Mistress Blade reports armed men beyond the pillars. An emissary came before first light.
Thank you, Flint, Sister Apple nodded.
Sister Flint tilted her head, her face so dark that in the gloom Nona could see only black eyes, glittering as they made a study of her. The nun took her hand from the smaller womans shoulder, releasing her to her task.
Sister Apple led the way out into the brittle light of morning. By daylight Nona could see that the convent comprised so many buildings that back in the Grey it would qualify as a village. She suspected it had more stone-built buildings than Flaystown, though she had only glimpsed that metropolis from Giljohns cage on the day he drove her from her home.
Sister Flint said men are coming. Are they here for me? Nona asked. She wondered what help a score of nuns would be if Thuran Tacsis had sent his warriors for her. She should have lost herself in the city when she had a chance.
Perhaps. Sister Apple glanced back at the great Dome of the Ancestor and frowned. Perhaps not. In any case, it would be best if you joined our order sooner rather than later and you cant do that dirty, now can you? She led on at a brisk pace.
Scriptorium, refectory, bake-house, kitchens. Sister Apple reeled off names as they passed various buildings. Few of them meant much to Nona but bake-house she knew and the aroma of fresh bread when they passed the door filled her mouth with drool. The Necessary. The nun pointed to a small building, flat-roofed and seemingly clinging to the edge of the cliff a hundred yards off.
Necessary? Nona asked.
Youll go there when you need it. Sister Apple shook her head and smiled. The smell will let you know its the right place.
They passed a long range of buildings with many small square windows, all shuttered on the windward side. Stores and dormitories.
Nona found herself observed, a dozen pairs of eyes at various of the windows. Some of the girls called out, perhaps to each other. She caught snatches, carried by the wind.
chosen never!
that cant be her
peasant
shes not the
Chosen?
The voices followed them, words lost in the distance but the tone still hanging in the air. Nona knew it well enough, sharp and unkind.
Bathhouse. Sister Apple pointed to a squat building built of unadorned black stone, steam escaping from a row of narrow windows, only to be stripped away by the wind. The Corridor wind scoured the plateau, and crossing the gap between the dormitories and the bathhouse Nona found herself exposed to its teeth. Shed spent a lifetime learning to ignore it just another hard edge of a hard life but one warm night had left her soft and shivering.
They reached the shelter of the bathhouse walls. The nun unlocked the heavy door and ushered Nona in. Hot wet air wrapped her immediately, the steam reducing her vision to a few yards. Wooden benches lined the foyer and a tall arch gave onto what might be a rectangular pool, its surface offered only in glimpses.
Metal shafts ran beneath the benches in profusion. One of those was in my room! Nona pointed.
Pipes, child. Theyre hollow mineral oil runs through them. Very hot. Sister Apple nodded at the arch. Lets get the prison filth off you.
Nona started uncertainly towards the pool, wondering how deep it was, and how hot. The streams around the village never reached much past your knees and quickly stole the feeling from everything below that point.
Youre not going in wearing clothes. Sister Apples voice held a mixture of amusement and exasperation.
Nona turned to stare defiantly up at the nun, her lips pressed together in a puckered scowl. Sister Apple stood with her arms folded. One silent second followed the next and at last Nona started to tug off her Caltess smock, stiff with Raymel Tacsiss dried blood. She made a slow and awkward job of it: in the village even the littlest of the littles rarely ran around naked; the ice stood too close for that. Only around the harvest fires or in the all-too-brief kiss of the focus moon had Nona ever been as warm as there in the convent bathhouse.
Hurry along. I doubt youre hiding anything unusual under there, Sister Apple said, pulling back her headdress as the heat got to her too. She had long hair, red and curling in the wet air.
Nona stepped out of her smock, arms folded about herself, with only the steam for modesty. She made a dart for the pool.
Wait! Sister Apple raised a hand. You cant go in filthy. Youll turn the water black. She took a leather bucket from one of the many pegs lining the walls above the benches. Stand over there. She pointed to an alcove between the benches on the left.
Nona did as directed, her whole body clenched. The alcove was wide enough for two or three people. The floor, tiled and perforated by finger-width holes, felt strange beneath her feet.
What An explosion of hot water stole the rest of the question. Nona wiped her eyes clear in time to see the misty outline of the nun at the poolside having refilled the bucket.
Theres a brush on the floor. Use it. Another wave of hot water broke across Nonas chest.
Nona reached, dripping, for the brush. Shed never felt anything quite as wonderful as a bucketful of hot water. Not even fresh bread and butter came close. Not even eggs, or the bacon she had smelled cooking at the Caltess. If scrubbing herself with a bristly brush was the price she had to pay to get into a whole pool of it, she would scrub.
Two buckets later Sister Apple declared her clean enough for the pool. Nona ran to the edge and lowered herself in, toes questing for the bottom. How deep is it? The rising steam blinded her, the heat delicious.
This end is shallow. On you to your shoulders?
The water reached her neck before Nonas feet found a smooth floor and she released her death-grip on the side. She stood, arms floating at her sides, sure that she had never been truly warm before.
Time skipped a beat. It skipped an untold number of beats. Nona hung in the blind heat of the pool. A sharp clap brought her attention back to the world.
Out you get. Youre clean well, cleaner. Sister Apple stood at the waters edge. In concession to the heat she had hung the outer cloak of her habit up on the pegs. She clapped again. Out! Weve both got things to do. She pointed to the corner of the pool. There are steps there.
Nona went to the steps, too limp to want to struggle back over the edge. At the top she found the nun holding out a large rectangle of thick cloth towards her. It didnt seem to have any armholes or ties. How do I
Sister Apple snorted. Its a towel. She thrust the thing into Nonas hands. Dry yourself with it.
Nona wrapped herself in the towel, finding it thick and luxurious. If it had arms she would have worn it.
Dry your hair too.
When Nona finished rubbing at her hair she was alarmed to see Sister Apple had sprung a second head, this one young and impish with short black hair, chin resting on the sisters shoulder, cheek next to hers.
What is it? the new head asked.
Its a Nona, Sister Apple replied.
A what?
A ring-fighter from the Caltess.
The new head frowned. Two slim hands slid into view holding the tops of Sister Apples arms. It looks rather small and skinny for that. Someone should feed it. It looks more like a farm-girl. The second nun slipped away from Sister Apple. Are you a farm-girl, Nona?
Nona clutched her towel to her and found she was biting her lip too hard to explain that her mother wove baskets. She shook her head.
I dont much care for farm-girls, the new nun sniffed, her smile removing any sting.
This is Sister Kettle, Sister Apple explained, shooing the other woman away. And, raising her voice as Sister Kettle vanished into the steams, she loves country girls. She returned to the benched area. Come on. Get dressed.
Nona followed her and reached for the habit. Sister Apple brushed her hand away with a tut. Smallclothes first. She held out a confusing piece of white linen. Nona took it, frowning. Sister Apple watched her a moment then shook her head. Farm-girls
It took a couple of minutes and significant amounts of advice before Nona finally stepped out of the bathhouse in the full attire of a novice of the Sweet Mercy Convent of the Ancestor. The wind was shockingly cold on her face but the rest of her seemed surprisingly well protected. She stood in her double-sleeved robe, tied at the middle with a woollen belt, two underskirts rustling beneath, her feet feeling most strange in leather shoes drawn tight around them with laces. The only difference between her habit and Sister Apples appeared to be the lack of a headdress, the nun having restored the garments shed shed inside.
The novices will be at breakfast in the refectory. Sister Apple turned her head sharply and waved to someone across the wide yard. Suleri!
The figure stopped, turned, and hurried towards them, a tall girl with long dark hair. Yes, sister?
This is Nona: shes to join Red Class for lessons. Take her to their meal table. Sister Apple seemed suddenly more stern, someone to be reckoned with.
Yes, sister! The older girl, perhaps fifteen, glanced down at Nona, Come on. And she walked away at a brisk pace, forcing Nona to run to keep up.
They crossed a courtyard and turned a corner into a passageway, the bake-house on one side, the kitchens on the other. Suleri stopped and rounded on Nona, blocking her path.
Youre not her! She seemed both furious and unconvinced. The Chosen One wouldnt be a skinny little hunska.
5
When hunger has been your lifelong companion the smell of food is a physical thing, an assault, a seduction, a deep-sunk hook that will reel you in. Nona forgot about Suleris anger. The convents wonders slipped from her mind. The flood of warmth on passing through the tall oak doors, the rapid, high-pitch babble of many voices that became almost a roar none of it mattered. The aroma of fresh bread held her, the captivating scent of bacon sizzling, buttery eggs, scrambled and sprinkled with black pepper.
This way! Suleris voice carried the edge added when someone has had to repeat themselves.
She led Nona through a crowd of older novices chatting animatedly by the entrance. Nonas head barely rose above belt-height on many of them.
Four long tables ran across the width of the hall, each surrounded by high-backed chairs and with large bowls set along the centre. A dozen or more girls sat around each table save the nearest one where only a couple of novices had yet taken their place, both looking like grown women to Nona.
Is that her? A voice from behind.
The conversation around the doorway died to nothing and, glancing back, Nona found the novices staring down at her.
Red Class at the back, Grey Class next, Mystic Suleri slapped the table immediately before them. And Holy! She waved Nona away. Go!
Nona advanced into the room under the scrutiny of the girls by the doors, arms straight at her sides, hands in fists. Despite the crowd she had never felt more alone. She bit her bottom lip hard enough to taste blood. Easing her jaw, she pressed her lips together in a thin, defiant line.
The conversation failed at each table as she passed; by the time she reached the fourth the girls there were turning their chairs to watch.
Nona stopped at the last table. The girls there ranged across a few years in age, though none looked quite as small or young as her. The hunger that had wrapped her stomach in its iron fist slipped away under the stares of half a hundred novices. She looked for a chair but all of them were occupied.
Shes not the one. Suleris voice cut across the room. Shes the dirty peasant we saw earlier. Look at her! Ignoring her own command, the novice turned her attention to the plate before her, heaping it with bacon and bread.
Nonas treacherous stomach chose that moment to rumble more loudly than she had thought possible. The laughter that followed made her cheeks blaze and she stood, furious, staring at the floor, willing it to crack and burn. Instead, it was the laughter that cracked and fell into silence.
Tall men in the furs of the red bear, and armoured beneath in bronze scales, came through the doors, novices scattering from their path. The warriors carried themselves imperiously, as though they might just walk over any too slow to get out of their way. Each wore a helm coiffed with chainmail and visored to mimic the sternest of faces without hint of mercy.
Tacsis men! Come with their own rope to set right the mistake at Harriton, or perhaps to administer crueller justice of their own. Nona snatched the knife from the nearest girls plate and holding it before her, level with her eyes, she started to back towards the service door in the rear wall.
The men ignored her. They stepped to either side, clearing the main entrance, and raised their visors to reveal faces that admitted no more compassion than had been engraved upon the metal. The abbess came through the open doors behind them, one hand gripping her crozier, its golden curl rising above her head, the other resting on the shoulder of a blonde girl perhaps a year older than Nona.
Novices, this is Arabella Jotsis. She will be joining our order.
As was foretold! Sister Wheel stepped out from behind the abbess, Sister Tallow to the other side. As was foretold! She cast about rapidly, her watery stare challenging anyone to disagree.
Abbess Glass frowned. We can be sure she is Arabella and that she is Jotsis. Anything else is open to interpretation. She struck the heel of her staff to the floor, the sharp retort cutting off the novices mutterings. We can also be sure that Arabella will study hard and be treated no differently from any other novice.
Sister Wheel seemed on the point of saying something but at a glance from the abbess closed her mouth with a snap.
Additionally, we may be certain that Novice Nona understands that it is impolite to point a knife at guests, the abbess added, tilting her head in Nonas direction.
Nona set the blade back on the table with a guilty hand as laughter rose about her.
Gentlemen. Abbess Glass looked left then right. Your duty is dispatched. Arabella is now the charge of the convent and her care rests in my hands.
The four men inclined their heads and turned, marching out of the building without a word to either the abbess or the girl they had delivered.
Arabella herself didnt appear to notice their departure. She looked, to Nona, like a different kind of creature, set apart from the dull and dirty humans who scurried about the world. Her hair seemed to glow golden in the light that reached through the still-open doors. Her travelling clothes were a wonder of brushed suede and fur-edged leather, with a magnificent dark red cape across her shoulders secured by a gold chain. Where others might be described by their collection of flaws Arabella Jotsiss only identifying feature seemed to be that she was without blemish. Perhaps the Ancestor looked like this, but people didnt.