Part 13 (1/2)

The bird's head bobbed and it dropped an offering-a harvest plum. As it jumped into the air she saw its markings in the distant light: a hawk it was...

* * *IN THE MORNING Priscilla Delacroix y Mendoza was declared dead by her mother, in open court. It was a minor thing. Being a civil matter its transmission to the world was delayed by a more important announcement.

This more important announcement went first to the rest of the Names who Lived, who meditated upon it for some hours before declaring officially to the Temple that Moonhawk was dead. Thence to the underlings went the news: those who would take the message to other Temples in the City, with the true and proper story: young Moonhawk had turned back the theft of all that was Holy and returned to the Temple a key to Balance: in so doing her mission for the Mother in this life was fulfilled, and she had returned to the fold.

In the Temple bas.e.m.e.nt a lone guard stared down at the prisoner a long time before nudging her awake with his foot. He'd considered-but no, not in the Temple, and not with that d.a.m.n bird staring down at him from the empty lamp holder.

”Get up, you,” he said, kicking at her a little harder. ”Get out!” He threw her a rough and ragged s.h.i.+ft, a castaway from the alms box.

”If you ain't out by next chant you're up for trespa.s.sing in the Temple! Can't trust any of you Nameless.”

She was full of pains and aches, but overriding that was an emptiness that was like a drug that dulled her senses. Things weren't as sharp; she could not summon warmth- Priscilla reached out, unwillingly accepting the new because the past was totally gone; she put the s.h.i.+ft on, and stood slowly. She was cold, but here was a little bit of food, and- The man was staring pointedly at her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. She put her head high, felt the ache in the back of her neck, suddenly feeling the weight of his words.

Nameless. Dead. A nothing-No longer Moonhawk. No right to be bare-breasted in public. No right to call the G.o.ddess Mother...

Awkwardly, unnaturally, she b.u.t.toned the s.h.i.+ft across her bruised and chafed b.r.e.a.s.t.s, felt its hem rub on the raw bruises on her thighs.

There was an explosion of wings behind her, and the bird that had been poised there flew out the door and to the left.

”Out, d.a.m.n you!” snapped the guard. ”Look at this mess we gotta clean up! By the G.o.ddess' good foot, get out!”

Numbly, she gathered together a few more of the nuts. Food. A little bit of food.

The man pushed at her roughly.

”Get out! You're not wanted. You're dead!”

She ran then, ran out the door and to the left, ignoring the open door to the right that led upramp into the beggars courtyard.

”I'm not,” she said to the wall as she climbed the stairs, ”I'm not dead.”

She stopped at the door to MaidenHall, waiting for the tingle of acceptance at the crossboard in thestone floor- There was none.

There was nothing. No quiet gong sounding the advent of a Maiden, no warning brangle of alarm bells, no roar of tarfire from the pot over the door.

Nothing.

She stepped through, then and touched the naming stone with a bare foot.

Nothing again. Moonhawk's name was not intoned by the four guard coyotes, long-frozen by spell: nor did they raise hackles and charge. She was there, Nameless.

Moonhawk's words came back to her: too much training had gone before for her to continue without some ceremony.

”Priscilla,” she said meekly.

Again nothing happened. No repet.i.tion, no echo, no-She realized then she was a thief in Temple!

She ran with trepidation, furtively, until she found the locker that had been hers briefly but that had always been Moonhawk's.

To stop a thief one uses locks. So had the wise women of Sintia done, and the sight of that silver-bright lock sent s.h.i.+vers of fear and indignation through Priscilla. what could she do now? She'd certainly starve, unable to get at what should be hers. And how dare they a.s.sume she stoop to stealing- Incongruously, she laughed, and it was a true laugh despite everything, one that took in all the ironies- She felt the sound of added laughter, distantly heard within her a voice new and thrilling-a male voice!

”You've a chance to survive then, haven't you? It isn't always easy, but girl, Look! It's only a silver lock, all curled about with magic signs that'd burn the hands off any believer still shackled to their cow-eyed vision-”

Priscilla recoiled at that description-felt the distant voice pause- ”-Can't argue with you now, dammit. She needs help for this trick of hers and I-Priscilla, get a pin or a nail.”

The voice felt different, even more distant-but Priscilla took one of Delana-who-was-Oatflower's favorite stainless steel pins from her unkempt locker top and found herself in front of Moonhawk's locker, lock held precisely thus- Her hands pulled on the lock expertly as the pin searched within; she felt her muscles respond to minute ridges the pin struck, felt her wrist twist this way while the other hand pulled that way and the pin slammed home and- Tw.a.n.g!

”Done. Luck be with you girl, 'cause we can't go beyond the door with you. Never give in!”

Priscilla pulled the lock off the clasp and hurriedly began stuffing the locker contents into a cloth sack: shoes, a belt, work trousers, a few old copper and aluminum coins-She left to the Temple and its minions the costly clothes, the makeups, the gold armbands and necklets, signs of power, while happily grabbing up the tight-wrapped soya bar she'd left negligently behind the week before. She covered her newly-shorn head with an old blue kerchief that had been a dusting rag for Moonhawk's ceremonies. What else?

Her gaze fell again to the bright-wrought things, eyes full of the greed of necessity. Dare she?

An odd song tickled at the back of her head, though she couldn't catch the words. Still-When she moved on she held her right hand tight to seven silver bracelets.

She turned toward the door, found she still held the silver lock in her left hand, under the twisted top of the cloth bag. Her impulse was to toss it away-Silver! She looked at the magic symbols, shrugged her shoulders, and dropped the lock into the bag.

”Good girl!” came distant approval. ”Silver travels well! Go as far as you can!”

She hobbled out as best she could then, the grief chants of the Temple covering the sound of her ungainly escape.

Across Sintia the Priestesses waited for the proper hour, and then covered the carved Temple figures of Moonhawk in green cloth, signifying her return to the G.o.ddess, this time.

No one dares mention that the eyes in the statues continued to glow, despite the funereal announcement.

No one dares mention to the Inmost Circle that Moonhawk still lives.

So ends the 55th tale of Lute and Moonhawk.

About This Book

East Winslow, Maine November l8, l998

OUR NOVELS Agent of Change, Conflict of Honors, and Carpe Diem, haven't been on the SF best-seller list, but they have reached a very persistent group of readers, many of them on the Internet.

When we got on the 'net ourselves, our readers let themselves be known.

”When,” they asked ”will there be something else in the Liaden Universe?”

This year, like last, lacks a Liaden novel. Next year, in February l999, comes our novel Plan B from Meisha Merlin. Still, our readers have asked for something for this holiday season, something Liaden. We hear you, and read our email. Hence, Fellow Travelers.