Blood-Bound [ Lore of Penrua: Book I ]

19

As Mhera followed the guards to the gilded city gates, passersby smiled at her. Many paused and gave the same gesture of respect to Zanara, pressing an open palm against their hearts and bowing their heads. It was a special thing to see Haven sisters on shore. Mhera tried to give a nod of acknowledgment to each of the supplicants, feeling like a pretender in her holy woman's clothes, but it was difficult to see through the gray haze of her veil. Eventually, she turned her attention inward.

It was summer, and the day was warm. Mhera began to sweat, her hair dampened and stuck to her temples beneath her veil. Her long-skirted gown and trailing sleeves were symbols of her spiritual detachment of the world, but in practice, the unwieldy clothing so detached her that it was nearly impossible to navigate the sand beneath her feet. The crowds parted to permit her armed escort to pass, and Mhera focused on walking without tripping over her clothes. As they passed into the gates of the city, an unwitting guard trod on her sleeve, causing Mhera to stumble.

"My lady—Sister Mhera, forgive me," said the horrified guard.

"No matter," she said, attempting a reassuring tone,but the words came out more coolly than she intended. She was tired and frustrated, and she did not relish the reunions ahead.

It was quite a walk to reach the palace. Had she still been a noblewoman, the guards might have brought a litter to ease her passage through the streets, but as it was, such a luxury would have been completely inappropriate, and behind the veil, Mhera felt invisible. Although they showed the deference that was the Goddess's due, none of the Karelinian citizens would recognize her as Lady Mhera, niece of the emperor of Penrua. With a pang of guilt, Mhera pushed away her resentment at this enforced anonymity.

They walked through market square, where tailors, vintners and blacksmiths plied their trades. Most were respectable, wearing either the rich clothes and ornaments of the upper class or the simpler garments of middle class tradesmen. There were others, though, in plainer clothes—the street-sweepers, tanners, butchers, laundresses, and shoe-shiners. The meaner the occupation, the more likely the worker was to bear a tattoo of varying design on the left cheek.

A dazzling array of wares was on display, both mundane and magical: beautiful works of pottery and glass; leather gloves and boots; woolen and velvet cloaks; fruits, vegetables, ale and wine; charmed necklaces and toy birds that really flew. With passing interest, Mhera noticed a merchant selling printed books alongside hand-illuminated books of prayer, which were forbidden to be printed with a press. Many of these were copied at the Haven, although Mhera had never turned her hand to such work.

Never had Mhera felt so alone in the city of her birth, even surrounded by her uncle's men. The streets, the buildings, the tall spires topped with spirit lamps—everything seemed foreign to her, distant. She had rarely gone into the city proper, having spent most of her life on palace grounds, and she could not orient herself as they traveled through the streets; she had no way of knowing how far they were from the palace. Mhera walked for what seemed an eternity within her moving armored wall. Before long, her feet and her legs were aching and her head was beginning to pound. At last, just when she was considering whether she should ask for a rest, they came upon the Sovereign Square.

Here, the crowds thinned. At the center of the square were the tall, slender forms of the Blessed Sovereigns, artfully crafted of alabaster and standing together on a plinth of obsidian. The Chosen One, Katyander, held a staff surmounted with a sphere of glowing lavender crystal. Her consort Broycan also clasped the staff. Mhera paused for a moment to gaze at their serene faces, remembering all the times she had walked through this square as a child in the company of her late cousin or her governess.

She wondered whether Katyander had desired her gifts. Had she chosen her path, or had it been thrust upon her, leaving her with no recourse but to follow it, no matter how painful it might be?

To Mhera's right was the Imperial Temple, the largest in the city, with its massive golden dome and a spire that seemed high enough to pierce the very heavens; beyond were the expansive gardens, hidden partly from view by an iron gate. On the other side of the statues, the palace rose before her with its white walls, shining towers, and jewel-bright roofs. The sight of it dazzled her starved eyes. There was a flight of broad marble steps sloping up toward high, golden doors which were currently closed to the world. Three guards flanked the doors on either side, solemn in her uncle's livery. They snapped to attention as Mhera's escort came into view.

Once they were at the foot of the stairway, the guards surrounding Mhera parted, turned toward her, and bowed their heads. Mhera, not used to such attention and formality now, was at a loss.

"I thank you all," she said, peering through her veil at the captain. Then, she gathered her skirts and began to climb the steps. She struggled to present an outward air of grace and self-containment, but the heat was making her feel nauseous and she had to take tiny steps to avoid stumbling over her own garments. Sweat trickled down her temple and her neck. Decidedly impious thoughts crowded her mind.

As she gained the gate, the guards made the gesture of respect in unison, their hands starring out over their chests.

"Good afternoon," Mhera said breathlessly.

"Welcome home, Sister Mhera," said one of the men. He made an effort to look serious, but a broad grin warred with his solemnity. She recognized his face dimly from her childhood. Perhaps he had spoken to her once, when she was small. It was an unexpected relief to see him, although she did not know his name.

The men stood aside and two of them moved to open the heavy golden gates. Mhera entered alone.