I should think of more interesting titles for my Nano updates...
If I had more space/time I'd go into more details about the temples. For the sake of the wordcount, it's something that gets a wee bit skimmed.
It was with surprise, but not a great deal of it that the following night Warda found herself on the steps of Vistara’s temple at next-to-midnight. A cool breeze played with her headscarf and nervous brought hiccoughs of bile and dinner into the back of her throat. It had been galling, because as it was an Eid, albeit a low-key one, her mother had cooked kofta, rolled oblongs of lamb meat and spices which were her favourite. Her own portion had sat on top of a mound of couscous and vegetables which had not been burnt, not even a little. Her father had poured a cup of cider and her mother had warmed and spiced cups for Warda and herself, to put off the chill of winter and of the ideas conjured up by the night itself. It was the sort of meal set up to fill your belly and put you into a comfortable sleep. Instead Warda had spent the night forcing herself to stay awake, pinching herself through her father’s story of an distant uncle who, far in the mists of time, claimed to have been out in the desert on the Longest Night and had seen a demon, a great scaly thing with wings, it was, that he claimed had come for his immortal soul. He always swore he was rescued by Garatha himself, or at least by one of his lions, which leapt in between him and the demon and started a mighty fight, giving him time to escape. This had always struck Warda as strange, as the Longest Night was Vistara’s domain, and although there was still debate as to whether the demons were hers to command or to conquer, this was one of the few times when Garatha barely had anything to do with the matter. Even in the days before the End of All Magic all the stories were of Vistara sending a creature against a war leader who had angered her, or of Vistara standing and bearing her teeth, her power and her creatures to prevent some demon or spirit from stealing men’s hearts and minds. A demon which had come from, Warda could only presume, wherever their own God and Goddess had taken themselves to.
Stories and prophecies went along with all this, of course, of they day when the two Immortals would return, bringing with them all the Elevated Ancestors who waited on the edge of everything and a new era of magic and prosperity. But as grateful as the Shar doubtless was to the Age of Magic for his halls and the great city walls (which has long since become the Inner City walls) and numerous other functional piers, palaces and monuments, he was certainly not pushing for the restoration of the old order. He didn’t try to suppress all of it, he wasn’t that foolish, but just little things like this, making the Longest Night a night for Oracles and Vistara’s most devoted to observe as they would and discouraging any overt celebration. Things like the Obscurantists, a strange order of monk-like men and women with drawn, serious faces and a vast array of new instruments far more reliable than, as they put it, a giant puddle.
Warda heard feet on the stone steps below her. Looking down she saw a slight girl with a dark over-robe which was far too big for her wrapped around, held on the inside, presumably by her hands. The hood was down, but her hair couldn’t be seen, as it was tied beneath a rich blue headscarf. She was looking down right now, concentrating on not missing her footing as she ran up the thousands-year-old steps, but when she saw Warda’s skirts she looked up and pinned her with those vibrant, violet eyes.
“I knew you’d come,” she said, “come on, we ought to get inside.”
Then she carried on running. Warda picked up her hems using one hand and stuck the other out to the side to steady herself. She had to move quite quickly to keep up, and when they reached the top and the girl paused for a moment to wait and Warda paused too she found herself short of breath. She looked back down the three flights of thirty three steps and exhaled heavily at the effort, but she wasn’t given time to congratulate herself.
“Come on!” said the girl in a strained whisper, as though they really weren’t supposed to be there, and perhaps they weren’t. Warda wasn’t, certainly. She’d had to wait for her mother to get bored and retire and her father to talk himself to sleep before she could leave. If they noticed there would be wailing and blows raining about her head for weeks for the shame of Devil Worship in the house. Which it wasn’t, but she never had been able to argue. She took one more look at the great, sleek cat statues that flanked the base of the stairs, the median desert foxes and top most, the smallest of Vistara’s creatures, the big-eared, tufted-tailed moon rats. She’d always thought it was odd, having your smallest guardians right by the door, but the Ancients must have had their reasons. None were garlanded, like Garatha’s protective lions were tonight. But she turned and was at the door before she had time to think too hard about how none of it made any sense. Why should it? She was no priestess, so why should she expect to understand these things?
When she reached the door, a woman whose business it was to know was examining the girl’s lion. In the grim blue lamp light of the doors, cast by oil wicks through blue glass, she looked as though she might be dead. Her white novice’s robes shone luridly under it and the silver chain at her waist glittered.
“How did you get this?” she asked. Her voice was heavy, too, like the lids of her eyes, like someone who has spent many nights awake and tried to carry on with their days as normal. Higher ranking priestess were able to become almost nocturnal, but as markets ran in the cool morning or the early evening it was hard for the novices who had to shop and clean the temple and study and learning the ceremonies at night. As the world had gotten more secretive, the Temples of Vistara had become more secretive. Even in her fatigue the novice looked proud and reluctant to acquiesce to a small scruffy girl and a teacher.
“It doesn’t matter how, does it? The lore is that those who carry the token of Vistara get to come in and try their skills. I found out what the token was and I got one. I get to try.”
As Warda looked at her now, the child seemed a lot less scruffy. Her headscarf, which must have once been her bandana, currently reflected the blue light so perfectly that it glowed. Her face was clean and very pale, but whereas the novice’s pall made her look sickly, the girl was glowing, too, as though moonlight were coming out of her. As she spoke, it wasn’t as a petulant child whining or arguing, but once more as matter-of-fact as she had been in the classroom. This was just how it had to be.
Off shopping, back later.
It was with surprise, but not a great deal of it that the following night Warda found herself on the steps of Vistara’s temple at next-to-midnight. A cool breeze played with her headscarf and nervous brought hiccoughs of bile and dinner into the back of her throat. It had been galling, because as it was an Eid, albeit a low-key one, her mother had cooked kofta, rolled oblongs of lamb meat and spices which were her favourite. Her own portion had sat on top of a mound of couscous and vegetables which had not been burnt, not even a little. Her father had poured a cup of cider and her mother had warmed and spiced cups for Warda and herself, to put off the chill of winter and of the ideas conjured up by the night itself. It was the sort of meal set up to fill your belly and put you into a comfortable sleep. Instead Warda had spent the night forcing herself to stay awake, pinching herself through her father’s story of an distant uncle who, far in the mists of time, claimed to have been out in the desert on the Longest Night and had seen a demon, a great scaly thing with wings, it was, that he claimed had come for his immortal soul. He always swore he was rescued by Garatha himself, or at least by one of his lions, which leapt in between him and the demon and started a mighty fight, giving him time to escape. This had always struck Warda as strange, as the Longest Night was Vistara’s domain, and although there was still debate as to whether the demons were hers to command or to conquer, this was one of the few times when Garatha barely had anything to do with the matter. Even in the days before the End of All Magic all the stories were of Vistara sending a creature against a war leader who had angered her, or of Vistara standing and bearing her teeth, her power and her creatures to prevent some demon or spirit from stealing men’s hearts and minds. A demon which had come from, Warda could only presume, wherever their own God and Goddess had taken themselves to.
Stories and prophecies went along with all this, of course, of they day when the two Immortals would return, bringing with them all the Elevated Ancestors who waited on the edge of everything and a new era of magic and prosperity. But as grateful as the Shar doubtless was to the Age of Magic for his halls and the great city walls (which has long since become the Inner City walls) and numerous other functional piers, palaces and monuments, he was certainly not pushing for the restoration of the old order. He didn’t try to suppress all of it, he wasn’t that foolish, but just little things like this, making the Longest Night a night for Oracles and Vistara’s most devoted to observe as they would and discouraging any overt celebration. Things like the Obscurantists, a strange order of monk-like men and women with drawn, serious faces and a vast array of new instruments far more reliable than, as they put it, a giant puddle.
Warda heard feet on the stone steps below her. Looking down she saw a slight girl with a dark over-robe which was far too big for her wrapped around, held on the inside, presumably by her hands. The hood was down, but her hair couldn’t be seen, as it was tied beneath a rich blue headscarf. She was looking down right now, concentrating on not missing her footing as she ran up the thousands-year-old steps, but when she saw Warda’s skirts she looked up and pinned her with those vibrant, violet eyes.
“I knew you’d come,” she said, “come on, we ought to get inside.”
Then she carried on running. Warda picked up her hems using one hand and stuck the other out to the side to steady herself. She had to move quite quickly to keep up, and when they reached the top and the girl paused for a moment to wait and Warda paused too she found herself short of breath. She looked back down the three flights of thirty three steps and exhaled heavily at the effort, but she wasn’t given time to congratulate herself.
“Come on!” said the girl in a strained whisper, as though they really weren’t supposed to be there, and perhaps they weren’t. Warda wasn’t, certainly. She’d had to wait for her mother to get bored and retire and her father to talk himself to sleep before she could leave. If they noticed there would be wailing and blows raining about her head for weeks for the shame of Devil Worship in the house. Which it wasn’t, but she never had been able to argue. She took one more look at the great, sleek cat statues that flanked the base of the stairs, the median desert foxes and top most, the smallest of Vistara’s creatures, the big-eared, tufted-tailed moon rats. She’d always thought it was odd, having your smallest guardians right by the door, but the Ancients must have had their reasons. None were garlanded, like Garatha’s protective lions were tonight. But she turned and was at the door before she had time to think too hard about how none of it made any sense. Why should it? She was no priestess, so why should she expect to understand these things?
When she reached the door, a woman whose business it was to know was examining the girl’s lion. In the grim blue lamp light of the doors, cast by oil wicks through blue glass, she looked as though she might be dead. Her white novice’s robes shone luridly under it and the silver chain at her waist glittered.
“How did you get this?” she asked. Her voice was heavy, too, like the lids of her eyes, like someone who has spent many nights awake and tried to carry on with their days as normal. Higher ranking priestess were able to become almost nocturnal, but as markets ran in the cool morning or the early evening it was hard for the novices who had to shop and clean the temple and study and learning the ceremonies at night. As the world had gotten more secretive, the Temples of Vistara had become more secretive. Even in her fatigue the novice looked proud and reluctant to acquiesce to a small scruffy girl and a teacher.
“It doesn’t matter how, does it? The lore is that those who carry the token of Vistara get to come in and try their skills. I found out what the token was and I got one. I get to try.”
As Warda looked at her now, the child seemed a lot less scruffy. Her headscarf, which must have once been her bandana, currently reflected the blue light so perfectly that it glowed. Her face was clean and very pale, but whereas the novice’s pall made her look sickly, the girl was glowing, too, as though moonlight were coming out of her. As she spoke, it wasn’t as a petulant child whining or arguing, but once more as matter-of-fact as she had been in the classroom. This was just how it had to be.
Off shopping, back later.