Dark Moon Defender (Twelve Houses) (53 page)

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Authors: Sharon Shinn

BOOK: Dark Moon Defender (Twelve Houses)
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Ellynor yawned and struggled to gain full consciousness just as the door swung open. Astira’s shriek made her snap her jaw shut and sit up, staring around.
 
 
Rosurie lay on her back on the cold stone floor, completely nude, her arms spread out, her hands cupped beseechingly, her eyes open but unseeing. All around her, like sloppily harvested wheat, her long hair lay in patterned drifts. Her skull was imperfectly shaven, nicked here and there from a badly wielded knife or razor. A thin line of blood traced a route from her forehead down her cheek on the right side of her face.
 
 
Rosurie had sacrificed her hair—her family, her
sebahta
—to the Silver Lady. Then, apparently, had fallen into a trance from which she would not soon be wakened. Neither Astira’s second scream nor Ellynor’s scramble to the floor caused Rosurie to flutter or stir. Ellynor put up a shaking hand to check Rosurie’s pulse, but her heart was still beating. She was still alive.
 
 
She had merely given herself completely over to the goddess.
 
 
CHAPTER 25
 
 
DARRIS allowed Ellynor to spend the entire day in the infirmary, though there was very little either of them could do for Rosurie. “But while you’re here, you may as well see if you can help Deana. She’s had a cough for two weeks now and she’s just miserable. And you could fold these cloths for me, that’s a good girl. I don’t know how everything got into such a muddle.”
 
 
Ellynor did everything Darris requested but only halfheartedly. She certainly wasn’t going to risk calling on the Black Mother’s power to see if she could help poor, wretched Deana, who sounded like she might cough her life away. Not when mystics were being burned in their houses. Not when anyone who noticed what Ellynor did would think she was mystic.
 
 
She didn’t even want to summon magic to see if she could call Rosurie back from her ecstatic trance. This was a matter between the goddesses. If Rosurie had offered herself to the Silver Lady and the Silver Lady had accepted her, Ellynor had no right to ask the Dark Watcher to pull her cousin back from the brink of oblivion. Rosurie would not thank her, and the Pale Mother might not forgive her. Ellynor was already wary of incurring the Silver Lady’s wrath. Now was not the time to put a foot wrong.
 
 
But she was still consumed by anxiety all day as she watched Rosurie lie motionless on her sickbed. It could not be good to lie so still, to loiter so close to death. Rosurie took no food or water all day, did not speak, did not even appear to be breathing.
 
 
Ellynor could not think what she would tell the
sebahta
if Rosurie died.
 
 
A hasty dinner with the other girls, whispering to Astira and Lia what little she knew, then Ellynor was back in the sickroom to spend the night. Deana was still coughing, and a novice had been brought in with a similar ailment, so Ellynor would have plenty to occupy her during the hours she could not sleep.
 
 
“Hope there isn’t a sickness that sweeps through the whole convent, but there probably is,” Darris grumbled. “I heard Shavell coughing over dinner. Next thing you know, it’ll be you and me.”
 
 
Ellynor found she did not much care if Shavell came down with a dreadful illness that kept her confined to the infirmary for weeks. She wouldn’t lift a hand to aid the dedicant, wouldn’t even whisper a prayer to the Silver Lady. Let someone else care if Shavell was sick or well. Let someone else nurse her. Ellynor would not be able to show the older Daughter any kindness at all.
 
 
She did, however, try to ease Deana and the other patient through the night, though she was still afraid to try any magic.
Magic
. How quickly she had come to accept that word to describe what she was capable of when the Black Mother moved through her body. How quickly she had come to believe that she was a mystic.
 
 
But she could not use that power, not here, not now. She stepped between the beds, administering herbs, offering water, straightening blankets. Deana and the novice alternately slept and wheezed, both of them sounding truly uncomfortable, but Rosurie did not stir at all.
 
 
 
 
ROSURIE lay unconscious for the next five days. Ellynor divided her time between the sickroom, the dining hall, and her bedroom, where sleep was hard to come by. So many things weighed on her mind! Worry about Rosurie, anxiety about her own situation, ongoing horror about the midnight trip to the mystic’s cottage. If only she could talk to her father—if only she could talk to Justin—no, she could not wish for Justin’s advice or counsel, for that would mean Justin’s presence, which she could not afford. But, oh, if only she knew which way to turn, where to go for help.
 
 
She prayed for guidance to the Black Mother every night. Invariably, she came away calmed, heartened by the conviction that someone was watching over her, but still no closer to a solution to any of her dilemmas.
 
 
When she returned to the sickroom late in the morning on that fifth day, Darris was beaming.
 
 
“Your cousin is better,” the dedicant greeted her. “She woke around noon and spoke a few words. Ate some soup. She’s sleeping again now, but it’s a more natural sleep. I think she will make a complete recovery.”
 
 
“Praise the Mother,” Ellynor said. “I still think I’ll sit with her again tonight.”
 
 
“I would be happy if you did. And now we have three other patients. All coughing.”
 
 
“You were right.
Everyone’s
going to get sick.”
 
 
That night was even less restful than the ones before, since the two youngest patients were fretful and impossible to please, and Ellynor was constantly bringing them water or soothing them when they started to cry. Deana, who had remained in the infirmary this whole time, seemed to be failing instead of improving. She lay almost unmoving under the covers, but her breathing was rapid, strained, and shallow. Ellynor stood a long time by the proselyte’s bed, gazing down at the long, narrow face, pinched and pained by moonlight.
 
 
Deana had never been anything but kind to Ellynor. She looked stern and ascetic, but she had a charming smile, and her natural expression was happy. All of the novices liked her.
 
 
Just a little magic. Just enough to clear the lungs, ease the breathing. Deana had been sick so long. Just enough magic to heal her.
 
 
Ellynor brushed her hands across Deana’s cheeks, across her shoulders, down her rib cage. Her fingers were hot; she felt the moonstone flaring against her wrist. All the candles in the room seemed to flicker, as if a shadow had passed over them, and then the room returned to its normal brightness.
 
 
Deana’s face loosened and her breath grew deeper. She stirred and turned on the mattress but did not wake.
 
 
Rosurie did, though, about an hour later. Ellynor had just leaned over her cousin’s bed to see if she could detect any change in her condition, when Rosurie opened her eyes. Ellynor watched Rosurie gather her thoughts, remember where she was, and take stock of how she felt.
 
 
“How long?” Rosurie asked.
 
 
“Six days.”
 
 
“Just past full moon,” Rosurie whispered.
 
 
Ellynor smiled. “Yes.”
 
 
“I think I’ll be strong again in a few more days. At the half moon.”
 
 
Split Moon Daughter
. Like Shavell and Darris. Like the dedicants. Ellynor leaned forward and kissed Rosurie gently on the cheek. “I’ll be happy to see you improving.”
 
 
Happy because, when you are well again, I am leaving Lumanen Convent.
 
 
 
 
THE next day was both much better and much worse, because it brought Justin.
 
 
Ellynor had slept till noon, then, still yawning, joined Astira in the kitchen. After giving Astira the update on Rosurie, Ellynor said, “Sorry I haven’t been any help the past few days.”
 
 
“Well, it’s not like you weren’t helping somewhere!” Astira exclaimed. “Anyway, Semmie worked with me, so it’s not like I had to do it all myself. I even had a little free time.”
 
 
She said the last sentence so casually that Ellynor had to ask. “Free time to do what?” She knew, though. “See that boy? That guard?”
 
 
“Daken’s not a
boy
,” Astira said significantly, and then they both started giggling.
 
 
It felt so good to laugh, to smile, to spend a moment thinking about something other than her constant heavy burdens. But Astira’s news was not truly so lighthearted.
“Astira!”
Ellynor hissed. “Don’t do anything to get yourself in trouble. I don’t think—I don’t know that the Lestra will be lenient if the rules are broken.” She still hadn’t had the nerve to tell anyone about her midnight journey that had ended in death and conflagration. She was afraid the other novices wouldn’t believe her—or that they would think the Lestra had done the right thing. Her dreams, when she was able to sleep, were still haunted by flames and cries for mercy.
 
 
Astira was looking more sober. “I know. But how would she punish me? Would she banish me from the convent? Some days—some days I’m not so certain I would mind that.”
 
 
Ellynor glanced around, just to make sure no one was listening at the doors, but they were entirely alone. Still, they moved closer together at the great center table where they were standing, chopping bushels full of vegetables for the evening soup. “Do you think about leaving?” Ellynor asked in a low voice. “Going home?”
 
 
“I do,” Astira replied, just as quietly. “But I wonder.
Does
anyone leave the convent? Not since I’ve been here. Would the Lestra let me go?”
 
 
“Would she come after you if you left in secret?”
 
 
Astira nodded. “And what would she do to me then? I don’t think—I mean—perhaps I’d be confined to my room—I don’t think she would
beat
me. I don’t know. She wouldn’t—I mean—I don’t think it would be anything worse. I’m not a mystic. She wouldn’t
burn
me.”
 
 
Very carefully, Ellynor turned her head to give Astira a sideways stare. “The Lestra burns mystics?” she repeated. As if she didn’t know. But mostly just to hear it confirmed. Mostly to hear what Astira would say.
 
 
The other woman nodded. “That’s what Daken told me yesterday. She goes to their houses and sets them on fire. There was one place—a mansion in Nocklyn, I think—where she was invited to come. The lord had found a mystic on his property and he wanted the Lestra to take care of the old woman. They built a bonfire and burned her at the stake.”
 
 
Ellynor had to try twice to swallow. “And that is—what do you think of that? I admit I’m shocked.”
 
 
Astira looked undecided. Her dissatisfaction with convent life was warring with all the principles she’d learned during two years in Lumanen. “She was a mystic,” she said at last. “But that is a terrible way to die.”
 
 
Ellynor drew a breath as if to reply, but she didn’t have a chance. There was a quick knock on the back door, and a convent guard stuck his head in. “Packhorses here with a delivery,” he said shortly. “I brought them on back to unload.”
 
 
“Good,” Astira said briskly, laying aside her knife and a ball of lettuce and drying her hands on a towel. “We’re out of almost everything.”
 
 
She stepped outside, and Ellynor followed—and then came to an abrupt halt there in the winter-bare garden.
 
 
Justin. His back to her as he began unstrapping bags and bundles from his horse. Returning as he’d promised. Refusing to stay away.
 
 
She had never been so glad and so distressed to see anyone in her life.
 
 
 
 
THEY met outside shortly after midnight, just as they had before. This time she went running to him, her feet soundless and her body without a shadow as she raced past the garden, across the compound, and straight toward the barracks. He could not see her but he must have heard her, for he threw his arms open and took her in a ferocious hug when she flung herself at him from the darkness. She was crying; she could feel the sobs wracking her shoulders, and sense his immediate, intense concern. But she could not speak, she could not explain. She just clung to him and wept.

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