Sufferborn by J.C. Hartcarver

Author:J.C. Hartcarver [Hartcarver, J.C.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Dorwik Publishing
Published: 2019-10-19T00:00:00+00:00

Sliding her palm slowly across Dorhen’s in her reluctance to let it go, she finally broke the contact as they stood on the protruding river stones. On the other bank, she collected the laundry she’d abandoned earlier and hurried back to the convent. Since she had never gotten to wash it, she hid the load in a corner of the courtyard behind a stack of firewood. She dumped the bloody rags and kept the basket to use for her travels.

Before heading up to her new cell in the east building, she hurried into the west building to the room where Joy lay in repose. They’d decorated the room in Kalea’s absence with vines of ivy draped along the bier, and Joy wore a wreath of snowdrops on her head, gathered from the garden they kept in the convent. Many candles lit the room—the whole thing bore a similar appearance to Kalea’s contemplation ritual from yesterday. Although in this case, the heat from the candles mingling with the fragrant crocuses arranged all around the body helped to mask the rising smell of death.

“Hi, Joy,” Kalea whispered as the attending vestal left the room, leaving her alone with her best friend. Kalea dropped the basket and sat on the chair beside the bier. “You look beautiful. The Creator should be pleased.”

She leaned forward and lowered her voice to the level of a hum. “I have more to say than goodbye. I have to tell you a secret.” She couldn’t contain her smile. “I’m leaving. I decided not to be a vestal. I’m in love with the elf, and I’m leaving with him. I’m honestly happy. I needed to tell someone. I love you, Joy. Be happy in your new life too.” She leaned over and kissed Joy’s forehead.

After murmuring a traditional prayer for the dead, she left and ventured across the courtyard into the east building where the vestals lived, and where her new cell had been arranged for her. The doors were painted blue in this building. It was even quieter than the west building strove to be, even as vestals scurried about and gathered in little prayer nooks built into the corners.

“Oh, Father,” she said with a pout, standing in the first private space she’d ever owned, either at the convent or at home. He’d given her a room with a stained glass window, a little one composed of simple shapes to make the Creator’s flower pattern within a U-shaped frame, but a magnificent sight in her opinion. A large wooden bookshelf, like Sister Scupley’s, took up one whole wall. He’d left five books behind on it; she would’ve spent her lifetime filling in the rest of the shelves. There was also a writing desk and a standard bed with ropes tied across the frame. The straw mattress waited on the floor, folded over, with a fresh set of sheets and a quilt folded on top.

Among the books, one with a golden arrow on the spine had been placed. “Father,

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