"We may not get away today,” Uthiam said, straightening. “I'd better go back to the temple.” Obviously the prospect did not please her.
"Me too?"
"No need for you to come. Wait here, just in case. I think I saw T'lin Dragontrader, didn't I?"
"Who?” Eleal demanded. Her friendship with T'lin was supposed to be a secret. Uthiam's amused expression indicated that she knew that and it wasn't. But Eleal would have time to visit with T'lin. She could wander around ... Then she recalled the crazy priest's warning that she was in danger.
"Uthiam, isn't Irepit goddess of something? What's a Daughter of Irepit?"
Uthiam looked understandably surprised. “They're a sect of nuns—down in Nosokvale, I think. They—"
"Rinoovale,” said a croaky voice, “not Nosokvale."
Eleal spun around angrily. “Eavesdropping is a sin!"
Uthiam's hand thumped the side of her head so hard she staggered. That was unfair—she had only been repeating what Ambria had told her lots of times.
The woman who had spoken was a nun, her flowing woolen garb conspicuous amid the leather-draped multitude. Whatever height she might once have had was now lost in a stoop and a hump, so she stood barely taller than Eleal. Her face was dominated by a long thin nose that seemed to be the only part of it not crumpled in wrinkles—it was red, with a shiny drop at the end of it, while her cheeks were an antique yellow, although the cold had added a purplish tint to them. Her hair and neck were hidden by a wimple, which, like her habit, had once been blue, although now both were threadbare and almost colorless. She was blinking at Eleal with eyes that likewise seemed faded to a colorless, blurry gray; they were watering copiously in the icy wind.
"Forgive her, holy lady,” Uthiam said. “She is a wayward brat.” She shook Eleal's shoulder. “Apologize!"
"The follies of youth are easily forgiven!” the woman muttered. Her pale moist eyes were still fixed intently on Eleal, whose ears were ringing. “In the Blue Scriptures, the Book of Alyath, it is written, ‘Time is the gods’ wages.’ Is that why the young, whose life is most enjoyable, should be so eager to see it pass, while the old, who have lost most of their capacity for joy, savor every moment?” She blinked more, apparently waiting for an answer.
A naked sword hung at her side, its point almost touching the ground.
"M-mother?” Eleal said, staring at that incongruous weapon.
"Sister,” said the nun. “Sister Ahn.” Her lips were almost as blue as her eyes, yet she seemed unaware of the cold. She turned her watery gaze on Uthiam. “Is it not wonderful how many are heeding the prophecies?"
"Prophecies, Sister?” Uthiam spoke loudly also.
The sword was a real weapon, a really-truly shiny blade, and it bore no speck of rust. Yet now Eleal noticed the woman's right hand resting on a staff. It also was blue, and the fingers were so twisted that they probably could not grasp a hilt firmly enough to draw. Just looking at this shivering crone made her feel cold.
Blue was the color of Astina, the Maiden, who was goddess of lots of things: justice and soldiers and athletes, among others. That might explain the sword, but why should Astina be goddess of soldiers, when the Man was god of war? And why athletes? They should be the concern of the Youth—who ever heard of a female athlete? The universe ought to be more logical, and an armed geriatric nun was carrying things altogether too far.
"The seven hundredth festival!” Sister Ahn suddenly smiled, revealing a few yellow pegs of teeth. “Great wonders are foretold. Praise to the god. But should we not approach the young man selling tickets?"
However well-intentioned, the old woman's smile was quite the most gruesome Eleal could ever recall seeing. Her accent was unfamiliar, but perhaps that was because her speech was smeared by lack of teeth.
Uthiam was studying the nun with an oddly wary expression. “We are waiting on friends to join us, Sister. May the Lady bless your journey."
"Ah.” The old woman sighed. “Ask rather that the Maiden grant you safe return. Many who see the wonders will not carry word of them home.” Muttering to herself, she tottered away, leaning on her staff, the point of her sword almost trailing on the grass. Understandably, the crowd eased open to let her through.
"Don't wander too far,” Uthiam said. “And stay out of trouble for once.” She turned and pushed off through the mob.
Eleal decided she might as well go and see T'lin Dragontrader.
8
A DOZEN OR SO CITY CHILDREN LURKED AROUND THE dragons, being ordered away by two men shouting in clipped Fionian accents. T'lin himself stood by the tents, talking with two more of his assistants.
Dragontrader was a big man with a monstrous copper beard. His face was roughened and scarred by weather and he usually sported a showy sword and outrageously bright clothes. In Narshvale, he bundled up in llama hide like everyone else, but his boots were dyed blue, his leggings yellow, and a green scabbard hung out from under his red coat. Above all that he wore a black turban. Undoubtedly he would have a white shirt or something on underneath—no god in the Pentatheon would ever be able to complain of being neglected by T'lin. He seemed almost as large as one of his dragons.
As Eleal approached, his eyes flickered over her with no sign of recognition, but almost at once he clapped one of his companions on the shoulder, ending the discussion. He stalked away in amongst the dragons, pulling a rag from his pocket. Eleal doubled around the herd to approach from the other side, glad that he had not been trading with a customer.
A few of the great shiny beasts were standing, munching at bales of hay, flapping their frills up and down softly in pleasure. Most had lain down to chew their cud, but the fences of horny plates along their backs rose higher than her head and concealed her admirably. The long scaly necks stood up like palm trees. She caught glimpses of Dragontrader's turban and worked her way in his direction.
She loved dragons. That was how she had met T'lin—hanging around his herd. Sometimes he had only five or six, sometimes forty or more. Today she thought about fifteen or twenty, so he might be either buying or selling. When she was young she had toyed with dreams of marrying T'lin and being with the dragons all the time. They looked so ferocious and they were so gentle. They smelled good, and they spoke in funny belching noises. As she went by them, she trailed fingers over the shiny scales, admiring the play of light on them. Bright green eyes watched her under heavy browridges, jewels in caves. In darkness, dragon eyes actually glowed.
She made out Starlight and detoured to greet him, T'lin's own mount. No dragon was ever a real black, but Starlight was what was called deep twilight, and the twinkle of light on his scales had given him his name. He truly resembled a starry night. The two long frills that extended back from his neck were magnificent, longer than any others she had ever seen, like small wings. He lowered his head to snuffle and belch hay scent quietly at her. She liked to think he remembered her, but that was probably just wishful thinking.
T'lin was standing beside one of the cud-chewers, a five-or six-year male of the color called Osby slate, a sort of blue-gray. It was not yet docked, the long crest of plates standing unbroken along its back. The big beast purred softly as T'lin busily polished its flank with his rag. He bent over as if to examine its claws. Then he squatted down on his heels and grinned at Eleal through his bush of beard. His face was still not very much lower than hers. They were quite private here, between the Osby slate and a glacier blue female. They were also sheltered from the wind.
"And how is the Beloved of Tion, the Friend of the Gods, the great singer?"