Waterborne Exile by Susan Murray

had he seen such beauty.
    He was vexed when a priest stepped in front of him so he could no longer marvel at the intricate patterns. He tried to voice a protest, but he could make no sound issue from his mouth, could form no words. Instead he gaped up at the priest, open-mouthed. Durstan looked down at him and set a hand on his forehead, intoning verses in a language Tad could not understand, but he could feel the blessing of the Goddess flow through him. He smiled up at Durstan. This was the most beautiful thing that had ever happened to him.
    One moment seemed to drift into another. He scarcely realised when the priests lifted him and placed him on a stone bench with such care as he’d never known before. He gazed up at the ceiling for a moment or two, while voices around him began to chant. Somehow the ecstasy left him as the voices rose up in unison and the chill of the stone struck through the thin tunic and into his bones. The stone slab was unyielding, digging into his tailbone and his shoulders where he had too little flesh to cushion his body. He tried to raise his arm to shift his weight and ease the discomfort, but he could not. He tried the other arm and it was the same. That was odd. The chanting had grown in volume and he began to feel he was being watched. The feeling was so overwhelming… He twisted his head to one side, but there was nothing there but stone wall. It was almost too much effort to look the other way, but he summoned all his strength and twisted his head round once more. He was so drowsy now, he wanted to sleep. But he was being watched. He opened his eyes, but all was a blur. Then he blinked and his vision cleared. There was the soldier, the man his sister had told him was their father. He was lying on a stone slab, his hands lashed down to a bar of wood that ran beneath the slab, feet tied, trussed up like a goose ready for roasting.
    His father. He might have been, after all. His sister didn’t know everything. He was watching Tad now, as the priests chanted around them. Tad could see concern for him in the soldier’s eyes: he’d never felt more valued in his life.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
    A single, high scream pierced the air and the chanting ceased. At the last the boy had fixed his gaze on Weaver who, hardened soldier though he was, had to close his eyes to escape the pain he saw there. When he reopened them the boy’s body lay limp and still on the stone slab. The air was redolent with the boy’s blood. The priest, carrying the bloodied misericord dagger, stepped around the end of the stone altar and out of Weaver’s sight.
    He heard the footsteps cross the stone floor of the altar chamber, one foot shuffling slightly with each step yet still somehow deliberate and measured, each footfall in time with Weaver’s own rasping breaths. He could picture the unevenness of the man’s gait, could picture his face, the grey eyes and heavy brows. The priest had made his way past Weaver’s head now and moved round to his left side, still out of vision. Weaver recognised his face, he was sure of it. But recalling where was too much of a fight and he was so blissfully tired. Too tired to puzzle over it. Too tired to think about anything at all. So tired.
    The chanting began again, with renewed vigour, cutting through the haze that clouded his mind. Something prompted Weaver to twist his head round. A familiar face in the ring of worshippers surrounding the stone altar caught his eye. Tresilian’s priestess watched with fierce interest. Gone was the cool disregard; now her eyes were fixed on Weaver – the eyes of a feral creature, starved and desperate for its next meal, her lips parted as she watched with supreme confidence that her hunger would soon be sated. Somehow Weaver couldn’t tear his eyes away. She closed her lips then, the corners turning up in a feral smile, the rise and fall of her chest accelerated. And he knew what was coming next. He had a split-second of full awareness –