Chapter 13:

  Spirit Lessons

  In which Selàna's training begins

  Selàna set herself the task of restoring the temple. Having scavenged the “general store,” Edana provided her with a stash of soap made from ash, olive oil, and tallow. They carried the scent of hyssop, roses, and almond oil.

  Day by day Selàna scrubbed the temple. She swept out the dust and disposed of debris. What decor she could not repair, she replaced. Discovering a potter’s shop and an ironmonger’s shop made the latter task easier, which encouraged her to continue her efforts.

  Alia joined Selàna in her tasks. The girl and the woman spent many hours of the day inside the Restorer’s fane.

  At first they worked in relative silence. “Let’s start here,” one might say to another. Or, “please help me carry this,” the other might ask. After three days Alia sensed Selàna letting her guard down.

  On day four Alia began to speak to her of how she came to serve the Huntress.

  Day by day Selàna was coaxed back to a semblance of wholeness. No longer did she seem so shattered and haunted as when she’d returned to consciousness on the floor of Aletheia’s grotto.

  Of a certainty Selàna’s spiritual state mattered, this Alia believed fervently. Her mission to forge Selàna into a priestess would be in vain if the girl was too mired in self-hatred, grief, and rage to put her mind on Alia’s lessons.

  “You were trained by dryads,” Selàna pointed out. “Restorite priests are often trained by naiads. Do you at least know their language?”

  She stood balanced on a ladder they found in a workshop. In her hands she held a length of luxuriant dyed linen someone had preserved. Shortly after vanquishing all of the Shadow Fangs in the inner fortress, they uncovered a treasure hoard in the cellar of one shopkeeper’s home. Aside from linens, he or she had left behind jewelry, coins, and miniature statues cast in gold, silver, or electrum.

  Selàna had claimed the phoenix and naiad figurines and left the other statues behind. Now she and Alia set themselves the task of furnishing the convalescent rooms with bright curtains. Several of the curtain rods remained undamaged in the windows, which saved the women the trouble of repurposing spears.

  “I do not know their language, no,” Alia replied, watching as Selàna looped a length of rich scarlet around the curtain rod. “And we shall not worry overmuch about it just now. What would you say to the Restorer, if He appeared before you now?”

  Standing at the other end of curtain rod, Alia reached out to grasp the other end of the curtain. She looped it loosely over the rod, then tugged at the bottom edges to form a full drape effect. Once she was satisfied they had formed a proper valance, Alia began to climb her own ladder.

  “What would I say? Would there be any use in talking?” Amazement laced her voice.

  Alia grunted with the effort of lifting the heavy rod onto the hook. “Of course. Every time you come here you need to begin talking to Him. Pour out everything in your heart. Every thing you can’t tell me, but might want to tell your parents. Confess the guilt you carry over Zephyra’s actions. And then tell Him of your desire to atone.”

  Selàna paused on her ladder. The wheels turning in her mind showed plainly on her face.

  As it was forbidden for knowledge of the sacred mystery rituals of the Restorites to be divulged to outsiders, Alia possessed no insight into what Selàna must do to join their ranks. An obstacle—but only if she insisted on the official path of priestly training.

  Both women descended from their ladders. Dusting off her hands, Alia looked around. The blue-green tiles on the floor gleamed, revealing a subtle river-wave pattern in their arrangement.

  Free of grime and dust, the enameled brick on the walls sparkled. But to Alia’s eyes the murals painted on the bricks were archaic in execution — every person was depicted in profile, with a singular eye shown full frontal in their faces. Not her favorite style of art, and she much preferred the floral imagery of water lilies and willow catkins. All the same, the murals possessed a certain charm. Injured soldiers could take their ease in such a room. Here and now, soft breezes ruffled the curtains Selàna had hung.

  Breezes which carried nothing more than cool air … bolstering Alia’s confidence she could safely leave Selàna alone in the temple.

  “The voices I hear sound distant,” Edana said over breakfast several days ago. “I know we still have to clear the outer fortress. But if I understand the drawing correctly, the outer fortress is surrounded by a ditch or moat. In a Rasena Valentian fortress that ditch would be large enough to swallow at least a thousand soldiers. We may need to go outside the fortress to find and battle the Shadow Fangs … and with so many bodies to feed on, we may also need something more powerful than my coins and our knives.”

  The vast dark between the inner and outer walls looked daunting enough, and Alia didn’t blame Edana for her reluctance to dive in without preparation. To leave so many souls entrapped within the soul devourers pleased her even less.

  But all the same, she heard other voices. Not solely the voices of the dead, but something more ominous. When she said they were being softened up, she meant it. Whether or not Rahqu had infernal means to track Selàna, the girl was a weak point. Wracked by guilt and self-loathing, her spiritual defenses lay in tatters.

  Likely Edana was correct that more formidable Shadow Fangs lay outside their doorstep. If the creatures were as powerful as Edana believed, they might not be bound to stay near their original victims. They might be able to cross into the inner fortress … or the dreams and thoughts of those who inhabited the fortress.

  Alia removed her ladder from the wall, and gripped it with both hands to carry it. When Selàna started to do the same, Alia shook her head.

  “I’ll see to putting these away. You see to communing with the Restorer.”

  “But how will I know if He can hear me? The Interceptor …”

  “Is able to interfere within the cosmos. I know. But I need you to trust me. Speak to the Restorer.”

  For her communion with the god of healers, Selàna chose the fountain room. The bronze trap door lay at her feet. Thanks to Bessa she knew not to attempt to touch it.

  A job for a Restorite.

  And how was she to become a Restorite? What Ironwing was asking her to do didn’t make sense. Wasn’t she supposed to be inducted into a mystery order and learn secret rituals and lessons?

  But if that were so there would be no point in her hoping. Everything she did here would be in vain. Yet Ironwing spoke as if this were not so.

  And Ironwing was a priestess…

  Selàna straightened on her seat. She had replaced the dusty, stained cushions on the steps of the pool with newer ones she’d raided from what must have been a senior officer’s house. A general, perhaps; his house included stairs in the back leading up to the curtain wall.

  For this room she’d chosen the prettiest, deepest blues she could manage to supplement the sparse selection of indigo pillows. Breathing deeply, she inhaled the scents of almond clinging to the tiles. From her pouch belted at her waist she pulled out a sprig of vervain. Sacred to the Restorer, the herb itself carried no scent, and looked more like a weed with its flimsy purple blooms.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Selàna focused so tightly on the flowers that her eyes blurred. After a moment she closed her eyes. And began to speak.

  And speak.

  Words poured out of her. All of her pain, disgust, and despair came flowing out of her in a torrential monologue. When she finished she felt worn out, as if she had spent the day running around with a twenty pound sack of flour on her back.

  With ragged breaths and shaking shoulders she wept, heedless of the time. Did the Restorer hear her?

  Tears coursed from her eyes and down her cheeks as she formed her next words.

  “P-p-p—please. Please. Please use me. Let me be Your vessel instead of the shadow queen’s. I don’t want to serve her. Let me serve You.”

  Over and over Selàna entreated the god. Did He hear her at all?

  But Ironwing instructed this of her. The priestess was not without hope, so Selàna must hope, too.

  After a long, long while—no way to tell, given the perpetual steady light that betrayed no movement of the sun—Selàna opened her eyes. Again she beheld the vervain in her hands.

  The Restorer’s sacred plant. Thus the answer came to her. On shaky legs she rose. She took a long look at the trap down at her feet. For now it mocked her. But she would not well on it. Instead she made her way past the ruined statue and into the court of offerings.

  Just as at the pool, the Conservationists had taken the statue of the Restorer. However, they hadn’t defaced or destroyed the altar in front of the statue. Here she laid down her vervain.

  “Please accept this from me,” Selàna whispered. She bowed her head, then swiftly turned on her heel and left.

  On her way out she passed through the inner hall. Like the outer hall, columns with capitals styled as phoenix wings supported the ceilings. Unlike the outer hall, the inner hall’s ceilings were lower. And the floor higher.

  Lessons she had long forgotten came back to her, concerning the layout of temples in Athyr-ai.

  Ironwing was waiting for her by the pylons outside of the door when she stepped outside. Decorated with engravings of the Restorer, the pylons were taller than the door, and made the temple seem bigger than it was.

  “Well?” asked Ironwing. “Is it well with you?”

  “Yes…”

  The next day Ironwing again accompanied her to the Restorer’s temple, in spite of Selàna telling her she could handle things alone.

  “I shall not interfere,” Ironwing said mildly. “A little more than a week ago I told you to put the Restorer’s house in order. Yesterday, I told you to pour out your heart to Him, and offer your services to him. Today, now, you will serve Him.”

  The statement caught Selàna off guard. For a long moment she stared at the priestess. Was she jesting? However, Ironwing betrayed no hint of levity. The woman stood with her hands clasped behind her back and her face tilted up at the unseen sun. Her eyelashes fanned out over her cheeks and her posture exuded serenity.

  “Doing what?” Selàna finally asked.

  Ironwing opened one eye. “What He needs you to do.”

  No more did she say, even though Selàna paused for several heartbeats to give her a chance to elaborate.

  True to her word, Ironwing remained outside the doors of the temple while Selàna went inside.

  This time, Selàna made her way to a room off the main hall. The consecration room. Though the Conservationists had removed the sacred symbols, and taken away statues of the Restorer, she still would make use of the room’s intended purpose.

  Were she a priestess or a queen she would have entered this room to purify herself with naiad-blessed waters. The silver basin in the center of the room held no such water, of course. The Conservationists had been thorough. Just as well, because she had not come to purify her body.

  Instead she knelt down on the floor and closed her eyes.

  “I call to you, O One Who Salves the Wounds. I call to you and ask you to cleanse my soul.”

  Thus she began her entreaties. When she finished she continued to kneel, but in silence. Part of her feared to listen, in case she once again heard the hateful whispers that dogged their steps in Zanbil’s gate fortress.

  One Who Salves the Wounds.

  Startled, Selàna flinched. Her eyes flew open, as an idea came to her. Serve the Restorer? She made her way out of the consecration room and into the room on the opposite side of the hall. The stillroom. In Athyr-ai, the temples kept their own still rooms opposite the purification rooms. Zanbellians must have stayed true to their Athyrii roots, because they had done the same.

  Previously she had swept out the herbs too withered for use, and cleaned up the oils and unguents spilled from broken bottles. During her cleanup she had not investigated the locked cabinets in the room, because their locks were not mechanical. Where before she saw this as an obstacle, now she realized an obvious solution.

  Selàna hurried out of the temple. To her surprise, Ironwing was not standing at her post. During Selena’s absence Ironwing had walked down to the bottom of the ramp marking the entry to the Restorer’s temple.

  But she was not idle. Her long skirts swished and swayed in rhythm with her body as she twirled and spun her knives in a complicated pattern above her head. Green fire sparked from her blades, and in their wake strange symbols winked in an out, faster than Selàna could see them. With an eerie grace Ironwing danced, her movements suggestive of a fighter locked in hand-to-hand combat. In low tones she chanted in the liturgical language of the venatori.

  What was she saying? Curiosity overwhelmed Selàna. On tiptoes she crept closer to Ironwing, who kept her back to the temple and thus would not see her.

  “…Selàna…Selàna…”

  Though Selàna could not understand the other words, every so often Ironwing said her name. So transfixed was she on this strange sight that she was not prepared when Ironwing suddenly leapt, one foot swept high as if to deliver a strike. Fluid and swift, Ironwing twisted and flipped.

  This time Selàna shrieked in her shock. But Ironwing did not miss her next move. Showing no surprise at seeing her, Ironwing executed a perfect back cross, tossing her knives behind her and catching them as they fell.

  Apparently she finished her ritual, for Ironwing now stood still and saluted her with one knife.

  “Finished already?” Ironwing asked. Only the sharp rise of her breasts suggested she might be winded from her exertions.

  Selàna blinked; Ironwing’s nonchalance threw her off. Quickly she gathered her wits. “Aren’t you going to explain what you’re doing?”

  “Buying you time and peace,” Ironwing replied. She sheathed her knives and frowned. “No voices troubled you, did they?”

  A strange sense of gratitude came over Selàna just then. While the huntress had thawed towards her, she did not expect for the woman to trouble herself to perform kindly acts on her behalf. If Selàna hadn’t come along, would Ironwing even have mentioned it?

  “No.” Suddenly shy, Selàna lowered her eyes as she asked, “May I trouble you for a favor? I think I know how to serve the Restorer.”

  In short order Ironwing’s Ellura wand undid the spell binding the cabinet doors shut in the stillroom. Immediately Selàna seized one of the turquoise faience bottles. The upswept lines and curves of the bottles intimated the wings of a phoenix. Carved along the front of the bottle, cartouches enclosed the names of the essences inside. And more importantly, the cartouches also carried the symbol she hoped for, the one for preservation. Rummaging through the cabinet, she at last found the one bottle she sought.

  “What is this?” Ironwing asked when Selàna put it in her hands. She brought it up to her nose and sniffed. Malabathrum, of course, and olibanum, cedar oil, and something exceedingly rare: the musk of a phoenix bird.

  “Restorites are required to keep gardens where they grow plants sacred to the Restorer,” Selàna said. “And to grow plants that can heal others. The Conservationists sowed weeds and thorns, like soldiers might sow salt on enemy farms. While I can clear out thorns and brambles, I can’t make the plants and flowers bloom. But I can do so with this.”

  Ironwing’s smile made her eyes crinkle. “You will restore His garden. Very good.”

  Clearing out the garden took three days. Longer than Selàna expected. But on the third day she danced with abandon, even imitating some of the moves she’d seen Ironwing make in her ritual. Once she was satisfied she’d removed every last thorn, useless weed and bramble, she paused and went over to the center of the garden.

  Formerly choked in vines, the statue of a naiad once again served as the centerpiece of the garden. Was this she who had blessed the everlasting pool?

  “Let me serve you, Restorer,” Selàna whispered. Carefully, she held the stopper over the bottle opening, covering all but a sliver with it.

  One drop.

  Two drops.

  Three.

  Quickly she stoppered the bottle fully, loath to waste its precious contents. The liquid did more than what she had told Alia, but for the moment she could not lay claim to its full abilities.

  Taking an example from Ironwing; however, she did sing. She sang out the prayer recorded in the scrolls in the cabinets of the stillroom.

  At first nothing happened.

  Selàna swallowed hard. Wait. Wait. She raised her voice, and sang the prayer again.

  Still nothing.

  “Let the flowers bloom, let the fields be green and the waters sweet,” she sang out.

  Her confidence began to waver when she saw the ground was still brown. She took out the scroll again and examined it carefully. This time she noticed the drawings in what she thought was the margin.

  “Ohh,” she sighed, as one who has a sudden revelation.

  Laughing, she sang the prayer again. This time she danced. With each step, each twirl, greenery spread from her feet. In every corner of the garden she danced, until at last the air was perfumed with once-dead, now-blooming flowers.

  Exuberant, Selàna laughed and laughed.

  “Thank you! Thank you,” she managed when she caught her breath.

  In that moment she twirled near the statue of the naiad. But something had changed.Where before the statue had been a rosy pink—thanks to the marble used by its sculptor—the face itself had faded to a more life-like color.

  And all at once, the eyes flashed. Looking out at her were very human orbs, brown irises framed with dark lashes.

  The statue’s lips moved.

  “Selàna.”