Blood-Bound [ Lore of Penrua: Book I ]

17

"It is dark ... shadowy. Misty. My feet are cold."

A quill scratched against parchment somewhere nearby. There was a soft click as the scribe dipped the quill into an ink pot.

"I think it's water. A sort of stream, running past me ... I am standing in it, and the water is cold. And eyes."

The scratching stopped, and the scribe waited. After a moment, she gently prompted, "Eyes?"

"Glowing. I think they're eyes. Like lights in the darkness." Mhera, half in a trance, sat on her knees on the floor. Before her was a wide, shallow basin filled to the brim with clear water. She gazed not at the water, but past it, her eyes unfocused, her mind pliant and hazy.

"Can you describe the darkness?"

There was a long pause. Then, suddenly, Mhera closed her eyes and shook her head, sitting back. "Mm. I'm sorry, Mother. I cannot describe it. Shadow and darkness—that's all I can See. Just like yesterday, and the day before. But it feels the same—I cannot sense anything new about the place. It is ... quiet. And lost. Does that make sense? Lost, like I do not know where I've come from, or where I am going."

The old woman bent over her parchment again and made a few more notes in her careful, rounded hand. "Did you feel anything else? See anyone else?"

"Yes—some presence was there. But I couldn't see anything except the thing with the eyes. The creature. The creature was not there last time."

"Very good, child. You have done well." The abbess set her parchment and quill aside. In the light from the candle, Mhera could see the carefully-written lines of the abbess' journal, every few rows of writing preceded with a neat note indicating the date, the time of day, and other relevant details. "The messenger is due tomorrow, and we shall send what you have Seen back to His Grace at court."

Mhera nodded without a word, lifting a hand to massage her aching neck. These long sessions at the scrying bowl were physically demanding, although she seldom noticed when she was in the trance. Now, as always, she felt light-headed and weak. Although she had grown in her practice over the years so that she rarely suffered from fainting spells associated with the visions, the work was draining.

"Come, child." The abbess stood and reached for her driftwood staff, which was propped against a stone shelf protruding from the wall. This had once served as a bed, but now the thin straw mattress and blanket were gone. With a dwindling number of sisters in residence at the Haven, the room had been converted into a meditation chamber for Mhera.

Mhera pushed herself to her feet and took a moment to center her mind back in her body, breathing slowly. Then she followed the abbess out into the dim hall of the convent. Waiting outside the door was the abbess' personal attendant, another sister clad in gray working clothes.

"Sister Saskia, please tend to the scrying bowl and, when the parchment is dry, fold and seal it. Deliver it to Sister Narra to bundle with our other correspondence."

"Yes, Mother." Sister Saskia bowed her head and placed her hand over her heart, then entered the small chamber.

Mhera walked with the abbess down the hall toward the kitchens. She avoided reflecting on what she had Seen in the scrying bowl. In the early days of her novitiate, she had obsessed over her visions night and day, trying to make sense of them. Now, after nearly seven years of steady practice, she had learned enough about the Sight to know that if insights or revelations were to come, they would come in their own time, unbidden. For the most part she left the interpretation of what she Saw to those who served the emperor at court.

Mhera had stopped trying to rule the Sight and had surrendered herself to it, but such a thing was not easy. In service to the Goddess and at the bidding of the emperor, Mhera applied herself every day to Seeing, because some vision of hers could be of use to the empire in the war that boiled beneath the surface in Penrua: the war between the empire and the Arcborn rebels. Mhera's grief had faded, but her hatred of the rebels who had killed her cousin had branded her heart, and she did not find it difficult to turn her gift to the purpose of rooting out the evil that threatened her land and her people. This, after all, had been half the reason she had been consigned to the Haven; this, and the promise that she would be safe here from the rebels' reaching, violent hands.

Seven years is a long time. To Mhera, betrayed by her family and captive to her grief and her loneliness, those seven years had already seemed an eternity. She had devoted herself entirely to her life as a Daughter of Zanara and had refused her opportunity to return home each and every year. As she'd watched the other sisters leaving to visit their families on the continent, Mhera had stayed, taking up the extra chores left behind and pretending she was content to remain on the island.

The abbess considered it piety and dedication to her calling. The truth was that Emperor Korvan had set Mhera's feet upon a rocky, unforgiving path and, wounded and resentful, she refused to step one foot off it. Left behind on the stony shore the day he had brought her here, watching the emperor sail away, Mhera had vowed never to return home again.

"Here you are, Sister Mhera." The cook, a whip-thin woman with an apron over her gray working habit, set a bowl of steaming porridge on the wooden table. "Tea?"

"Please." Mhera pulled out the bench to permit the abbess to sit, then took her place before the food. She usually went to her morning work hungry; the lightness and emptiness in the body seemed to help her focus. As a result, it was her habit to take breakfast apart from the other sisters.

The cook set a cup of tea in front of Mhera and another in front of the abbess. Mhera reached for the cup. She'd grown accustomed to the sharp, earthy brew; no honey or cream was to be had at the Haven. Mhera sipped, closing her eyes and feeling the weight of the cook's stare upon her.

The other Daughters on the isle treated Mhera with wary respect and curiosity. Though they seldom asked, they always wondered what Mhera's latest visions had revealed; it was difficult to explain to them that the Sight yielded more questions than answers. Some seemed jealous of the ability. This, above all, made Mhera bitter. She would gladly pass the so-called gift on to another woman's shoulders if she could.

"Have you need of any help today, Sister?" Mhera asked, opening her eyes again.

The cook smiled. "I can always use extra hands to clean fish, Sister. I would be grateful for it."

"Sister Mhera," the abbess said. "Perhaps you should return to your quarters and spend the day in contemplation. You have been working very hard as of late—both at the scrying bowl and in your other duties."

"I want to be useful, Mother," Mhera replied.

"Aye, my dear one, I know it. But your mind and your heart are busy, are they not? The day approaches when you will make your permanent vows."

Mhera's stomach knotted. She opened her mouth to reply, I know it; do not make me think of it, Mother. I am ready—as ready as I can be.

But the abbess placed her gnarled hand over Mhera's and smiled. "Take the day, child. We have all of us been where you are."

It was true. Mhera had been consigned to the Haven against her will, but she was in the company of orphans and impoverished spinsters, discarded lovers and cast-off daughters. She was not the first to go unsteadily into her final vows, and she would not be the last. Without appetite, Mhera reached for her spoon. "Very well, Mother. I shall do as you say. Please send for me if I am needed."

Just then, Sister Saskia rushed into the kitchen. "Mother Abbess, the messenger has come! Sister Narra went to greet him, but he met her nearly at the door!" Saskia's wide eyes revealed the impropriety of this gesture. On the continent, meeting a woman at her door would be polite; at the Haven, to risk seeing a Daughter of Zanara without the veil was a grave breach of etiquette. Visitors rarely left the beach.

"Already?" The abbess paused, appearing to turn the dates over in her mind. "I cannot be mistaken on the date. He comes early."

"He comes with an urgent missive for Sister Mhera."