Jaril brushed past her, black panther with crystal eyes, moving with an eerie silence. He padded across to Camp, sniffed at her, came padding back. *She’s ripe, Bramble. Her eyes are moving, she’s starting to dream.
She nodded, brought the candle pole down until the wick was beside his head. “Light me, Jay,” she whispered.
He spat a spark at the wick, smirked as she swung the pole hastily upright when the twist began burning. *Handy to have round, am’t I, huh?*
“Sometimes, but don’t let it go to your head.” She inspected him. “Maybe you should turn yourself white. You disappear into the murk like that.”
His mouth dropping into a feral cat grin, he purred at her. His eyes began to glow silver-white, the tips of his coathairs went translucent and shone with a clear white light. He was still a black cat, but one outlined in moonfire.
“Impressive,” she murmured and grinned back at him. “All right, let’s do it.”
The candle made an aura round her shining hair, dropped dramatic shadows into the hollows of her face and touched with fire the rings on the hand that held the pole. “Carup,” she called. “Carup Kalan. Wake up. Camp. Carup Kalan.”
The girl woke, startled, then afraid, scrambling back under the covers until she was pressed against the wall; she pulled her knees up, threw her arms across her face and whimpered.
“Have no fear,” Brann said. Her voice was deep and caressing, the words had a smile in them. “I am she who was the Jantria, Carup Kalan. Look at me, child. I mean you no harm.”
Still trembling, Carup pulled her arms down, lay peeping at Brann over the delicate halo of hair on her forearm.
Brann lifted a hand in blessing. At first Carup cringed away, that was what her life had trained her to do, that was the only way she’d found to turn aside or lessen the pain about to be inflicted on her. Then she saw Brann’s smile, only a little smile, a quirking upward of the ends of her mouth, but it was approval, fondness even, and Camp began to unfold like a flower opening in the sun.
“You have served me faithfully and well.” The words were solemn but the tone was gentle, friendly, and Camp relaxed yet more. “You have given more than service, child. You have shown generosity of spirit, expecting only a little kindness, a trifle of shelter from the world and those who would do you ill. Carup Kalan, I am a servant of One I may not name. I am at times given word to do this, or do that, to go here, to go there. Word has come to me that I am required elsewhere soon.” Brann kept her face a smiling mask as she spun her web of lies, but again she wasn’t liking herself much, especially when she saw the look on Camp’s face.
The girl’s lips trembled, but she didn’t dare protest. Fear was flooding back into her, more than fear, a flat despair. Once again Fate was tearing her from her happiness, casting her aside like garbage.
“I would take you with me, if that were permitted. It is not. But there is a thing I can do for you, a gift I can give you, Camp Kalan. I can send you home to your own people with the dowry of a queen.”
Camp’s right thumb moved over and over the marks on the back of her left hand. She didn’t say anything for several breaths, then she bowed her head. “I thank you, Jantria.” Her voice was dull, lifeless.
“Stand before me, Carup Kalan.”
Carup glanced at the shining panther, then shrugged; there were far more terrible things waiting for her than that eldrich beast. She hitched herself to the edge of the cot and stood. She slept in a sleeveless shift of unbleached muslin. it had a meagerly embroidered neck with a faded ribbon threaded through the eyelets and tied in a limp bow at the front.
“Remove your shift.”
Moving like an automaton, Carup pulled the bow loose, spread the neck of the shift and let it fall about her feet. She didn’t try to cover herself, she was too deep in despair for shame to touch her. The spongy red-purple flesh ran the length of her body, more of it than Brann had expected to see. There were spatters on her right side, drops like spilled blood on her breast. A wide river of the wine flesh ran down her left side, slashed across her navel and flowed down her right thigh.
“Straighten the blankets on the bed, then lie down on them.”
Obedient as always, refusing to acknowledge anger or pain, Camp worked with the skilled neatness with which she did everything, even turning square corners as she made the bed.
“Lie on your back,” Brann said when Camp was finished.
All this while Jaril panther had been pacing around Brann, his crystal eyes reflecting the candle flame. Now he melted into a mist and the mist settled over Carup, seeping into her.
Carup lay rigid, eyes squeezed shut.
Brann leaned the candlepole against the chimney, went to kneel beside the bed. With Jaril guiding her, she began restructuring the blemishes, wiping away all trace of them. All that the night prowls of the Drinker of Souls had brought her, she poured into the girl. And more. When she was finished, Carup Kalan was a lamb without blemish, an unpierced pearl whose price was the price of queens.
Shaky with exhaustion, perspiration dripping down her face and body, Brann got to her feet and went to the candlepole, removed the candle and set it on the box that served as a bedtable; the candle was thick enough to stand by itself. She looked down at the rigid, unhappy girl, shook her head and crossed to the bedroom. Jaril emerged as mist, solidified to black nonluminous panther and padded into the kitchen; a moment later he was a mistcrane powering into the, rain, heading for the doulahar and his obsession, cursing the damp, the cold and his unruly needs.
Brann came back with the hand mirror she’d bought as a gift for Carup once the metamorphosis was complete. “Open your eyes, Carup Kalan, and behold my second gift.”
For an instant the girl resisted, then she sighed and did as she was told. Brann bit at her lip. Where is your spirit, girl? You aren’t grass for everyone to step on. She said nothing. It wouldn’t help. Camp was what her culture made her.
“Sit up,” Brann said. “Look at your hands, child.”
Camp pushed up until she was sitting with her legs over the edge of the bed. She looked at her hands, gasped. She felt at her thigh, at her breasts, she touched her face.
“Take your last gift, this mirror, and behold yourself, Camp Kalan.”
Brann left the girl staring into the mirror and feeling at her face as if she were unable to believe what her eyes saw and needed the confirmation of her fingers. In her bedroom, Brann stripped off the robe and with some difficulty took on once more the aspect of the Jantria Bar Ana. She put on her ordinary clothes and sat on the bed for a while, gathering her strength.
“Jantria?” The voice that came from the other room was hesitant, shaky from excitement and a lingering fear.
“One moment, Camp.” Brann got to her feet, felt at her braid to make sure it was properly clasped so it wouldn’t unravel at the first movement of her head. I feel like I’m going to unravel, she thought. Hoo! If I can get that girl to sleep, there’s some dark left, maybe I can go find me a juicy murderer or two. No. A slave dealer. More appropriate, I’d say. Almost a pun. Spend on a slave, recoup on a slaver. Hah!