Read Online Delia of Vallia by Alan Burt Akers - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Alan Burt Akers
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reason we are here. As for the curtains, we do need them. I, for one, do not care if the old ones fall to pieces.”
“Nor I.”
Going along the corridors and down the stairs, Delia was well aware that by saying that was one reason they were here, Yzobel did not mean that Delia had been summoned here by the mistress to contribute gold. Yzobel meant that succoring orphans was one part of the reason for the existence of the SoR.
One part, an old and original, of a surety, but in these days a part that had to share resources.
She was the empress. Well, for what that was worth when set beside the work these women did to the glory of Opaz and Vallia, she had already dedicated that part of her life. The mistress would be the first to explain that a sorority that did not exert every sinew to gather in revenue from everyone, high and low, rich and poor alike, would wither. The Empress of Vallia, in great fashion, could bestow a chest of gold. Had done so. But if every sister did not make her contribution, then the feeling of responsibility died. Unpalatable facts to some, these were, and Delia knew that. As for her own financial affairs, she had never considered herself to be a rich woman. Training with the SoR had engendered in her an understanding of the satisfactions of simplicity. That was just as well, considering the troubled times through which the country had gone and was still, by Vox, going through right now. Every copper ob they could scrape up had to go to the Treasury to pay for the upkeep of the country, pay the army, buy saddle animals, both of the ground and the air, pay for education, pay for a thousand clamorous demands of empire.
She put a hand to the plain white leather pouch on the silver belt. Among the items there — a comb, a kerchief, a few pins, odds and ends — could be found not a single bottle of scent.
Scent cost money. Perfume cost more. The SoR relied on gifts together with some income from their holdings in Companies of Friends to keep them going. The lands around Lancival within its mellow valley supported them in the way of most of the food they required. They did not squander their money on resources.
All the same, perfume was a vital part of a woman’s style; the SoR were not foolish enough to prohibit its use.
Natilma na Stafoing passed Delia in the shining hall leading to the lavender court. Natilma smiled. A remarkable woman, robust and yet elegant, with long hair done into coils, she wore hunting leathers and there was blood on her gloves.
“Sheonli, Delia! How nice!”
Delia smiled and spoke for a few moments. Natilma was one of the more senior sisters, and was well spoken of in the line of accession to the mistress. As they talked with the radiance of Zim and Genodras, all a lake of rubies and emeralds, flooding about them, Yzobel fidgeted. Natilma observed, and smiled again, and went on talking.
Lansi ti High Ochrun came by, and stopped to talk. She, too, with her copper hair and heavy mouth, was high in the councils of the SoR, another prospective mistress.
Yzobel shuffled her sandaled feet.
Taking pity, Delia laughed, and said: “I must really go. The mistress is waiting.”
So, lightly, Delia walked out into the lavender courtyard into the radiance of the suns.
“If I were mistress,” said Yzobel ominously, “I wonder what I would do about those two.”
“Well, you are too young. And when you reach your hundred, they will probably not be here.”
Then Delia checked herself. It was extraordinarily difficult to reconcile herself to this unexpected longevity. She was not at all sure that she wanted it. When Yzobel reached her hundred she would enter the ranks of those sisters who might look, one day, to become mistress. She would look very little different from the way she looked now. Only by the tiniest marks could one Kregan judge the age of another.
And Delia would look the young girl she truly was until she was a thousand. Was that nice? Well, time would
“Nor I.”
Going along the corridors and down the stairs, Delia was well aware that by saying that was one reason they were here, Yzobel did not mean that Delia had been summoned here by the mistress to contribute gold. Yzobel meant that succoring orphans was one part of the reason for the existence of the SoR.
One part, an old and original, of a surety, but in these days a part that had to share resources.
She was the empress. Well, for what that was worth when set beside the work these women did to the glory of Opaz and Vallia, she had already dedicated that part of her life. The mistress would be the first to explain that a sorority that did not exert every sinew to gather in revenue from everyone, high and low, rich and poor alike, would wither. The Empress of Vallia, in great fashion, could bestow a chest of gold. Had done so. But if every sister did not make her contribution, then the feeling of responsibility died. Unpalatable facts to some, these were, and Delia knew that. As for her own financial affairs, she had never considered herself to be a rich woman. Training with the SoR had engendered in her an understanding of the satisfactions of simplicity. That was just as well, considering the troubled times through which the country had gone and was still, by Vox, going through right now. Every copper ob they could scrape up had to go to the Treasury to pay for the upkeep of the country, pay the army, buy saddle animals, both of the ground and the air, pay for education, pay for a thousand clamorous demands of empire.
She put a hand to the plain white leather pouch on the silver belt. Among the items there — a comb, a kerchief, a few pins, odds and ends — could be found not a single bottle of scent.
Scent cost money. Perfume cost more. The SoR relied on gifts together with some income from their holdings in Companies of Friends to keep them going. The lands around Lancival within its mellow valley supported them in the way of most of the food they required. They did not squander their money on resources.
All the same, perfume was a vital part of a woman’s style; the SoR were not foolish enough to prohibit its use.
Natilma na Stafoing passed Delia in the shining hall leading to the lavender court. Natilma smiled. A remarkable woman, robust and yet elegant, with long hair done into coils, she wore hunting leathers and there was blood on her gloves.
“Sheonli, Delia! How nice!”
Delia smiled and spoke for a few moments. Natilma was one of the more senior sisters, and was well spoken of in the line of accession to the mistress. As they talked with the radiance of Zim and Genodras, all a lake of rubies and emeralds, flooding about them, Yzobel fidgeted. Natilma observed, and smiled again, and went on talking.
Lansi ti High Ochrun came by, and stopped to talk. She, too, with her copper hair and heavy mouth, was high in the councils of the SoR, another prospective mistress.
Yzobel shuffled her sandaled feet.
Taking pity, Delia laughed, and said: “I must really go. The mistress is waiting.”
So, lightly, Delia walked out into the lavender courtyard into the radiance of the suns.
“If I were mistress,” said Yzobel ominously, “I wonder what I would do about those two.”
“Well, you are too young. And when you reach your hundred, they will probably not be here.”
Then Delia checked herself. It was extraordinarily difficult to reconcile herself to this unexpected longevity. She was not at all sure that she wanted it. When Yzobel reached her hundred she would enter the ranks of those sisters who might look, one day, to become mistress. She would look very little different from the way she looked now. Only by the tiniest marks could one Kregan judge the age of another.
And Delia would look the young girl she truly was until she was a thousand. Was that nice? Well, time would
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