Dust and Light

by Carol Berg

The painted panel closed softly behind her.

  I touched fingertips to forehead and inclined my back slightly. “Sinduria.”

  She crossed her arms, touching each opposite shoulder, and closed her painted eyes—a portrait of serenity. “Welcome, chosen of the gods. I am indeed Irinyi, but for this hour I surrender my name and person and become the Lady Arrosa’s vessel. All spoken between us is prayer between you and She Who Loves.”

  Nothing for it but to plunge ahead. “That would be very nice to believe.”

  Irinyi’s eyes flew open, sharp and startled.

  “Understand I intend no insult to the goddess or her vessel. But my life is in turmoil. I dare not even reveal my name. If so much as a hint of my story travels beyond this room, I face ruin on a scale one who is not pureblood cannot possibly comprehend. I have been told that my kind, even those pledged to other gods, may find clarity under the goddess Arrosa’s roof.”

  Naught of lies so far. Ruin and turmoil properly named these past three days.

  She motioned me to the banquette. She sat next to me, close enough I could have touched the bony fingers cupped in her lap. My own fingers itched for a pen. Would her portrait show the serene vessel of a goddess or a child murderer? Unfortunate that I could not draw a portrait from simple memory and ensure its truth.

  “My temple offers many paths to clarity,” she said in an elevated timbre, as if her goddess had indeed possessed her. “Trust in me, Seeker. Let me cleanse this trouble from thy spirit.”

  Fist clenched on my breast, I offered a fervent prayer to Deunor and Erdru that I was no lunatic, and begged them to intercede with their sister-cousin on my behalf if questioning her servants offended.

  “Perhaps this is a summoning,” I said. “One I should have heeded years ago. Are you familiar—? My people believe strict social constraints necessary with regard to those we call ordinaries—those who do not share our gifts.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then hear the dilemma of one who failed in obedience and has only now reaped the full measure of his sin.”

  Fingers ringed with pearls and amethysts motioned me to continue.

  “Six years ago, I lived in the house of a kinsman, apprenticing in his work—work that required me to move amongst ordinaries in a distant city.”

  All true in its fashion.

  The Sinduria sat quiet as I steeled my nerve to go on. I had never told this story aloud. And I needed to remove or recast any piece that might identify me or my family. Fortunately, neither my garments nor my appearance bore anything to distinguish me from five hundred other pureblood men of an age between twenty and thirty.

  “The association with so many good minds distracted me from my responsibility to maintain appropriate detachment from those I encountered. One day, a young woman arrived . . .”

  Unable to stay seated, I paced the small chamber and without names or specifics told her about the most fascinating person I had ever known. About her intelligence and easy laughter. About how my eyes refused to leave her or my mind to dismiss her. About our first furtive words, our walks in the city, the longer excursions in the wood, in the hills, anywhere we could meet without being seen.

  “. . . an unfamiliar elation had taken possession of me, flesh and bone, mind and spirit. Though not a devotee of your goddess, I named it love. Yet always I knew it was built on lies and impossibility, and that a single word could bring scandal upon my family. But like a twistmind bound to the cruel seduction of his nivat seeds, I was enslaved to her presence. Every moment away from her grew my need. . . .”

  The priestess closed her eyes and pressed her folded hands to her mouth as I spoke of the day I first kissed my friend, and about the day she asked me to work magic for her.

  Memory came flooding over and through me, building an image of color and emotion entirely unlike the empty story I spoke aloud. It had been a glorious summer afternoon in a forested glade very like those portrayed in the frieze. Morgan had asked me to draw her portrait.

  Emboldened by a passion that made the very air between us tremble, I told her that one who bore so much vibrant life should be portrayed as part and portion of the earth itself. With trembling hands I removed her clothes and laid her naked on a grassy hillock. Kneeling beside her, I traced my fingers over every line of her bones, over eyelids and rosy lips, along the perfect line of hip and thigh, over the low mounds of her sweet breasts and her long, powerful legs, every quat of her from brow to toe. Then, with such an ecstasy of magic as I had never felt, I began to draw. I felt transported to a world apart—sharper, clearer, the sounds of bird and water chiming sharp like silver, the thick grass green as emerald and soft as goose down. By the time my magic was spent, I was naked, too, and the jeweled sun could not compete with the heat of our coupling.

  Sated, we slept. And when I woke she was gone, along with the sunlight, the clarity, and the drawing. I’d never even looked at it.

  My colorless narrative of these events did not disclose the nature of my magic. And from that divergence, I plunged wholly into deception.

  “. . . and when I woke, she was gone, along with my jewels, my boots, the substantial contents of my purse, everything of value. My ravishing lover was naught but a thief. Before I could find her again, someone informed the Registry that I had seduced an ordinary and trafficked in my magic. My family recalled me from that city and properly chastised me, and I was glad of it, as such sweet obsession had turned so bitter. I believed the whole affair but a hard lesson until yesterday. That’s when I learned a child was born of our coupling. . . .”

  The lies flowed easy as the currents of heat and memory drove me onward. For if a girl child had come of that precious day, and such horror had come down on her as happened to the one who lay in Bastien’s ice barrow, I would invade Idrium itself and lie to the assembled gods to expose those who had done her such evil.

  “You’re certain the mother is dead?” Irinyi’s question washed over my back as I gazed again on the sculpted goddess, begging her continued indulgence. It was time to fix the cold ending to my heated tale.

  “Just yesterday. The stink of the graveyard yet clings. The child remains tonight with this taverner who searched me out. But the woman is hard, and says that on the morrow she’ll sell the girl to a dyer who values small hands for scrubbing his pots and boilers. The seductress had no family, and neither I nor my family have any interest in the spawn of a thief. Yet a fate of hard labor for a child so young seems cruel. I’ve nowhere to turn for advising, save to the goddess who rules the divine madness of the heart.”

  “A halfblood child,” said the priestess. “A rarity, indeed. Would your family truly refuse to train her in whatever magic she may inherit?”

  “We are not permitted to nurture halfbloods. They are abominations to the gods, and their talents minimal at best. She’s more likely to inherit a skill for thieving.”

  No matter my current playacting, the words stung my soul bitterly. After that glorious afternoon, I’d seen Morgan only once, when the consequences—and possible consequences—of my folly had already begun to constrict me like a shroud. On my last day at the university, she had met me in our favored bower. Amid my hurried professions of love undying, she had assured me, without my asking, that she was incapable of conceiving a child. While expressing sorrow for her incapacity, I had, most cowardly, thanked Serena Fortuna at the news.

  Shamed, even in memory, I averted my eyes as Sinduria Irinyi contemplated my story.

  In truth I wasn’t sure what happened to halfblood children, save that their own children were born entirely lacking the gift of magic. That simple fact was the foundation of pureblood life and discipline. It had built the Registry, focused on preserving and defending our divine gift. Aurellians were not the most fertile of races, and we dared not squander our seed on ordinaries. Even when I became our Head of Family, I would marry only a person the Registry permitted me to marry. As would Juli. As did we all. Love or passion had naught to with it.
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br />   “Would you be willing to surrender all claim and interest in the girl,” the priestess said, at last, “leaving her to the disposition of the goddess from this day until the end of her life and yours?”

  The stark question drove out the distractions of memory and guilt.

  “Surrender? Disposition?” Crimes had taken place in this house, with or without this woman’s connivance. I wanted her to think I would allow such wickedness or at least look away, yet yielding too easily might raise suspicions. “Are you speaking of . . . blood sacrifice?”

  “Sweet goddess, no! The temple shelters unwanted children from time to time—those we determine to be somehow especial gifts of the goddess. The low history of this mother speaks against acceptance. But then, the deep obsession that possessed you at the child’s conception—the very model of divine frenzy—suggests that this indeed could be our lady’s divine hand at work. I am willing to give the girl a home in the temple. It’s easiest for the child if the parents relinquish all claim and interest in her future. She would never know you, your family, or the story of her birth.”

  So now we had come to it. Had a prince’s bastard been deemed an especial gift of the goddess, too?

  I feigned a puzzled curiosity. “I assumed you might know some upright family to take her. What would she do here?”

  “We would feed and care for her. Teach her of the goddess and her mysteries. She might come to be an initiate, destined for the mystic functions of a priestess. Or she might serve as a bath attendant, assisting those who seek cleansing here. Her mother’s blood might win out and take her to the scullery. There are many ways to serve the goddess. It would not be your concern.”

  “I don’t know. . . .”

  Her facile talk stung like salt on raw flesh. I wanted to ask if whoring was a proper service for a pureblood’s bastard, as it had been for a prince’s. Or if child whoring in a god’s house was somehow holier than child whoring in a dyer’s alley. It was this woman’s responsibility to know what went on here.

  The high priestess laid a hand on my shoulder. “Let this telling rid you of false love and useless guilt, Seeker. Dedicate yourself to Arrosa’s service, not forsaking the gods of your house, but rather opening yourself to her care. Release the boundaries of your will, so that from this day she may guide you in the proper ways to fulfill the needs of body and heart.”

  Sincere piety wreathed her voice and posture. Yet was it solely imagination that I felt her life pulse racing? Did she think a halfblood child might fetch higher fees? Bile stung my throat.

  “I’ll prepare an agreement as I’ve outlined,” she said, as if replacing her silken mantle with a shopkeeper’s apron. “We shall nurture the child to the goddess’s service; you will relinquish all right and interest in her. Would you prefer to wait here or to take advantage of the goddess’s cleansing rite? We’ve private rooms and baths for the gods’ chosen, and attendants especially trained in pureblood customs.”

  The baths had brought me here—the scent of ephrain revealed by my bent. I should follow that thread as my grandsire would pursue a clue unearthed by his.

  “The baths sound most excellent. What better than to rid myself of the stink of this whole affair?”

  “My handmaid will guide you.” She rang a bell hung at her belt. “When your devotions are concluded, she’ll return you here to seal our bargain. An offering of gold to acknowledge our service in this matter is not necessary, but would be most welcome in such difficult times.”

  I touched my forehead in respect. I would have preferred to see the woman pilloried. To speak of children as if they were hounds to sell and train should itself be a crime.

  * * *

  The sylphlike handmaiden led me into a hive of warm, moist halls that reeked of ephrain and moonflowers. Her filmy gown clung to her body in the damp. It was impossible to look away.

  Was it my own guilt or the aura of this house that made me feel more unclean? As with marriage, pureblood customs in the matter of casual mating were, of necessity, stricter than those of ordinaries. I understood that and accepted it—and with it the guilt of my own sin. Even so, to think that under the aegis of a goddess any man might be offered the same pleasures he could buy in the streets—even the most debauched . . . I doubted any amount of water or prayer could wash away the reek.

  “Through there, domé.” The young woman pointed me through a narrow, foggy passage. “A bath attendant will meet you in the changing room and accompany you to the private pools. May you find healing and joy in the divine lady’s hand.”

  Answers. That’s what I wanted.

  Moisture beaded the stone walls and dripped from the barreled vault. Jeweled lamps cast colored beams through the eddies of steam, guiding me to a small chamber.

  As I entered a small room, a slender young man wearing a white loincloth crossed his arms over his breast and bowed. “Welcome to divine Arrosa’s baths, domé. I am Leo, and will attend you through the cleansing rite.”

  Behind him, a lattice wall woven with flowering vines separated the small chamber from some larger space. Heat rose from the tiled floor as if the fires of Magrog burned just beneath.

  With silken grace, the attendant slipped around behind and removed my pelisse. A simple gesture toward my face and I passed him my mask. He laid both in a carved chest.

  The scent of sandalwood and flowers mingled with the aroma of a strong vintage as Leo took a pitcher from a shelf and filled a bronze cup. When he passed the cup to me, I inhaled its aroma. Wine, yes, but something more pungent, too, that carried a searing pleasure straight to every one of my joints.

  Between the heat and the heady scents, I was near panting. Fearing to lose my head completely, I took only a sip.

  “Though I am ever Lord Deunor’s servant,” I said, “the goddess Arrosa has summoned me here this night. I am unfamiliar with her customs.”

  “Be easy, domé. Our purpose is to soothe the cares and urgencies of common life that Lady Arrosa may touch your soul.” Leo gestured to the cup in my hand. “The wine contains a tincture prepared from herbs grown in temple gardens. Drink deep that you may hear the songs of the goddess. If you will permit me to remove your garments, I’ll guide you first to the tepidarium to cleanse and anoint you, and then to the hot pool, the caldarium, where the goddess shall make known her will. Command me as you desire. I am accomplished in all ways of soothing a body’s needs.”

  He extended a hand toward my buttons and laces. “May I?”

  “Yes, certainly . . .” In no time at all, everything but my shirt and underdrawers lay in the sandalwood chest. Leo motioned me to the stone bench. His breath was soft on my thighs as he knelt in front of me, unfastening the wrist bands of my sleeves. His pale hair smelled of moonflowers. The pungent wine boiled in my blood.

  All ways of soothing a body’s needs. Had he answered my first question already? He seemed entirely unembarrassed. I felt a bumpkin; how was I to learn what he meant? I needed to understand what was done with female children and if the child I had drawn was familiar to any here.

  “You’re quite skilled, Leo,” I said, grasping his wrist. “But in my house a woman does such tasks as these.”

  His head popped up, his brow creased in concern. “The temple provides male bath attendants for purebloods, domé, out of respect for your strict customs. But of course, if you prefer, I can fetch a female attendant.”

  “My head . . . I get terrible headaches. Female voices . . . and hands . . . are more soothing.” One of my uncles had forever claimed his wife’s was the only voice he could tolerate. “A female will . . . enter the bath with me? Soothe me? She wouldn’t mind?”

  “We rejoice to answer divine Arrosa’s call to service.” Was it the heat that caused the slight flush across his back? Or inflamed my own fiery cheeks? I hated this.

  The youth bowed and withdrew.

  I had taken only a few calming breaths when someone stepped from behind the lattice—not a child, but a woman near my own age.
She was lovely—dark, liquid eyes and thick black hair shorn close to her head as some men wore it, though there was no mistaking her sex. A sleeveless white tunic set off perfect skin the hue of hazelnuts.

  She bowed. “Domé. Leo says you prefer a female attendant.” Her voice flowed deep and thick like dark honey. “I am Eliana. Command me.”

  Unseemly thoughts sent urgent messages to every part of me, threatening to obliterate reason. Command her? I dared not even consider her removing the rest of my garments or—Great Deunor give me strength—bathing alongside me. I dared not even stand up just now. Rather my eyes fixed on the floor tiles in front of my bare feet . . . which helped not in the least, as the tiles’ designs glorified Arrosa’s works in every possible variety.

  “I—” The next word refused to come out. How did I ask?

  “Leo also said you were new to our lady’s baths, and, perhaps—please take no offense, domé—unsure what to expect?”

  I took another desperate sip of wine.

  “True.” My croak would label me as approximately fourteen.

  “I attend men every day—mostly ordinaries, as you would refer to them, but also others of the gods’ chosen—and I am neither shocked nor offended by men’s bodies as they respond to the songs of the goddess. Nor do I consider such responses as an invitation to step beyond the boundaries of your comfort or my own. . . .”

  Though delivered in cool sobriety, her reassurance contained some essence beyond pious business. Enough to encourage a glance upward.

  She had clasped her hands behind her back. Her gaze was fixed on the wall above my head, but a portrait artist learns early to notice nuances of expression. Those dark eyes sparked like summer lightning, and her well-proportioned lips hovered on the verge of a smile, as a kestrel hovers above its prey.

  “. . . though, naturally, the Goddess of Love moves in ways beyond understanding to heal and nurture those who seek her cleansing. Her service is a joy and a devotion to me. Ask what you will. Whatever you will.”

  And there was my first answer. Whatever I wished was available from a bath girl. And she was neither afraid nor repulsed.