The Cultivated Girl

Chapter 22 - Isle of Bast Bula

Not a breath of crisp Autumn air stirred in the Copse of Charred Souls. Even the sun seemed sluggish, waking later each day and shining weakly on the blackened and bent petrified forms below. They formed a wall between the drop down to the ocean and the dry, sandy clearing above.

The sun knew that when the tide was low, more bodies could be seen planted in the sucking sand, twisted limbs reaching out to it. There was nothing it could do for them, just as there was nothing it could do for the four still figures hidden below, their quick life like beacons in the blackened pyre of lost humanity.

Twelve black ravens gathered. They swooped and swirled, cawing the faster they whirled. If the sun had been able to drop lower, perhaps as low as the silent watchers it would have seen that they weren't ravens but priestesses clad in layered black robes.

A stone gazebo shimmered into view like a mirage, disappeared, then solidified as the dust from the dancers settled. It was made from more of the twisted forms, thirteen human pillars supporting a writhing stone sea serpent swallowing its own tail. Their feet rested on a raised disc, a replica of the Island of BastBula in miniature, complete with the dormant volcano that housed Sanctuary, mountains, tropical forest and crashing waves.

Elizabeth seated herself delicately on the warm lap of a giant seated statue, her elegant legs crossed at the ankle, and her head nestled between its right-angled elbows. When she was younger she used to tell herself the heat was from the sun but she had always known better. She wondered what it was like to be in the service of the Goddess for eternity, your consciousness remaining trapped in a ruined body, summoned only to archive the most secret of meetings.

Where was Amira? She glanced with annoyance at the empty seat to her left. Here she was simply The Diplomat, not Lady Elizabeth Kjallman. One of many who had occupied The Diplomat's seat for millennia. And her deputy was conspicuously, noticeably absent.

She scanned the open gazebo, marking off the thirteen in her head. The three making up the Principal, the five headmistresses; the Hearth Mother, Wise Woman, Guild Mistress, the Executioner, and their deputies. Elizabeth had never seen the Empress. They had been at relative peace for so long some of the younger members didn't believe she even existed.

The triple-layered voice of the Principal echoed around the Copse. "Diplomat, where is your deputy?"

"Principal, I don't know." There was no point in lying. The Watchers, as the animated dead statues were called, would detect it.

"Diplomat, that is what you said when we asked why you paired with the man called Stefan Gardner sooner than instructed."

Elizabeth's eyes flashed but she knew better than to react. She breathed the briny saltwater smell in to calm herself, "So Hum," she meditated. It was a simple little yoga breath she had taught Simone when she was a child. Simple and effective.

"That is correct Principal," she said, staring ahead steadily. She refused however, to school her thoughts. Better that future Diplomats know her truly through the memory of her Watcher. Elizabeth had found the true thoughts of previous Diplomats invaluable in navigating the tricky political waters of Sanctuary.

She seeded a message for those to come: "Watch and remember to be careful."

"Diplomat we are concerned you have lost your way. That your emotional tie to the Sarsaura has clouded your judgement. Remind us of the responsibilities you have as custodian of the body of the Diplomat."

How dare they! Elizabeth gritted her teeth. I'm supposed to be sitting in that chair in place of one of the three. To think they were once my clutch mates. Through the simplest process of elimination she had a pretty good idea who the Empress was.