(The Dark Servant)Midnight Matters, A. Ellas [primary phonics books .txt] 📗

of baking bread when the Loftoni awoke. She prepared batter for both the dark sweet pumpernickel and the heavy rye that filled the belly and satisfied the soul. She kneaded the dough and formed the loaves, then waved a hand. The bread slowly rose. She smiled.

Despina came in and set out the soup and pastina. Elenna expertly finished off Ritsa’s weaving and held up the napkin.

“Good job,” Asfalea approved. “Ritsa has deft touch with patterns.”

“A set for the Loftoni that claimed Jisten, then?” Elenna asked.

Ritsa looked over in astonishment. “My napkins?”

“Yes, yes! He like, I know.” Despina patted Ritsa. “You taste pastina.”

Asfalea leaned over to Despina, “Wait until see. Royal Loftoni. Four color wings. And he choose your Jisten. Good boy.”

* * * *

The heavenly scent of baking bread woke Rak out of a pleasant dream of running around on a mountainside with Jisten, chasing goats. When he opened his eyes, there were four sets of light eyes that were not Jisten’s looking at him with concern. Rak stared at them, admiring the various shades of grey, one so pale it could only be called silver, one tinted blue, another green, and the fourth set almost identical to Jisten’s storm-cloud eyes.

He felt unaccountably shy in the presence of the women, and the only thing that kept him from hiding under a wing was Jisten’s arm draped over him. His internal clock told him that the sun would set soon, and he hadn’t called the altar yet. A slight change in the breathing behind him told Rak that the captain was awake.

Rak sat up and stretched, his wings snapping open to brush the walls of the small room. Five pairs of eyes were intently focused on them until his back relaxed enough to permit them to furl. Five soft sighs could be heard as the wings vanished behind Rak’s back, and Jisten’s warm hands stroked them soothingly. Rak pretended that he hadn’t noticed their reaction and investigated the stack of clothing beside the bed. He’d arrived wearing a sleeping robe and wrapped in a blanket. Yet here was the full set of formal temple robes appropriate to the raising of an altar. The women left when Rak looked at his robes, allowing him privacy to change.

“Sedrael and Orste will refuse Murson,” Jisten told Rak. “And they know to separate and find help should he attack them.”

“Thank you,” said Rak. He glanced at the closed door, and then said, shyly, “I hate to ask this of you, but these are formal robes. Can you help me dress?”

Jisten had the first garment in his hands in a second. “Of course!”

Rak slipped out of his sleeping robe. “Thank you again. Formal robes are such a bother.”

Jisten’s hands were as gentle as they guided the silk of the first, and simplest, robe over Rak. The garment seemed to flow with his guidance. Even the wings gave no trouble, sliding through the slits of the first robe under Jisten’s hands. The outer robe, stiff with embroidery, gave Jisten no more trouble than the under-robe.

“What did you find out from examining your pendant?” Jisten asked. His hands smoothed Rak’s wings through the wingslits of the outer robe. Then he tucked the wingslit edges flat and gave them an extra stroke.

“The pendant was scorched, and hot to the touch, despite the thick wad of cream and gold silk it was stuffed into.” Rak shook his head tiredly. “It had to be Murson. The Goddess will go to any length to see the prophecy voided, even to exposing her hidden followers.” He began to wrap the green sash, muttering the instructional chant under his breath. Once he’d gotten through the tricky parts of the sash-tying process, he said, “Murson is very powerful, perhaps more so than Forael. I fear for my cousin.”

“And who knows how many more sun priests are really chaos priests in disguise?” Jisten said. “What if Forael, Dethrian and Photas are the few true sun priests left? They’ll be slaughtered.”

“That is improbable. Chaos priests are not known for their cooperation. There is never more than one. But you are right. Forael needs to know about the threat hiding in plain sight.”

“S’Rak, Murson overcame you,” Jisten said, his grey eyes troubled. “And made you forget what he did. Can you call for the help of your fellow priests?”

“My assistant should arrive soon, along with my personal guard. Anything more would require proof. But right now, I need to call the altar for the conjoined rites. Will you help me?”

“Me? But I’m just a Valer, not a Loftoni or priest or anything,” Jisten said.

“But you are my Valer,” said Rak, feeling mischievous. “And all you have to do in the ceremony is hand me a dagger.”

“Hand you a dagger?” Jisten’s eyes held suspicion. “For what?”

“Calling the altar requires a blood price. Not a sacrifice, just a cut, and the night flames will heal me once the price is met.”

“Then I agree,” Jisten said.

“Thank you,” said Rak. He handed Jisten the sacred dagger.

Rak walked into the central room of the cottage with Jisten at his side. He inspected the space beside the hearth. He’d remembered correctly, it was the right size. He nodded to Asfalea, and said, “Dhelion, thank you for healing me. Shall I call the altar now?”

“Yes, yes! Ritsa! Elenna! Here! Now!”

Rak began his chant, with Jisten a warm, attentive presence by his side. When Rak held out his hand, Jisten gently set the dagger in it.

Ritsa gasped in horror when Rak cut his palm open and let the blood pour. Elenna comforted her. “It will be all right, you’ll see,” she crooned.

“Si’Yeni take grain, wine. Zotien, blood,” Asfalea said.

Rak’s chant didn’t even pause during the byplay. And now, Power twisted, night flames danced, and the altar came, fitting perfectly beside the hearth with a finger-width to spare. Asfalea raised her own staff while Elenna tossed in the wine and Ritsa, eyes still on Rak’s