The Darkness Comes (The Second Book of the Small Gods Series) (24 page)

“It does seem beautiful here,” Ailyssa said, the sun’s warmth on her skin fading then returning as they passed through a patch of shade. “Where are you taking me?”

“Somewhere we will be able to speak uninterrupted,” Claris replied, her words terse.

Ailyssa’s brow furrowed at this, then Claris increased their pace, hurrying them through the garden. The path climbed a shallow hill, bent to the left. The murmur of water grew louder, and the scent of gardenia filled the air.

“This will do.” Claris drew to a stop. “You are standing beside a bench, Mother. Let me help you sit.”

Ailyssa allowed her, the peace brought by wandering through a prayer garden dangling by a quickly fraying thread. What caused the tension in Claris’ tone? Why must they be away from the other women?

Claris sat beside her Mother. She clasped Ailyssa’s hand in hers, held it in her lap.

“I…,” Claris began, but her voice cracked. She cleared her throat before speaking again. “I didn’t expect to ever see you again.”

Ailyssa shook her head in response, worried her own voice might not withstand the emotion swirling within her at finding her Daughter. Still, beneath it hung a sense of dread.

“It’s been many turns of the seasons,” she added.

“Yes,” Ailyssa agreed. “Nineteen.”

Claris squeezed her hand and sighed. Ailyssa imagined her face tilted toward the sun, a smile on her lips, but the woman in her mind had seen only fifteen turns, not thirty-four like the woman seated beside her in the Goddess’ prayer garden. The urge to reach out and touch her cheek, trace her features with her fingers, nearly overwhelmed her.

“Have you been well?” Claris asked, her voice hesitant.

“They cast me out.”

Awkward silence. Ailyssa clearly heard her Daughter swallow before she spoke again.

“I’m sorry, Mother. I wasn’t thinking. Did you…” She hesitated, though Ailyssa knew what the question would be. “Did you not have other Daughters?”

“No. There were only your brothers.”

“I remember.”

Ailyssa’s heart cinched tight as she remembered the man she’d been meant to couple with, the unmistakable birthmark on his shoulder. So much time had passed since that child was taken—thirteen turns more than when she lost Claris—but the pain remained as bright as the midday sun.

Ailyssa inhaled a breath to calm herself, savored the gardenia’s fragrance, and shifted toward her Daughter, facing her.

“What of you? Did you Mother any children?”

“Not at first,” she said, sadness in her words. “Not when I was with your order. But I have become Ra since I came to Jubha Kyna.”

“That’s wonderful.”

“Two daughters.”

“How old are they?”

“The youngest has seen seven seasons, the elder ten.”

Ailyssa frowned at the sorrow in her Daughter’s words. She knew the sound of it because her own voice held the same note of lamentation when she spoke of her children. Though it was her Daughter sitting beside her, she didn’t know how to comfort this woman she hadn’t known for so long.

“I am relieved they didn’t bring you here when they took you away from me. How long have you been here, then?”

“Almost four turns.”

She opened her mouth to ask Claris how she came to leave the order of Olvana and end up a Sister of Jubha Kyna, but she found no words that might not offend. Instead, she closed her mouth and looked away, as though gazing out at the prayer garden.

“I wasn’t cast out, Mother,” Claris said after a pause that became uncomfortable for them both. “I left.”

Ailyssa shook her head. “Why?” she whispered, unsure if anyone else was around to eavesdrop. “Why leave to come here?”

“I didn’t leave to come here. I left because I fell in love.”

The word shocked Ailyssa in the same manner it might have had her Daughter struck her across the face with the palm of her hand. She cocked her head back toward her, wondered if she directed her eyes toward the younger woman’s, if Claris could bear to gaze at her or if she diverted her face.

“Love? How…?”

Claris let go of her Mother’s hand and stood, the abrupt lack of contact leaving Ailyssa feeling the emptiness she’d carried inside her so long. The brief touch had filled it. The younger woman’s sandals scraped the dirt path, paused, then she turned.

“We didn’t mean it to happen. A coupling ceremony like any other, but we connected in a way I never imagined possible with a man.” She hesitated over the next words. “In that short time, we decided we couldn’t live without each other.”

Nausea stirred within Ailyssa. Every coupling ceremony she’d ever been part of flooded her memory with visions of rough skin, hair, the odor of sweat disguised by scented oils, deep-throated grunts as each man fulfilled his duty. Never did the possibility of having a connection with any of them crossed her mind—it was forbidden. Her thoughts whirled with what Claris told her, but the outcome didn’t make sense.

“And your solution was to come here?”

Claris sighed heavily and returned to the bench. She didn’t take her Mother’s hand this time.

“We meant to live a normal life together, away from the order. He came for me one night, and I left.”

Claris fell silent, the quiet drawing out. The birds continued to sing, the water continued to burble, but now they were annoyances in Ailyssa’s ears. She wiped her palms on the front of her smock, waiting for her Daughter to continue while not wanting her to do so. Her desertion explained why they’d banished Ailyssa with such little regard.

“Fewer than four moons later, he’d cast me aside for another. Love, it turns it out, is not real.”

“Claris,” Ailyssa said, intending to speak words of comfort, but she possessed no experience with this sort of thing. Rumors of women loving men existed, and she knew it happened outside the order, but she’d never heard of it happening to a Sister of the order.

My Daughter.

“I was despondent, Mother. My love was gone, I’d borne no children, and I knew they wouldn’t have me back. I…” Her voice wavered again. “I considered taking my own life.”

Ailyssa’s body tensed. Claris’ story—its ending, at least—sounded too familiar. Heartsick, sorrowful, alone; Ailyssa herself had been these things when Creidra found her, seemingly sent by the Goddess at her time of need.

“And when things appeared the darkest,” Ailyssa ventured, “a Sister of Jubha Kyna saved you?”

“N’th Adnine Re’a herself,” Claris said. “The knife was pressed to my wrist when she happened upon me. She said she could show me my path back to the Goddess.”

Ailyssa shifted uncomfortably on the hard bench, suddenly aware of the way it pressed against buttocks. Could it be but coincidence she and her Daughter ended up in Jubha Kyna through such similar circumstances? Not long ago, she’d have assumed it the Goddess’ will, but she was beginning to suspect there might be more to the brothel order than any realized.

“So she brought you here,” Ailyssa said, abandoning her thoughts. “And you are happy?”

“I was.”

“I don’t understand. How could anyone dedicated to the Goddess be happy here? Doing this?”

“I enjoy the men.”

The words dropped between them like a brick thrown from one of the trees overhead. Ailyssa opened her mouth, struggling to find the words to express the disgust she’d felt when the man touched her, made her touch him. How could anyone enjoy it?

“You enjoy it when they touch you with their hands? Their tongues? When they do those…those…things?”

“There’s more, Mother. The longer you’re here, the more the men will ask of you. I’ve been tied up and gagged, beaten—”

“Oh, Claris.” She groped in the glow of her blindness and found her Daughter’s thigh on which to place her hand, to comfort her after the horrible things she’d endured. “That’s awful.”

Silence for a moment. “No, Mother. I like that, too.”

Ailyssa gasped and jerked her hand away. She stood abruptly and stumbled away a step. The ground tilted beneath her, a wave of vertigo spinning her head; she reached out, groping in the nothing of her vision, and would have fallen if Claris’ hands hadn’t grasped her. When she found her balance again, she shrugged off her Daughter’s touch.

“I’m sorry to disappoint you so, Mother. But none of that matters.”

“None of it matters?” Ailyssa cried and spun in the direction of Claris’ voice. “How can you say that? This is an affront to everything the Goddess teaches. This is the reason the Goddess banished the Small Gods.”

“Mother,” she said, her hand brushing Ailyssa’s arm. The older woman twisted away again. “There is more.”

“Don’t tell me.” Ailyssa pressed her hands against the sides of her head, turning the chirping of the birds and the water’s gurgle into a dull hum in her ears. “I don’t want to hear any more.”

Her heart raced. How could things change so quickly? When they’d entered the prayer garden, she wanted to find a way to reconcile her feelings, the Goddess, and this place. Not now. Would she eventually be expected to let men bind her? Stuff her mouth full of rags? She shuddered at what else those animals might be allowed to do to her—what they already did to her Daughter.

And she enjoys it.

Claris spoke again, her muffled words drowning out the birds and the running water, the rush of blood pulsing in Ailyssa’s ears. She grabbed at her Mother’s arm to pull her hand away, but the older woman spun from her, her feet tangling. Ailyssa went to the ground, barely catching herself. A rock cut into the heel of her right hand and she fell over onto her side. Before she considered righting herself, Claris kneeled beside her, gripping her shoulders.

“Mother, please,” she cried, tears plain in her voice.

“No.” Ailyssa struggled to get away but her Daughter held her, kept her from returning her hands to her ears.

“They took them away.”

Ailyssa stopped writhing, unsure if she’d heard Claris correctly. She directed her gaze toward where she expected her Daughter’s eyes might be, the disgusting things she’d said fleeing her mind. She pushed herself up on her elbows.

“What?”

“They took them, Mother.” Claris collapsed against Ailyssa, her body racked with sobs. “They took my babies.”

XXIII Kuneprius - Clay Feet

The bed creaked under his weight as Kuneprius pulled the boot on. The old leather was tough and hard, the sole worn, the heel lopsided. It hurt his foot. With a sigh, he repeated the action with the other boot, then stood. Not until he was up and staring at the hated footwear did he realize the reason for his discomfort—he’d put them on the wrong feet. He sagged back onto the bed and pulled them off again.

“It’s been four sunrises, Ves,” he said aloud, though he was alone in the tiny room. “Only four and I want to go back. Not much of an adventurer, me.”

Leaning forward, he yanked the correct boot onto his right foot—always the right first, he’d decided—then did the same with the other. When he stood this time, they didn’t hurt his feet so much. He still hated them, but the priest had said he needed to wear them to fit in.

He also detested the shirt binding his chest, the vest making him sweat, and the breeches chaffing his manhood.

Kuneprius inhaled through his nose. The room reeked of must and stale beer slopped on the floorboards over the course of many seasons. Worse, the inn hadn’t been able to supply him with a bowl of water big enough to partake in his usual morning rituals. Not doing so placed a lump in the top of his chest, directly below his throat. He imagined that, should he put his hand on it, he’d feel its hardness beneath the surface of his skin.

“I’m all right, by the way, Ves. It was but a dream.” He wiped his fingers across his lips. “But you forgot to ask.”

The lopsided heels carried him out the door and down the stairs. The aroma of fresh bread wafted up to him, setting his mouth watering and his belly grumbling before he reached the bottom, but he headed straight out the front door instead of pausing to break his fast. They’d build a fire later and make his gruel.

“Come again,” the woman who he’d hired the room from said as he passed.

Kuneprius glanced at her stirring the contents of a cast iron pot hung over a hearth behind the bar. She resembled a man more than the young woman who haunted his dreams, with broad shoulders and narrow hips, a prominent nose and hair hidden beneath a cap. Still, he wondered what might be concealed beneath her skirts, in that mysterious place where her legs came together. He pondered it for the space of two breaths before waving to her over his shoulder and striding out the door.

The sun had risen far enough over the horizon to chase the Small Gods away. Kuneprius stopped at the edge of the porch, staring up at a sky too light to be called night but not bright enough to warrant the name ‘day’. Toward sunset, one final star yet gleamed—Rak’bana, the morningstar, the Small God who didn’t belong amongst the Small Gods. The Small God who deserved no thanks.

No matter where he looked, the rest of the sky was a blank gray slate awaiting color. The first quarter moon hung stubbornly over the forest in which he’d left the clay man he insisted on calling Vesisdenperos, but not even the faintest of gods remained.

How do I give thanks?

He plodded down the steps to the beaten grass in front of the inn. A horse picketed out front lifted its head from munching what few blades it found and Kuneprius eyed it, wishing the priesthood had seen fit to give him a steed rather than making him walk.

“There isn’t an animal big enough to carry around a block of clay the size of Ves,” he mumbled as he passed the horse.

Across the dirt track in front of the inn—down which the town of Woodsel he wanted to avoid lay in one direction, sunset the other—he stopped in the middle of the yard. He spun in a tight circle, getting his bearings. There’d been no bowl to wash in, no water to capture his breath. The Small Gods had disappeared before he found himself under their broad sky. What chance of finding a suitable seed garden on an unlucky day such as this?

Of the four sunrises since they left Murtikara, this marked the second time he’d been without water upon waking, and the first time he was unable to give his thanks, but he’d found private gardens each of the other mornings. Though it wasn’t always his seed he deposited, he was sure the Small Gods noticed his attempt.