taken from him, broken again.
“So be it,” said the woman behind the bench.
4
Now it ended.
On the seventh floor of the Conclave’s tower, Dart sat in a chair, hands folded in her lap. She tried not to stare at the row of girls seated in chairs along one side of the hall, and especially not at the dwindling number of girls that stood between her and the closed doors at the end of the hall. The sigil of the healers, an oak sprig, was carved into the door’s lintel.
In preparation for the night’s ceremony, they were to be tested, and examined, judged whether or not they were pure enough to kneel before the gods’ Oracles.
Dart already knew her fate.
Tears threatened, a mix of terror, guilt, and sorrow.
The door opened again, releasing another girl, a fourth-floorer, who fled along the rows of chairs like a frightened sparrow. But from the smile on her face, it was not fear, but delight that was the wind under her wings. On her forehead, she bore a smudged blue cross, a mix of oils and dyed unguents, marking her as pure by Healer Paltry. She could attend the ceremony this night, opening the way to being chosen as a handmaiden.
Matron Grannice appeared in the open doorway. All the seated girls stood. Dart did the same, well aware of the ache in her loins, a dull bruise of the former pain.
Matron Grannice waved for the next girl, seated nearest the door. “Come, Laurelle. We’ve a long day ahead of us.”
Laurelle curtsied. On this day, she would be the first of the thirdfloorers to be tested. As was custom, the sixthfloorers were checked first, then the fifth and fourth, leaving the thirdfloorers for last. It would be the first time for Dart’s class to be presented before the Oracles, the blind servants of various gods, who arrived with the first full moon of summer to pick handmaidens and handmen for their gods.
Draped in white silk, her feet slippered in snowy soft velvet, Laurelle crossed to the door. She was the embodiment of purity. While it was a rarity for a thirdfloorer to be picked, what Oracle, blind or not, could fail to see the perfection that was Laurelle mir Hothbrin?
Pausing at the threshold, Laurelle glanced back at the line of remaining thirdfloorers. The powder on her face could not hide the blush of heat in her cheeks. Nervousness. She tried to smile bravely at the others, but it came out sickly.
All eyes, including Dart’s, followed Laurelle as she disappeared into the healer’s chamber. The door closed.
Now one girl sat between Dart and the door: Margarite. Like Laurelle, Margarite was dressed in white finery, down to the flowered tassels on her slippers.
Dart fingered the simple white shift and sash she wore, trying to pluck some semblance of beauty from it. Still, no amount of linen, silk, or the finest embroidery could make her pure again.
“Quit fidgeting!” Margarite spat under her breath, quick-tempered from her own anxiety.
Dart’s hands settled back to her knees.
For the past seven days, she had hidden all signs of the attack. But it had not been easy. Ripped and sore, she had continued to spot her underthings and bedsheets for the first three days.
On the second night, it came to the attention of Matron Grannice. Dart had hurriedly told the third floor matron that the bleeding was from her first menstra. With a frown, the portly woman had pulled Dart into her private study.
Panicked, Dart had expected her corruption to be bared, but Matron Grannice had merely sat her down and spoken kindly and gently. “The bleed is nothing to be ashamed of,” she consoled. “It is your first step into womanhood.” She then went on to instruct Dart in how to control her seepage and keep herself clean. Afterward, the matron had given her a long hug, a rare showing of warmth and affection from the large woman.
Dart had cried. It was not just relief that drew out her tears. Wrapped in Matron Grannice’s bosomy embrace, Dart was reminded how much she was about to lose. It was more than the roof over her head and the warm meals in her belly. It was the familiar faces she had known since a babe, the everyday routines of the only life she knew. Here was her home, her family.
She had cried for a long time until finally Matron Grannice had gently shushed her, wiped her tears, and sent her back to her bed.
A few days later, here she sat, awaiting the end. She would be stripped and spread on Healer Paltry’s bench. Experienced fingers would touch her shame and find her broken and spoiled, unfit for a god, too corrupt to even walk the halls of the Conclave. She would be whipped and cast out to the streets, spurned by all.
Master Willet had ripped away more than her virginity and innocence on the floor of the rookery. His rutting had torn down the very stone walls around her, broken her home into a bloody ruin. Had the monster known this? Had this been part of his black pleasure?
Master Willet’s disappearance had not gone unnoticed by the Conclave. Talk, rumor, and innuendo had quickly spread: that he had been waylaid by brigands outside the Conclave and his body dumped in the Tigre where it was washed away; that he had taken a whore for a wife and fled the First Land; that he had been practicing some Dark Grace and been sucked into the naether, never to be seen again. The less fanciful supposed he simply took service with some other caste and had left before his current contract was contested. But there were three in the Conclave who knew the truth: Dart, Pupp, and the person who had sent Master Willet up the stairs to attack a lone girl.
This last remained hidden, as much an accomplice in that dark play as those up in the rookery. No one came and pulled her aside, accused Dart in private or public of the crimes in the high tower. But someone knew.
Dart’s eyes settled to the hall’s stone floor. Pupp lay curled, his body steaming gently, his molten brass surface glowing brighter with each breath, then dimming as he exhaled with a wheeze of flame. She had experimented with him in solitary moments, testing various humours to see if anything besides blood would allow her to touch his phantom form. Nothing did, not saliva, yellow bile, or even tears.
Only blood.
In the dark, she had planned horrible strategies upon the body of the one who had sent Master Willet up the stairs. But now she would be cast out before her vengeance was complete.
The door at the end of the hall opened again. Laurelle strode out, back straight, eyes flashing. None needed to see her satisfied smile or the blue cross on her forehead to know she had passed judgment. “Margarite!” Matron Grannice called from the doorway, startling them all. “Don’t drag your heels, child! Get in here!”
All the girls popped to their feet. Margarite hurried through the door. Dart moved two steps over and took the girl’s abandoned seat. It was still warm from the fear of each girl who had sat there before.
The door closed.
Laurelle stood a few steps down the hall, basking in the envy of her fellow pupils. “It was nothing,” she consoled the others. “It is no more frightening than the yearly physique. Only much more thorough.” She spoke this last with the authority of a master to apprentices, then pressed the back of her hand to her forehead. “I have never felt so completely tested, so sure of my purity and readiness to be a handmaiden.”
Murmurs of approval and assurances that she would be chosen wafted down the line of seated girls.
Her words awakened the terror in Dart’s heart. As she stared at the closed door, her eyes traced the oak leaves and acorns on the lintel. Normally the sigil signified the art of healing: soothing balms, calming teas, all the gentle Graces to ease a body. But now the meaning had darkened; beyond that door, her life ended.
A touch on her shoulder made her jump. She turned to find Laurelle bent before her. All the girls watched, ready to see what new mischief Laurelle meant to inflict on Dart for their amusement.
Pupp was already on his feet, passing through Laurelle’s gown, his molten skin roiling with agitation.
“I know your secret,” Laurelle whispered, so softly no other could hear. “I know about the blood.”
Dart tensed, her vision darkened at the corners.
