Once Was: Book One of the Asylum Trilogy (4 page)

The Wayland’s hand was fevered delight as it caught mine and brought it to His lips. “What fears keep you from your home, Roseen?”

“I’m hiding from the ghosts of my past.” I knew He was plucking images from my thoughts as soon as they came. Avoiding his own priest, Cade, discovering whatever task Bas had set for me, the inevitable boat ride to Sheelin, crossing Liand’s Divide, finding what state Madani was left in, and then assuming the position in the priesthood expected of me. It was Cade, however, I was the most scared of.

“My priest is set on you the same way I am upon the Lady.” A warm chuckle lit fire in my belly and tripped my feet. “If you cannot keep up with a god, Priestess, then I shall carry you.” Strong arms lifted me without giving a chance for complaint, until I was held in arms that were equal parts paternal comfort and confusing sensuality. The duality of Aya’s worship was no longer lost to me. I felt the burn of His magic consuming me.

“Do not fear my son, Daughter. His fire will never burn you more than you desire. He will temper the metal in your soul.” Aya smiled and kissed my hair. “Sleep, Daughter. I shall take you to where My Lady desires you to be. We shall cross the blighted lands of My little brother’s followers together.” With a brush of lips across my tattooed brow, I fell asleep within His arms.

Chapter Three

My daughters; my sisters; and yes, even my brothers; I beg of you to use caution in this coming new era. I sense change trembling in the foundations of this world. Her claws are extended, ready to protect us, but only if we first arm ourselves in the shared sagacity of the elders and the insight of the young.

Letters to the Initiate, Twenty Third Oracle of Bas

I
suppose
it
was the smells that roused me from my slumber. The scent of water mingled with the aromatics of an awakening town, each earning a hungered rumble from my body. It had been days since I counted more than a few mouthfuls of food as a meal thanks to my work as a healer and Bas’ rushing me out of the city towards home. It would have been many more nights of bartering work for food and shelter if not for Aya carrying me.

He brought me three, if not four, days of traveling in a single evening as I slept within His massive arms. I vaguely recall Aya kneeling in the sand to warm it before setting me onto a warm bed of my sweater bundled beneath my cheek. A murmured prayer earned me a fond stroking along my arm before He covered me with my cloak. This side of the Smith was rarely seen, but I would forever remember His kindness. My body would recall His touch.

Despite His orders that I sleep until dawn, I had crept to the city’s edge not twelve heartbeats after His departure. Already past moon rise, the gates in the city were secured with no way in short of scaling a steep wall. This barrier was new to me, at least in physicality. So much had changed since my last visit, and I had not yet been inside the gates. What more would I find?

In this changing world that was slowly overtaking the familiar, physical walls were traversed with considerable ease in comparison to those of social and emotional connections. Those walls had been erected years ago, and it was one of my jobs to break them down. The mere presence of a priestess was often enough to instill hope in hearts that had known only apathy for years.

Though I had known Liand’s men patrolled the region in search of new priestesses, I had not thought Liand’s Wall would have reached this far so soon, yet his soldiers patrolled the outskirts of the city as if they were Madani citizens guarding against marauders. They were easy to dodge in the darkness; it was the stone divide keeping me from my home. The stacked blocks made a wall easily as tall as two men; even during my years of childhood brashness I would not have attempted such a feat as scaling that wall. Well, perhaps I would have for a good enough reason; I was a head-strong child. A head-strong child who developed into a stubborn and determined woman.

Unable to enter Madani until first light, I had opted to bed down on the beach where Aya had set me down, using my arms and still-warm sweater to cushion my head. The early autumn weather was fair enough to be comfortable, and my safety for the night was ensured. He would not have left me unguarded otherwise. While Madani did border Liand’s Divide, the crime rate was low. My people were non-violent, regardless of the war surrounding them. It was part of why Liand had waited so long to set his sights on my people; he did not believe they would put up a fight when it came time to clench his iron fist around our harbor.

Sleeping beside the sacred lake was no worse than I had fared in previous years of travel and far better than some nights in larger cities where undisturbed slumber was a precious commodity. A peaceful night of dreamless rest had been a divine gift; I might have continued sleeping until a curious bird chose to obtain a closer look at the body curled over a small dune, but the growing aromas reached out to me.

The sand, which had been warm when I first lay down, held a pleasant chill from the night’s shade. Brushing stray grains from my skirt, I pulled my sweater close around my arms as I walked from my shelter to the just waking town. My cloak hung loosely from its clasp, the gray-green wool too warm to wrap about me. It felt good to be home even if it was from the calling. I had been running from my roots too long.

Emerging from the rocks separating the lake from the city, my heart ached at the sight awaiting me. Stone walls surrounded the city as far as my eyes could see, having replaced the wooden fences and blockades once used as defense. We were a city ready for a siege. Where once a town elder would rest, ready to welcome newcomers and share gossip with those returning, now a guard sat sleepily upon a stool by the open gate.

Heavy lidded eyes and a drunken smile settled on me before he fell back asleep. Perhaps this was a last gift from the deity who had seen me home in safety.

Sucking in a breath until my lungs burned, I made my way through as if I belonged upon the road. I did belong there. I was born there. It was my home. I knew each building I saw as if we were old friends. If I kept telling myself these statements, I might feel them to be truth instead of wishes.

With the sun having just risen, the marketplace shook off the torpor gained of hiding shady dealings beneath the stars, and shop owners set out their wares. The rich, yeasty fragrance of the baker’s just-baked loaves beckoned me as he pulled trays from the oven and set warm bread out on display. Farmers set out their harvests on tables, meats and vegetables ready to be purchased, their earthy sweetness carried on the wind. From the lake came the smells and sounds of the fishermen bearing their catch-laden nets. Each breeze wafted the scent over to me, reaffirming that I had reached home at last.

Step by step I picked my way over new cobblestones and old dirt that ran together along the shop fronts. Here a footprint and there a horseshoe left their impressions in dried mud from a recent rainfall. Too early for most townsfolk, I was free to watch my city awaken without much fear of what might be. Bas’ claw still hooked within my breast no longer pulled me, but tethered me to the city. I was needed here for a while. Where She took me was at Her whim. For now, She was content to let me be in Madani upon my own two feet.

Barrels of wheat stood outside the baker’s storefront as always, the red grains glowing in the diffused morning light. They reminded me of the sandalwood powder I had encountered in warmer climates to our south. The scent, however, was far richer than the spice. It was the true essence of my world.

I could not deny myself the pleasure and reached both hands into the open barrel. The crimson wheat berries were warm and flowed through my fingers like sand, childhood delights never ceasing to amuse my tactile memories. From hand to hand they fell, an hourglass of memories tumbling palm to palm. With each grain, long-unused magic words awakened on my tongue.

“Good morning, Avarin, baker of Madani’s finest bread,” I said with my sweetest smile upon my face. The moments I had spent in this precise spot with the ritually dictated exchange, long ago written between the baker and any small child in need of breakfast, astounded me. It had been over twenty years since I last took part, but the words found their way from my heart to lips as if it were yesterday. I required no looking-glass to see my reflection; I knew my eyes sparkled with a long-absent youthful exuberance built from nostalgia.

“Good day, my lady,” he said, his voice enriched with a hint of amusement at someone my age playing a child’s game. This was sadly where my nostalgic comfort ended. Avarin’s mud-brown eyes narrowed as he peered beneath my hood. “Sister Roseen?” As I nodded, his face twisted into a rueful caricature of what it had been moments before. “What ill news follows in your shadow this day? A plague upon the children? The harvest to fall into ruin unless we send more children to that damnable island? Or are you here to fill girls’ heads with dreams so that the new fire-bearer will spirit them away?” His hands wove over the breads as if he were driving away small flies, not a woman who had more than enough common sense to tell when she was not wanted. Upon each hand he bore a branding scar of the Sun Lord. Even the merchants had been claimed.

Whether it was anger at his new faith or with the words he had spoken, if Avarin thought he could speak to me in such a manner, the baker would find my tongue no less sharp than it had ever been. “Avarin, if you remember, I was once one of those girls. My return here is for reasons yet unknown to me. I felt the simple need to come home thanks to the calling.” His mouth pursed in disgust at my vague mention of magic; I saw no reason to say Bas Herself had pulled me home and Her Consort had carried me.

Summoning forth the ire I so desperately attempted to keep in check, I loosed my temper in the only way I could, my words. “If any dedicants are made known while I am here, it is through Bas’ grace that they have a Sister present to help with the transition, not through any making of my own.”

Looking at my hands, I saw I was still holding a small palmful of crimson grains. The same grains that Avarin would no doubt later have hauled to the mill so Madani’s famous red bread could be made and then delivered to local port cities neighboring our own. How small these grains were when removed from the chaff, as small to me as we are to the world.

The wind would carry the grains to make new groundings elsewhere, and their presence in Madani would be unknown by the time our history was written. If Liand had his way, my presence would be similarly eradicated. I was a healer of the spirit—and sometimes the flesh—in Bas’ name, something Liand and his beloved God could not tolerate.

Being naught but a shade of life was how I walked in and out of cities wavering in their loyalty to the Gods or the Righteous Way. Bitterness towards those of the Sisterhood had been growing in the outside world for many years, thanks to Liand’s efforts, and it seemed to have found root in Madani while I was away learning about the world and avoiding further responsibilities on Sheelin. I held to a slim shred of hope that my time of penance in Madani would be short before the day of travel to Sheelin arrived. I longed to hold the city of my memories to my heart, not this bitter echo.

Given the current attitude to those of my status, I doubted I would find myself welcome to supper at any table. My meager funds would not provide much of a meal, and I hated to rely upon pity from those who knew me as a child. A guilt-given meal tasted as sour on the tongue as ones had while I was in Liand’s employ.

Oh, how I longed for the carefree days when the proper exchange would have been made. Avarin would be flattered by the child’s praise and take a moment from his work to ask how the child’s parents were faring. After answering that they were much too busy that morning to make a proper breakfast, the good baker would glance up and down the row of shops, check that his wife was not watching from the oven room, and take out a small loaf; “damaged” or “didn’t rise properly,” he would say, with a twinkle in his eye and a small grin upon his face, before slipping it across to the hungry child. There would be no free breakfast this morning for me, at least not one given out of kindness.

With a heavy heart, I pulled two coins out of my waist pouch, and Avarin’s eyes widened in response, knowing he had failed me. It was a minute glimpse into who he was before such hardship reached our once fair town. Setting them onto the counter was painful to me, as scourging as the hunger eating at my bones. I had walked the past two days sustained by a minimal amount of water and small lumps of dried beef. My esurience was easily ignored, however, as my hope and pride in my home city took a devastating blow. The ache in my chest threatened to consume me faster than my hunger.

“May Bas bring many customers to your door, Avarin, and may She bring warmth to all of our hearts again.” They were sharp words, ones meant to cut and bring hope at the same time. When I accepted the purchased loaf, I felt a weariness deep in my soul that no amount of happy remembrances could remove. The bread was good but not nearly as appetizing as a loaf freely given.

Other shop owners, some familiar and others new, kept their eyes down, not wanting to look at me. Whispers between a husband and wife over the “witch-woman” reached my ears and colored my cheeks a delicate pink. I was immune to such painful gossip when traveling, but here at home, I wanted to be Roseen, not a priestess of the Goddess. The reaction of my people hollowed out a cavern in my striated heart. In my grief I was so lost I did not notice the speaker until his words wrapped around me.

“You haven’t, have you?” A conspiratorial whisper tugged at my ears from the shadows along the way. My eyes sought out the speaker, and I found an elder curled up like a cat, burn scars covering where there were once tattoos marking him as a priest of the old ways. “You haven’t found that you walk a lost path, little girl. Don’t fret, Sister.” On his lips, the title sounded less a sneer, and more a pitiful gift.