years of age, and certain to outlive the Reverend Mother. Until recently it seemed she must succeed to the head of the sisterhood, a position for which she longed. However, since an oracle had emerged in Opet, her position was less secure. History had proved that every oracle, in time, became Reverend Mother over the claims of all others. In addition, this one had the unquestioned favour of the High Priest, an important consideration when it came to the filling of a vacant position at the head of the Divine Council. In Tanith she had a strong rival, but apart from the political consideration, Sister Haka had a more intimate score to reckon.
Even now as she remembered how her advances had been rejected, she felt hot anger flood her cheeks. She still longed for the girl, dreams of her still troubled her sleep, and often when she was with a young novice in the dark she would pretend that it was Tanith.
‘Are we strong enough to resist the demands of the king?’ She let the question hang, and looked at their faces. All of them knew what an impetuous, irresistible force ruled in Opet. All of them knew that no one, noble or priest, friend or enemy, had ever denied him his way.
The silence persisted, until Sister Alma coughed gusts of tortured sound, that crescendoed until she spluttered up a lump of bloody phlegm and wiped her lips with a damp cloth, her face strained and her eyes tired and dull.
‘Not long for you, old woman,’ thought Sister Haka with her grim satisfaction hidden behind a mask of concern.
Again they were silent, until the Reverend Mother spoke hesitantly. ‘Perhaps, if it could be shown that the girl has sinned, committed some crime.’
It was all that Sister Haka needed, ruthlessly she took charge. ‘Send for the girl,’ she instructed. ‘Let us question her.’
Aina helped Tanith into the chamber, both of them hobbling and doubled over, one with age and the other with pain. They clung to each other, and the ancient priestess was mumbling encouragement to the injured girl, but her face screwed up with anger when she saw the Council, and she screeched at them.
‘The child is hurt. Have you no care? Why do you summon her thus?’
‘Silence, old bag,’ Sister Haka spoke without passion. She was looking at Tanith. Tanith’s face was swollen and the bruises were purplish and livid. Her one eye was closed, the lid puffed and blue, and her lip was cut through and scabbed.
‘Let her sit,’ Aina demanded. ‘She is weak, and sick.’
‘Nobody sits before the Council,’ said Sister Haka.
‘In the name of the goddess.’
‘Do not blaspheme here, old crow.’
‘I speak not of blasphemy, but of ordinary mercy.’
‘You talk too much,’ Sister Haka warned her. ‘Go! Leave the girl here.’
It seemed Aina might argue still, but Sister Haka rose to her feet and her face was furious and her voice harsh with anger.
‘Go!’ she repeated, and Aina shuffled out grumbling and whining, leaving Tanith swaying weakly on her feet before the Council. Sister Haka sank down onto her stool and looked at Tanith. She would take her time now, there was all day if she needed it, and besides she was enjoying herself.
Tanith stayed upright by an effort of her will alone, for her senses swam and floated on waves and washes of pain. The leaden feeling in her legs and lower belly anchored her, but she could make little of the questions with which they pelted her. Sister Haka was leading her on to what it was that she had told the king to infuriate him. she was showing how Tanith had endangered the sisterhood by antagonizing him. She kept coming back to the question, ‘What was it you told him?’
‘I cannot remember, Sister. I cannot remember,’ Tanith whispered.
‘You want us to believe that words of such dire consequence can be so easily forgotten. Come, child, what were they?’
‘They were not my words.’
‘Whose then?’ Sister Haka leaned forward attentively, her face blotched with brown speckles of the pox and the wings of grey glowing in her dark hair ‘Whose words were they if not your own? The goddess’s?’
‘I do not know,’ breathed Tanith, and then she gasped as a fist of agony squeezed something within her lower belly.
‘Do you speak with the voice of the goddess?’ Sister Haka demanded in her hoarse voice, dark and cruel as a bird of prey. The hawk stooping on the sparrow.
‘Oh please!’ whispered Tanith, bowing slowly forward with both hands pressed to her stomach. ‘Oh please, it hurts. Oh, how it hurts!’
The three priestesses watching her saw the quick flood of liquid which drenched the front of Tanith’s tunic skirts, and splattered in dark red drops upon the flagstones between her feet. With slow grace Tanith folded and fell forward. She lay on her side with her knees drawn up and she moaned softly.
Sister Haka went quickly to her. and stooped over her, drawing up Tanith’s skirts and peering with tense lesbian interest as she pulled Tanith’s knees roughly apart.
She was smiling as she straightened, and looked at the other two. ‘There is your sin, Holy Mother. There is your proof of crime.’ She looked down at the huddled body at her feet, ‘Sacrilege!’ she accused harshly. ‘Sacrilege! A crime against the goddess.’
‘I will not answer,’ said Tanith gently. The bruises had faded and the swelling abated a little, but there was still a plum-coloured smear under one eye and her lip was distorted and scarred. She had been bedridden for ten days and she was still weak. ‘I will not tarnish something so dear to me with words. I will not tell you his name.’
‘Child, you know this is a matter of mortal sin. Your life is at stake here,’ said the Reverend Mother.
‘You have taken life from me already. Have done then. Take it all.’ Tanith looked directly at Sister Haka, and
