Irona 700 Read Free

private and do away with all the pretense of the goddess choosing. Sklom was very brave to say that, because blasphemy could cost a man a flogging or worse.
    Irona turned, feeling her hair tugged by the girl behind her.
    â€œWhat do you do with all this hair?”
    The speaker’s tunic was grimy now, and sweat stained, but had been fine once and would be again, after a good wash. She spoke with a curious lilt, much like the tall boy in red and gold. Her own hair was curly, cut short.
    â€œI keep it,” Irona said. “What do you do with yours?”
    The girl pouted and did not answer the question. “I’m Milosa Fotaz.”
    â€œI’m Irona Matrinko.”
    â€œThat’s not a Benesh name. And you talk funny.”
    â€œI’m from Brackish.”
    â€œYou’re not supposed to be here unless you were born in Benign.”
    â€œBrackish is part of Benign.”
    â€œEven if it is, which I don’t believe,” said the tall lad in front, who could not have helped overhearing, so closely were they packed, “how many Chosen have ever come from Brackish?”
    While Irona was not enjoying the conversation, it did make a change from silent moping. “The Seventy added Brackish to the city about ten years ago. Who are you, and where are you from?”
    â€œI’m Nis Puol Dvure. I live in the Dvure Palace. My great-grandfather was a Chosen, and so was his great-grandfather.”
    â€œI don’t suppose the goddess will make the same mistake three times.”
    â€œThat’s blasphemy. If the priests hear you, you’ll get whipped, probably branded.”
    â€œWould make a pleasant change,” Irona said wearily. Nis Puol Dvure might be as rich as the Seventy, as tall and handsome as a god, with shiny black curly hair, and teeth bright as sunlight, but compared to Sklom’s, his arms were twigs . They were also badly burned, like his neck, suggesting that Nis Puol Dvure was not accustomed to spending all day in the summer sun.
    Pilgrims were fainting now, even some of those already up on the stage, waiting to parade past the goddess. There the priests could remove them, but they had no way to bring aid to those who collapsed on the long ramp, so their neighbors either sat them in the shade of the wall with their heads on their knees, or just stepped over them and kept on going.
    As the third trek along the courtyard brought Irona level with the platform and close to the action, she was able to make out details of the ritual. First, the pilgrims were lined in a groups of ten by the priests. When their bugle sounded, they would file over to a huge marble box, elaborately carved and big enough to be a sea lion’s coffin; each pilgrim in turn would reach in through a hole in the top to obtain a token that flashed gold in the sunlight. When they had reached the middle of the spindly bridge and bowed, they tossed the token into the goddess’s jade bowl. Because of the tilt of the bowl, the token slid to the front edge and shot down the golden cataract between her knees, which acted as a chute. At the bottom it vanished into a hole, no doubt into some temple crypt for storage until next year. The newly recognized citizen was then free to run the rest of the way across the bridge and head for the stairs.
    Every ten groups of ten the drummers at the back of the platform would drum. That was all. Irona Matrinko was being baked alive just so the priests could watch her play this silly game?
    â€œHow many?” she muttered. Her mouth was so dry she could barely speak. The sun was almost setting. It would be long after dark before she found Father and they got home to Brackish.
    â€œFive hundred forty since I entered the temple,” said Nis Puol Dvure. “This choosing is lasting longer than any in centuries. Maybe ever.”
    â€œI wish she …” Irona wished Caprice would make her holy mind up, but decided not to finish the