to
her tower, to find out whether any pieces remained to be put back
together.
~ 7 ~
B y the time Oria reached
the third-level salon, the sky beyond the open windows had
brightened with dawn. She went to the window; the view wasn’t quite
as good as the one from her garden several floors above, but there
was little to see of the conflict. Bára lay eerily quiet.
Most likely any citizens who hadn’t been
summoned to the battle were barricaded in their houses, and any who
had answered the call to defend Bára would still be trapped outside
the walls. The main gates weren’t visible from her vantage point,
which came as something of a relief, though that might be the wrong
response to have. A good leader would want to see everything for
herself. But it might be more than she could withstand, the sight
of Bára’s gates hanging open like a wound, Destrye barbarians
streaming through it to spill more blood, to finish the job of
crushing her people.
And her. So far she hadn’t broken, had
withstood more input than ever before in her life, but it felt as
if one more blow would do her in, leaving her shattered beyond
repair.
“ You’re doing very well. Besides, there
is no ‘beyond repair.’ Where there is life, there is always the
possibility of healing.”
“But where there’s death, there is no
healing, only corruption of the flesh.” She sounded bitter even to
herself and Chuffta did not reply. The image of her mother as a
corpse in her chair still filled her head. She couldn’t quite grasp
that her father might be dead. Perhaps her brothers, too. All that
seemed far away, muffled behind a curtain she dared not draw
back.
A scuffling sound at the door made Oria turn
from her morbid thoughts, and High Priestess Febe entered, leaning
heavily on her walking stick of carved bone, accompanied by her
aged husband, Vico. Both wore their golden masks, both alive, if
not necessarily well. Vico had earned his mask fairly, of course,
but expressed the merest trickle of magical power. He served
Priestess Febe well enough to siphon off her powerful energies when
needed, but theirs was far from a perfect marriage and he couldn’t
muster any of the greater defensive or offensive magics. No one had
worried about it, because the high priestess used most of her sgath
to sustain Bára, with the help of the junior priestesses. Vico
mainly functioned to keep her balanced.
“I’ve sent word to the head priestesses of
the temples in the other cities, Princess,” Priestess Febe said,
sitting heavily. “I don’t know if they’ll be able to help—though
they owe us—but they will at least know of Bára’s peril.”
“Thank you, High Priestess.” Oria hadn’t
thought of that. So much she didn’t know, such as why or what they
owed Bára. Except she did know that Bára was the capital of them
all for a reason. None of the others sat atop such a potent and
constant source of magic.
A few other priests and priestesses arrived,
a dozen or so, all similar in magical power and physical
strength—which was why they had survived the night. All were too
elderly or not useful enough to have been called to battle the
Destrye. The only others would be those too new to their masks to
have ascended the walls or taken to the field, or those of the
noble families who’d not yet qualified to take their masks at all.
Who knew how many among them would find hwil and become
useful?
Folcwita Lapo arrived, breathless, for once
not perfectly assembled and groomed. Pausing in the doorway, he
surveyed the small gathering, then scrutinized Oria. They’d
interacted very little. Mostly she’d seen him at court functions,
but as someone unmagical and not at all trained in hwil ,
he’d kept his distance from the sensitive Oria. Even though it felt
as if she could absorb no more, his prickly energy hit her from
across the room, forcing her to breathe through it. Ambitious,
ruthless, and determined, the folcwita had served her father well
in
her tower, to find out whether any pieces remained to be put back
together.
~ 7 ~
B y the time Oria reached
the third-level salon, the sky beyond the open windows had
brightened with dawn. She went to the window; the view wasn’t quite
as good as the one from her garden several floors above, but there
was little to see of the conflict. Bára lay eerily quiet.
Most likely any citizens who hadn’t been
summoned to the battle were barricaded in their houses, and any who
had answered the call to defend Bára would still be trapped outside
the walls. The main gates weren’t visible from her vantage point,
which came as something of a relief, though that might be the wrong
response to have. A good leader would want to see everything for
herself. But it might be more than she could withstand, the sight
of Bára’s gates hanging open like a wound, Destrye barbarians
streaming through it to spill more blood, to finish the job of
crushing her people.
And her. So far she hadn’t broken, had
withstood more input than ever before in her life, but it felt as
if one more blow would do her in, leaving her shattered beyond
repair.
“ You’re doing very well. Besides, there
is no ‘beyond repair.’ Where there is life, there is always the
possibility of healing.”
“But where there’s death, there is no
healing, only corruption of the flesh.” She sounded bitter even to
herself and Chuffta did not reply. The image of her mother as a
corpse in her chair still filled her head. She couldn’t quite grasp
that her father might be dead. Perhaps her brothers, too. All that
seemed far away, muffled behind a curtain she dared not draw
back.
A scuffling sound at the door made Oria turn
from her morbid thoughts, and High Priestess Febe entered, leaning
heavily on her walking stick of carved bone, accompanied by her
aged husband, Vico. Both wore their golden masks, both alive, if
not necessarily well. Vico had earned his mask fairly, of course,
but expressed the merest trickle of magical power. He served
Priestess Febe well enough to siphon off her powerful energies when
needed, but theirs was far from a perfect marriage and he couldn’t
muster any of the greater defensive or offensive magics. No one had
worried about it, because the high priestess used most of her sgath
to sustain Bára, with the help of the junior priestesses. Vico
mainly functioned to keep her balanced.
“I’ve sent word to the head priestesses of
the temples in the other cities, Princess,” Priestess Febe said,
sitting heavily. “I don’t know if they’ll be able to help—though
they owe us—but they will at least know of Bára’s peril.”
“Thank you, High Priestess.” Oria hadn’t
thought of that. So much she didn’t know, such as why or what they
owed Bára. Except she did know that Bára was the capital of them
all for a reason. None of the others sat atop such a potent and
constant source of magic.
A few other priests and priestesses arrived,
a dozen or so, all similar in magical power and physical
strength—which was why they had survived the night. All were too
elderly or not useful enough to have been called to battle the
Destrye. The only others would be those too new to their masks to
have ascended the walls or taken to the field, or those of the
noble families who’d not yet qualified to take their masks at all.
Who knew how many among them would find hwil and become
useful?
Folcwita Lapo arrived, breathless, for once
not perfectly assembled and groomed. Pausing in the doorway, he
surveyed the small gathering, then scrutinized Oria. They’d
interacted very little. Mostly she’d seen him at court functions,
but as someone unmagical and not at all trained in hwil ,
he’d kept his distance from the sensitive Oria. Even though it felt
as if she could absorb no more, his prickly energy hit her from
across the room, forcing her to breathe through it. Ambitious,
ruthless, and determined, the folcwita had served her father well
in
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