Bringer of Light (17 page)

At last the cart stopped. Her feet were unbound and her female companion helped her stand. Someone picked up the rope that trailed from her hands and led her forward. Ahead she could hear someone speaking – it was too far away to hear what was said clearly, but she could make out the voice of the priest. He seemed to be having a minor disagreement with someone whose voice she did not recognise.

After some time the priest came back. ‘There will be a slight delay,’ he announced.

Her guard replied, ‘Is there a problem,
Gwas
?’

‘Hopefully not. But we should put her back on the cart for now.’

As they did so, Ifanna wondered what would happen if there really was a problem, and she was not to go to the Cariad after all. She could not see them taking her all the way back to Plas Morfren.

Finally someone called the priest over; there was more quiet discussion, and she was led forward. She felt the rope being passed to another pair of hands and a voice she did not recognise told her to start walking.

As she did so the sounds around her changed and the air became cooler. She must have entered the Tyr. She could feel the smooth, chill rock through her thin sandals, and the light that seeped in at the edge of her blindfold was white and cold.

The fear returned; she was surrounded by strangers – worse, by
priests
– and she suddenly wished for the company of the party from Plas Morfren, even though they had treated her as little better than baggage.

They turned a couple of corners, then stopped, and someone touched her head. Ifanna flinched away before realising that her blindfold was being removed.

She blinked; though the light was not bright, it took a moment for her eyes to focus. She was standing in a passage cut into rock, at the bottom of a set of steps. The strange white light came from globes set in niches in the walls. Her escort consisted of two priests of Mantoliawn, and four monitors. She had seen monitors before, accompanying the tithe-wagon when it visited Nantgwyn, but these men were far more impressive, with feathers in their helmets and midnight-blue-stained armour that shone with oil. The priests’ yellow robes were heavily embroidered and ornamented with metal fragments. One of the priests turned to her and said, ‘Your blindfold was removed to allow you to negotiate the steps. Remain next to me until I instruct you otherwise. ’

Ifanna was still gagged. She nodded to show her understanding, and followed her escort up more stairs and along further passages. They passed other priests and monitors, and some men wearing striped tabards. She saw only one woman, in the distance. Everyone they encountered took great care to ignore her.

They stopped outside a wooden door, and the monitors unbound her hands. The air was cold on her raw wrists. The priest who had first spoken said, ‘Inside this room you will find the means to cleanse and prepare yourself, and suitable clothing for your audience with the Beloved Daughter of Heaven. Someone will return for you in due course.’

The room, which had no other exits, contained a steaming bath, a chair with a soft cream-coloured towel on it and a table loaded with bottles, tubs and pots. For several moments Ifanna just stared at this unlikely outbreak of luxury. Though she knew what a bath was, she had never used one; she had only ever washed in the river, or with a cloth. Yet here she was being offered the chance – no,
ordered
– to take a bath. She snatched off the gag, then rushed over and knelt by the bath. The water was milky, and soft perfume rose with the steam. When she dipped her hand in the water it stung the sores on her wrist, but she did not care.

She stood, stripped off and climbed in.
For now
, she decided as she ran her hands through her hair, teasing out tangles and filth,
I am an animal. I live from moment to moment. And this moment is good
.

She would have liked to stay in the bath longer, but the water was growing scummy and cold, and the priest was bound to return soon. Reluctantly, she got out. Underneath the towel she found a white robe of unusually fine fabric, somewhat short, and lacking in sleeves; there was no under-tunic, and no scarf for her head. She dried, dressed, and combed out her hair. As well as the containers she had seen before, the table held a polished metal disc with a long handle: a mirror, another luxury she had heard of but never seen. She lifted the mirror and stared at the unfamiliar face it showed. It was far clearer than the occasional reflections she had glimpsed in water. She put the mirror down and examined the containers. They held cosmetics, such as she had seen rich women wear during star-season in Plas Morfren; Ifanna smelled them, and dipped her finger in the pots, but she had no idea how to apply them, so in the end she put them down again.

She did not consider trying the door; even if she had dared, she had heard the priest lock it. She did consider praying, before deciding that it would not be appropriate, given she was merely an animal now. She would live as best she could until death came and made an end of her. She sat on the chair to wait.

After a while, the door opened and a priest beckoned her out. She emerged to find a far larger group than her original escort – which included, she suddenly saw, a girl of her own age, dressed as she was. She smiled at the girl, and received a tight smile in response. The other girl had used the little pots: her pale skin contrasted sharply with eyelids that sparkled deep green and lips as red as ripe fruit.

The priests and monitors were conferring, and not watching their charges closely. The other girl muttered, ‘What kind of fool are you then, peasant?’

Ifanna, who had been hoping for an ally, was taken aback. ‘One with a civil tongue in my head,’ she hissed back. Her response shocked the girl into silence, and Ifanna took the opportunity to ask, ‘Why do you call me a fool anyway?’

‘Your face. ’Tis plain as a baby’s.’

‘And yours is as painted as— as—’

‘A whore’s? Of course it is!’ The girl’s tone was contemptuous, but Ifanna sensed the fear beneath it. Before she could ask what the girl meant, the priest in charge looked up and bellowed, ‘Silence, you two!’

Ifanna made to move away, but the girl looked into her eyes, and to her surprise, Ifanna heard her voice, though her lips did not move:

Ifanna tried to hide her astonishment.

The girl spoke silently again,
could
do this, were you?>

By
this
she presumably meant the silent speech. Ifanna tried to form her thoughts into words.

Ifanna was glad she had not had to admit that out loud. Her carefully won calm was ebbing away.

Out of the corner of her eye Ifanna saw a guard coming over.

Ifanna was too shocked to respond.

The guard walked between them, and the contact was lost. Ifanna was unable to re-establish their strange communication as they were led forward in single file.

Now the procession was accompanied by much chanting and wafting of incense bowls, but Ifanna was barely aware of the ceremony attending their progress down the corridor. Could she become one of these holy whores? The thought of strangers using her body sickened her – yet the girl had said the Beloved Daughter of Heaven would ensure she took pleasure in being so used. Obviously the Cariad was quite capable of reshaping hearts and souls, for she was a goddess . . . yet Ifanna had sensed doubt beneath the girl’s brave scorn.

They stopped before a pair of massive doors which shone like the sun on water. Ifanna had not known so much metal existed in the whole of Creation!

The doors opened silently. Not that Ifanna could hear much over the pounding of her heart.

Beyond was a strange and wondrous room: a dome, cut into the rock, large enough to fit the whole of the Reeve’s manor into. The space was lit by the same cold lights she had seen elsewhere in the Tyr – or rather, half-lit, for the far side of the room remained in darkness. Then, even as she strained to see through it, the darkness was dispelled by a golden light, like a sudden and miraculous dawn.

The light revealed five men in ornate robes. They must be the Escorai: the most powerful men in Creation. Each one was dressed in the colour of his goddess: red for Carunwyd, orange for Medelwyr, green for Frythil, blue for Turiach and yellow for Mantoliawn. They were ranged about a throne, and on it sat the Cariad herself, resplendent in black and silver, her face hidden from unworthy mortal eyes by a shining veil.

Even as she circled her breast and fell to her knees, Ifanna found herself wondering what that veil hid. Was the Cariad truly so beautiful that a glimpse of her face would strike the unworthy blind? She caught the thought, suddenly terrified the Cariad might sense it. She looked down, and noticed the line on the floor, separating her party from the divine one. The room was divided by a chasm: did it lead to the Abyss itself? Ifanna’s head swam; had she not already been kneeling, she might have fallen. She dug her nails into her palms, determined not to show weakness.

The Escori of Mantoliawn, Mother of Justice, spoke up. ‘You stand before us today to receive judgment.’

Then the Escori of Medelwyr added, ‘None but the Cariad can reveal the will of the Weaver.’

‘You are tainted, but you are not yet beyond the healing power of salvation.’ This from the Escori of Turiach, Mother of Mercy.

‘For your bodies may yet be given a sacred purpose,’ added the red-robed Escori of Carunwyd.

The words gave Ifanna a small glimmer of hope; she was in the hands of the Skymothers. All was not lost. Though the darkness in her soul would be exposed, the Weaver might yet have plans for her! She could find a place in the Mothers’ designs, if their Daughter would only accept her – and change her, to make what she must do bearable.

‘You will now hear the charges laid against you both,’ said the Escori of Frythil, speaking for the first time. ‘Hylwen Tremglas. You used your skycursed powers to drive two boys to fight over you, until one killed his erstwhile friend for your pleasure. You enchanted another young man to steal and lie to indulge your whims, thus bringing about the death of a jewel-merchant.’

Ifanna stole a glance at her companion – Hylwen – and saw that the other girl was still as a rock, her face set. Even with the cosmetics she looked too young to have caused such mayhem.

‘Ifanna am Nantgwyn.’ Ifanna flinched to hear the Escori of the Mother of Secrets speak her name. ‘You are known to have killed the man to whom you were wed; no doubt other unholy acts have gone unrecorded.’

The Cariad would reveal her every secret. She shuddered, and realised that next to her, Hylwen was beginning to tremble, her shoulders quivering and her fingertips twitching.

‘The Cariad will look into your hearts, and you will each be treated as you deserve.’ The green-robed Escori’s voice was heavy with contempt, leaving no doubt as to what fate he believed they merited. But it was not up to him.

In the silence that followed, Ifanna felt utterly, unreservedly penitent. Yet she also wanted the Beloved Daughter to know that she could still be of use, that if she willed it, to serve as a Putain Glan would be a fate she would welcome gladly.
I want to live
, she thought,
I will do anything to live
.

The room was utterly silent. Her knees ached from kneeling on the rough floor, and the air was chill on her damp hair.

And she sensed . . .
nothing
.

She began to panic: had her presumption counted against her? She should not have assumed she had any right to life: she had
no
rights. She was
nothing
. She opened her heart to the Cariad, trying not to think, merely to be ready to receive judgment – whatever that judgment may be.

But she did not hear the voice of Heaven – and when even a lowly witch could speak in Ifanna’s head, why did the Cariad remain silent? She tried to think directly to the woman on the throne, as Hylwen had shown her – it might be a blasphemous act, but this empty silence was unbearable.

There was no response.

Finally the Cariad spoke. ‘Hear now my judgment, for it is the will of Heaven.’ Her voice was soft, almost gentle, though it filled the room. ‘You shall not be made into Putain Glan.’

Hylwen whimpered, but Ifanna made herself stay calm. Death was her rightful lot; she had been foolish to ever think otherwise.

‘Instead, you will be taken from this place and escorted to the edge of the marshlands to the south of the city.’ They mean to drown us after all, thought Ifanna, feeling suddenly cheated; some twisted part of her had hoped to die by the Cariad’s own hand, as though that might redeem her soul. The Cariad continued, ‘There, you will be given bread and fresh water, enough for five days, and be set loose. You will never return to Dinas Emrys.’