Her tail hung limply, the effect of the draught. It didn’t just calm her heat; it made her want less of everything. Less movement, less appetite. Less fear when she thought of tomorrow. Less.
The sun dipped beyond the mountains and a swell of shadows filled her room. She should’ve gone to dinner, but the thought of replacing the taste of the apple in her mouth made her throat swell. So she didn’t go.
She received another knock, but this time it wasn’t Tanel.
“It’s open,” she said.
The door creaked. Then came Sister Hellen, already in her nightshift, long red hair braided loosely down one side. She clutched something in both hands, her mouth working through a smile that wasn’t quite landing.
“You weren’t at dinner,” she said.
Lain didn’t answer right away. They weren’t exactly close, but they’d been kind, once, in the same direction at the same time. Sometimes that was enough.
“I know what day it is,” Hellen added.
Lain nodded.
“I don’t know what to say.” Hellen stared down at the small wrapped bundle in her hands. “Everyone says you’re lucky, that you were chosen. I don’t know. It’s hard to imagine –” she bit back on her words, then huffed as if at a loss. Finally she tried again, each word clearly a compromise from what she wanted to say. “Do you… feel ready?”
Lain answered the question Hellen meant to ask. “No. But I’m prepared.”
“I’m glad for that, at least. I brought you something.” Hellen held out the bundle. Lain accepted it and peeled back the cloth. A little roll of parchment tied with red string. There was a slice of soft cheese wrapped in waxed leaf, and a piece of raspberry cake.
“I know you’re fasting tomorrow, but –” Hellen hesitated. “They never let you have raspberries, do they? They say it’s impure, for the Kelthi. But I thought maybe you should be allowed to try it at least once.”
Lain blinked with surprise. “Is it that good?”
“It’s wonderful,” Hellen admitted.
Lain laughed. “It’ll make a good dessert tonight, then.” But she had no intention of eating it.
“Good.” Hellen looked down at her feet. “Can I sit?”
Lain nodded and Hellen joined her at the windowsill. After a time, Lain reached across to her bookshelf and pulled out a book.
“Do you remember when we were working in the garden, some years ago? I think we were twelve.”
Hellen nodded. “The summer we had all those snowy geese? They took over the pond that season. Chased us off.” She laughed.
“Remember the gift you gave me?”
Hellen’s brow furrowed. “I gave you a gift?”
Lain nodded. She opened the book. Pressed between the pages was a long white goose feather.
“Oh, that’s right! I said it matched your hair, and you stuck it in your belt, right?”
“Yes. I wore it every day that summer.” Lain lifted the feather out, then held it out to Hellen. It felt right to give it away, now. “I think it would make a good quill, actually.”
“True.” Hellen took it by the tip and turned it in her fingers. “You kept it all this time? But it’s just a feather.”
“Not to me.”
Hellen’s face reddened. She ran her fingers along the vane.
“Thank you,” she said.
Lain nodded.
Hellen stood, eyes glassy, and hesitated again at the door. “Sing well, Bellborn.”
Lain smiled. “By the Underserpent.”
She almost said goodbye, but the word caught in her throat.
Then Hellen left, and Lain was alone again in the creeping dark, her last sunset come and gone.
In the morning, the bell called. Lain did not rise right away. She hadn’t slept well, though she’d dozed now and again in the silence of her room. The faint warmth of the apple still lingered in her memory like breath on a windowpane. She was glad she hadn’t eaten anything else after, though now she woke with a sharp hunger.
She thought of Hellen’s gift. She unwrapped the bundle carefully, fingertips reverent on the waxed leaf. The cake’s raspberry glaze had dulled slightly overnight, its bright smear now dark and glossy. The cheese had softened a little.
She wasn’t meant to eat this. She was meant to fast. The fruit was forbidden, as were all fruits of its kind – the type that merged from several flowers into one sweet berry, like dewberries and strawberries. She’d been told they were forbidden to the Kelthi, poor for her digestion. To be fair, she’d seen the goatherds shoo their flock away from the wet ditches where the berries grew abundant in the late summer.
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But the red of it caught her eye again, glinting faintly in the light from the window.
Did she really want to die having never tasted it?
Her stomach pleaded hungrily.
She ate the cheese. Earthy, soft, grounding.
Then she brought the cake to her lips and bit. The glaze broke like crystal under her teeth, the berry filling flooding her mouth. It was tart, and for a moment she forgot everything, forgot even the song. It was a burst of sweetness she’d never tasted before, something forbidden and rich and unexpected. It struck her tongue like a drop of fire. Her eyes welled. Her breath hitched.
She waited for guilt to follow.
Instead, there was only the Heat, gentle at first, curling under her skin. Her vision trembled, her tail twitching where it lay beside her leg. She ignored it. She ate the rest of the cake slowly. She was so grateful.
She finished, licking the stickiness from her fingers. The feeling of her tongue on her skin was far more pleasant than it should have been.
She folded the cloth around the empty leaf, tucking it away. She wasn’t sure why; a part of her simply didn’t want to leave anything in disarray.
When the second bell rang, the one meant for cleansing, she rose and dressed simply in a shift of undyed wool, wrapping her tail loose and low. A faint thrum began in her middle, warm and low. She wondered if the draught had faded in the night. Tanel had made it stronger this time, but perhaps it wasn’t lasting. She’d have to cope with it on her own.
Finally, her escort arrived: an Unsung Sister whose name she did not know.
Acolytes passed her in the hall, some nodding, some averting their eyes. Her name passed their lips in hushed tones.
“Last day,” someone whispered. She never learned who.
The baths were mostly empty, as she’d been granted a private hour. The ceremonial tubs were at the back of the hall, behind a screen. The steam curled through marble arches, softening the chill of morning. She reached these to find two more Unsung Sisters lighting wax candles around the bath. Typically the Dagorlind used scale-light, but special occasions called for something less permanent, a mirror of Lain’s offering.
The Sisters helped Lain out of her robes and she stepped into the pool in silence. The water, mineral-rich and faintly blue, lapped at the wool of her ankles, then her hips. Her tail floated behind her like a pale ribbon. She lowered herself fully, hands clasped in prayer over her chest.
This was the third bath – the cleansing bath. The first had been her birth. The second, her naming. The third would mark her sacrifice.
The silence was perfect underwater, her hair spreading like down. Her eyes burned from the minerals, skin prickling with awareness. Everything felt so good, so close, so immediate.
She stayed beneath the water longer than necessary. When she surfaced, the Heat had not gone. It clung to her spine, a pulse that moved with her breath. She brushed a hand across her neck. The scales were unusually warm.
Could it be the raspberry that had done this? Surely not.
When she wrapped the drying cloth around her chest, her tail coiled – not limply as it had when she drank the draught, but with purpose. She gritted her teeth, wondering if she should find a way to see Tanel for a draught after all.
But she hated the thought of drugging herself for her final day on this earth.
Her ceremonial robes waited on a cedar rack: midnight blue, embroidered in gold. The Unsung Sisters dressed her wordlessly. Lain lifted her arms, the sleeves falling in solemn weight against her skin. A sash was wound about her waist, a veil atop her hair. No bell at her throat yet; that would come only at the gates.
When it was done, the Unsung Sisters turned and left. Lain placed a hand on her belly. It was a gesture of centering and devotion; but also, the Heat there was pulsing harder now. It was a bloom, a fire at her core, steady and low.
She remembered the taste of the raspberries.
As Lain stepped out of the room, the Heat did not fade. Her hair clung damp to her neck. She moved deliberately, trying to emulate what she thought a saint must look like, head held high.
Outside, the sky brightened. Snow fell soft as dust, and the world was very quiet.
The Dawn Spire sat squarely in the center of Ivath, the city high in the mountains and surrounded on all sides but one, this path leading to the sea. The range was alive; sometimes the hillsides quavered. Lain had redirected an earthquake on more than one occasion, thanks to the warning sense of the Underserpent. The Elder Glinnel would take her place in that task until they’d raised up a new Bellborn, either chosen from their ranks or from among the people from surrounding villages, like her. The next Bellborn’s only requirement was that they were Tuned, and female; the rest could be taught to any. Twenty years from now, another Bellborn would gift the Underserpent her life.
She imagined that woman, as proud as her, but in her mind the next was not Kelthi. The next was loved.
Waiting in the archway was a figure in the muted robes of a high courier, deep brown embroidered with the thinnest thread of bronze. He must be a Brighthand. His eyes were sharp, the color of rock, and when he looked at her, he did not look away.
He bowed. “Sister Bellborn.”
“Escort?” she asked softly. She had not expected them to send a man for this. She wanted to touch him. To see how it would feel to share the Heat with a stranger. To feel it a final time.
He nodded once. “Under orders from the High Glinnel Triad. I will guide you to the gate of offering.”
His voice was calm. She noted the softness of his boots – not hooves, of course, and not sandals like the Dagorlind. He was a stranger, which was comforting in its own way. He would not remember her afterward. That was the duty of the escort: to see, but not to witness.
She followed him into the cold.
The portico opened onto a narrow flagstone path circling the base of the Dawn Spire. Frost clung to the balustrades, glinting pale gold in the weak morning sun. To her right, Ivath sprawled below like a mosaic of rooftops, and for a heartbeat she let herself breathe it in. This is the city she had sung for all her life. The city she would die for.
The Heat curled at her center again, subtle and undeniable, the beat of it syncing with the rise and fall of her steps. It was worse when she looked at her escort, caught the white puff of air as his breath left his parted lips. She touched her stomach once more, not in devotion now, but as if to press it down. Still yourself, she begged it silently. This is not the time.
Acolytes lined the inner colonnade to watch her pass, their faces pale. She met Sister Hellen’s eye only briefly, wishing she could thank her for the cake, wishing with all her heart she could tell her how delicious it was, and how full was her gratitude.
Then she spotted the feather peeking from Sister Hellen’s belt, and her solemn act dropped, and she grinned.
She did not see Tanel. She hoped he was inside.
At last the path curved inward to a low stone arch where two Unsung Sisters stood sentinel, the carved serpents of the Gate of Offering twining above their heads. Here, she would descend. The air was colder, thick with mineral damp from the caverns below.
The courier stepped aside. “The sisters will guide you from here.”
Lain nodded. The Heat pulsed once more, deep and low, and she imagined so vividly reaching out to brush his hand that it felt as if she’d done it in earnest.
But she touched no one.
She crossed the threshold and began her slow walk down into the Chamber of the Underserpent.