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The world held up its illusions. No one could see for ever, beyond horizons, through the thickest of forests and the solid mountains of rock, or into the depths of dark rivers, and so there were promises out there as well, inviting the longing reach, offering up vistas of grandeur. The illusions were borne by all who witnessed them in the name of sanity, perhaps, or hope. And so too could others see her: a High Priestess taking her station in the altar room, with the other High Priestess at her side, both standing as representatives of Mother Dark, whose own veil of darkness none could pierce — they could indeed see this and so find whatever illusions of comfort they desired.
There was no cause to resent their expectations. Yet, for all that, she wished the image before her to step out from the mirror, leaving a space into which Emral could then plunge. Illusions held up the world, and she was so tired of holding up her own.
Behind her the lesser priestesses fretted, and the sound alone was sufficient to irritate her. They had fled their beds and the men lying in them as soon as the news reached them. In her mind she imagined them transformed, bright silks shed and in their place dark, oily feathers. Mouths twisting into beaks. Breathless, excited words dissolving into senseless cawing. And the musty heat of their bodies now filled the chamber, and the long-toed feet clacked and kicked through the white shit of their agitation, and in a moment Emral Lanear would turn from the mirror and look upon them, and smile at the death of illusions.
‘A woman!’ someone hissed.
‘Azathanai! It is said they can take any form they wish.’
‘Nonsense. They are bound by the same laws as the rest of us — you might well dream of escaping that ugly countenance of yours, Vygilla, but not even an Azathanai’s power could help you.’
High-pitched laughter.
Emral stared at the blurred reflection, wondering what it was thinking, wondering what it was seeing. There must be a secret dialogue, she told herself, between thinking and seeing, where every conclusion was hidden away. But to look upon oneself in this mirror-world was to witness every truth; and find nowhere to hide. Mirrors, I fear, are an invitation to suicide.
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The world held up its illusions. No one could see for ever, beyond horizons, through the thickest of forests and the solid mountains of rock, or into the depths of dark rivers, and so there were promises out there as well, inviting the longing reach, offering up vistas of grandeur. The illusions were borne by all who witnessed them in the name of sanity, perhaps, or hope. And so too could others see her: a High Priestess taking her station in the altar room, with the other High Priestess at her side, both standing as representatives of Mother Dark, whose own veil of darkness none could pierce — they could indeed see this and so find whatever illusions of comfort they desired.
There was no cause to resent their expectations. Yet, for all that, she wished the image before her to step out from the mirror, leaving a space into which Emral could then plunge. Illusions held up the world, and she was so tired of holding up her own.
Behind her the lesser priestesses fretted, and the sound alone was sufficient to irritate her. They had fled their beds and the men lying in them as soon as the news reached them. In her mind she imagined them transformed, bright silks shed and in their place dark, oily feathers. Mouths twisting into beaks. Breathless, excited words dissolving into senseless cawing. And the musty heat of their bodies now filled the chamber, and the long-toed feet clacked and kicked through the white shit of their agitation, and in a moment Emral Lanear would turn from the mirror and look upon them, and smile at the death of illusions.
‘A woman!’ someone hissed.
‘Azathanai! It is said they can take any form they wish.’
‘Nonsense. They are bound by the same laws as the rest of us — you might well dream of escaping that ugly countenance of yours, Vygilla, but not even an Azathanai’s power could help you.’
High-pitched laughter.
Emral stared at the blurred reflection, wondering what it was thinking, wondering what it was seeing. There must be a secret dialogue, she told herself, between thinking and seeing, where every conclusion was hidden away. But to look upon oneself in this mirror-world was to witness every truth; and find nowhere to hide. Mirrors, I fear, are an invitation to suicide.
‘Sister Emral.’
At the familiar voice she felt something quail inside her. But the blurry reflection showed no sign of that, and Emral felt a flash of unreasoning jealousy. Yet she held that placid gaze and did not turn at the call. ‘Sister Syntara, is it time?’
High Priestess Syntara’s arrival in the chamber had, Emral realized, announced itself a few moments earlier, in the sudden hush among the priestesses. Such was the force of the young woman’s power, a thing of polished gold and dripping blood. Emral could see her now, almost formless in the mirror, neither beautiful nor imposing. She suppressed an urge to reach up and wipe through the shape, smearing it from existence.
There was no need for two High Priestesses. The temple was ancient, once consecrated to a spirit of the river. The god’s very name had been obliterated from all records. Pictorial representations had been effaced from the walls, but she knew the Dorssan Ryl had been named after the spirit that once dwelt in its depths. In that ancient dawn, when the first stones of Kharkanas were set down, a single priest led the processions, the rituals of worship, and conducted the necessary sacrifices.
The Yan and Yedan cults were survivors of that time, but Emral saw them as little more than hollow effigies, where ascetics invented rules of self-abnegation in the mistaken belief that suffering and faith were one and the same.
Instead of answering Emral’s soft query, Syntara spent a few moments sending all the others from the chamber. Now she turned to Emral once more. ‘Will you gaze upon yourself until All Darkness comes?’
‘I was examining the tarnish,’ Emral replied.
‘Set the candidates to polishing it, then.’ Syntara’s tone betrayed the first hint of annoyance. ‘We have matters to discuss.’
‘Yes,’ Emral said, finally turning to Syntara, ‘that does seem to be our principal task these days. The discussion of… matters.’
‘Changes are coming, Sister. We must be positioned to take advantage of them.’
Emral studied the younger woman, the fullness of her features, the unnecessary paint round her elongated, seductive eyes, the perfect moulding of her lips; and she thought of the cruel portrait Kadaspala had painted of Syntara — although it seemed that only Emral saw it as cruel, and indeed the portrait’s subject had uttered more than once her admiration of the rendition. But then Emral could not be certain that Syntara’s admiration was not for the woman depicted, rather than the genius of Kadaspala. ‘We must be positioned to survive, Sister Syntara. Seeking advantages is somewhat premature.’
