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The Rite of Spring: Fragment 25

A Priest of the Cunt

in which Kiara visits the House of a friend, and meets an acquaintance

Author's note (31st March 1996): I have noticed from the logs that this fragment is overwhelmingly the most frequently read fragment in the whole Rite, but I can't see why, since it's a long way from the most scandalous or most salacious or most exciting or anything obvious like that.

Has it been commented on in a newsgroup somewhere? Please, someone, write to me and explain!


I n the evening, I got an urgent summons from Tan. Going across to his House, I was directed to his cell. He was sitting in the corner, leaning back against the wall. I could see that he was very distressed. I said,

"What's up, Tan?". He asked me if I'd heard about the woman the God had nominated for the rite; I nodded.

"Well", he said,

"she refuses to celebrate it. And, she says she's a Ricnic Chieftain's daughter. And, I think she may be. And worst, I've had to lock her in."

"Oh, shit,"

I said - I try not to swear, but I thought that was enough for anyone.

"What do you want me to do?"

He looked very straight at me.

"I know it's mixed up with your mystery, and I shouldn't know anything about it, but you know something about barbarians, don't you... Come up and speak to her?"

We went up together into the tower. I hadn't realised that the Cock still had an old prison, like us. The Third of the Cock was sitting out on the landing. He came in and unlocked the cage for us, and locked us into it. I looked at the girl. She was slim, dark, and good looking. She looked fiercly proud; she certainly looked like a Rhiconicfhear. She was wearing clothes of the Hand, and there was an unwashed smell to her. I said,

"Tan says that you say you're a Chieftain's daughter."

She replied

"I am". Her bearing was remarkable given the circumstances. Suddenly I recognised her - she was the girl from the barge; and when I realised that, I knew where I had seen us before. She'd abandoned the whispery voice and spoke instead very clearly, but with a curious singing intonation which was very foreign. Still, I knew her.

"Tan,"

I said, "will you leave us? Make sure we aren't disturbed."

Tan called to Conan, was let out, and left.

When they had gone, and the door was closed, I said

"if you are a Chieftain's daughter, what is your ancestry?"

- I had heard that among the Rhiconicfhearchaorusduadh, pedigree is very important, and even quite unimportant people can recite theirs. Sure enough, she did. It took a long time, and was tedious, but I caught the bit I was expecting, and listening for.

"So", I said,

"We're cousins"; and I recited mine, naming the female line only, as is customary among my people, all the way back to Kiar the First Priestess; and then forward from Kiar to my namesake who was raped by her great great great great great great grandfather. She was a bit put out by that, I think, being so proud of her thirty-seven generations when I had named fifty-two; however, she said merely,

"I greet you, Kiara daughter of Kiarain", as is customary.

Then I asked her,

"How does a daughter of the Rhiconaiach come to be in the Place?"

She replied

"it will be known to you that Aonach my father is dead, foully slain by the Coiremhiconicfhearchaorusduadh. It is the case as I have said that I am his only surviving child, and so the line must pass through me. Know that my Betrothed is Gruath, eldest son of Gruath the Shield of the People, Chieftain of the Rhiconicfhearchain, who serves among the Guard of your god. I have come to find him, so that he may take up our line."

Something caught at my memory. The barbarian tribes are not my special study, but we of the Mare Cult have always kept communication with our cousins beyond the Rim. I remembered a meeting two years back, at which the political situation on the steppe had been talked about. "Did Aonach not have three daughters?"

I asked. She flushed.

"My sister Atienan died of a fall", she replied. I said,

"That only makes two". She flushed more.

"My other sister was dishonoured and is not named."

Oh was she, I thought, now I've got you.

"But you are not dishonoured?"

She became unmistakably angry. She replied very coolly, with steady dignity.

"I am never so. How dare you suggest such a thing?"

I laughed -

"Aonan, Aonan, remember I've seen you before." Coolly still, she said

"Certainly. We met upon the barge."

"And before that?"

"Oh..."

she sat down heavily. "So", I said, very silky and slow, meaning to frighten her,

"you will intrude upon the Rite of the Mare, where you were not invited, but you won't celebrate the Rite of the Plough?"

I had underestimated her. Still shaken, she sat up very straight and said

"it is true that I by mischance intruded upon your rite, for which I crave pardon. But I left before the rite was completed, and was not dishonoured."

I replied, with as much conviction as I could muster,

"I don't believe you."

I did, though. It accounted perfectly for the discrepancy over the numbers. She pursued the advantage ruthlessly.

"It is a matter of complete uncareing to me whether or not you believe me."

I was at a loss, and paused to collect my thoughts.

"You know the penalty for intruding into the mystery of the Mare Cult?"

- we sew fearful rumours. She said she did. I asked

"if I remit the penalty, will you agree to celebrate the Rite of the Plough?"

She drew herself up straighter than ever.

"I can no more serve my Clan dishonoured than I can dead, so the matter is of little moment. But simply as a matter of taste, I would prefer death to dishonour."

Two to her. Well, third time pays for all; I took the last arrow from my quiver.

"Surely", I said, "I have only to say that you took part in the Rite of the Mare, and your people will unname you anyway?"

Her reply was cooler yet.

"If it accords with your dignity thus to use deceit, you could indeed dishonour me in the sight of my Clan. But you cannot make me submit to that which would dishonour me in my own eyes."

I shrugged.

"Tan", I called, "you may as well come back in now".

ÿ



Copyright (c) Simon Brooke 1992-1995

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