Here, far away from the comfort of stone walls, out upon the open sea, the dawn was not quite so dramatic. Instead of arriving in a soundless thunderclap, it staggered up with a silent yawn. Instead of blooming with a glorious burst, it opened its golden eye lazily. Instead of acting as a herald for a new day, a cleansing, it seemed slow, sluggish … bored.
Perhaps that was why she had no prayers for Talanas today.
It had been her routine since she had left the temple to thank the Healer for delivering her through the night once the sun rose again. Following that, she begged safety for her family, her clergy, her temple. Prayers for her companions typically ranked last, pleas for Talanas’s watchful gaze requested for Lenk, Dreadaeleon, Kataria and Gariath, always in that order. Whether or not she chose to offer a prayer for Denaos largely depended on her mood.
Today, she was in no mood to ask for any such benevolence. Her lips were still, silent. She could not pray this morning, not when the dawn still failed to cleanse her memories of yesterday’s violence.
Images flew on shrieking wings through her mind, scenes of the fury that had raged inside the ship’s bowels. Even as she tried to burn the sights out of her eyes by staring directly at the sun, she still saw them. The dawn was in no hurry to assist her.
She saw them, the moments replaying themselves over and over in her mind: the frogman lurching towards her, the white flash of its dagger and needle-like teeth. Her staff was out of reach, useless against the wall; she could not remember how it had left her hand. As desperately as she might wish, she could not help but remember her left hand, reaching out, muscles spasming wildly, tears brimming in her eyes as it reached past the knife and took the pale creature by the throat. .
NO! She clenched her eyes shut. Stop it, stop it, stop it. Stop thinking about it! Focus on the dawn! Focus on the sun!
That proved difficult, as the sun had risen only a hair’s width. Dawn had failed to purge her mind. The long, sleepless night had offered her no respite. The new sleeve she had stitched onto her robe failed to offer any comfort.
And so, as she looked down from the dawn to the silver pendant of the phoenix in her hand, she had no prayers. She had but one word.
‘Why?’
The holy symbol did not answer. Its eyes, tiny carved gouges, were fixed upwards, staring towards the dawn as though that were enough. She bit her lower lip, not bothering to follow its metal gaze.
‘It happened again,’ she whispered. ‘Why did it happen again? Why does it keep happening?’
The pendant did not answer. The sun rose another eye-lash, light caught the silver. A glare was cast over its eyes, the usually stern and uncompromising stare of nobility suddenly turning heavy-lidded and disinterested.
‘Why don’t you ever answer me?’
‘Priestess?’
Asper realised she had demanded that last answer more loudly than she had intended. Swallowing hard, she resisted the urge to whirl about at the voice. Instead, she forced her back to stiffen to a more upright posture, resolute against the dawn. It would not serve, she knew, to look startled under the Eye of Talanas.
‘Quillian Guisarne-Garrelle Yanates.’ She turned about, forcing a smile upon her face. ‘Apologies — Serrant Quillian Guisarne-Garrelle Yanates, good morning.’
‘To you as well.’ The woman’s eyes had a peculiar way of remaining still and hard while the rest of her head moved in a respectful nod. ‘Quillian is fine.’ She cleared her throat suddenly. ‘Whichever title pleases you, however, is the one that is proper, Priestess.’
The Serrant attempted a smile; it was not easy for her. It did not flow smoothly over her face, but had to be carved hastily. The twist of her lips revealed strain, teeth set so tight in her jaw as to creak like aged iron. She looked more prepared for a hanging than a conversation.
‘The title that would please me most,’ Asper replied, her own voice a bit halted by the woman’s obvious tension, ‘is the one where we have only one name to refer to each other by.’
‘So noted, Priestess, but I must request you reconsider such a statement. It would be improper to call you anything less than your station.’
Asper blinked at that; she had never considered her name to be beneath her calling before.
‘Oaths dictate a certain protocol.’
‘Mm.’ Asper turned back to face the sun; it had risen a finger’s width. ‘What can I do for you, Serrant?’
‘I was hoping to fulfil my oaths and make certain of your well-being. I know you will. . likely be leaving soon.’
It wasn’t until Quillian had spoken those words that it dawned on Asper. She would be leaving soon.
All at once, the noise on the decks below began to rise. Sailors were emerging from their sleepless night in the holds below, the sound of ropes sliding on wood, sails unfurling and orders being barked were beginning to mingle with the lazy sizzle of the sun. Asper narrowed her eyes at that; whatever answers she hoped to find, she wouldn’t even be able to hear in a few moments.
‘Your companions will likely expect you,’ the Serrant suggested.
‘They can wait.’
The answer came quickly and without thought. Truly, she hoped it would be enough to express her desire to be alone with the silent, uncaring sun, to have the silence to hear its answers.
Even that hope, however, was extinguished.
‘A wise decision, if I may say.’ Quillian’s footsteps were loud and clanking against the wood as she drew closer. ‘Frankly, if you think my criticism not too bold, I don’t know why you continue to indulge those heathens, Priestess.’
Asper merely let out a hum. She had often been presented with that query by those who considered themselves worthy of voicing it. She mulled it over herself, frequently. More often than not, she preferred not to think too hard about it; accepting the excuse that she enjoyed the opportunities provided by their company was preferable to the inevitable headaches that ensued further thought.
‘Granted, I may not be in a position to question, given that I follow Galataur.’ The Serrant hesitated momentarily. ‘But. . Talanas only requires you to serve mankind, does He not?’
‘Ideally, all Gods-’ Asper paused, correcting herself. ‘All human Gods at least gently encourage the improvement of mankind. I seem to do that rather well.’
‘Still,’ she could almost hear the cracking of Quillian’s teeth, ‘I wonder if you are perhaps too indulgent of other faiths. Is it not a sin to acknowledge the Gods of savages?’
‘Technically, Kataria and all shicts only have one God. Goddess, actually. Gariath, as far as I know, believes in something else altogether.’
‘Which is precisely my point: you are aware that some of your companions are-’
‘Not human?’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Yes, I had noticed that.’
‘May I ask why-’
‘I suppose their parents hadn’t the foresight to have been human.’
‘Your sarcasm is noted.’ The lack of ire in the Serrant’s voice was oddly unnerving to the priestess. ‘It was my intent to ask why you cling to them.’
Likely because they’re at least occasionally willing to leave me alone.
She bit back that thought.
‘In theory,’ she began with a sigh, ‘staying in their company grants me many opportunities to do the Healer’s work.’ She cast an appeasing smile over her shoulder. ‘You might have noticed the abundance of wounds that materialise in my companions’ presence.’
Her nervous laughter was met with stony silence. Quillian offered no indication that she understood the jest, much less appreciated it. She lingered in the corner of Asper’s eyes for another moment before the priestess turned away.