The Hundred-Handed don't strike me as the competitive type.
Stick around, Lofty Legs, and you'll see rivalry on every issue great, small and infinitesimal, you wouldn't believe what goes on inside that precinct.
She pictured the College thirteen years ago. Two pentagram priestesses both know they're dying. Two initiates step forward, ready to assume their names and step into their roles. One sees it as duty, the other as entitlement. A reward for being Goody-Two-Shoes. She promised. As the death spirits hover like bees at her bedside, the scales fall from the Birch Priestess's eyes. The initiate that she's been grooming as her successor has shown her true colours at last. She is nothing more than a shallow toady and who knows? Perhaps the priestess even hurries her own death, because she knows in her heart that the head of this order must be disciplined, she must be calm, but above all she must be constant…
'What's the penalty for writing this poison?' Claudia asked.
A sly grin crossed Ailm's exquisitely made-up face. Even in hate she remained beautiful.
'I'd be thrown out of the Hundred-Handed. I would have to work in the kitchens or maybe the bakehouse, and when
I died, my ashes would be scattered to the four winds, instead of spending eternity in a jar in the Cave of Resurrection, and of course my soul would not be reborn as a raven. But please make a note of the grammatical mood. Would is the operative word, my dear Claudia, because none of that will ever come to pass.'
She picked up the writing tablet and held it over the candle, melting her poison away.
'You do see, don't you? There is absolutely no evidence to connect these letters to me, and considering my sisters already believe you to be hysterical and irrational, they'd laugh your theory out of the house.' She smiled smugly. 'Make no mistake, Claudia Seferius. I will continue to tell people the truth.'
Bitch.
And anyway, Ailm was wrong.
Claudia changed into a simple light robe and strapped the stiletto to her inner thigh. Across the valley, the wind howled and whistled. White lightning lit up the sky, and this time it was followed by a loud crash of thunder. The gods were angry. They sought retribution. Claudia had sworn an oath on her mother's life and broken it in the same breath. On Olympus, reprisals beckoned. Fine, she thought wearily. But let's get Marcus out first, eh?
She looked at the notch on the candle marker. It told her that there were over three hours before she met with the Scorpion, and she had no intention of pacing this chamber until midnight. Not when she could use the time to clip the feathers on Ailm's poisonous quill. Toss out that inkwell of spite.
With lightning sparking high overhead, she had no need of a lantern as she slipped out of her room. From the long-houses lining the compound, laments joined the wailing of the wind as branches lashed against roofs. At least others mourned Sarra, if not Ailm, and she wondered how a priestess, one of the decision-makers at that, could be so cold towards one of her own. But Ailm's compassion had expired with Beth's predecessor on a deathbed of promise. Thirteen years of bitterness had turned hot blood to bile.
And there was irony here, Claudia thought, as the first drops of rain started to fall. That she could feel sympathy for the woman who'd been betrayed not once, but twice, and who now saw life only through eyes of betrayal.
Which was not to say Claudia would lose a wink of sleep when the unfeeling bitch was stripped of her status.
'No evidence?' she asked Jupiter, as he shook his thunder cloak overhead. 'We'll bloody well see about that.'
Rain made the path slippery and loosened the stones, but the raindrops were warm and the smell of the earth slammed into her nostrils. She tried not to think of Orbilio down in the pit, water pouring down the channels of stone, cold, wet, in pain and alone.
'Soon.' A knife twisted her gut. 'Soon, darling. Somehow I'll have you released from your torment, that I really do promise.'
But the words could not get past the lump in her throat. Poison might yet be his only escape Outside the Cave of Miracles she took care, but the Guardian of the Sacred Spring wasn't watching the path. He sat on a stool with his head in his hands, sweat darkening the shirt round his underarms, his ponytail limp with the heat. If she didn't know better, she'd have thought Gurdo was praying — but for what? she wondered. Pod? The boy would be coming round soon, he could not keep him in a drugged sleep for ever. But what then? Pod had found Clytie, Pod had found Sarra, and the man who adopted him wasn't stupid. His mind would be turning back a decade in time, to the day he found the boy wandering among the reed beds. A boy with spiky dark hair, a broad elfish grin, and no memory whatsoever Creeping past the cave mouth, Claudia half-expected the forbidden side to be blocked by a guard of priestesses, but it seemed resurrection was a lengthy process. Presumably it would only be once Sarra's body was cremated that any rituals would transfer to this cave. Inside, sheltered from the howls of the wind and the drumming rain, she strained both her eyes and her ears. But the spirits remained invisible, even in death, and their buzz was silent as ever, while deep underground the rumble of thunder echoed like the Minotaur's hoof.
She could turn back. Kill time in her room, pacing the floor. There was no need to do this, it could wait. But as long as her mind had nothing to occupy itself with, it tumbled with images of blood. Of broken bones. Of the rotting remains of animals that had fallen into the pit. Of the whimpers of previous victims…
She pushed deeper into the tunnel. Where the bloody hell was it? That scrap of paper that talked about millstones had to be a draft of the original letter. A draft Ailm had torn up because it wasn't nasty enough, and Claudia was sure it was around here that she'd found it. Ah, there you are! A fragment, but enough to confirm her suspicions that Ailm penned her poison down here, hiding the evidence where it would not be found. As the Death Priestess, she had the freedom to come and go as she pleased, no one would question her right to be here, not even Gurdo. But if the parchment and ink were squirrelled away, Ailm would need a place where the damp couldn't penetrate. Funnily enough, Claudia had a hunch about that, too.
Guided by the channel of softly trickling water, she felt her way through the Stygian blackness until she reached the great painted chamber, still mercifully illuminated by the glow from a score of candles. Once again she was struck by its beauty. Unlike the frescoes that adorned Rome, they lacked subtlety and style, and the colours were severely limited. But there was something deeply compelling about those stylized antelope, about the handprints of men and women long dead, and the sinuous lines of the lynx. High above, on ledges gouged out of the rock, the ashes of three hundred years watched over them from their communal urns. Yellow for gorse, purple for heather, red like Luisa's shiny bright rowans.
It was tempting to dismantle the cairn of white stones, but Beth had already tried that. Maybe she'd received a letter herself, but either way she knew about the poison-pen letters, because there was only one reason why the Head of the College would fail to reprimand an outsider from setting foot on sacred soil. Forget that nonsense about too many problems inside the College. That was false confidence, designed to distract Claudia from Beth's presence in the cave and the lie about visiting old friends. She'd been crouched down, behind that cairn, searching for the same thing Claudia was after today. Evidence. And she remembered the sighs that had echoed down the tunnel. Sighs, she realized now, that had been born of exasperation.
No evidence to connect these letters to me.
Wherever Ailm hid it, Beth hadn't found it, but the point is, Beth wasn't Ailm. Ailm would have hidden her secret in the one place Beth wouldn't dream of disturbing. Among the dead. Dragging the ladder against the ledge, Claudia picked up one of the candles and began to climb. It was wider up here than it looked from below, several feet deep in places. But with fifty funeral urns, each as high as her shoulder, where on earth to begin? Walking between the lines of colourful urns, running her hand over their painted imagery — birds, clouds, fruit trees, nuts — she wondered which one Ailm would have chosen. The resting place of her predecessors, perhaps? Claudia heaved off the heavy black lid and saw only ash staring back at her. Damn.