Mistress of the Night - Don Bassingthwaite [79]
The girl struggled, but Feena hoisted her over one shoulder and carried her quickly into her chamber. She dumped her on the bed, then grabbed her legs, forcing them together so she could bind them. Behind her gag, Jhezzail was screaming. The torn cloth turned the wails into a high-pitched whine.
"I'm sorry, Jhezzail," Feena apologized. "I truly am. I admire your faith. Please tell Julith that I think you'll be a great priestess someday."
Long strips of fabric bound the acolyte to the bed frame so she couldn't roll off. Jhezzail's eyes were wild with fear. Feena turned away to avoid meeting them.
She shut the door of the chamber but didn't try to lock or block it. When other acolytes or clergy realized Jhezzail was gone from her post, it would be easy enough for them to rescue her. Feena prayed that the acolyte wouldn't be missed too soon-two hours, maybe more. That would be enough time.
The corridors of Moonshadow Hall were deserted. The clerics were probably either seeking solace in prayer or huddled with the frightened acolytes, trying to mend their faith in the face of the day's events. Feena kept a sharp watch anyway, creeping through the shadows to the refectory, into the silent kitchens beyond, and out through the stout door, into the little garden. She gave the old, mossy pillar a fond brush of farewell, then hopped over the wall and out of Moonshadow Hall.
She didn't want anyone to see a wolf running in Yhaunn's shadows again, so she didn't change form. Instead she stayed on two legs as she trotted through the silent streets of the city, climbing steadily up toward the city gates that she'd passed through fourteen nights before.
In the sky above, the moon was only the barest sliver of a crescent, as if even Selune were hiding her face in shame. Feena's chest ached. Sobs had wracked her through the afternoon, and through the long twilight of evening. Inside, she felt broken.
The water in the basin in her room was stained red with Dhauna Myritar's blood. Feena could still taste the tang of it in her mouth-and thinking about it only brought the taste back stronger than before. Sharp. Salty. Warm. Tingling like copper on the tip of her tongue, heavy like iron against the roof of her mouth.
Feena clenched her teeth and forced the memory away. No more sobs. No more tears. Her eyes were dry. She couldn't cry anymore. She might never cry again. Dhauna's betrayal felt like a void in her very spirit-Dhauna's betrayal and her own loss of control in striking down her old friend and teacher.
There was no point to staying at Moonshadow Hall any longer. High manners and elegant gowns wouldn't convince Selune's clergy anymore. The priests and priestesses, acolytes and devotees would shun her. Mifano and Velsinore would be merciless. There would be no more games or petty humiliations. At the very least, they would do to her exactly what she was doing to herself- banishment, exile-if she was lucky.
And if word escaped Moonshadow Hall of what had happened, the people of Yhaunn would shun the temple itself in horror. They might do more. Feena had a vision of a mob, Noyle and the other denizens of the Cutter's Dip at its head, descending on the graceful white walls and blackening them with the smoke of a thousand torches.
A wave of fear swept over her at the thought. She clutched for the nearest wall, holding herself up. When the moment passed, she drew herself up straight.
It was better to remove herself from Yhaunn before any of that came to pass. Dhauna's dreams, the dreams that had drawn her to the city and that had held her within it, were nothing more than the nightmares of a mad, old woman. The only heresy, the only danger, was in Dhauna's age-tortured mind. The New Moon Pact… a horrid coincidence, a tale encountered in chance that had taken root in madness.
Feena's hand strayed to her medallion, caressing the nicked and worn surface.
Moonmaiden have mercy on Mother Dhauna, she prayed silently.