Free Daughter of Witches: A Lyra Novel by Patricia Collins Wrede Page B

unrealistic attempts at reassurance was to tell these people exactly what was happening, so that they would no longer pretend there was some way out of this. Well, she would do so, and she hoped they would appreciate what they heard. Her voice surprised her by being low and steady as she began to speak.
    “You still do not understand, do you? The Midwinter Festival of Chaldon will run for six more days. When the Highest Born agrees that I am to be the Bride of Chaldon, I will be moved to another room. They will give me fine robes, and before the rites begin I will be paraded through the streets in them, and the pilgrims will give me gifts. Of course the Temple guards will only be there to protect me. Why would anyone chosen for such an honor want to run away?
    “For three days more I will be seated in the place of honor in the Temple, next to the High Priest, while he teaches the people the new rites and leads them in the old ones. Then the High Priest himself will perform the wedding ceremony. And consummate it. Publicly,” she added as an afterthought. She stared resolutely at the door of the cell. She was determined to finish, to make them understand, so that they would leave her to whatever little peace and sanity she could find and cling to. “When he is finished, the god will take me. For two days, Chaldon will walk in my body and speak with my voice, and there will be nothing left of me at all. On the last day of the Festival, when both moons are full and Chaldon has accepted the other sacrifices, the nine High Masters will kill me as well.”
    “Other sacrifices?” whispered Mist. Her face was white above the short veil she still wore.
    “There are always sacrifices,” Ranira said with a shrug. “You will not be among them, for witches are burned at Mid-Festival. Of course, since you are foreigners who have disobeyed the Law of the Festival, the priests may choose some other death for you, but it will certainly happen at that time.”
    “Then we have at least two days,” Jaren said calmly. He exchanged a long look with Arelnath, then turned to Mist. “Have you learned enough to satisfy you?”
    Mist shook her head. “No, but this close to the Temple of Chaldon, I should have no difficulty. Make your plans. I will be ready.”
    “What do you mean?” Ranira burst out almost against her will. “You can’t escape; the Eyes of Chaldon can find out anything! They are probably listening right now.”
    “According to you, we will all die anyway,” Arelnath pointed out. “What does it matter if we try to escape?”
    “Don’t you understand? The Eyes of Chaldon can hear everything you say!” Ranira repeated.
    “We are not being watched now,” Mist said. “I will know if they try.” She gestured with the globe of light.
    “More witchcraft,” Ranira said. She was not reassured; she had seen too many witches and rebels die at the command of the Temple to have any real hope of escape by magic. Still, it seemed to inspire confidence in Jaren, Mist, and Arelnath, and a small part of her was interested in spite of herself.
    “If you are certain no one watches, Mist, perhaps you would be willing to make a few repairs?’’ Jaren said. He gestured toward his left side, and suddenly Ranira realized that it was not the blue-white light that made him look so strange.
    “Jaren! You should have spoken sooner.” Mist’s voice was full of concern as she walked over to him. She examined his side briefly, then motioned to Arelnath. “I have not the concentration to maintain the light, keep watch, and heal as well. You have some training, do you not?”
    “A little. I spent four months in training on your island, but I am a Cilhar mercenary, not one of your sorcerer folk. I can hold the light and the watch-spell for you, but I do not have enough sensitivity to give much warning if someone comes. It would be better if you could watch, as well as heal.”
    Mist frowned. “We will have to take the chance,” she