Dark Matters_ Shadow of Heaven (Book 3) - Christie Golden [2]
It seemed a sound theory, but for one thing: the reaction Paris had had to the dead body. She had been watching him keenly when he approached the pyre to pay his last respects. She had seen Paris notice the burn mark, seen him express shock and horror, seen those emotions quickly covered as he realized that no one else would recognize the mark for what it was. Would a murderer so give himself away as to react to the sight of his killing, especially if no one else even realized that murder had been committed? It did not make sense. So now she was confused, and not a little frightened.
Because of her position, first as Sa-Culil and now Culil proper, Trima could not express much interest in Tom's origins. One did not question where Strangers had come from. It only mattered that they were here. But Trima needed to know for reasons that no one else in Sumar-ka was aware of.
She went about her duties of morning prayer, placing a few leaves of the Sacred Plant in the small bowl of embers and taking care to fully open the windows. She was not interested in dying the way Matroci had died.
Her thoughts were not on the prayers she had uttered since childhood, but on the fair-haired Stranger.
She went through the day watching him when she could. Most of her time was spent talking to a bereaved people, assuring them that the Crafters had a plan for Matroci and that those left behind did not need to trouble themselves in fear for his fate. She was beginning to hate the lies. She did not even know if there were Crafters, and she certainly did not know of any plan. And yet the words of comfort came to her lips, and her people embraced her, called her Culil, called her good.
For years, she had told herself that her falseness was serving a higher good, but now she was not sure. Now, she might be a target herself, and things were very, very different
There was a knock on the door and she started. She forced herself to be calm and rose languidly, the robes of a Culil swirling about her gracefully. She opened the door.
'Tom," she said, surprised. "You have never sought solace from the Culil before. Why are you not helping Soliss and the others in repairing Ramma's hut?'
'Too many cooks spoil the broth," he said.
Her delicate blue brows drew together in a frown. "I do not understand your reference."
He grinned. "It means that sometimes you can have too many people doing one task, and you get in the way. They finally told me to leave after I knocked Kevryk off the roof. Accidentally, of course."
Despite herself, Trima smiled. "So that was what the shouting was all about."
"Soliss is busy preparing herbal drinks and Yurula is off gathering berries, I think. So, I thought I'd drop by and see if I could serve some useful purpose here."
"There is nothing I need you to do." She was about to close the door in his face when she realized this was a perfect opportunity to interrogate him. No one would know what they talked about, unless Tom told, and there was no real reason for him to. Everyone was busy, and those who weren't would assume that Paris had come for spiritual guidance.
"Oh," he said. "Well, if there is-"
"You could stay here and talk to me for a while. While I prepare the altar for the next prayer session." Her voice was still hard, and she could tell the offer sounded far from genuine.
He hesitated. "If I'm not intruding."
"No. Please come in."
He stepped inside, a little gingerly, she thought, and looked around. His eyebrows rose in appreciation. Trima was now living in Matroci's hut. It was the largest building for an individual or family in the village, and was furnished with the finest the Culilann had to offer their spiritual leader. Pillows and rugs covered the hard-packed earth. A small table and chairs sat to the side, exquisitely carved and inlaid with precious stones gathered