Danforth & Shania
A private chapel was the only indulgence most Canonesses allowed themselves. Shania of the Order of Our Crystal Lady, the Ecclesiarchal Prelature Militant who watched with aquila-eyes over Ophelia VII’s ‘dust zone yet resisted prying attention themselves, was no exception. It was an cube of scrubbed gold, three lasgun lengths a side, the walls crystal-encrusted bas reliefs of the Emperor defeating Horus, Sanguinius casting down Ka’bandha, Alicia beheading Vandire, Verity breaking the serpent of lies. A single candle of martyr-tallow burned to provide illumination, the flickering flame making the figures twitch and dance as if their conflicts still played out.
Shania was kneeling, head bowed, hands clasped, fingers worrying the beads of her rosarius. She was out of armor, her sapphire habit buttoned around her unarmored form. She was as lean and athletic as I remembered her from her visits to the schola - she had been in her twenties then, and she was forty-five standard now, but maturity had not taken that from her, although it had faded her flame-red hair to lilac-gray. My last memory of her was standing over me, legs braced and green eyes flaring in the torchlight with a protective rage I could not name.
I could name it now.
“Mother,” I said simply.
Confusion furrowed her mind like it did her brows. She swivelled her head on its long neck and looked over one broad shoulder at me. She smiled with soft regret - she could sense a lie, but could not sense which truths I might know provided I told at least one. “Interrogator Laer . . . Cygnus,” she said; a spasm of pain that I could tell hurt her worse than a gutshot from a Hrud rifle. She stood, looped her rosarius around her compact waist and nestled the icon on one muscular hip. “Forgive me - had I known you were coming . . .” Her voice trailed off as she stepped out of the chapel past me and led the way into her sitting room. “But only the Sisters call me ‘Mother’,” she confided. “I am not your Canoness.”
She had reached a sideboard, a glass of chunky crystal chased with gilt filigree in one long hand. She lifted a decanter of amasec with the other in a silent question. I nodded. “That you are not . . . mother.”
Wet splinters of glass pierced the hem of her robe and fine imported liquor dripped from the leather of my coat. The sound of the shattering decanter hadn’t reached my ears before she’d spun, shock, horror, relief and shame written on every line of her face. “You know,” she whispered.
I nodded. “But what don’t I know?” I asked.
She sighed, looked down at the smashed glass and spreading puddle of amasec with regret. “If I’m going to tell you that,” she promised, “I’ll need another bottle.”
