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The Quartz Key Chapter Fifty-Five
by Lianne Burwell
January 2003
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Judas woke as he had every day for more days than he could 
count; alone in a luxurious room hidden somewhere within a 
stone building that seemed like a temple to him. Where that 
temple was, he did not know, and none of the people who 
attended him would tell him. They treated him with 
deference, and even reverence, but he was a prisoner within 
the walls of his suite. He had not been under the open sky 
since the night they had brought him through the portal to 
this place. He did not know what had become of Nemir or the 
others, or even Nahanna.

The last was of his own choosing, at least. For three days 
after his arrival, he had slept, while the priestesses 
healed the damage that had been done to him by his 
kidnappers. He had been near to death, he had been told 
later. A delay of only a few more hours would have been 
fatal. But he had recovered fully, although not his sight 
yet. He had been promised -- although not by the 
priestesses -- that that too would heal. In time.

When he had woke from the strange dreams he had told no one 
of, Nahanna had come to see him. At first he had simply 
turned his back to her, refusing to acknowledge her. She 
had not liked that, and had persisted, even to the point of 
grabbing his arm and trying to force him to turn to face 
her. At that, he had struck out blindly, managing to knock 
her off her feet and bloody her nose. She had not returned 
since then, and he preferred it that way.

Instead, he had been attended by a steady stream of 
priestesses who brought him his meals, cleaned his rooms, 
and taught him. The language of the south and the language 
of the temple were the first lessons, followed by religious 
training that he had little interest in, especially since 
what he learned during his dreams contradicted it in so 
many ways. He was taught the history of the Southern Clans, 
and the kings that ruled them, with great emphasis on the 
ones who had preserved their people through great personal 
sacrifice. Of the women of the clans, no stories were told.

He had been kept so busy that he rarely had time to think, 
but the loneliness never faded. Nemir was somewhere out 
there, far away, and he was here, locked up far away from 
prying eyes. They said they did this to protect him from 
the God-King, but he knew it was so that he would not be 
able to attempt to escape them. They called him Lord, but 
never let him chose his own path. And despite Nahanna's 
promises, he still had not knowledge of what they planned 
for him. Not that he had any desire to know.

And as for Nemir, he both wanted his love, his Prince, 
there with him, and yet prayed that he had gone east, or 
perhaps north. That he was safe and happy. He daydreamed of 
Nemir, traveling through those woods Markus had told them 
of, wearing furs to protect him from the cold. Or perhaps 
in the east, wearing fine silks and sparring with warriors 
with yellow skin and strangely shaped eyes.

But, deep down, he did not believe it. At times, in that 
haze that lay between the dreams and waking, it was as if 
he could feel Nemir, hurt and angry, drawing closer, and he 
feared for his life.

"My Lord, are you ready for your bath?"

Judas did not move to acknowledge the woman at the doorway. 
He heard her move into the room, to his side, but gave no 
sign of how aware he was of her presence. Of late, the 
bright white that he saw had come to take on shadows, and 
he had great hopes that this was the first stage of the 
return of his sight, but he chose not to tell his captors. 
Every piece of knowledge that he hid from them was a weapon 
in his meager arsenal.

But even without his sight, he was aware of every movement 
she made, although he did not let any know that either. As 
more time went past, he became more confident in the 
whiteness, able to... feel where objects were. When he ran 
his fingertip over the pages of the books he was being 
instructed from, and which had been carelessly left behind 
since he could not possibly read them on his own, he could 
feel the writing, picture it clearly in his mind. As a 
result, he had learned of many things that they left out of 
the lessons, or did not fully explain.

The junior priestess did not comment on the lack of 
response from him. She moved to his side and touched his 
arm lightly before helping to his feet and leading him 
towards the bath chamber. There, she undid his clothing, 
letting the simple robe made from eastern silks drop away. 
Someone else quickly whisked it away. There were four women 
in the room with him, but Judas had learned not to protest. 
There was no point.

His tunic and pants were also removed, and he was carefully 
led to the large tub set in the floor, with steps leading 
down into the water. In Ajantha, he had thought the tub in 
Nemir's suite to be the height of decadence, but this was 
far beyond it. Standing at the center of the tub, he was in 
water almost up to his breast, and the edge of the tub was 
nowhere within reach. If he had ever learned to swim, he 
would be able to in this artificial pool.

As always, Judas stood passively near the edge of the pool 
while other washed his hair and body. In the early days he 
had tried to do so for himself, but every attempt to 
explain that he did not want that service had fallen on 
deaf ears, and in the end, it had been simpler to simply 
acquiesce.

Once he had been cleaned  -- so thoroughly that at first he 
had burned with shame -- he was dressed in clothing made of 
fabrics as luxurious as the robe he had been wearing 
before, then brought back to the sitting room where he 
expected to find the first teacher of the day. But instead 
of the expected greeting there was silence. Beside him, he 
sensed his attendant bowing low as she backed out of the 
room.

Judas stared straight ahead. "Is someone there?" he asked, 
even though he could tell perfectly well that there was 
someone sitting at the table where he received his 
instructions, and that it was someone he had not met yet. 
And yet, there was something about her that seemed 
familiar. But strangely, he could tell nothing about her, 
other than that she was female. Age, position, abilities; 
all of these were hidden from him. Perhaps deliberately.

"Come sit, Judas," the woman said, and her voice was of no 
help either. It was unusually deep for a woman, and was 
ageless, so gave no hints. Her accent was strong, and not 
entirely that of the south, but she spoke clearly and he 
had learned the language well.

Judas hesitated, then moved to his usual seat, even though 
he could not see it. He had the feeling that she knew quite 
well what he was capable of, even without his eyesight, so 
dissembling was of no use. He sat down, wondering if this 
was the day when he would finally get some of the answers 
that Nahanna had promised him so long ago. None of the 
priestesses he had met since his arrival had been willing 
to tell him more than what they chose to in the course of 
their lessons. Indeed, they had simply ignored any question 
he had asked until he had finally stopped asking. And as 
for his dream teacher, she had taught him many things, 
about things he had not known existed and histories he had 
never seen in any book, but even she had not told him what 
it was that he was expected to do, and in the dreams, it 
never occurred to him to ask.

He sat in silence for what seemed like an eternity, waiting 
for the woman to speak first. He stared straight ahead, 
knowing that he was not looking at her, not allowing 
anything in his expression to speak of his thoughts. Hiding 
his thoughts was something that he had become very good at. 
It was the only rebellion he was allowed by his guards.

"You can stop that, little one," the woman said, and the 
way she said it finally sparked his memory. This was the 
woman who had healed him when he had arrived in this place 
that he did not want to be.

"I do not know what you mean," he said softly, even though 
he had the sense that she saw through him easily.

She laughed softly. "Yes you do. Tell me, Judas, what do 
you think of us?"

Judas felt his jaw tighten, and he tried to control 
himself. "I have met no one other than woman who have no 
interest in knowing me, so I know nothing of them. They 
tell me what to do, and since I am given no choice, I do 
it. What am I supposed to think."

The woman sighed deeply. "Indeed."

"Who are you?" Judas asked, leaning forward slightly. He 
had the sense that finally he had met one of the south who 
would answer his questions. "What is intended for me?"

There was the soft swish of fabric against fabric, then a 
strong hand, unusually calloused for a woman, wrapped 
around his own. "I am High Priestess to the Lady, and like 
you and Nahanna, I am Goddess-born. Unlike Nahanna, and 
like you, I was not born in the south. I was born in the 
Westlands to a branch of the family that had fled after the 
God-King conquered the south. I was raised in a simple 
fishing town. But my family was watched, and when I showed 
the signs, I was taken and brought to the temple to be 
raised. I and my family were given as little choice as 
you."

His hands clenched into fists. "Then why force the same on 
me?" he asked.

"Because I still have no choices. High Priestess I may be, 
but I am just as much a prisoner as you. Woman have little 
say in the south, even priestesses, for all that they 
worship the Lady. If you had not been found, I would even 
now be married off to a man of appropriate bloodlines to 
hopefully produce a Goddess-born son, and Nahanna would now 
be High Priestess." Judas could hear the faint bitterness 
in her voice. "So has it been in the past and so it will be 
in the future, and even the death of the God-King will not 
change that."

Judas turned his face away from her. As she spoke, he was 
forming a mental impression, one of a woman younger than he 
had originally thought, although nearly old enough to be 
his mother. "So whatever it is they plan to use me for, it 
will not end even if he dies."

"No," she said softly; sympathetically.

Judas closed his eyes, trying to hold back the urge to cry.

END CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE