The Shattered Circle

37. A Spreading Silence

I eased myself up when the door opened, wound throbbing. Even here, alone in a private room within the infirmary, I felt the unease within Ishal's temple: deeper than the whispers beyond the door, sharper than the blade that pierced me.

"She is here, Your Reverence," Eavan said softly, holding the door for a woman I could recognize just by the golden embroidery on her robes of white and crimson.

The Grand Cleric of Ishal, the Chosen of Our Lady, Shield of the Faithful, the Living Saint herself, stood in the doorway. Somehow, even with elven blood, silver interwove with the gold of her hair. The lines of her face, even as subtle suggestions, marked a woman who had stopped counting her age in centuries. And yet, as she stepped in, it was not the timeless wisdom of the stories or divinely-blessed grace spoken of that settled into the room around us.

Her expression stayed firm and composed, but underneath lingered hints of something else, some echo of the same fear much more easily visible on Eavan's face.

I bowed my head in greeting, because I could not fall to my knees without hurting myself. Whatever was true of Lanaril Tan'a, I knew her as a figure of mythic stature. In the days of the King in Black's rise, the stories said she had begged Ishal to choose her to battle Aleyr, only to be entrusted instead with the care of Ishal's faithful. For whatever reason, Lanaril's fate was to be a shield, not a sword.

"High Priestess Eavan says you are a Sister of Mercy, my daughter." Every syllable landed like sunlight, but I understood the burning of the sun within Lanaril.

I am. Shira Nadal, of the cloister within the Goldenthread Forest near Tativa. The signs flowed naturally without medicine slowing me. I refused the draughts for pain Eavan the moment I was given the option, and with the number of offers gently declined, it had been three days. However much I hurt, my mind cleared. The antidote used to devour the poison that had stopped my heart had faded too.

"Rusan. In their desperation, it seems even those promised to Our Lady are drawn into places they should not be made to go. Sisters of Mercy are not meant to be battle-clerics. I will express my...dissatisfaction to Princess Lera and her favored general," Lanaril said softly, sitting at my bedside. "Eavan, join us, but close the door behind you. I am exceptionally weary of eavesdropping, well-intentioned or not."

Eavan stepped in and closed the door. "That is why I placed sentinels where I did, Your Reverence."

Lanaril's pale eyes, delicate blue, did not leave me for a moment even as she spoke to Eavan, motioning for the High Priestess to sit.  "I appreciate your forethought, my daughter."

Quiet lingered in the room even as Eavan settled onto the chair at the foot of my bed. This was not the peace of the cloister, but something tense beneath the softness. I remembered the press of a blade against mine, the riddle of steel Aleyr had described. Lanaril applied gentleness here because she needed something force would deny her.

"I would like to understand what happened, my daughter," Lanaril said, her attention now focused wholly on me. "While Eavan has been most diligent in her account, I am holding scattered shards and being asked to explain some rather consequential matters. My own knowledge is...insufficient."

I furrowed my brow. What are you being asked, Your Reverence? I cannot illuminate an answer without knowing the question.

Eavan's fingers tightened on her own robes, then immediately began smoothing the wrinkles. She no longer stopped at concern: she feared. "Your Reverence—"

Lanaril held up her hand. "There is no sense in keeping an obvious reality hidden, Eavan," Lanaril said softly. "It is known. Known enough that I have a Conclave of Holy Orders that I am postponing to seek answers." Her eyes met mine, and I saw a quiet exhaustion wrapped as concealment around a deep, aching terror. "Our Lady is silent, my daughter."