The Drowning City - Amanda Downum [49]
Inside was nearly as damp as the day without. Water dripped in shining streams from holes in the roof, sluicing over smooth-polished pillars and swirling into curving channels in the floor, filling the vaulted chamber with the music of rain and river. Flowering vines clung to the ceiling, shedding petals onto the water. People sat in silent prayer on benches that lined the room, or knelt beside the spirals of the water garden. Some lit candles and set them in floating bowls, while others waded quietly into a deep pool in the center of the room.
“It’s meant as a place of peace,” Zhirin said, her voice soft. “Of solace. We give our pain and troubles to the river, and she washes us clean.”
“It’s beautiful.” She was gawking like a child, but the place was worthy of it.
An old woman passed them, smiling at Isyllt’s expression. She wore a scarf nearly identical to Marat’s, even to the pattern embroidered on the hem. Several others in the temple wore them too, mostly the elderly.
“Those scarves, the gray, do they mean something?”
“They mark the clanless. Those who’ve lost all their kin. To many Sivahri, it’s the worst thing that can befall someone.”
“So Marat—”
“Yes. Many of them end up as servants. It’s a sad thing, to have no one to look after you. I’m going to leave an offering, and light a candle. Afterward I’ll show you where the festival will take place.”
The girl took a coin from her purse and walked toward a stand of votives. Isyllt stepped out of the way of the doors, moving into a green-shadowed corner. A place of solace indeed, and gentler than the sepulcher peace of the cathedrals in Erisín. No one built temples to the black river Dis, and that was likely for the best; it claimed enough sacrifices for itself.
As she glanced around the room, she saw Anhai Xian-Mar hunched on a nearby prayer bench. She wasn’t going to interrupt, but the customs inspector looked up and met Isyllt’s eyes, trying to soothe her face.
“Is something wrong?” Isyllt asked softly as she moved closer. “It isn’t Lilani, is it?”
“No. No, Lia’s well, and my sister too.” She sighed. “It’s nothing serious, truly. Only an indignity.”
Isyllt hesitated for a heartbeat. “May I ask?”
“I have been suspended from my position.” Anhai’s lips twisted; the unhappy set of her shoulders made her look older. “The Khas arrested several members of the Xian family for involvement in the market bombing. The port authority suggested that I take time off until the matter has been settled.”
“Surely they don’t suspect you?”
“Not me personally. But as all know, in Sivahra family means more than anything.” The last words were so bitter Isyllt thought she might spit. Anhai glanced at Isyllt’s ring and ran a hand over her face. “Forgive me. You find me at unpleasant times.”
She stood, tugging her coat smooth. “I seem unsuited for meditation today. Perhaps I should see if my sister has a place for me on her boat.”
Across the room, Zhirin set her tiny flame adrift and rose, the knees of her trousers damp-darkened.
“Would you like to have tea with us?” Isyllt asked. “We’re only sightseeing before the festival.”
“Thank you, but I should go home. Lilani and Vienh will want to attend the Dance and I should find something to wear. Perhaps we’ll meet again on a happier day.” With a farewell nod she turned away.
Xinai’s first mission with the Dai Tranh took her and Riuh into the city, where a Xian clansman poled them through the twisting back canals of Jadewater. They leaned together like young lovers, clasping hands and laughing. Sometimes her throat tightened when she met his eyes—black instead of green.
Rain misted cool against her face, glistened in Riuh’s braids. A common sight, couples walking or boating in the rain, making wishes. An ancient custom adapted to the city, when once they might have walked through the forest or along the riverbank. Most couples today hoped only for a child or good business, not for the overthrow of the Assari.
It’s only a job, she tried to tell herself