‘What will you do if the fanatics come looking for you?’
Legana gave her a small, inscrutable smile, and the emerald gleam in her eyes intensified momentarily. Nanter drew back in alarm, but managed to catch herself. With a great effort of will she kept her seat on the bench.
‘A Goddess’ blessing,’ she whispered, as enthralled as she was frightened, ‘a blessing on us all.’
— Tell the unmen that.
‘We’ve tried,’ Nanter said sadly, ‘but he won’t listen. We are Godsfearing folk in these parts, but he drives away the most pious among us with his fervour.’
— Worship without him.
The innkeeper’s wife froze. ‘You want us to...? Are you saying ...?’
Legana realised what Nanter was failing to say and almost choked as she tried not to laugh. Her ruined voice and damaged throat meant that laughter was dreadfully painful, and barely recognisable.
— I am no God, nor priestess, she wrote when the coughing had subsided.
The relief on Nanter’s face showed she had been right, the woman had been asking whether Legana intended to take Unmen Poller’s place as the heart of the town’s worship.
— But I can get him away from the temple each evening.
Nanter bobbed her head in thanks. ‘Thank you, Mistress.’ She was about to say more when she caught sight of something past Legana’s shoulder. ‘Mistress, I think more guests have arrived.’
Legana turned and squinted in the direction Nanter indicated. There were four figures standing on the edge of the square, facing her. With the sky bright behind them she could make out little detail, but none wore hoods, and even her weak eyesight could make out the copper tint to their hair.
‘It’s time I left you alone,’ Nanter announced, accepting the empty goblet from Legana as she stood. ‘I thank you for your offer. Many folk hereabouts will be most glad of your help.’
Legana retrieved her silver-headed cane from the ground and used it to push herself upright, giving Nanter a smile of thanks. The woman half-curtseyed and fled, leaving Legana to walk, a little unsteadily, towards the newcomers.
‘You are the one they call the Hand of Fate?’ croaked the one at the head of the group, clearly an old woman.
‘Not to my face,’ Legana said directly into the woman’s mind. ‘What they refer to was not made by Fate.’
She lifted the white silk scarf tied around her neck so the former priestess could see the shadowy handprint made by Aracnan.
‘I have never known a sister to be a mage before,’ said another of the women, sounding as old as the first.
As Legana moved a few steps closer, to see their faces more clearly, one of the remaining two stepped around the priestess, her hand on the hilt of her shortsword. She was the tallest of the four, as tall as Legana, and built for fighting, though she was young enough still to be a novice.
‘I was not, until the Lady made me her Mortal-Aspect,’ Legana replied. ‘She called me nothing more than Legana. I would keep that sword in its sheath,’ she added, nodding towards the youngest, ‘the Lady chose me because I was the best of her devotees — however damaged my body looks, I am faster than any mortal.’
‘Step aside, Dainiss,’ the first woman said, placing a hand on her protector’s arm.
As Legana’s eyes adjusted to the light she saw the old woman’s face was a mass of wrinkles, her skin a leathery-brown that spoke of a lifetime in the sun, but she could make out little more, and she couldn’t place the woman’s origin.
‘I can sense our Goddess’ flame within her; she is not the fraud we expected,’ the woman said, musingly.
Legana watched the old woman, wondering how she was going to react to that statement, but the priestess did nothing but stare. After a while it became apparent that both sides were waiting for the other to explain themselves. Legana felt the impatience well up inside her. No doubt the old priestess had been a temple-mistress in her time, and had outwaited many a stubborn novice, though Legana was sure she would win that game, even against one so practiced.
‘Have you come to join us?’ she asked.
‘What is it you are doing here?’
‘Looking for new purpose. The Lady is dead but her followers are not, and all we’ve ever had is each other. Some may wish to forget about their family and start afresh, but not I.’