Finally she had one day remaining, and was gifted freedom from her classes after the morning offering. The prayer hall had already begun to fill. Acolytes knelt in rows, their veils spilling onto the floor in delicate patterns of white and gold. Lain chose her usual place, a half step behind the others. The other acolytes had kneelers, or at least grooved divots in the floor for heels. She had nothing. Her joints didn’t bend right, and the floor was cold, so she shifted her weight to sit on her thighs with her hooves to the side, and settled as best she could without her tail rebelling against its bonds. She adjusted her veil carefully, making sure it fell across her ears, then pressed her hands together and lowered her head.
The Glinnel were a rare and vital caste within the Dagorlind. Only Glinnel were born with the resonance of their Tuning. They were the ones that could sense the Underserpent’s song. It was a soft choral pressure that brushed the chest from the inside out. Each Glinnel heard it differently, though the high Glinnel said that in the final days before death, the harmony would align in one great chord, one single voice.
The others had been raised for it, children born with the gift brought to the Dagorlind from nearby villages, offered as acolytes. From what she’d been told, Tuning was rare in her people; Kelthi supposedly only experienced it when they went into Heat. But when Wyrmrot had taken her small village and she’d been found just days before they sacrificed their most recent Bellborn, the Dagorlind had thought it a sign.
Her Tuning gave her the depth of channel the Dagorlind required, but being Kelthi made her suspect. Her attunement was open in ways that were frowned upon. There were days where she had to bite the inside of her cheek just to keep the resonance from escaping her mouth unbidden.
There were thirty-two lines in the Dawn Litany, each meant to calm the breath and open the channel. She knew them all by heart.
The cantor spoke the call. “Let the flesh fall quiet.”
“Let the breath be still,” the others answered.
Lain’s voice joined with theirs, soft and clear. Her chest stayed low, her shoulders relaxed. She’d been practicing that, to exhale instead of tensing. The Glinnel above her said the wyrm could sense strain. It Tuned to ease.
If she focused, she could catch the secondary resonance in her own throat, that soft vibration that meant the wyrm was listening. It was a twin thread beneath her voice. She prayed not with the words of the hymn; the prayer was not words. That was the part most outsiders never understood. The prayer was what she did with the space the words left behind.
Every word of the prayer moved through her body like thread through a loom. The words were the wyrm’s, and she was only passing them along.
She could feel Sister Mirelle watching from above. The upper balcony creaked sometimes when she leaned forward. She said the words of the morning offering with perfect reverence.
Steady the hands.
Steady the jaw.
Steady the pitch.
There is no self.
This was the easiest part of the day.
She wasn’t sure what to do with herself as the others left breakfast for lessons. She sat alone for a moment, helping herself to a winter fig before the Unsung Sisters cleaned up after breakfast. But finally she left, her thoughts nowhere, walking aimlessly until she realized she was standing before her cell. She entered, but couldn’t bring herself to sit.
A knock came. It was familiar, softened by hesitation. Tanel.
She opened the door.
He held a plain clay mug cupped in both bare hands. The steam rose thick with licorice root. Her stomach turned at the smell, but she stepped aside to let him in.
Tanel ducked slightly under the lintel, the way he always did, even though he wasn’t quite tall enough to bump his head on it. His black hair curled a little with sweat near his temples. He didn’t speak at first, just moved to the desk and set the mug down quietly.
“You didn’t come for your draught last night,” he said.
She nodded once. “I forgot.”
It wasn’t true. She’d remembered exactly when the evening bell tolled. She’d just wanted to see how long she could go without it. Part of her hated that she still had to maintain this decorum, seeing as how her fate was already decided.
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He didn’t press. He turned the mug so the handle faced her, then took a step back. “This batch is a little stronger. I added fen bark.”
“Fen bark’s so bitter,” she said, with a slight tilt of a smile.
“That’s the point. You’re fasting tomorrow, so it has to be stronger.” His eyes flicked to hers, then down again. “You seem well.”
“I’m managing.” She picked up the mug but didn’t drink yet. It was too hot. She cradled it in her hands and let the warmth bleed in. Tanel looked like he wanted to say something else. His brow twitched, and he half turned toward the door, then stopped.
“They’re calling in the Unsung Sisters today,” he said. “To bless the baths. They don’t always do that that early.”
“So I’ve been told,” she murmured.They would only do so if they meant to bless the baths twice. The bitter steam stung her nose. “They’re taking precautions.”
Because she was Kelthi, but she didn’t have to say it aloud.
He nodded.
She sipped the draught. It was worse than usual. It wasn’t just the bitterness – the aftertaste had a sharpness to it, something that bit back. She swallowed and closed her eyes. The Heat shifted, then stilled again.
“Will it hurt?” she asked, not looking up.
Tanel didn’t answer right away. He moved to the windowsill and leaned there, arms folded. The early light caught in the lines beneath his eyes. He didn’t look old, but she’d seen how his face had changed each year, to soften at the edges.
“The resonance?” he asked. “Or the offering?”
“Either.”
He took a breath. “You’ll feel both. But not for long.”
She set the mug down. “I don’t want to make a mistake. I don’t want to… lose the song.”
“You won’t,” he said. “Even if you do.” He turned to face her fully. “It’s not just yours anymore. I think the Sisters don’t explain that properly. Once it’s in you, it… remembers.”
She nodded, but the answer didn’t settle her. “Will you be there?”
Tanel blinked.
“At the altar,” she clarified. “When it happens.”
His mouth opened slightly, but no sound came out at first, as if he were deciding how honest to be. “That depends on the High Glinnel.” His voice was careful now, professional. “The circle may be closed.”
Lain looked away. “I see.”
He stepped forward, not close enough to touch.
“I’ll be there if I can,” he said.
She picked up the mug again, drained the last of it, and wiped her mouth with the edge of her sleeve. Tanel’s gaze lingered on the bell at her throat. He stepped to the door as if to leave, then nodded for her. “Come. Bring your shawl.”
She followed.
They didn’t speak as they descended the inner stairs, through the gatehouse, past the chapel wing. The day was bright. Her eyes adjusted slowly. Outside the cloister wall, the stone path held pockets of snow where the sun didn’t reach; she’d done well diverting the storm. The wind carried the distant bell-sound from the eastern watchtower, dulled by cold air.
They passed no one. After a few minutes of walking – and when she’d thought perhaps this was the point of it, just the silence and the motion – he stopped beneath a bent-limbed elder tree that grew between the outer wall and the slope beyond.
Tanel reached into the inner pocket of his robe. He handed her a small cloth bundle, wrapped in faded blue. She unfolded it.
It was a small bell, no larger than the pad of her thumb. It was made of pale ceramic, with a coil pattern around the base. The glaze had spidered in fine lines over time, but it hadn’t cracked. The clapper inside was bone.
She turned it in her fingers.
“You were swaddled with it,” he said. “When I found you.”
Lain didn’t speak. It wasn’t marked by any Dagorlind sigil. It wasn’t a design she’d ever seen before, round and curved sweetly.
She blinked once, the wind stinging her eyes. Or perhaps it didn’t.
“Thank you,” she said. She slipped it carefully into her jacket pocket.
Tanel nodded. “I wasn’t going to bring you anything. But then you said –”
He paused, then reached into his coat again and withdrew a second bundle. A rough napkin. He unwrapped it carefully.
It was an apple.
Its skin was dimpled, red muted with time, a soft bruise on one side. It had the look of something that had traveled far in a coat pocket.
“It’s not perfect,” he said. “I had quite the time getting my hands on one. No one at market had them. Finally a sweet servant girl from the Cinnebel house tugged at my arm and said they still had a few in their cellar and – well, we met a bargain.” he laughed. “Not sure I’ll be paying that one off any time soon.”
She took it in both hands. The scent hit her first – not fresh, but wild. She bit into it. It was full of the taste of late summer, memory more than fruit. The flesh was soft, a little dry, but still so wonderfully sweet.
The sound it made when her teeth sank into it was louder than she expected. She chewed.
Then she covered her mouth with one hand, and the tears came, and the ache came behind them, like a doorway opening where no door had been before.
Tanel shouldn’t have put an arm around her, but she was grateful he did.
“It’s just an apple,” she said, voice small.
“It’s not,” he said.
They turned to face the tree, to stand with their backs to the sun. When she’d taken another bite, she held it up to him.
He shook his head. “I can’t. It’s yours.”
“Don’t make me eat it alone. It’s too good not to share.”
He chuckled. “I suppose it must be, to get that kind of reaction out of you.”
An unexpected laugh erupted from her and she prodded him in the side with one hand until he acquiesced, taking only the smallest bite.
“Well?” she asked.
“It’s good,” he admitted. “But if you’re expecting tears, you’ll have to dip it in caramel.”
They passed the apple back and forth, watching the birds flit from branch to branch.
They only walked back when she was ready.