name your first born after me and she will be a fortunate child,” the goddess said.

  “I was hoping for a son,” Loic said, but he was smiling.

  The goddess smiled back at him. “There will be sons in time,” she promised.