by Sharon Lee
And she'd given her word—Moonhawk's word—that they be safe. The single death had been atonement enough, for the dead woman had been the cause of the theft in the first place.
But Circle had wanted more: they'd wanted a show of power. They'd intended to turn the thief or thieves over to the crowds for a proper stoning, to quell the cyclic complaints that the Temple ran far too much of Sintian life.
Show of power? Instead now they would show power by sending her to be stoned for heresy if she refused to recant, or send her to the Temple of Release to be night comfort to the men and women who'd lost their spouses if she did.
"Politics, young one, politics. You did well for one unused to that level of command. Our whole order is based on proper use of intuition and the balance of life: but since the first coven was consecrated there's always been that other—the greed of power, of personal importance. They'd not believe that I would let the starship people go, but what had they done? Accessories, accidental as they were. And the man? What good stoning him when the true trouble lay dead—aye, so you used a little too much force? It was at my behest, and the woman was dead before she arrived—that was in her eyes. But you hadn't time to see that—they've trained you for ceremonies instead of duty! If only they'd train you properly, let you find your love . . .even if it isn't Lute. I looked for him there, with your eyes, but he is not yet seen. They sing my praises and let me loose with virgins . . .they alter history for convenience and forget the truth—that I was sent on Quest to get me out of Circle because I demand Balance in my dealings and expect the same of others. The whole thing was politics, this time, and I had no time to warn you, that's all."
"But what of the Temple property! Temple secrets! It was important!"
The words sounded hollowly throughout the big room.
"Temple secrets!" mocked the voice in her head. "Samples of what they call the 'catalyst molecule' is what, in exchange for trading rights. They think it can make a Witch out of one without power. Old secrets pulled from the ship records they hide. Ah, they won't learn. Politics! You—we—did right to stop the theft, but then we should have fixed all of the problem. I swear that's why they haven't given me a smart girl to choose—until you—for three hundred years!"
"Given! Don't you choose?"
"I won't discuss it with you now. Later, if there's a way. We must get you strengthened! You must touch the moonlight!"
Priscilla stood then, knowing it was useless. She was slender—scrawny said some, until they saw her standing with Moonhawk's aspect upon her—and fairly tall. But the moonlight was still a half-dozen or more elbow lengths over her head, and the slant of the walls made it impossible for her to climb that high.
She tried standing on the bench that was her bed, and that was too short, as well. And if she leaned the bench against the wall?
She tried it, willing tired muscles to push the heavy wood into place near the wall, and then tried to lean it—no. Logic showed it could not work: the bench would wedge itself in and there was no way she could stand on the end of it then . . . .
She pushed the bench over; it fell with a crash, the low backpiece splintering noisily.
She stood in the darkness, naked and exhausted, sweat cooling rapidly on her body. She began to shiver and with it came an inner blackness so total—
"I have failed you, Moonhawk! I am too weak, too—" There was no sound, within or without. Whatever the watchers heard or thought was as hidden from her as Moonhawk.
"They will stone me, then, that's all, and the circle will continue. Moonhawk can choose a better vessel and all will be well with the world."
She said that and the words came back to her and then struck her full force. She'd seen stonings twice and had been sickened by them; but now, to have the crowd after her?
There was no panic. She would hang herself, that's all. She could use the empty lampholder to tie her hair to, tie it around her neck as well, and then jump from the bench and—
"Will you kill Moonhawk?" came the question.
"Never! Moonhawk lives!"
"Precisely. Moonhawk lives. I may withdraw from time to time, and be subject to meddlings, but I live. Lute lives too, though they deny it. For that matter, Priscilla Delacroix y Mendoza lives. I swear that if you ever in life attempt an unreasonable suicide again I will abandon you forever! They've pretty well got me walled out, you know, but then they've got a couple dozen full strength Sisters working on this. Don't fight them with your magic, child: they must believe it's all mine! Now, if you can use your head—"
In the darkness Priscilla moved, tripped on the splintered backrest as she looked at the light on the wall. The moon was nearly to the zenith—the touch of silver light might move down the wall another handspan or two but . . .
"Lady Moonhawk, guide me!" said the girl, but she was already moving. She pushed the bench toward the spot of moonlight on the wall carefully. Then she hurried, bare feet soundless on the cold stone, to the backrest.
It was heavy, but it was long enough. She climbed onto the bench. It swayed slightly, but would surely hold. Then she ruthlessly twisted the ends of her hair into a quick braid, and pulled the braid into the cracked wood at the end of the backrest.
She swayed and missed the spot the first try, and the next—each time wincing as the end of the impromptu pole fell away from its target, straining hair roots unmercifully.
The third time she came close, but her braid fell from the pole. Her arms were cramped and the back of her neck ached. She was sweating and shivering at once as she tugged her hair into the splinters. Somehow it was the other side of that chantpage she saw . . ."less the weight, more easily sold."
"I'm crazy," she said. "They're right. I'm crazy—"
But the fourth time did it. The wide end of the stick landed in the midst of the patch of moonlight and she twisted it in her hands to expose the braid to the silver light.
Nothing happened. She'd expected—
Well, what had she expected, she wondered. Power? Escape? Wings?
She waited. The stick leaned against the wall, taking some of its weight off her arms. She didn't feel as tired as she expected, but—
"Patience. It seems they'll kill you if we're not careful, and you're far too good to be killed over politics. I'm afraid this round's going to be a draw. So call on the moon for what you really need now, and hurry! But never recant. They can take your power only if you give in!"
Priscilla stood, arms over head, staring at her hair in the silver light. Then she began chanting, the properly measured chant of Moonhawk's own words.
The vision she saw was not of the Moon, nor of freedom, but of a man. Not simply any man, though—a man gaunt of face; with fingers so strong they'd crush rock to powder, fingers so gentle they'd caress and tease a breast for hours . . .
Lute! she realized. Lute the Magician. She'd read of him, both good and bad; in the public schools he was a legend, and in Temple training he was example: she'd read the tracts explaining away his magic and showing a novitiate how to see through the sleight-of-hands he'd performed . . .the more recent books had him as an amiable charlatan, persuaded of the Goddess through Moonhawk's True Power. They'd been lovers!
The thought burned her: she been taught a Moonhawk strong and pure, celibate. But Moonhawk had had a lover . . .
She'd touched his words, too, then! And could power but go to power? Surely Moonhawk's lover—
"Lute," she called outloud then, "Lute! Lend me your power! Lute, by the Goddess—"
She heard a noise and returned to her chant, her demand still echoing up the walls toward the open windows—
They came quickly: dozens of them, including the entire Inner Circle
. They came brandishing open-flamed torches and with silver and stone headdresses. They came with 11 of the 14 living Names among them, and with spell-proof outworld rope they pulled her from her perch, bruising her breasts and legs. They chanted back, and with two Sisters on each arm and three on each leg
they held her face down on the stone floor to stop her voice, and they took the finest of knives and slashed at her hair, cutting and hacking at it till it fell everywhere around her.
"How dare you!" screamed one of the Inner Circle
when the hacking was done. "How dare you! To call on a charlatan within the Goddess' own hold? What use can some mere male trickster be to you, fool? Heresy in the Temple itself! In the morning you will recant!"
"No!" shouted the girl, bruising her lips on the floor. "Not while Moonhawk lives! While Moonhawk lives, so does Lute, and he is a Name!"
"You will be stoned for that!" said another of the Circle, tracing stars in the air, and then patterns that glowed bright red. "False Moonhawk! Recant, give up your magic, or it will be taken!"
Within her, the voice, distant, cool. "These fools forget the well they drink from—Never recant! If they take my Name you have yours, Priscilla, never forget! When they take Sintia's blessing you'll be as invisible to them . . . We are angry, Priscilla!"
Within, Priscilla felt heat, and the nearest to her shrank away from the power there.
"I'll not recant!"
Another voice, perhaps the Mother herself, said quietly, "Let it begin then—"
The woman holding her left arm began to twist it, and nearby a sword rattled.
From where she lay she could see her dark hair scattered about the floor, and feet, and the glitter of high-level magics on everything. Her cheek hurt.
"I was always concerned of this one—" said someone as she was kicked.
She managed to see the woman who spoke: an older woman, politically secure—
"Will you stone Moonhawk, Ignela Rala y Duedes? You whose names are also Renata Dulavier Francotta and—"
"Stop!" said the woman, using the power of Command, the same command that Moonhawk and Priscilla had killed a woman with. "Stop!"
"—Sylvette Anna Ringwald? It isn't required. Moonhawk is walking away from your ken for now, leaving your necessity behind for this generation. Remember that she is in every Temple, and will know how you deal!"
They beat her then, with rods of metal and gems, and each touch was an agony, as if her soul were being drained, and they twisted her arms and spoke Commands and Spells.
When they twisted her arm again she screamed, and when they twisted further, she screamed again, calling out for Moonhawk and Lute. For a moment she felt as if Lute were at the door, drawing sword—
"No!" came the word in Priscilla's head. "He can't stand against so many Names yet! He stirs, though, girl—he stirs! I must find him—live your life. You will not be forgot!"
Within Priscilla there was a sigh, and a relaxation of will: Moonhawk could not save her, Lute would not save her. And Moonhawk was elsewhere now.
A jubilant cry sprang from a close-eyed woman in the back of the room: "Gone, sisters, the false Moonhawk is gone!"
* * *
THEY LEFT HER after awhile, in the darkness, having exhausted an amazing amount of magical energy on her. They took with them the wooden bench, and they burnt her hair where it lay, that she'd not have influence over any holder of it, should her false magic return.
She lay naked on the stones, and cried. She was going to die now, or very soon, and badly. The bruises and scrapes ached at her soul. What had she gotten in this life? What right had any of them—all she'd really wanted was to live a good life, in Balance, to honor the Goddess, to live well. What could she do now—
The noises she'd heard before came closer now. Rats? Bats?
There was a clatter. And another. The sound of wings. More clatter. Something fell on her thigh, jerking her sharply awake. She reached—
And found a thing about the size of her thumb, dimpled and light . . .a frenal nut! As she cast around she found more; there was a rain of them now. She'd wanted food, and here was food, of a sort. If she could just have enough strength to face them once more—
There was a louder flutter, and a keening. A large bird swooped past her head, settled in on the stone floor. She could hear it walking, could almost make out its form in the night.
The bird's head bobbed and it dropped an offering—a harvest plum. As it jumped into the air she saw its markings in the distant light: a hawk it was . . .
* * *
IN THE MORNING Priscilla Delacroix y Mendoza was declared dead by her mother, in open court. It was a minor thing. Being a civil matter its transmission to the world was delayed by a more important announcement.
This more important announcement went first to the rest of the Names who Lived, who meditated upon it for some hours before declaring officially to the Temple that Moonhawk was dead. Thence to the underlings went the news: those who would take the message to other Temples in the City, with the true and proper story: young Moonhawk had turned back the theft of all that was Holy and returned to the Temple a key to Balance: in so doing her mission for the Mother in this life was fulfilled, and she had returned to the fold.
* * *
In the Temple basement a lone guard stared down at the prisoner a long time before nudging her awake with his foot. He'd considered—but no, not in the Temple, and not with that damn bird staring down at him from the empty lamp holder.
"Get up, you," he said, kicking at her a little harder. "Get out!" He threw her a rough and ragged shift, a castaway from the alms box.
"If you ain't out by next chant you're up for trespassing in the Temple! Can't trust any of you Nameless."
She was full of pains and aches, but overriding that was an emptiness that was like a drug that dulled her senses. Things weren't as sharp; she could not summon warmth—
Priscilla reached out, unwillingly accepting the new because the past was totally gone; she put the shift on, and stood slowly. She was cold, but here was a little bit of food, and—
The man was staring pointedly at her breasts. She put her head high, felt the ache in the back of her neck, suddenly feeling the weight of his words.
Nameless. Dead. A nothing—No longer Moonhawk. No right to be bare-breasted in public. No right to call the Goddess Mother . . .
Awkwardly, unnaturally, she buttoned the shift across her bruised and chaffed breasts, felt its hem rub on the raw bruises on her thighs.
There was an explosion of wings behind her, and the bird that had been poised there flew out the door and to the left.
"Out, damn you!" snapped the guard. "Look at this mess we gotta clean up! By the Goddess' good foot, get out!"
Numbly, she gathered together a few more of the nuts. Food. A little bit of food.
The man pushed at her roughly.
"Get out! You're not wanted. You're dead!"
She ran then, ran out the door and to the left, ignoring the open door to the right that led upramp into the beggars courtyard.
"I'm not," she said to the wall as she climbed the stairs, "I'm not dead."
She stopped at the door to MaidenHall, waiting for the tingle of acceptance at the crossboard in the stone floor—
There was none.
There was nothing. No quiet gong sounding the advent of a Maiden, no warning brangle of alarm bells, no roar of tarfire from the pot over the door
Nothing.
She stepped through, then and touched the naming stone with a bare foot.
Nothing again. Moonhawk's name was not intoned by the four guard coyotes, long-frozen by spell, nor did they raise hackles and charge. She was there, Nameless.
Moonhawk's words came back to her: too much training had gone before for her to continue without some ceremony.
"Priscilla," she said meekly.
Again nothing happened. No repetition, no echo, no—
She realized then she was a thief in Temple!
She ran with trepidation, furtively, until she found the locker that had been hers briefly but that had always been Moonhawk's.
To stop a thief one uses locks. So had the wise women of Sintia done, and the sight of that silver-bright lock sent shivers of fear and indignati
on through Priscilla. What could she do now? She'd certainly starve, unable to get at what should be hers. And how dare they assume she stoop to stealing—
Incongruously, she laughed, and it was a true laugh despite everything, one that took in all the ironies—
She felt the sound of added laughter, distantly heard within her a voice new and thrilling—a male voice!
"You've a chance to survive then, haven't you? It isn't always easy, but girl, look! It's only a silver lock, all curled about with magic signs that'd burn the hands off any believer still shackled to their cow-eyed vision—"
Priscilla recoiled at that description—felt the distant voice pause—
"—Can't argue with you now, dammit. She needs help for this trick of hers and I—Priscilla, get a pin or a nail."
The voice felt different, even more distant—but Priscilla took one of Delana-who-was-Oatflower's favorite stainless steel pins from her unkempt locker top and found herself in front of Moonhawk's locker, lock held precisely thus—
Her hands pulled on the lock expertly as the pin searched within; she felt her muscles respond to minute ridges the pin struck, felt her wrist twist this way while the other hand pulled that way and the pin slammed home and—
Twang—
"Done. Luck be with you girl, 'cause we can't go beyond the door with you. Never give in!"
Priscilla pulled the lock off the clasp and hurriedly began stuffing the locker contents into a cloth sack: shoes, a belt, work trousers, a few old copper and aluminum coins—
She left to the Temple and its minions the costly clothes, the makeups, the gold armbands and necklets, signs of power, while happily grabbing up the tight-wrapped soya bar she'd left negligently behind the week before. She covered her newly-shorn head with an old blue kerchief that had been a dusting rag for Moonhawk's ceremonies. What else?
Her gaze fell again to the bright-wrought things, eyes full of the greed of necessity. Dare she?
An odd song tickled at the back of her head, though she couldn't catch the words. Still—When she moved on she held her right hand tight to seven silver bracelets.
She turned toward the door, found she still held the silver lock in her left hand, under the twisted top of the cloth bag. Her impulse was to toss it away—
