Pen made a faint urk sound, and acquired a look of concentration. The dogs’ suspicion turned to joy as they rioted around him, snuffling and panting. A couple of them darted in to lick his ankles. Producing a credible feminine eep, not wholly feigned, Pen shook his skirts and attempted to gently shove them away with a long sandaled foot. Which would have been all right had their pink tongues not come away with a distinct brown tint. Nikys swallowed horror and bent to them, waving her arms and hissing, “Shoo. Shoo!” They tried to lick her fingers.
To Nikys’s intense relief, a woman came in behind them shepherding four young girls, who squealed at their canine reception. Girls and dogs fell upon each other with equal delight, exchanging petting and cooing for licks and wriggles, and Pen escaped.
As planned, Nikys signed in for the both of them, her false name and his, so that there would be no discrepancy in handwriting when it came time to sign out. Assuming anyone actually compared such things. They will later on, when they discover Mother missing.
“And what do you pray to our Lady for today?” the acolyte asked cheerfully.
“Oh, nothing for myself. My friend Ruchia is praying for aid for her weak eyes. I’m just here to help her.”
Pen nodded amiably, and, by whatever restraint—maybe Des—managed not to add any rambling comments. He pulled a handkerchief from his sleeve and pressed it to his nose just in time to dam the beginning trickle of blood.
“Oh dear, are you all right?” said the acolyte. “Do you need to go sit down?”
Pen shook his head, emitting a muffled negative noise. “S’tops in a mom’nt.”
Reluctantly, the acolyte released them to the first stage of the pilgrims’ tour, pointing out the entry to the tapestry gallery. Nikys fished out her coin purse and withdrew an offering for the box set up next to the podium, turning her hand to make sure the acolyte caught the heavy gold glint. The acolyte was all smiles as she sent them on their way, though she added a recommendation to the tall girl to return if she felt unwell and someone would guide her to the infirmary.
The famous tapestry was arranged on a long wall, with a series of arched windows opposite that illuminated without allowing direct sunlight to fade it. Penric actually took the time to look at it all, strolling slowly through thirty feet of closely embroidered narrative, murmuring interpretations under his breath. Nikys wasn’t sure if he was just doing an excellent job of playing a pilgrim, or if he was overcome with scholarly distraction, again.
One could make out views of the soldiers landing in the fishing cove below, ravaging through something very like the present village. Scaling ladders and smoke. Women screaming, captured by the hair by what appeared to be brutal ogres. A picture of the sacred well, with the goddess looming over it crying in dismay. Her face was portrayed so vaguely as to be a near-blank, because the Nominalist Controversy had taken some vicious turns in Cedonia, but what could be seen of Her posture somehow conveyed profound emotion. Toward the end, many detailed little ogre figures writhed in visible agony and vomited red threads. Lots of red threads.
“I didn’t know needlework could be so hostile,” murmured Pen, bending to examine these. “Definitely a sermon, there.” His licked his lips a touch nervously.
The last image was of the goddess smiling benignly, presiding over billowing smoke from pyres and the restoration of Her refuge. Pen contemplated this and signed himself, hand passing over his forehead for the Daughter, lips for the Bastard, navel for the Mother, groin for the Father, and heart for the Son, bowing slightly and giving his forehead an extra tap.
Then twice with the back of his thumb on his lips for the luck of his own god, however ambiguous. Because Penric never seemed to forget, though others did, that his powers were lent ultimately by the white god, to Whom he must someday render up an account.
It was an unexpected insight, and Nikys eyed him sideways. She had met him first as physician, then as sorcerer, but he was equally, it seemed, a learned divine. Maybe she hadn’t given enough credence to this third pillar of his character.
The gallery let them out down some bluish granite steps into the court of the sacred well, recognizable from the tapestry. But so much more stunning in reality. She and Pen both stopped short and gawped.
From the middle of a white marble circle some eight feet in diameter bubbled up clear, bright waters. Welling indeed. Through five ports, it spilled over into an encircling basin. From there, channels led away variously into the surrounding precincts, doubtless including baths and laundries. One spout emptied into a sink with silver ladles hung around it. From there it trickled into something resembling a marble laundry trough, beautifully carved with emblems of the goddess, in which a pilgrim seeking more complete consolation could immerse her whole body.
The music of the waters was the only sound in the hushed court, apart from distant bird-calls. It seemed strange that so glaringly bright a place could feel holy, but it did.
“How,” muttered Pen through his teeth, “does the water get up here?”
Another acolyte, attendant and guardian-on-duty of the waters, rose from a porphyry bench under a portico and cordially came forward. “We consider it a miracle of the Lady. Four hundred years ago, this place was nothing but a dry and desolate crag. The spring appeared following an earthquake. The inhabitants of Limnos noticed a new waterfall appearing over the side of the pinnacle, and came to investigate. We have celebrated the blessings of the Daughter of Spring here ever since.” The wave of an inviting hand. “Drink, then, if you come in good faith, and pray with Her cleansing waters on your lips.” Her gesture went on to encompass an array of intricately woven prayer rugs set beyond the well. An older woman, the blue scarf about her neck, was just lumbering up from one, a thoughtful expression on her face.
Nikys took the ladle that was extended and hesitated. The attendant, eyes twinkling, murmured behind her hand, “After the boats and that climb up the hill, most visitors are very thirsty. It’s permitted to drink your fill.”
Smiling thanks, she did so. Penric watched her cautiously. Moved by impulse, she dipped her ladle and handed it to him. He received it with a grateful nod, and again when she refilled it.
They both wiped their mouths, then proceeded to the prayer rugs, because the attendant was watching them in expectation. Penric, after a contemplative moment, went down not just on his knees but prone, arms wide in the attitude of utmost supplication. Nikys went down on her knees facing the bright fountain and held up her hands palm-out, five fingers spread wide.
For all her anxieties, she had not thought of what to pray. She had nothing.
With the Daughter’s water still on her lips, it seemed wrong to perform some dissembling dumb-show. One didn’t need to be a virgin to pray here, after all, merely to have once been one. Because the gods are parsimonious.
And, sometimes, merciful.
She considered offering the goddess an apology for this sacrilegious invasion. Could they buy dispensation by coming to remove what was certainly a greater insult, using Her shrine for a prison?
…No. This was the goddess, not Duke Jurgo. Nikys wasn’t here to bargain for something to which she had no native right, trading favors. The court of the sacred well wasn’t a marketplace. There was no way to put a value on what she sought.
And no need, child.
Nikys trembled, not sure whose thought that was.
Lady. I do not sin against You, and no forgiveness is required. I am here to do today exactly what a daughter ought. I lay my actions as an offering at Your feet, because we should give to the gods the very best of what is in us.