Blood-Bound [ Lore of Penrua: Book I ]

16

The novice arrived early on a morning in spring. The journey from Karelin to the holy isle was grim and frigid, and she shivered in her pretty gown, clutching her shawl tightly around her shoulders. She wore her silver-blonde hair coiled at the crown of her head, secured with jeweled pins. As she disembarked and made her way onto the stony shore, her embroidered shoes slipped on the rocks. A tall man, her sole companion, snatched her upper arm to steady her before she could fall.

The abbess stood ready to receive them. She was featureless beneath the gray shroud of a veil. The wind pulled the fabric taut against her face at intervals, revealing the faint line of a mouth or the sharp ridge of a nose. Behind her, two veiled sisters stood. One held a shallow bowl of rippling sea water, the other a round, lidded basket.

Once the he gained level ground, the man knelt. The girl, seeing this, immediately dropped to her knees. She stared in a seasick daze from the man at her side to the ground at the old woman's feet.

The man reached up, removed the golden crown he wore and placed it at the abbess' feet on the rocks. "Mother, may the Goddess light your waking hours."

"And watch over your sleep," the abbess replied. She bowed, holding her veil to her breast with one hand so the wind would not tear it away from her. "Rise, Your Grace, please."

The man regained his feet, leaving his crown where it lay. The girl stayed on her knees, shivering. The abbess gestured with her staff. "What gift do you bring us, Emperor Korvan?"

"My own sister's daughter; my beloved niece. She is a Seer, Mother, and has come to serve Zanara in humility."

"Rise, child."

The girl stood up, edging slightly toward her uncle. The anxiety on her pale face belied her age; despite the elegance of her attire, she was only thirteen. Her cheeks and nose were reddened from the chill, and there was a gleam in her gray eyes—tears, or the sting of the wind? When she spoke, her voice was almost snatched away by the crash of the sea behind them. "Mother."

"You have come to join the Daughters of Zanara?"

The girl glanced at her uncle, then quickly away, once again fixing her gaze on the ground at the abbess' feet. "Yes."

"You know it is not an easy calling. There is work. There is prayer. Our days are scheduled, our pleasures limited—except for the endless pleasure of service to the Goddess, whose perfect handmaidens we strive to be."

The emperor gently placed his hand on the girl's shoulder. "Mhera is ready, Mother. She has prepared for this day, and her soul is pure."

"It is traditional for the novice's father to present her," the abbess said.

"I speak for the girl, for I love her as a daughter."

"Very well. Let us begin. Mhera, we conduct this ritual to welcome you into the bosom of the Haven and the service of the Goddess. Once you have joined us here, you will remain with us until you take your permanent vows in seven years. This will ensure you do not undertake your promise lightly. You may visit your home no more than once each year during this time. Do you understand?"

Mhera nodded. A tear rolled down her cheek.

The abbess gestured with her staff, and the sister carrying the bowl of water moved closer. The abbess said, "You must doff your garments, my child, to shed the shell of the world. They will be taken away from the isle."

Mhera's fingers tightened in the folds of her shawl. She had not looked up from the ground. "Here?"

"There is no one to see you but your sisters and the Goddess. Your uncle will turn his face away. Your Grace?"

The emperor solemnly turned to present his back to his niece as the abbess looked on, her benign smile entirely obscured. Mhera was presented with the specter of a gray phantom with curls of light cloth unfurling around her in the wind.

Heart knocking in her breast, fingers shaking, Mhera let the shawl drop from her shoulders and reached to unclasp the golden fastenings of her gown. As the expensive cloth slid down over her hips, another tear slid down her cheek.

"Everything, my child. Do not be ashamed."

Mhera unlaced her chemise. At the abbess' prompting, even her delicate shoes, her stockings, and the pins from her hair fell onto the stony shore. Her hair unraveled and flowed down her back, her only raiment.

The veiled sister approached with her basin and extended it to Mhera. Inside, a scrap of linen floated in the water.

"Wash yourself," the abbess gently prompted.

The gesture seemed largely ceremonial; Mhera washed her hands and face, then briefly anointed the rest of her body with the sea water, but the abbess did not chide her for a lack of thoroughness. By the time she was done, Mhera felt the cold burning her skin; her toes were numb, and she could not still the shaking of her limbs. She stood miserably with her arms wrapped around herself, her shoulders hunched. Two paces away, the emperor still stood with his hands clasped behind his back, gazing out at the ocean.

"Do you revoke your life on the shore and commit yourself to the Haven to live with your sisters under the gaze of Zanara, your Mother?"

"Yes," Mhera replied.

"Put on the garments of your calling."

The second sister approached with her basket. Together, she and the first helped Mhera into the clothes inside it: a coarse shift, a long gray robe with trailing sleeves, woolen socks, leather shoes. Compared to the clothing Mhera had worn all her life, the garments were rude and ugly, but she had never been so grateful for a dress. Still, her toes and fingers were numb from the cold. As Mhera struggled to pull her long hair out from the back of her dress, encumbered by the sleeves of the robe, the sisters gathered her old things and tucked them away in the empty basket. This, they placed into her hands.

"Your Grace, you may turn around," the abbess said.

The emperor did. Mhera did not look at him, but she could feel him looking at her.

"I hereby welcome you, Sister Mhera, into this holy community as a Daughter of Zanara. Be industrious, prayerful and obedient, and you shall glorify our Mother. Bid farewell to your uncle; he shall take away the symbols of the girl you were."

The girl turned to the man at her side. Her long blonde hair flowed and tangled in the wind. His face blurred through the tears in her eyes.

The emperor smiled, reaching up to cup her cheek; with his thumb, he brushed her tears away. "Do not weep, little dove. You honor your family by taking up this calling. You will be in my heart each day. And you will be safe here."

Mhera's heart froze over, rebelling against the word: calling. She was torn between resentment for him and the infantile desire to fold herself into his arms and beg him to take her home.

"I'm frightened, Uncle," was all she could say.

"Don't be. Look." He put his arm around her and turned her, pointing out across the sea at the distant white walls of Karelin. "You will be able to see the city each day and remember us. You are not so far away, after all. It's an honor, Mhera. In the palace you are a lady; in this place, you are a Daughter."

The novice nodded wordlessly. She was unable to say anything more; if she tried, she knew that her tenuous composure would break, and the unhappiness overwhelming her would be let loose in a flood of tears. Even as they draped the veil over her head, even as her uncle kissed her shrouded brow and left her on that stony shore, even as the boatman pushed his craft out onto the choppy sea, she did not say goodbye.