Irona 700 Read Free Page A

sentence.
    â€œWe must be patient. Obviously the goddess knows exactly who she wants and is waiting for him to arrive.”
    Nis Puol Dvure had no doubts who that man was.
    Eventually the ordeal ended. Irona was at the end of the ramp, at a gate manned by more gray-robed, shaven-scalped priests.
    â€œName?”
    She could hardly find enough spit to make the words. “Irona Matrinko.”
    He blinked. “That is not a Benesh name. Where were you born?”
    â€œIn Brackish.” If he tried to send her away after she had come all this way and stood all these hours in this heat, she was going to hammer his shiny skull up and down on the marble a few times. Just watch her!
    â€œBrackish?” He looked to another priest and received a shrug. Perhaps neither of them had ever heard of Brackish. “Oh, very well. You were born in 684? Do you swear to obey the laws? Stand there. Next.”
    She advanced onto the wide platform to stand behind the long bony back of Nis Puol Dvure. He was too skinny to make a good shade tree. The trial was nearly over. Her head throbbed with the worst headache she had ever known. She could not swallow. She was fourth in her group. There were two more groups lined up ahead of hers. The group going through was almost done.
    The trumpet sounded. The next line surged forward.
    Why groups of ten? Why drums, why trumpets? Just so that the priests could know how many sixteen-year-olds there were in Benign? Who cared?
    The boy in the lead arrived at the coffer and reached in through the hole in the top, having to insert his entire arm to the shoulder. If there were so few tokens left now, Irona wondered, would she be able to reach them at all? He brought out what she now saw was a shiny brass disk about the size of a man’s palm. He hurried onto the bridge, bowed, dropped the token, and kept going, not even watching where it went. It clattered into the bowl and slid away. By the time it disappeared into the hole at the bottom, the boy had reached the far end of the bridge, practically skipping in his joy at being released. His friends must have a party planned for him, thought Irona. The girl behind him was already throwing her token into the goddess’s bowl.
    One more line followed, and then it was Irona’s group’s turn to head to the big coffer. As their leader reached in, the girl behind him, the one who had begged Nis Puol Dvure for a mouthful of water, slid to the pavement in a faint, almost cracking her head on the corner of the box. The crowd made no sound.
    Without waiting for the priests to come and remove her, Nis Puol Dvure stepped over her. In spite of his height, he, too, had to insert his arm all the way to his shoulder. Then he straightened up, clutching his brass disk. Smiling, he walked onward to the bridge.
    Irona reached into the big stone box as far as her arm would go. Her fingers fumbled around in vain for something to grip. A hand grabbed her wrist. Something cold and metallic was thrust into her hand. She squeaked in fear and let go. The grip on her wrist tightened. The token was offered again.
    She took it, and her wrist was released. She brought up her hand, clutching the brass disk, and ran onto the bridge, eager to get this over with and unwilling to look down, because the railings seemed flimsy and the ground was a long way below. She saw Nis Puol Dvure toss his token into the bowl and watch confidently as it fell.
    And fell. Just like the others, it slid down the golden chute and vanished. He stood there as if stunned, gaping in disbelief. Irona shoved him impatiently until he moved away. She threw her disk in turn and hurried after him. She had not taken two steps before the temple erupted in a thunder of drums and trumpets, cheers from thousands of voices. Bewildered, she turned to look back.
    Her token had not fallen. It had remained in the goddess’s bowl, miraculously stuck to the jade. Holy Caprice had granted a miracle to indicate