As I stood and dropped my cape to the floor, then unfastened my walking skirt and tunic and dropped them away, and finally my bra, the cold air hit me, chilling me through. Slowly I shifted my hair forward, letting it flow to the floor over my breasts, and turned so that Kitää and Camille could see my back.
“Oh, Great Mother,” Camille said, her voice a low whisper. “Ishonar.” She paused, then asked, “How many?”
“Thirty lashes,” I whispered. And for the first time, my scars and my shame were fully exposed.
“PIRKITTA, TELL US now. Give us the truth and we won’t have to do this.” The Priestess-Mother begged me, but I shook my head, unable to do as she asked.
“I can’t—I’ve told you everything I remember! Look into my mind, please, look into my thoughts and you will see.”
I was naked down to my waist, my arms stretched between two posts, manacled with iron that was lined just enough so that pain seeped through from the metal but not the actual burns. My hair had been draped over my shoulder, spilling strands down to coil at my knees. I had never felt so vulnerable, so exposed or ashamed. I wanted to wrap my hands in front of my body, to cover myself, to curl in a ball weeping, but the manacles prevented all of those.
“Pirkitta, please. Tell us why you did this thing?”
“I don’t know if I did! I have no memory. Please stop . . .”
The Priestess-Mother bit her lip and I saw blood swell, trickling down the side of her mouth. “My child. This is the way—there must be tradition. If you won’t tell us the truth, then we have to administer punishment. And the punishment must fit the crime.”
As she backed away, I gazed up into her eyes. She was old, old past counting, and I had been chosen to take her place. I knew now that would never happen. There would be no future for me here, if anywhere. I would die here, at the hands of those who believed I’d killed my sweet Vikkommin.
There was no tomorrow. No yesterday. Only today and the looming pain waiting to descend.
And then the lash fell, burning with white agony. I managed to keep from screaming the first time. The flames of ice licked at me, magical fire that hurt worse than the whip itself. Cold fire, the fire of deep ice, leaving marks but no wounds. Leaving no lasting damage but pain—and the memory of that pain—beyond what any normal lash could ever hope to achieve.
The second strike. The pain bit deeper, into my body and blood.
The third strike, and the pain wormed into my soul, jolting like lightning.
The fourth strike, and everything began to spin, the world falling away as the pain flayed apart my soul, opened me up, let every secret I had in the world come spilling out into the minds of my torturers. I could feel them poring over my innermost thoughts, my memories—everything I’d heard, seen, done, including my most private moments. Melting from the shame of exposure as well as the pain of the lash, I tried to sink to the floor, but the manacles held me fast in their iron grasp.
And on the fifth strike, the exquisite pain became all there was in the world, and I started to scream. And I went right on screaming until the lashes had counted to thirty.
“We could not find the truth,” the Priestess-Mother said, staring down at my prone form on the floor. “It is cloaked so deeply in your psyche that we have no hope of ever knowing. We cannot allow you to stay in the temple, but neither can we punish you for his death if we don’t know for certain you’re guilty.”
I sobbed, all my tears long shed but the pain unending. Ishonar would stay in my system for days, tearing at me every time I moved. “Please, don’t send me away. I loved Vikkommin. Just send me to him now if you’re going to get rid of me. Please, please just kill me.”
The Priestess-Mother ignored me. “You are excommunicated from the Temple of Undutar, turned away as pariah. You are stripped of your title, no more the Ar’jant d’tel. You are stripped of the mightiest of your powers.”
And a new hell rushed through me, a great hand tearing power and spells out of me like it might rip weeds from a garden. The pain sent me into a convulsion, and next I knew, I was on the steps of the temple, and the Priestess-Mother stood there with shears and my hair in her hand.
“Pirkitta, as our last punishment, we take away your power to bear children and the symbol of your power as a woman. You shall never carry a child to term until you can find out what happened to Vikkommin and put to right what went wrong. You may grow your hair back, but it will never be the braid you were born with.” Holding out the shears, she clipped off my hair at the nape of my neck.
I screamed, but she tossed the strands onto a fire and as the smell of burning hair filtered through my nostrils, the heavy doors swung shut and I lay sobbing for what seemed like hours.
Something inside took hold—an anger, a fury, a desire for revenge and to prove them wrong. I forced myself to my feet, and, still in agony from the ishonar and having my powers stripped, I trudged to the trail leading down to the portals. A voice calling my name on the wind led me forward, and I followed it until I could remember no more.
SIX
CAMILLE BURST INTO TEARS, AND KITÄÄ’S LIP was trembling, but I realized it wasn’t out of pity. No, they were tears of sisterhood. After six hundred years of hiding my scars, of hiding my shame, it actually felt good to open up, to show someone else the reminders I carried on my back.
“You are going to face him? The shadow of your lost love?” Kitää asked.
I nodded. “I have to. There’s no other way to break the curse than to find out what really happened. And I have to go alone. I asked my friends to come with me for support, but in the end I know I have to face him alone.”
“When will you go? Shadows exist in the light more than in the dark, you know.”
I thought about it. Waiting a day, two days, would do nothing for me. I’d no more be ready then than I was now. “I’ll go out at daybreak tomorrow onto the Skirts of Hel and hunt him down. And then . . . I’ll do whatever it takes to find out the truth and to help him rest. Vikkommin must know what happened. He’s my only hope now, for the life that I want.”
“Is there anything you need tonight? The Pack has trained shamans and we would be glad to offer whatever help we can.” She rested a hand on my arm. “Lady Iris, you are a brave woman, but don’t look a gift horse—”
“In the mouth. I know. If you could provide me with a private place where I may pray, and if you have anything to strengthen me against the cold and ice tomorrow, I would not turn away the offer.”
Facing the shadow of Vikkommin would be problematic and I had no clue as to what might happen. But tonight I knew I’d need to spend time in prayer. Even though I had been banished from the temple, Undutar still spoke to me and I needed to know she was with me when I confronted him. I needed to know that she cared.
Kitää motioned to one of the wolves. “We will prepare your quarters. I will oversee the preparation myself.”
When Camille and I were alone, she turned to me and took my hands in hers. “Iris, why didn’t you tell us all of this when we first met? Maybe we could have helped, come out here earlier. Are you sure you want to face him alone? You know I’ll stand by your side if you need me.”
“I know.” And I did know. Camille would fight to the death for me if she had to. But that wouldn’t help right now. “I had to be sure I could trust you first. And then, after I realized how happy I was with you and your sisters, I began to second-guess facing him down. But then I met Bruce, and he wants children, and the thought of telling him he had to choose between me and being a father . . . I couldn’t do it.”