Dark Matters_ Ghost Dance (Book 2) - Christie Golden [1]
He sometimes wished he were not so high ranking. He'd have fewer pretty things, but at least then he could appreciate them openly and honestly as the rest of the Culilann did.
The smoke was dissipating, thank the Grafters. His lungs still burned, but not quite so much as before. After a few more moments, the fire had consumed all the dried leaves, and there was only the faintest trace of their sweet scent clinging to Matroci's heavy robes and long, pale blue hair.
He prostrated himself in front of the altar, asked forgiveness for his wayward thoughts, and rose. He bathed his face with the herb-scented water and let it dry on his blue-hued skin. Droplets traced their way
down his shaven chin and neck and past his high collar, and the cool dampness was annoying.
Trials, that's all every hour brought. More tests, more trials of his faith. Matroci wished he were not quite so young. It seemed that the Elders were much more entrenched in the faith than he was.
He rose, stretched, poured himself a cool drink from one of those beautifully wrought pitchers, and sipped the tangy beverage slowly. He tried not to think about how delicious it was, and how beautifully made was the goblet that held it.
There was a soft knock on his door. Matroci sighed and called, "Enter."
It was Trima, his Sa-Culil. She stood straight and tall, her long blue hair falling past her buttocks. Since the day she was pledged to the Grafters, Trima had never cut it. It was an old tradition, hardly followed much anymore. Matroci himself had been forced to cut his long locks a few turns ago when he'd gotten them hopelessly snarled, but as far as he knew, Trima had proudly let her hair grow longer and longer, untouched by shears if not by comb.
It was thick and glossy and quite beautiful, and not for the first time Matroci wondered what its heavy lengths would feel like between his fingers. But Trima was his responsibility, and he would no more act on his feelings than he would leap off the thatched roof thinking he could fly.
He placed his fingers first on his temples, then on his throat, then on his belly in the ritual threefold gesture that Trima always expected. She returned it
in kind, executing the movements with exquisite grace.
"Greetings, Sa-Culil," said Matroci. "What is it you require of me? It is not time for your training sessions."
"No, good Culil." Her voice was as sweet as the bell that rang to call them all to prayer at sunrise. She paused for a moment and inhaled deeply, breathing what remained of the sacred smoke. She never coughs, Matroci thought sourly.
"I come from Soliss. He tells me that the Strangers are not healing well, despite the holy waters with which they have been anointed and the prayers we have said for them, even though they are-"
Her voice caught, and her eyes widened a little. Matroci felt for her then. Trima liked to project such an image of peace, of tranquility. She had been the one to find the Strangers, wandering bleeding on the holy ground, and the whole incident had clearly upset her. Their torn, broken bodies were nothing of peace and tranquility.
But the words of the Grafters were clear. These were Strangers of the most terrifying sort, utterly unknown, and the Culilann were not to provide any aid other than spiritual for a certain number of days. If they survived, then the Culilann would attend to their physical needs with all the hospitality the Grafters bade them show. If they died, then the Grafters had spoken.
Personally, Matroci didn't like it any better than Trima seemed to, but there wasn't much he could do. Soliss, the Minister of the small village, was the
worst of all. It was in him to heal, and to sit by and watch anyone suffer, even Strangers as alien as these two, must be awful.
A thought came