She allows Cook to feed her moist pieces of raw afterbirth. The baby loses hold of her breast and smacks her tiny lips. Tenderly Mother helps her find the nipple again. I pray that this frail newborn spark will fasten Mother’s self and shadow and heart to the earth.
I crouch beside Amaya. “Amiable, I have salty broth to settle your stomach.”
She claws for the jug. I trickle a little down her throat. At first she coughs; then she swallows the liquid greedily just as she probably gulped down the candied almonds.
“That’s enough for now,” I say sternly. I offer the jug to Maraya. Amaya doesn’t protest, just sinks back onto the floor.
“Are we really getting out of the tomb?” Maraya asks after she has drunk.
“Yes!” I don’t tell her that I can save her and Amaya and Coriander but I have to leave Mother and Cook behind. I don’t say that Mother might die anyway from blood loss and despair, that she desperately needs a healer, food, rest, and comfort. Maraya knows it too.
Pitchers in the entry chamber contain wash water, for the priests do not wish the oracle and her servants to live in filth. Coriander refuses to wash Amaya so I am left to pull her nasty stinking shroud off, wipe her clean, and then dress her in the humble clothing I’ve brought.
She complains the whole time in her whiniest voice. “Why do I have to wear this coarse linen sheath, Jes? It’s too long. Why is it so dark? I want another lamp.”
I am pretty sure she is still too delirious to realize where she is. Her breath smells of bile made more sickening by being mingled with the ghastly scent of the sweet lotus potion. I pant in shallow bursts to avoid the stench. When I’m done, Coriander and I carry her to the oracle’s bed. The stench permeates here too, but sachets of spices and herbs hung around the bed to keep it free of bugs leaven the air somewhat. Amaya curls up, hands pressed to her belly.
Washing and getting dressed in ordinary clothing cheers up everyone more than I expected. Maraya and I settle Mother on the bed beside Amaya. Then I go back to examine Lord Ottonor’s bier. The wooden lid of his coffin is sealed with wax sigils molded and melted to prevent the spark-animated corpse from clawing its way out before the spark fades. By lamplight we study the lacquered offering tray with its poisoned morsels arranged pleasingly in decorative bowls and tiny ceramic platters. It looks so tempting that I almost pick up one of the artful little seed-cakes.
“Merry, aren’t oracles buried young to keep a lord’s name alive longer?”
“Do you know what else is odd, Jes?” I almost weep to hear the crisp tone so characteristic of Maraya before all of this happened, the one that means she’s sorting through her archive of knowledge. “After Amaya grabbed the candied almonds we took the tray away from her, greedy pig! Cook offered the food to the oracle because she is supposed to eat first. But she refused to touch anything. She just watched Amaya like a vulture. After a little while Amiable got sick and vomited.”
“As if the oracle feared poison.”
“It’s why the rest of us didn’t eat right away. Cook made us wait for the oracle. Although she didn’t mean to, the oracle saved us.” Maraya glances toward the oracle’s chamber, where Mother and Amaya sleep while Cook cradles the baby. Coriander is going through the treasures she has picked out of the oracle’s chest: a tidy pile of expensive silk clothing, pewter utensils and cups, and a trove of wristlets, anklets, and necklaces strung of beads, pearls, and polished stones. “I wonder what Father’s new wife is like.”
“Very rich. Young. Palace-born. Her grandmother is Princess Berenise.”
“Truly? Princess Berenise is the younger sister of Kliatemnos the Fourth and his queen, Serenissima the Fourth.”
“What do you know about her?” I try to keep my passionate curiosity from my voice. Knowing more about Kalliarkos’s grandmother will teach me more about him.
“In her youth Princess Berenise was married to King Sokorios of Saro-Urok. I can tell you his exact degree of relationship to our own royal family if you want.”
“No, no, that’s not necessary.”
Her voice lightens because now she is trawling through the dusty old Archives that often seem more real to her than the sisters chattering around her. “King Sokorios either died in battle or was murdered by his chief rival. It depends on which account you read and what faction the chronicle supports. They all tell a different story to make their side look good and the others look bad. After his death she married Menos Garon of Clan Garon. That is how Clan Garon became elevated to Garon Palace, through her status. She gave birth to one son. He served in the army, married a noblewoman from old Saro, sired Lady Menoë and Lord Kalliarkos, and died in battle. Gargaron is her husband’s brother’s son.”
