James Clemens - Shadowfall

Panicked, Dart had expected her corruption to be bared, but Matron Grannice had merely sat her down and spoken kindly and gently. “The bleed is nothing to be ashamed of,” she consoled. “It is your first step into womanhood.” She then went on to instruct Dart in how to control her seepage and keep herself clean. Afterward, the matron had given her a long hug, a rare showing of warmth and affection from the large woman.

Dart had cried. It was not just relief that drew out her tears. Wrapped in Matron Grannice’s bosomy embrace, Dart was reminded how much she was about to lose. It was more than the roof over her head and the warm meals in her belly. It was the familiar faces she had known since a babe, the everyday routines of the only life she knew. Here was her home, her family.

She had cried for a long time until finally Matron Grannice had gently shushed her, wiped her tears, and sent her back to her bed.

A few days later, here she sat, awaiting the end. She would be stripped and spread on Healer Paltry’s bench. Experienced fingers would touch her shame and find her broken and spoiled, unfit for a god, too corrupt to even walk the halls of the Conclave. She would be whipped and cast out to the streets, spurned by all.

Master Willet had ripped away more than her virginity and innocence on the floor of the rookery. His rutting had torn down the very stone walls around her, broken her home into a bloody ruin. Had the monster known this? Had this been part of his black pleasure?

Master Willet’s disappearance had not gone unnoticed by the Conclave. Talk, rumor, and innuendo had quickly spread: that he had been waylaid by brigands outside the Conclave and his body dumped in the Tigre where it was washed away; that he had taken a whore for a wife and fled the First Land; that he had been practicing some Dark Grace and been sucked into the naether, never to be seen again. The less fanciful supposed he simply took service with some other caste and had left before his current contract was contested. But there were three in the Conclave who knew the truth: Dart, Pupp, and the person who had sent Master Willet up the stairs to attack a lone girl.

This last remained hidden, as much an accomplice in that dark play as those up in the rookery. No one came and pulled her aside, accused Dart in private or public of the crimes in the high tower. But someone knew.

Dart’s eyes settled to the hall’s stone floor. Pupp lay curled, his body steaming gently, his molten brass surface glowing brighter with each breath, then dimming as he exhaled with a wheeze of flame. She had experimented with him in solitary moments, testing various humours to see if anything besides blood would allow her to touch his phantom form. Nothing did, not saliva, yellow bile, or even tears.

Only blood.

In the dark, she had planned horrible strategies upon the body of the one who had sent Master Willet up the stairs. But now she would be cast out before her vengeance was complete.

The door at the end of the hall opened again. Laurelle strode out, back straight, eyes flashing. None needed to see her satisfied smile or the blue cross on her forehead to know she had passed judgment. “Margarite!” Matron Grannice called from the doorway, startling them all. “Don’t drag your heels, child! Get in here!”

All the girls popped to their feet. Margarite hurried through the door. Dart moved two steps over and took the girl’s abandoned seat. It was still warm from the fear of each girl who had sat there before.

The door closed.

Laurelle stood a few steps down the hall, basking in the envy of her fellow pupils. “It was nothing,” she consoled the others. “It is no more frightening than the yearly physique. Only much more thorough.” She spoke this last with the authority of a master to apprentices, then pressed the back of her hand to her forehead. “I have never felt so completely tested, so sure of my purity and readiness to be a handmaiden.”

Murmurs of approval and assurances that she would be chosen wafted down the line of seated girls.

Her words awakened the terror in Dart’s heart. As she stared at the closed door, her eyes traced the oak leaves and acorns on the lintel. Normally the sigil signified the art of healing: soothing balms, calming teas, all the gentle Graces to ease a body. But now the meaning had darkened; beyond that door, her life ended.

A touch on her shoulder made her jump. She turned to find Laurelle bent before her. All the girls watched, ready to see what new mischief Laurelle meant to inflict on Dart for their amusement.

Pupp was already on his feet, passing through Laurelle’s gown, his molten skin roiling with agitation.

“I know your secret,” Laurelle whispered, so softly no other could hear. “I know about the blood.”

Dart tensed, her vision darkened at the corners.

Laurelle continued. “I overheard Matron Grannice. Having your first menstra is frightening enough, but to have it mere days before the full moon ceremony…” Her fingers found Dart’s hand and squeezed ever so gently, then let go. “You’ll be fine.”

The sudden kindness caught Dart unprepared.

Laurelle straightened. “It’s not like you have any chance of being chosen this night anyway.”

Snickers and giggles met her words.

But Laurelle seemed deaf to the others. As she turned away, she carried a haunted look to her eye, and a touch of something else, the hint of envy again.

Studying her closely, Dart watched Laurelle struggle for a more confident smile. Dart had always been the invisible one, the girl in the shadows, as much a phantom as Pupp at times. For the first time, she wondered how much of a burden it was to always stand in the light.

Laurelle moved down the line of girls, offering little words of encouragement and praise. But Dart saw how her shoulders trembled slightly, burdened by the weight of all the expectations placed upon her. Not only by the girls, Dart suspected, but by her family, too.

The creak of hinges drew all their eyes back around. Margarite appeared, head high, a blue cross shining brightly on her brow.

“Margarite!” Laurelle cried, rushing to embrace her. “You passed!”

The girls laughed, dancing in each other’s arms.

Matron Grannice shooed them farther down the hall. “Dart, you’re next. Let’s not keep Healer Paltry waiting.”

Dart stood, but with her first step, she came close to falling. Her knees had turned to porridge, her thighs to rubber. Only a quick hand to the wall saved her.

“It’s not a walk to the gallows,” the matron grumbled and helped her stand straighter with a grip on her elbow.

Dart was half led, half dragged over the threshold.

“Why does she even bother?” Margarite said behind her. “Who would pick such a weed when there are flowers like us to choose?”

Matron Grannice closed the door behind Dart, shutting out the rest of the thirdfloorers. Dart wondered if she’d ever see them again.

Behind her, Pupp pushed through the door, trotting to Dart’s side. The healer’s illuminarium was bright with candles and smoky with burning stems of dried herbs. The scent of witchweed and briertail almost made her swoon.

“Come, child.” Matron Grannice led her past the cramped antechamber and into the illuminarium proper.

The room was circular in shape with small cots aligned along the wall like the markings on a sundial. The beds normally comforted the ill, but they had been emptied for this hallowed day. Privacy was necessary to adequately judge the potential servitors to the gods.

In the center of the room, a single bench rested, shaped like a reclining figure, arms and legs spread. Dart had never seen such a bench, but she had heard of it.

Along with the four sacred illuminaria that surrounded it.