Bride of Kalathan

7: Temple

She pleaded a headache and did not go to the party that night. Sabine did not like it, but Nuria's pale face and nervousness convinced her to let her stay in her room. She felt terrible at first, horrified that she had spoken as she had to the king, as if she had a right to criticise him. Had she really told him that he was foolish? Foolish? As she lay on her bed through that long evening, too distracted to read or work on her embroidery, she remembered another Temple lesson about the throne of Kalathan, about how God placed the kings on the throne, how he blessed their rule and how he spoke and acted through them. How could she, no one at all to him, a woman no less, have dared to challenge his behaviour? But after a while she began to wonder what he must have thought of it, and decided that he would not do anything too awful to her to punish her for her impertinence. He had asked her to speak her thoughts, after all. If she had to, she could plead stupidity and then perhaps he would send her home. That would disappoint her parents so much, and she did not want it for their sake, but it was not an entirely unpleasant thought.

It was Temple day the next day, and although her hands shook a little as she dressed for the worship service, she decided that she would not be afraid. Worrying would do nothing; she could only hope that until her time at the palace was over, whether she went home in the end or not, that she could avoid the king as much as possible.

She and the other palace guests walked in the procession through the streets to the temple. She wore her best dress and the rubies that Rushta had admired, with a silver headpiece too. She wanted, this morning, to look smart for the worship. The king rode ahead of the crowd of court guests, on a tall white horse, the queen following behind in a brightly gilded open carriage. Snow was falling softly today as they walked, and she was glad for the white leather boots Mother had arranged to have made for her before she left. Hellis had only soft suede boots, and by the time they reached the temple hers were soaked through.

"Look at him today," sighed Hellis, as they waited outside the Temple for the men to go in first, pulling their fur jackets close around them. "It isn't fair, for a man to be the king and to be so handsome, is it?"

Nuria watched as he dismounted, handed the reins to a servant and strode purposefully through the wide doors of the Temple. He paused at the entrance and turned to face the crowd outside, the sword of Kalathan pointing straight down at his head. He seemed to be searching for something, and Nuria ducked behind Hellis, avoiding his gaze, hoping he wasn't looking for her. But whatever he was looking for, he did not find it, and Nuria emerged from behind her friend, glad to have escaped.

"I suppose he is very handsome," she said, thinking again of the flecks of gold, how strange it had felt to stare into those eyes.

After the men had gone in, the women entered, keeping to the right, to the women's section. Nuria followed the others, seating herself on a cushion on the rich carpet behind the wooden lattice that separated the two sections. Nuria had seen the outside of this temple before, but never the inside. Even through the lattice she almost gasped at the beauty of it – at the high domed ceiling with vaulted wings on either side to form the shape of a sword, at the impossibly intricate mosaic pictures that decorated the walls – images of stories taken from the Scriptures and Kalathan's history. In the women's section, the entire front wall was taken up with a picture of Saint Hilza, the woman who had saved Kalathan from fierce Mandarian invaders by spying on the attacking force as they made their way over the desert. She was pictured on a fierce horse that reared up, her robes flowing over its back, her black hair flying as she held up a sword of Kalathan, her face oddly calm and serene considering the situation, Nuria thought. In the background were the mountains and the invaders in the distance, before her were the grateful Kalathan troops, red tunics and turbans lined up, swords and shields ready to defend their land. Nuria would have liked to stare at it for hours, to pick out the marks of the tiny bright mosaics making up the incredible detail, but she had to bow her head now, to meditate on the glory of God until the worship began.

For over an hour she sat, her feet falling asleep, while the fatirs and priests led the worship in the main Temple area. She could see Amrak, the head fatir, on the raised platform, his robe deep purple and not red like the ordinary priests. He held up a censer of incense, chanting morosely in the Old Tongue, a prayer she knew off by heart.

"God of Glory," he prayed in his croaky voice, "of Victory and Plenty, look on us your people and bless us, we pray. Guide our land to honour your name alone, to uphold your laws and to bring you glory. Keep us from betraying ourselves and our history by giving in to weakness, deceit and cowardice. Bless us with pride in our land and content with the destiny you have decreed for us."

As she said the words under her breath, she wondered what that meant for her. What was her destiny? If she knew what it was she would try to be content with it, if that was what honoured God. She believed it with all her heart, that God was worthy of her service. Or rather, sometimes she just believed that it would be foolish to believe anything else. It would be foolish not to bow to the will of the creator and sustainer of the world, who had chosen Kalathan to be his special people, who had set them apart to glorify him and be blessed. She was proud to be a Kalathene, proud to live in the victory and plenty that God provided, and her devotion as she bowed her head was genuine. But she found herself thinking of the king too, wondering how he thought of his destiny. Perhaps, she thought, feeling a little guilty for it, he took his destiny too lightly. Perhaps he concentrated too much on the victory and the plenty and not enough on the holiness that God required to sustain those things. But even as she thought those thoughts she felt ashamed. Theoland was, after all, the king. God had chosen him and set him apart for his task. Surely, God would provide him with what he needed to fulfil it.

The men in the temple chanted their prayers with the priests, prayers for forgiveness, help and blessing. The women watched, some like Nuria chanting along under their breath. A row of priests stood and swung their censers back and forth over the gathering, clouds of incense symbolising God's blessing wafting through the lattice and reaching Nuria's nose. Wait for it, she thought, as the quiet coughs began. She smiled, remembering how she and Nairan would wait for the coughing that the incense caused, counting the seconds together. He would love to be here, she thought, experiencing this place.

Afterwards, the king rose to read from the Scriptures. Nuria watched as he walked up to the platform and listened to his strong, clear voice reading in the Old Tongue, the expression he gave to the familiar phrases making it clear to her that he was at least as proficient in it as she was. He read a Victory song that she knew well, an ancient song about triumph over enemies, a land of plenty, a place of blessing. Her heart swelled as he spoke, with pride in her country, with gratefulness to God for their privilege, and with wonder at the king, too. He seemed so sincere and serious now, nothing like he had been the day before. He wants to do right, she thought, as he finished and knelt before Amrak for a blessing. He wants to do right but it's too easy not to.

He rose and turned to go back to his seat at the front of the congregation. As he did, he looked over towards the lattice, again, as if he was searching for something. She dropped her eyes again, shifting uncomfortably on her cushion, knowing she was too far back for him to see her.