“They’ve gone to the Diggings,” she repeated as Mouse scrambled to her feet. “To be lost.”
“Lost?” Mouse repeated.
Sparrow picked up the fallen lighting stick, which had gone out. “They are men from the mountains who have rebelled against the Flame. Their fate is to labor in her Diggings until they are lost.”
“You mean dead?” Mouse asked, her voice trembling.
Sparrow shook her head. “I mean lost,” she said. “Those who enter the Diggings beneath the temple without protection never come out again. In time all Diggers are lost.” She handed the stick to Mouse, her disapproving face half hidden beneath its hood. “You shouldn’t let your fire go out, you know.”
Humbly, Mouse relit the stick in the last brazier. “What is in the Diggings?” she asked.
“Diggers,” said Sparrow with a snort, looking back over Mouse’s work. It was her morning duty to make certain the young acolyte performed her tasks up to standard. “What else?”
“No, I mean,” Mouse said, “what do they dig for?”
“The chamber of Fireword.”
“What is Fireword?”
“The demon sword that twice slew our goddess.”
Mouse stared at the older girl. What blasphemy was this, spoken by an older sister, no less! For how could it be other than blasphemy? The goddess could not die! The Flame at Night was far too great to be extinguished by any sword!
“I . . . I don’t believe you,” Mouse said.
“What difference does it make what you believe?” Sparrow said sharply, turning from the brazier she was inspecting to fix Mouse with a stern glare. “The goddess was twice slain by Fireword, and she fears to be slain a third time. All this you will learn for yourself as you get older and are brought into deeper knowledge. Until then, know better than to speak back to your elders.”
Mouse cowered, sliding her hood up over her head like a shield.
Sparrow, still frowning, moved on to the next brazier, lowered it on its chain, and indicated for Mouse to light it. Mouse obeyed silently, sprinkling the handful of incense and trying not to breathe in the thick scent.
“I was to have your place, you know,” Sparrow said, looking across the hot coals at Mouse. “I was to be the Speaker’s girl, to walk in her footsteps and care for her needs. I was being trained for it.”
Mouse blinked. Her hand holding the bag of incense trembled.
“And then you come along,” Sparrow continued, pulling the chain back into place, hand over hand. “You come out of some wild jungle mountain, all tattered and smelly. And the Speaker looks at you as though she’s been waiting for you for years. All my work was for nothing.”
Sparrow focused her attention on the swinging brazier as it settled back into place. Mouse, her mouth dry, didn’t know what to say. “I . . . I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“You are sorry,” said Sparrow, moving on to the next brazier. “Sorry and small and ignorant. You are a mouse. And yet she favors you.” Mouse followed, huddled up inside her robe. “It is the will of the Flame,” the older girl continued with a shrug, though her voice was not so dismissive.
Somehow Mouse knew that only fear of severe punishment kept Sparrow from clawing her eyes out.
3
WHEN I FOUND ETANUN, he and his brother were hard at work building another of their Houses. This one overlooked a river in the cold north, and it was the grandest they had constructed yet. But when Etanun saw me, he abandoned the work and came down to me at once.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded, looking me over. I must have been a sight, ragged winged, hollow eyed. “Are you come alone? Is Etalpalli threatened?”
I shook my head. The sight of his face had driven from me all the fire inside. Though I wished to hate him, I could not but be glad to see him again.
“Dear queen,” he said and took me by the shoulders, “tell me what is wrong!”
I spoke: “They say you’re in love with a mortal maid.”
His hands dropped away and he stepped back. Bowing his head, he whispered, “They say this?”
“Is it true?” I demanded.
He drew a long breath. For a moment I thought he would deny it.
But he said, “It is true. I do love her.”
The blue star progressed in its arching path across the night sky, surrounded by its brethren. Mouse pursued it, watching the sky rather than her feet. There were no obstructions on this ground, the barren territory that surrounded the temple. The Flame and the Spire were at her back, and she drove her feet to hasten after that gentle light above, ever fearing the coming of dawn and the fading of her distant guide.
In the four years since her coming to the temple, she had never before left its confines.
Four years had fled so quickly, Mouse had scarcely felt their passing or noticed the change that came upon her body as she grew from girl to young woman. She served the Speaker, dressing her every morning for the ritual tending of the fire, undressing her every night before the high priestess stole a few precious hours of sleep, ever guarded by Stoneye. Mouse herself slept in a tiny chamber adjacent to her mistress’s, separated from her only by a curtain.
Despite this proximity, she never felt close to this eldest of the temple sisters. There was something unknowable about the Speaker, as though she feared to be known. Yet Mouse grew to love her even as she feared her, and she served with all the zeal in her young body.
After the first year of labor, she, along with the other acolytes her age, entered into intensive studies under the priestesses, learning the rites and duties performed to the glory of the Flame. Some of these she knew already, for her mountain village celebrated the Days of Fire and the Breaking of Silence, and all the holy days of the year.
But within the temple every day was like a holy day, which meant grueling work for the sisters. Most days, Mouse was too tired even to think about rest, and most nights too exhausted to sleep. Yet she would never have exchanged that exhaustion for the easy life of the mountains. She learned reading and writing; she studied chants and histories. Life was as far removed from goat herding as it could be, and she reveled in the difference!
Then one dawn, everything changed.
She was in the lower south corridor, lighting her braziers as she did every morning at sunrise. This far into her service, she no longer needed Sparrow to oversee her work. Indeed, Sparrow, now a priestess in her own right, was far removed from Mouse’s life, and for this Mouse was grateful.
She passed between the tall pillars, lowering and raising each brazier, filling the air with the thickness of sweet spices. It was late summer, and dawn came early, spreading light across the horizon. The southern mountains were hazy with distance but recognizable. The mountains that had been her home. For the first time in a long while, she thought of Granna. Crazy, ancient Granna, so withered, so stubborn, waiting for the return of a prophetess more ancient than she and scorning to look to the light of the Citadel.
Mouse shook her head and frowned. How was Granna getting on without her? she wondered. She did not doubt that the old woman still lived. Had she not already survived several generations? She was as old as the mountain itself, and she certainly had never needed Mouse.
But, Mouse thought, perhaps I needed her.
A dangerous path of thought. Mouse blocked it from her mind as best she could and resumed her work. One does not progress along the road to purification if one hesitates and looks back. Such was not the will of the Flame.
Suddenly the world went dark, as though Mouse and all around her had plunged into the depths of a moonless midnight. She froze, clutching the chain of a brazier in both hands, and though the morning was hot, she began to tremble.
Then, a light.
Mouse turned to it, surprise overcoming her fear. A stranger approached. Not one of the temple sisters. No, rather than the red of holy service, this woman wore green, save for a starflower tucked in her hair, the flower gleaming white rather than red as it wo
uld appear in daylight. It looked like a diamond in the thick blackness of that long hair.
Two enormous dogs flanked her, their eyes flaming red. But when Mouse blinked, sucking in a breath to scream, they were gone. Only the darkness remained.
The woman approached from the end of the passage. How had she penetrated the sacred Citadel grounds, her head uncovered, her feet unshod? The guards should never have admitted her, and yet there she stood, a small, shining figure.
“Who are you?” Mouse cried, clutching the brazier chain like a weapon. “What are you doing in the halls of the Flame?”
The stranger frowned. Her face was beautiful but earnest. Then her eyes widened, and she stepped forward with a cry, arms extended. “Fairbird!”
Mouse leapt back, pulling the chain so that the burning brazier swung between them. “Stay back!” she cried.
The stranger withdrew her hands, her fingers curling into fists and her brow wrinkled. “Don’t you know me?” she asked, her voice soft. “How long have I been away?”
“I don’t know you!” Mouse cried. “You shouldn’t be here! Get out!”
“You’re not Fairbird.” The stranger’s voice was dull with sadness. She shook her head, and her face could have broken the stoniest heart. “I was mistaken. You’re not Fairbird.”
“I don’t know any Fairbird!” Mouse said. Now that the stranger was closer, she appeared young, scarcely older than Mouse herself. But her voice was so old! And her eyes . . . they were the strangest thing of all.
Her eyes were like Granna’s.
Mouse could scarcely find the voice to repeat, “Get out!”
The stranger folded her hands, and her sad voice became demure, her face unreadable. “I come on another’s behalf,” she said. “I would speak to the Dragonwitch.”
Mouse stared at her. It was like looking upon a memory she hadn’t known she possessed. More of an instinct than an actual thought. She felt sweat soaking her woolen robe in damp patches on her back.
“I don’t know this Dragonwitch,” she said. “You are come to the Citadel of the Living Fire, abode of the Great Goddess. And you are unwelcome here!”
The stranger tilted her head to one side, her lips compressed. Then she said, “I will not harm you. I know the Dragonwitch is near, and you must take me to her. Tell her I have come on behalf of one she knows: Etanun the Sword-bearer. I bring a message from him. He wishes to tell her where Halisa is buried.”
The word Halisa rang through Mouse’s brain. Somehow it rearranged itself, and Mouse heard it again, this time as a name she knew.
Fireword.
“The demon sword that twice slew our goddess.”
Mouse could hardly breathe. “The goddess,” she whispered, “searches for Fireword.”
The stranger’s calm mask broke into an expression of pity. “Poor little thing!” She raised her eyes to the dark sky that only moments ago had held dawn, and she cried out to no one Mouse could see: “Are my people always to live enslaved?”
Mouse lowered the brazier slowly until it rested on the floor. Pungent smoke drifted between her and the stranger. “Who are you?” she asked.
“I was called Starflower,” said the stranger.
Mouse breathed, “Silent Lady!” and knew the name was true the moment she spoke it.
The Flame had purified this land and all the lands surrounding the Spire. Mouse felt the purification beneath her feet, the dryness of earth burned to cinders years ago. Even at night, with the star-filled sky above, the ground felt hot with the memory of that scorching.
The blue star moved across the sky, and Mouse followed it, changing direction as necessary. Her great fear was that it would set, leaving her exposed on this empty plain, still within sight of the Citadel. What she would do then, she could not guess.
How quickly the last few days had passed, leaving her dizzy and exhausted now as, in her awful disguise, she fled. Was it only yesterday that she had hastened up the long stair of the Spire as the rising sun dispelled at last the darkness of Midnight? She had come at last to the final door just as the high priestess, finished with her morning rituals, stepped through.
“Speaker!” Mouse, nearly beside herself, fell on her knees at her mistress’s feet and grasped the hem of her red-stained robe.
It burned.
Mouse dropped it and withdrew, clutching her hand to her breast. The high priestess stood a silent moment, regarding her. Then with a heavy sigh, she knelt, the black weaves of her wig swaying gently on either side of her face. “It is dangerous to draw near to the goddess’s power unprepared,” she said. “But I can forgive you this time. I see that you are greatly troubled, and not for your own sake. Tell me, little Mouse, what do you fear?”
“The Silent Lady,” Mouse said at once. “The Silent Lady has returned!”
“Fire burn.” The high priestess whispered the fervent prayer but without surprise. Indeed, her face was calm and accepting. “In good time too. The Flame will be pleased. Where is she?”
It was a dreadful procession back down the Spire staircase. Stoneye, armed with his spear, led the way as was his practice, and the high priestess followed, Mouse at her heels. Other priestesses and acolytes joined, and other eunuchs, armed and keen. But why should they need armed guards? There was no need for protection from the Silent Lady! She was the prophetess, the one who, at the bidding of the goddess, had delivered her people from the Wolf Lord and the terror of his inflicted silence! Why the need for weapons? Mouse shuddered, unable to think, and kept close to her mistress’s shadow.
In the lower south passage, the Silent Lady waited between two pillars beneath a smoking brazier. By morning light she looked smaller than ever, little more than a girl, save for those old eyes.
Stoneye planted himself between her and the Speaker. But his lady stepped forward and, though he turned his head sharply, his face full of warning, she shook her head at him and drew near. Mouse watched, expecting to see the high priestess fall on her knees and make reverence before the chosen prophetess of the Flame.
Instead, the high priestess said: “Speak your purpose.”
Her voice was sharp with command. It startled Mouse, who pressed a hand to her mouth. But the Silent Lady responded gently. “I am come with a message for the Dragonwitch.”
“Neither dragon nor witch dwells within the Citadel of the Living Fire,” the Speaker replied. “There is only the goddess.”
“Then my message is for your goddess,” said the Silent Lady. “From Etanun.”
“I do not know this”—the high priestess hesitated over the strange name, pronouncing it with care—“this Etanun.”
“My message is not for you.”
“I am Speaker for the goddess. I am also her ears. Anything you wish to say to her must come first to me.”
There was a long silence. Mouse shivered. She had never thought to see anyone more holy than the Speaker herself, who lived and served daily in the presence of the Flame, her own skin burning away with purification. But now to hear her speak to the prophetess in such a fashion . . . it was frightful! How could a priestess, no matter how holy, address an instrument of the gods so harshly?
The Silent Lady said, “Etanun has told me where to find Halisa’s chamber. I will take you to it, if such is your will.”
The high priestess recoiled as though struck. Stoneye hastily stepped forward, his hand outstretched. She bade him back away, but she swayed where she stood as though years of labor had come suddenly to an apex, yet even now she dared not hope for reprieve. Mouse could see the throb of a pulse in her throat.
“You will take me there,” the Speaker said. “At once.”
4
I LAUGHED. IT WAS THE FIRST TIME I had laughed in many ages, and the sound startled me and, I could tell, frightened him. When the laughter eased, I said, “So I was not enough for you. Immortal Faerie that I am, glorious queen, beautiful beyond the description of poets and rhymes. I was not enough to keep you close, but you will lov
e this woman of dust? You will love this decaying mortal?”
He did not meet my eyes. But he said, “I love her.”
“Why?” I demanded. “Why her? Why not me?”
“Because,” he said in the gentlest, most tender voice I had ever heard, “when I look at her, I see the light of my home shining clear and bright in her eyes.”
If I could have killed him then, I would have.
“What is her name?” I asked.
“Klara,” he replied.
No sooner did the Speaker command than Stoneye stepped forward and took the Silent Lady roughly by the arm. There was no reverence or even gentleness in his action, and Mouse cried out in protest.
A protest unheard or unheeded by all those gathered. Stoneye led the way, marching the prophetess like a prisoner before him as the high priestess silently followed, the rest falling into step behind her. Mouse was caught up in the flowing tide of her sisters in red and black and the marching eunuchs around them.
Out of the open hall and around to a stair cut into the red foundation rock they filed down, following Stoneye and the strange woman to the ground below. For the first time, Mouse walked the low path where she had years ago seen the first throng of slaves driven, and many more since then. But she had never yet seen the door through which they were sent, the door into the Diggings.
It was little more than a crack in the red stone, jagged like a wolf’s jaws. Darkness spilled from it and coldness as well. Mouse felt it even before they drew near, and she trembled with dread.
“Here,” said a priestess beside her. Mouse turned and, to her surprise, recognized Sparrow, clad in red, adorned in a fine wig. “Take this.”
Mouse felt something pressed into her hands, and looked down at a black cloth. Sparrow, still walking toward the crack in the stone, was tying a similar cloth about her face, shielding her eyes. “You must not see the darkness of the Diggings,” she said, her voice calm. “If you do, you will be lost.”
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