service.”
“Oh, yes. Of these names”—he waves an arm above the list—“fewer than half performed recognizable acts of service. And most of them died young. And brutally. Like Hitzeder the bowman, who died with an arrow in his heart.”
Not very good odds.
A sharp ache is forming behind my eyes, the ache of worry and unshed tears. I pinch the bridge of my nose and say, “Why are you telling me this? My nurse . . . she is, that is—”
“She’s your guardian. The lady Ximena would give her life for you.”
“She’s my nurse .” She’s more than that, of course, but I’m tired and surly.
“A guardian is selected by the nearest monastery to watch over the bearer. In Orovalle, I’m sure her job included seeing to your ignorance on certain prophetic matters. Actually—” He looks away, into the dark. “I’d prefer she not know about this conversation. As head priest of the Monastery-at-Brisadulce, it’s my duty to instruct you, to prepare you in any way I can. But a Vía-Reforma would see things very differently.”
She’s done more than watch over me. “She killed a man once. Because he learned I bear the stone.” I watch him closely for a response, but his sharp face is stolid. “With a hairpin,” I add, and am satisfied with a telltale twitch.
“Lady Ximena is a formidable woman.” His voice holds both respect and fear.
It was very kind of him to meet me at this horrid hour and instruct me at risk to himself. I reach forward and take his hand. “My nurse will not know of this meeting.”
He squeezes back, needing assurance as much as giving it. In spite of the night’s revelations, I am filled with the warmth of knowing I have a friend.
“God always chooses well, my child. I will help you any way I can.”
I take a deep breath to still the fear that vibrates in my chest. “If he chooses so well, why have so many bearers failed? Why does he sometimes ignore my prayers?”
“I don’t know, Elisa. There are many things about the Godstone and its bearers that we do not understand. But God knows. He knows more than we can imagine.”
Aneaxi’s words, before God let her die. Though I have enough control to keep from rolling my eyes at him, I can’t force the proper platitudes to my lips. Would he still believe me a worthy bearer if he knew of the doubts always sneaking into my thoughts?
The stool creaks as I rise. “Thank you, Father. I have more questions, but I’m tired, and I . . . well, I need to think about all this for a bit.”
He stands and grabs my upper arm. “I have something for you, before you go.”
As he disappears again into the dark, I stretch and yawn. I hope it’s a copy of Homer’s Afflatus . I’d dearly love to study it myself. Ximena could not know I possessed it, of course, and different hiding places compete in my mind for viability while I wait.
He’s gone a long time. I hear ruffled parchment, the click of a key and lock, a grating sound. When he reenters our meager pool of candlelight, he holds a fist-size leather pouch with long drawstrings that dangle between his fingers.
Not the Afflatus . I try not to seem disappointed. “What is it?”
He upends the pouch. Three small, sparkling items clatter onto the table. I lean closer. They are faceted jewels the size of my thumbnail, mostly dull in the dark but with hints of fire where the candlelight catches them just right. Deep blue. Familiar. I pick one up; it’s cold and hard in my palm.
“Godstones,” Father Nicandro says.
I catch my breath. It’s so different outside of the body, heavy and lifeless.
“This monastery had the privilege of overseeing three bearers. When they died, their Godstones detached. That one”—he points to one on the table—“is twelve hundred years old.”
It’s a strange feeling to hold my history in my hand. And as the stone in my navel pulses a warm greeting in contrast to the cold thing in my palm, I realize it’s my future too. My death.
I drop it
“Oh, yes. Of these names”—he waves an arm above the list—“fewer than half performed recognizable acts of service. And most of them died young. And brutally. Like Hitzeder the bowman, who died with an arrow in his heart.”
Not very good odds.
A sharp ache is forming behind my eyes, the ache of worry and unshed tears. I pinch the bridge of my nose and say, “Why are you telling me this? My nurse . . . she is, that is—”
“She’s your guardian. The lady Ximena would give her life for you.”
“She’s my nurse .” She’s more than that, of course, but I’m tired and surly.
“A guardian is selected by the nearest monastery to watch over the bearer. In Orovalle, I’m sure her job included seeing to your ignorance on certain prophetic matters. Actually—” He looks away, into the dark. “I’d prefer she not know about this conversation. As head priest of the Monastery-at-Brisadulce, it’s my duty to instruct you, to prepare you in any way I can. But a Vía-Reforma would see things very differently.”
She’s done more than watch over me. “She killed a man once. Because he learned I bear the stone.” I watch him closely for a response, but his sharp face is stolid. “With a hairpin,” I add, and am satisfied with a telltale twitch.
“Lady Ximena is a formidable woman.” His voice holds both respect and fear.
It was very kind of him to meet me at this horrid hour and instruct me at risk to himself. I reach forward and take his hand. “My nurse will not know of this meeting.”
He squeezes back, needing assurance as much as giving it. In spite of the night’s revelations, I am filled with the warmth of knowing I have a friend.
“God always chooses well, my child. I will help you any way I can.”
I take a deep breath to still the fear that vibrates in my chest. “If he chooses so well, why have so many bearers failed? Why does he sometimes ignore my prayers?”
“I don’t know, Elisa. There are many things about the Godstone and its bearers that we do not understand. But God knows. He knows more than we can imagine.”
Aneaxi’s words, before God let her die. Though I have enough control to keep from rolling my eyes at him, I can’t force the proper platitudes to my lips. Would he still believe me a worthy bearer if he knew of the doubts always sneaking into my thoughts?
The stool creaks as I rise. “Thank you, Father. I have more questions, but I’m tired, and I . . . well, I need to think about all this for a bit.”
He stands and grabs my upper arm. “I have something for you, before you go.”
As he disappears again into the dark, I stretch and yawn. I hope it’s a copy of Homer’s Afflatus . I’d dearly love to study it myself. Ximena could not know I possessed it, of course, and different hiding places compete in my mind for viability while I wait.
He’s gone a long time. I hear ruffled parchment, the click of a key and lock, a grating sound. When he reenters our meager pool of candlelight, he holds a fist-size leather pouch with long drawstrings that dangle between his fingers.
Not the Afflatus . I try not to seem disappointed. “What is it?”
He upends the pouch. Three small, sparkling items clatter onto the table. I lean closer. They are faceted jewels the size of my thumbnail, mostly dull in the dark but with hints of fire where the candlelight catches them just right. Deep blue. Familiar. I pick one up; it’s cold and hard in my palm.
“Godstones,” Father Nicandro says.
I catch my breath. It’s so different outside of the body, heavy and lifeless.
“This monastery had the privilege of overseeing three bearers. When they died, their Godstones detached. That one”—he points to one on the table—“is twelve hundred years old.”
It’s a strange feeling to hold my history in my hand. And as the stone in my navel pulses a warm greeting in contrast to the cold thing in my palm, I realize it’s my future too. My death.
I drop it
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