To a Bright Door

Solanna kneels before a shallow pool of clear water. Coins on the bed glint under the violet kiss of Ebridor, the second moon. Copper pennies and silver roots, even a gold sovereign nestled fat beside a pebble. Here you do not give lightly. A statue of Baphor stands behind the pond, half hidden among blackberry bushes. The goat-headed androgyne god watches Solanna with baleful carved eyes.

Ebridor is full, swollen with soft light, her larger sister-moon a distant slice of silver. Witch’s moons, a portent of strange fortunes. Solanna’s been searching the city for weeks for this sacred place, exploring hidden parks and forgotten tunnels. No one can tell you the way; Baphor’s a god you have to find for yourself.

Solanna hugs herself. Confession or plea? It’s been months since last she prayed, and this raw and vital god is foreign to her.

“All my life I lived in Skorenberg,” she says to Baphor. She keeps her voice soft, still it feels violent, shattering the silence. “The Emyran Church was powerful even when I was little, but my parents weren’t members until much later. Nobody seemed to mind, back then. I was happy. I fell in love and married, my Crenan was such a sweet boy. Years passed and no children came, my heart ached but he comforted me. We comforted each other.”

Crickets chirp. The subtle scent of snake lotus drifts on the breeze. Memories of good times are painful in their way, because of the bad ones that follow. It’s hard to talk, but the god-statue seems to drink her words. Not far distant, past an ivy-laden wall and a crooked ditch, city streets teem with life, but here she’s alone. Still, she believes someone’s listening.

“Something changed in the city. Changed in Crenan too. My life fell apart, and I couldn’t stay there anymore.”

Solanna stole away from Skorenberg and took a barge downriver, her few meagre belongings in a sack at her feet. She’d heard tales of the Tenhaven Three, a cabal of witches who defy the rising Church. If there was freedom anywhere, it’d be there.

Tenhaven’s not quite the sanctuary she dreamed of. There’s a man who lives in the alley by the tailor’s shop where she works. She sees him shivering, rubbing stick-thin arms, threadbare blanket around his shoulders. A city’s a lonely place when you fall through the cracks.

“It’s not easy to start again,” she says. “I can’t make it feel like home. I just want to belong.”

A frog peers at her from among the bulrushes. The air hangs heavy and still. Expectant. A cloud of gnats whirls around Baphor’s horns and the world holds it breath. Baphor doesn’t answer, because they’re waiting for something more.

Solanna digs into her coin purse and takes out two copper pennies. She weighs them in her palm. They’re meaningless, a pitiful sacrifice no god would respect. An offering has to draw a little blood. It has to hurt to be worthwhile.

She flinches as a cobalt haze flutters past her eye. A Veroth’s Blue butterfly, delicate proboscis twitching. It lands on her outstretched palm, silver spots on ragged wings matching perfectly the colour of her wedding ring. Her breath catches.

The last remnant of her former life. Before she can think better of it she grips it, heedless of the tumbling copper coins. The butterfly rises, majestic across the pond. Solanna rips the ring from her finger and tosses it, a single savage motion. Yes, it hurts.

 Water ripples as it swallows the ring, and perhaps Solanna’s silent prayer makes ripples of its own. She clutches at her chest, spots dancing in her vision. The ring vanishes among the reeds and pebbles, sediment swirls. A sharp stab of regret.

A sense of peace settles her, soft as drifting snow. It comes from somewhere outside her, reassurance that doesn’t feel earned. A covenant is made. She breathes in deep and her lungs fill with sweetness. A god breathes with her.

Serenity follows Solanna into her dreams that night, or over many nights. Dreams lie outside time and never truly end, forever looping in some tucked-away subconscious corner. So yes, Solanna dreams and in dreaming she’s made of something she cannot ordinarily touch, with a hint of the divine.

She dreams of a white woollen blanket, fluffy like a cloud. She carries it up a narrow staircase while slanted lines of sunlight play across her face. At the same time she’s cross-legged on the floor of her room, humming and knitting with the tip of her tongue poking from her mouth. Images overlap and cascade.

She comes to a door that’s full of its own inner light, blazing like a beacon and lighting the darkest corners of her soul. She leaves the blanket there, on a little table that’s also a shrine. Another offering.

And she thinks: yes. She’ll make the blanket. She’ll find the bright door.

*

Solanna knits the blanket in the evenings, in the little room she rents above the shop. The wool’s from her employer, price taken from her wages. She has to stop buying the soft Auroun cheese she loves from the market to make ends meet. It’s a tiny sacrifice, a pinprick.

 Her mind wanders as she works, her gaze strays to the painted Kingtaker board gathering dust in the corner. She’d often played with Crenan, in the years before he decried games as idle sin. Before he went to the cathedral and heard the Bishop talk, came back with new fervour shining in his eyes. It’s that she misses, the quiet companionship, the ease that means you needn’t say a word. Other times, you’ll talk for hours.

She takes the finished blanket out at dawn, cradling it like a baby. She wanders; a table and a glowing door are not a set of directions. Folk hurry through the streets, clutching bundles of wood, sacks of flour, buckets of well water. Shutters are being raised, orders barked.

On Doxen street, she passes a witch’s shop. Strings of herbs and wooden charms hang from the awning. Hagstones dangle on cords of a myriad of colours. A statue of Baphor lurks in a recess, a garland of roses around their broad neck. The scent of raspberry tea lingers in the back of her throat.

Such a place could never exist in Skorenberg, where Queen Matilda’s law holds little sway. The persecution of witches is illegal, but the power struggle between church and crown rages, and even Matilda’s heir is against her. In Tenhaven the city’s high cadre of witches go in secret, for fear of reprisal from Emyran assassins. The Three watch over the city from its deepest shadows.

A narrow alley calls to Solanna in the language of belonging. Buildings loom on either side, make a narrow strip of the cloudless sky. She’s in a deep trench, but it’s exactly where she’s supposed to be and the stairs she’s seen are there, uneven and lined with verdant moss. She passes hanging horseshoes and figures woven from reeds. The heady fragrance of the lilac bellheads that cling to the wall makes her feel she’s floating. There, around the corner, is the door.

It’s drab and battered, held with a rusting bolt, but she’s not fooled. She knows how it shines. It won’t open to her, and what’s behind it could be anything or nothing but it doesn’t matter. The table’s there, and she leaves the blanket, smoothing its soft folds as she turns away.

Later, sitting in the shop sewing buttons onto a shirt, she cannot remember the route she took. She has only the vaguest idea of the door’s location.

*

One morning Solanna finds a pot of turnip stew sitting by her door. Still warm. There’s nothing to say who left it, but the rich earthy scent brings a tear to her eye. It’s exactly like her mother used to make. When she tastes it she can see that beloved face, lined and gentle. Her heart swells with fresh grief, but it’s a cleansing sadness. She feels seen.

When her mother died she’d gone to Crenan, despite the distance that had grown between them. She hoped he’d comfort her like he had before, hold her close and stroke her hair while she sobbed. Instead he told her to rejoice that her mother was with the Dawnfather in the Bright Halls. She couldn’t believe he’d think such a heartless thing, let alone say it.

They argued like never before, said terrible things to each other. Crenan told Solanna it was her fault they’d never had children, that she was lost in darkness and the Dawnfather would never curse a child with such an unworthy mother. The last words he ever spoke to her.

Later that day, after the stew is a tender memory and a full stomach, she sees her white blanket. It’s wrapped around the shoulders of the man who lives in the alleyway. She could have done that for him by herself, but she knows she never would have. She lacks the courage; at least someone’s looking out for him.

 There are other tasks, seen in glittering fragments of dreams. She weaves cloaks, shirts and vibrant summer dresses. She takes them to the table by the bright door, always knows the way but never remembers it, never sees anyone there. Sometimes she gets things in return, a loaf of crusty fresh bread, a wooden earring in the shape of an otter. Sometimes there’s nothing, but Solanna doesn’t mind. She’s part of something and it’s enough, for a while. A strand of belonging tethers her.

*

There’s an Emyran priest in Leal Square on Matisday, standing on the steps beside the great statue of Queen Chella. He’s lean beneath his gown of white and scarlet, his beard is close and neat. He’s animated as he addresses a scattered crowd.

“I see you out here, cold and lonely, lost in the city. The Dawnfather’s here for you, if you’ll let Him in. He wants to warm you with His love. We’re family in His name and you’ll find a home in His church. You don’t have to be alone.

“I know you Haveners don’t trust us. That’s alright, I don’t blame you. You’ve been told lies about us, but we don’t want to take anything from you. What we want is what the Dawnfather wants, peace and prosperity for all. My name is Lightbringer Mendle, and my door is open.”

Solanna stands at the back of the crowd, letting his words wash over her. She’s impressed by his sincerity; maybe he really does care. A church is a family, it’s true, and it’s easier to inherit than build your own. If the priests in Skorenberg had been more like him, she might have accepted their god. An end to loneliness is a powerful inducement.

The fragile peace of her city is starting to fracture. How could it last, built of gossamer dreams and gifts unseen? She hardly talks to anyone, never touches a life. She needs something more.

Solanna dreams of the priest that night. Smoke clings to his handsome face as it sloughs from his bones to reveal the rot beneath. His grin’s a rictus, drawing her back to a dead past. She smells snake lotus. From somewhere a chorus chants.

“He must go.”

“We must be rid of him.”

“You will help.”

“You will get rid of him.”

Sleep shatters; she wakes sweating in a nest of blankets, head buzzing. Under the cold light of stars, she seeks the stairs. It’s whisper moons: double new. She doesn’t know the way and she can barely see, but she murmurs pleading prayers under her breath. Somewhere inside her the door blazes with searing light. Implacable will draws her.

There are chairs beside the door, slender limbs carved with patterns of twining leaves. For the first time there’s someone waiting for her. Torches reflect in his storm-grey eyes as he watches her approach. He smiles, the lines around his mouth deepening, crevasses carved into weathered skin. He smells of smoke and rosemary and fresh-cut camphor grass.

“If it’s too much for you, just say so.” His voice is deep as a well. Solanna teeters on the edge of something, here in the velvet Tenhaven night. “You’re free to leave us, with our blessings and thanks. You aren’t beholden to us.”

“I don’t think I understand,” Solanna says. She sits beside him, smooths her skirt. “He doesn’t seem so bad. Honestly, I liked him.”

“That’s exactly it. A mediocre priest we can tolerate, not one like him. He’s charismatic, but the Church doesn’t change. We could lose hearts. Folk will trust him, and the Church gains a foothold. When they move in with their whips and chains it’s too late to stop it.”

He sighs, rubbing at his eyes. He’s probably had this conversation before. His hand hovers over hers, but he doesn’t touch her.

“We don’t preach our god, but we defend them. We’ve tried to live side by side, but the Church’s hunger is never sated. They’ll accept no less than everything.”

Solanna swallows. The church doesn’t really employ physical punishments, but it doesn’t need to. She knows exactly what he means. The whips and chains are still there, inside her.

“Are you one of the Three?” She says. His smile is crooked, wistful.

“Who I am doesn’t matter. I speak with their voice.”

“What if I say no?”

Bony shoulders shrug. “Nothing much. But if you’d be one of us, this is how.”

A test. A choice. That’s what decides her. They offer a choice, where the Church never did.

She nods.

*

Solanna watches the Priest.

Lightbringer Mendle holds court in the Root and Branch tavern after services. He wields a tankard like the best of them, surrounded by a swirling crowd of men who hang on his words. He throws back his head to laugh at their jokes, beer sloshing onto rush mats. He knows folk by name, greets them with a smile.

Solanna sits at a corner table, sipping at a cup of acrid wine she doesn’t want. There’s a little clay bottle in a hidden pocket she sewed into her cloak. It’s half-filled with a clear, odourless liquid she got from the witch’s shop on Doxen street. She fiddles with the stopper.

Church bells chime, and it isn’t long before Mendle leads a gaggle of best-dressed men swaggering through the door. Noise and heat press in; Solanna itches to turn her heel, escape to cooler streets. Or else upend the bottle in her own drink and be done with it.

What would it be like, stripped of inhibitions like a turtle without its shell? That’s what she was promised by the cheerful young witch when she handed over the potion, a night of screaming abandon with every impulse indulged. Embarrassing enough for anyone, but for the Priest, catastrophic. Enough to run him out of town, she hopes.

She makes her move, slips through the crowd when he’s at the counter, deep in conversation with a bald elder. The overpowering yeasty stench of ale makes her want to gag. An untouched tankard sits before him. The barkeep’s serving down the far end. No one’s watching as she leans over and spikes Mendle’s drink.

Her hand shakes, a few drops spill onto stained wood but more goes in, vanishing without trace into the dark, forbidding liquid. She hopes it’s enough. She stumbles over her own feet as she walks away; nobody notices her even then.

She watches from her table but nothing happens, his behaviour never changes and he shows no sign of losing control. Was she sold a fake? But no, the more she studies him the more sure she is; he doesn’t ever drink, not a single sip. He pretends to swig, dumps a little out on the floor when no-one’s looking. His laughter is loud. He buys a round for a great jostling group, and a cheer goes up. The Church’s coffers are deep.

 In Leal Square she might have believed in Lightbringer Mendle, but he’s acting here. He turns her stomach. He has no place in Tenhaven, but she’s starting to believe that she might. She’ll not give up.

*

The witch smiles when Solanna asks for more of the solution, but there’s no edge to it. No judgement there, still Solanna has to resist the urge to explain. The stuff doesn’t come cheap, and the witch won’t tell her what’s in it. Solanna can’t afford another failure.

She sits in a pew at the back of the church on Soulsday, three weeks in a row. Lightbringer Mendle swings his arms and circles the pulpit, fixing his congregation with an earnest gaze. Light streams through the great window behind him. He works up a sweat, mopping his brow with a square of bright cloth, turned limp by service end. He sucks down gulps of water from a stone jug between bursts of impassioned oratory.

The fourth week Solanna’s there early, wearing loose-fitting robes of ash grey, just like the church deacons. She made them herself, up late by candlelight, needle gripped between her teeth. The hood’s vast; she hides her face beneath it.

The shadows of trees stretch long over Tower Street as she approaches the church. Lightbringer Mendle’s never here at this time, but others might be. She’s studied the comings and goings from a bench, feeding pigeons from a bag of seeds.

“Confidence is pretence,” Solanna murmurs as she reaches the transept door. She tries to walk like she belongs. She passes through with a supressed shiver, from waking streets to the hush and the soft glow of a hundred fat candles. The wax and vinegar scent reminds her of her mother’s funeral.

Two men pray in the chapel of Trystan the First Martyr, kneeling before a portrait of the Saint twisted in anguish as he’s struck down by a spear. They seem unaware of Solanna passing, but she feels eyes on her anyway, a tingle at the nape of her neck. She hunches low, shapeless beneath the folds of cloth. Women aren’t allowed to be deacons.

She passes sarcophagi set into the walls, shining brass plaques bearing illustrious names. In another antechamber, a monk sits at a narrow desk, copying looping letters from a scroll. He dips his quill into his ink pot then his head jerks up, eyes fixed on Solanna.

She trips over his scrutiny, leg twisting and almost giving way. She grunts in her best deep voice, trying not to look at him, hands flailing for balance. Heart thudding, she’s ready to run at the slightest challenge. After an endless moment, he looks away.

The sacristy doorway’s open, looming before her. She sees the stone jug, sitting on a table beside the washbasin in the wall. Her luck’s holding. She’ll empty her vial into the jug and be gone like a wraith. Mendle will gulp the water during service and then maybe he’ll say what he really thinks. That should see him off.

She creeps into the room and stops dead. Mendle’s there already, sat with his back to her in a dark-stained chair, head slumped to his shoulder. She freezes like prey. In another heartbeat he’ll turn and she’ll see a frown turn to indignant anger before he shouts for aid. No one will miss her if she never comes out.

He doesn’t move. His neck is twisted at an unnatural angle. The only sound is her own breathing, loud in her chest. She creeps forward and sees his gown is stained red, all the way down to the hem. His throat’s been cut by a brutal hand, ripped open from ear to ear. She gags and whirls away.

Her feet are moving before her thoughts catch up; she strides down the corridor, almost but not quite running, head bent. The monk says something as she passes but she pays no heed, desperate to reach the door. She spills out into daylight and takes a deep, shuddering breath before dashing away, losing herself down narrow streets well away from that grisly scene.

Get rid of him, they told her. Seems she wasn’t the only one to receive that instruction. Whoever did this chose a more ruthless method; it leaves her feeling foolish, a child at an adults’ table.

*

Days drift by. Solanna doesn’t know what to do. She tells herself her plan could still have worked, but does she believe it? She could never have wielded the knife; does that mean she failed the test? She’s sick at heart, bereft of connection.

When at last she dreams of the door again it’s like a promise. The dream is a shining vision, white as snow. She hears no words but the meaning in the silence is clear. Come.

A shiver of anticipation as she climbs those well-worn stairs. She expects the weathered man, as much as she expects anything, but there’s no one there and the door betrays no secrets. Why is she here?

She waits.

She waits for hours, sitting on the floor with her back against the door. She won’t give up. If she leaves, she’ll never find her way back. She thinks of her old life, in Skorenberg, trapped in constricting routine. At least she had folk there. Loneliness is a boulder squeezing her chest. She’ll stay forever by the bright door if she has to. She has to know the answer of her prayer to Baphor, even if it’s no.

Footsteps on the stair, at last. A woman comes around the corner, frowns when her eyes fall on Solanna. The ringlets that frame her face remind Solanna of the tassels on the long skirts in the shop. The woman clutches a little polished wooden box and a board, close to her chest.

“I’m sorry,” the woman says after a broken moment where they each stare, uncertain, “I wasn’t expecting anyone to be here. I was asked to bring this.”

She lifts the board. It’s painted with Kingtaker markings, the inner and outer circles, the checkered lines of defence.

“Oh!” Solanna says, “I love Kingtaker.”

The woman holds it out. “Then this is for you.”

This woman’s had her own dreams. The Three have woven their web around her too. Solanna shakes her head.

“I already have a board.” And then, in a much quieter voice because it’s hard to admit to such things, she says “I just have no one to play with.”

“Oh,” the woman takes a breath, then a smile spreads across her face, conspiratorial. “Happens I can help you there. I know a quiet spot, and I’ve some time, if you have.”

A dizzy mixture of hope and relief fizzes in Solanna’s head. She swallows and blinks. It can’t be that easy, can it?

“That would be wonderful.”

“I’m Hazel,” says the woman, holding out her hand.

“Solanna.” She shakes it; Hazel’s palm is warm and dry.

Solanna follows Hazel to the stairs. She glances back at the door as she turns the corner. It’s open, she thinks, just a crack. She still can’t see what’s behind it.

END