Heaven's Needle by Liane Merciel Read Free Book Online Page B

temple’s daily needs ringed the base of the hill where the Dome stood, so that none of them would touch it with shadow.For Heaven’s Needle, that was not a concern; the glass tower cast only a ribbon of softer light, clear as water, and never dimmed the earth at all.
    Heradion led her through the budding trees and broad avenues to the Sanctuary of the High Solaros. The guards at the door were not ones she knew, but she saw recognition flash across their faces as she approached. They were too professional to let the pity show, though. Asharre was grateful for that.
    Inside there were more guards, and long, hushed halls lined with rich Ardasi carpets over saffron marble polished until it shone. Maps and books in gilt-edged cases covered the walls. Scrolls from a hundred dead kingdoms, sheathed in ivory and bronze, rested in niches between them. Celestia represented the metaphorical light of knowledge as well as its more literal forms, and her temples drew scholars from sun-scorched Nebaioth to the White Seas. The High Solaros’ private library was the envy of emperors.
    In spite of herself Asharre was awed by the Sanctuary’s grandeur, though she had seen it before and felt no particular reverence for the man at its center. Celestia had been Oralia’s goddess, not hers, and while Asharre was not so foolish as to deny the Bright Lady’s power in Ithelas, neither was she inclined to bow her own head in prayer. The goddess had failed them in their time of need. Asharre owed her nothing.
    But she was conscious of the cooling sweat that matted her hair and made her clothes cling, and she half-wished she’d taken Heradion’s hint.
    Too late for that. Heradion bowed formally to the last set of guards and recited the first half of the holy verse that served as the day’s passphrase. Even when guards could see their visitors’ faces, they required passphrases for entry: itwas a safeguard against assassins who could wear the faces of the dead, or Thorns who seized people’s bodies and used them like puppets.
    The guards returned his bow and the verse’s second part. Something about seasons of the soul; Asharre listened with half an ear. The doors to the High Solaros’ private quarters swung open between them. She stepped through.
    â€œThe High Solaros will meet you in his study. Do you know where it is?” Heradion asked.
    â€œI’ve been a few times.” More than a few. It seemed that they’d been summoned whenever Thierras needed a healer to ride circuit on dangerous roads. At the time Asharre had been pleased that her sister’s talents were so well recognized by her temple, and proud to protect her in the course of her duties. Now those honors were bitter as ashes, and the thought of them brought only emptiness wrapped around a kernel of rage.
    â€œThen I’ll wait here for you,” the boy said, taking a blue-bound book from its shelf and settling onto a chair. “Good luck.”
    That earned a snort. She wasn’t the one who would need it.
    Thierras was, as advised, in his study. It was a bright and airy space, with quatrefoil windows overlooking the south gardens. Red and gold glass in the mullions threw sparks of color across the parquetry floor. The High Solaros was reading at his desk when Asharre came in without knocking, but he rose and inclined his head courteously. “Asharre. Sigrir. Light’s blessing upon you.”
    She didn’t return the greeting or the courtesy. They were alone, so there was no one to be shocked by her rudeness, but she wouldn’t have bothered feigning politeness if they’d been in front of the Midsummer dawn service at the Domeof the Sun. No doubt Thierras knew that, and had chosen to see her privately because of it. “Some boy said you wanted to see me.”
    â€œI did. I have a task I hoped you might consider.”
    â€œYou don’t give me tasks. You gave Oralia tasks. I went with