Bernicia decided to go through the tunnel to the Mother’s temple rather than make a public show of visiting her mother. She emerged into the little room by the antechamber but instead of turning toward the gate and the courtyard beyond she turned into the temple, toward the inner precincts. She heard a choir of girls singing. She moved around the side of a small atrium and then through another hall into the inner courtyard beyond. In fair weather her mother was often to be found here, sitting on a bench under an ancient fig tree.
She was there. Bernicia approached to within twenty feet, then waited to be noticed. Her mother was wearing her green and gold dress, with golden leaves in her mostly gray hair. In certain lights she was still beautiful, with her perfectly straight nose and luminous eyes. But these days the mostly vague and vacant expression on her face lessened the appeal. Bernicia waited for several minutes; her mother was deep in a quiet conversation with another priestess and seemed oblivious to her surroundings. But eventually she looked up and recognized her daughter. “Child,” she called, “come to me.”
Bernicia approached and stood before her. “Greetings, Mother,” she said.
Her mother said, “We have just been talking over the book of the Sybils of the Grove. Do you know it?”
“I do not.”
“You should. Their foretellings are very powerful. They foresaw the Fall, and the Wave.”
“Mother, I have come to speak to you about Desdemona Zen. Her mother Emilia tried to invite you to Desdemona’s engagement ball but you would not receive her.”
“Of course I would not receive her. Why would I?”
“Courtesy? A smidgen of concern for others?”
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“I cannot stand these foolish little events.”
“Then you could have declined, citing some pressing priestly duty.”
“I will not trouble myself to tell lies about things that do not matter.”
“Some people think marriage matters a great deal. I have heard that yours once mattered to you.”
“I was young and foolish then.”
“As is Desdemona Zen. As am I. You still might take the trouble to be polite. And, you know, this is not just the wedding of two young people I consider my friends, it is an alliance between two great families.”
Her mother waved this away. “None of us are great, and none of us matter.”
“Speaking for the rest of us, we disagree.”
“It does not matter what we do, child. Our future is clearly written in the stars. We cannot change it.”
“What is the future that you see so clearly?”
“Ruin.”
“How nice. What kind of ruin?”
“The city will be reduced to rubble, its people dead or scattered. It will be the same for all the old towns of the Empire. None will survive.”
“And you?”
“Dead, with all the rest.”
“You seem almost cheerful about it.”
“Because I have accepted my fate. Events like this wedding only give people false hope. It is hope that makes failure so painful. Once you have given up your illusions you can face fate much more calmly.”
“Do the stars say anything about Mercutio’s expedition to Malovana?”
“Not specifically, that I can tell, but I cannot see that his death is close. So I believe he will survive.”
“And what do the Sybils of the Grove foretell?”
“A terrible war, lasting a century. A plague that will depopulate cities. Famines in which millions starve.”
“Mother, I am curious. Do the Sybils’ prophecies say anything about dark cults like the Capuchin and his monks?”
It was the other priestess who answered. “They do. They say that worshippers of death will multiply in these times, men who are such friends to the Dark God that they think nothing of either killing or being killed.”
“That seems to fit.”
“One line says, Death maidens, sword maidens, riders of ruin, storm from the west, fire in the hills, a sacrifice of thousands on an altar of woe.”
“Charming. Are the maidens the riders, or are they two separate dangers?”
Her mother said, “You may go now. Your attitude is not helping our studies. Give my regrets to the Zens, if you must.”
“I will, mother.”
