Chương 37: Chapter 34 ~ Libations with a Side of Fish and Tatters

11/11/1111 EotTS 20: 25 When Wyohla, Lyma, and Gysel returned to Wyohla's house, Wyohla and Lyma headed for the parlor, but Gysel headed to the darkened dining room.

"Not in there, Gysel," called Wyohla, as she set the basket on the tea-table.

"Why are you eating in the parlor?" Gysel asked.

"It will get dirty."

"And who's going to have to clean it?"

"You?"

"Exactly." Wyohla motioned Gysel over.

"Just don't drip any cheese on my carpet."

"Ardhy already does enough of that," said Lyma, as she removed her dinner from the basket.

"He can be a real pain in the ass sometimes," said Wyohla, taking her pipe's leather-wrapped case from the table, and setting it inside. The two laughed, but Ardhy did not seem like the type to make a mess while eating, nor did he seem like the type to be a 'pain in the ass': he had—so far... so far—only been helpful. Gysel removed her meal from the basket; it had been packaged in one large, wooden bowl with a wooden cover that slid on and off.

Pulling the cover off, she looked at the contents: the request for extra cheese and butter on the potato had been taken extremely seriously, or, they had simply not included the potato and filled the center with a whole wheel of quark as a sort of cheesy joke, as the potato was not visible under the blanket of quark and melted butter that had bubbled over, and found its way among the tuna.

"Are you going to be able to eat all of that, Gysel?" Wyohla asked.

"I need to bring the basket and bowls back within the next two days in order to get my deposit back, so if you can't, I can pack it for you."

"Let me get you a fork and a knife," said Lyma, as she stood and headed for the kitchen.

"Thank you," said Gysel.

"I do not think I will be able to eat all the tuna."

"Be sure to save a piece of your meal, Gysel." Lyma returned to the parlor, and handed Gysel the utensils. She had also brought back three small plates and a half-drunk bottle of absinthe.

"Just take one of these plates, and put a piece of the potato and the tuna on it."

"All right. There will be plenty." Gysel cut around the outside of the cheese, trying to excavate the spud; once the tuna had been pushed away from the potato (which took up about sixty percent of the bowl), Gysel cut out a piece of the potato and placed it on the plate, along with a forkful of the tuna.

"I will need to take this home. This will last me a few meals." Gysel started to eat; it was simple, bland, tasteless save for the cheese, and cold from the long walk back to Wyohla's: it had all the qualifications to be considered good, and good it was.

"Sure, we can pack it after the ritual," said Wyohla, her mouth full of battered and fried fish which had been dipped in a generous helping of mayonnaise.

"You don't need to do it that fast. You might choke. We have plenty of time before we need to prepare." Gysel only looked at the blonde hypocrite from above the rim of her glasses—if anyone is going to choke, it will be the person speaking with their mouth full. The hour passed quickly, and the only mess made was the mayonnaise dripping from Wyohla's chin onto the table and the carpet.

At about half past the twenty-first hour, Wyohla decided it was time to head to the attic, so the three women headed up with their plates and the bottle. The attic was cooler than it was a quarter ago, and dimly lit by the moonlight as it flowed through the round window on the south end, dripped down from the gaps in the shutter on the roof, and wrapped thin blue fingers around the corners of the drawn curtains covering the balcony door.

Wyohla took hold of a cord that hung down from the ceiling, and gently pulled it towards herself. With a soft clicking, the shutters slowly opened, revealing a skylight with silver tracery matching Luhnylla's sigil, and letting the moonlight flow down into the attic.

"Where is the altar?" Gysel asked.

"Are you that excited?" asked Wyohla.

"No, I just want to know where you could possibly fit an altar." Wyohla clicked her tongue.

"That's not a good way to be talking before a ritual. It's behind this." She grabbed the curtain across from the entrance to the attic. Silver eyelets softly ground against the black oak curtain rod, as Wyohla pulled back the thick, black velvet curtain, revealing the altar hidden in the nook between the shelves. The altar was a large piece, about a meter tall, made from white marble, silver, lapis, a variety of gemstones, and a few pieces of decorative silk.

It depicted the Three Sisters gathered around a scrying pool with their hands clasped together, clad in flowing, yet still stone, white dresses. Oddly, all of their eyes were open, and each had been made with silver sclera, sapphire irises, and pupils made of a glassy black stone, likely obsidian, with small diamonds set inside it.

Above them loomed a woman, assumably Luhnylla, with her arms wrapped around the shoulders of the three, but her head was not facing the Sisters; it was facing the devotee, with an expression obscured by a light grey-blue silk veil which hung over her face, leaving only her nose, and hints of eyes and lips, visible as impressions against the fabric. This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

"That is very pretty," said Gysel.

"Thank you," answered Wyohla.

"Did you commission it?"

"No, I won it at an auction. It's a few hundred years old."

"Did it cost a lot?"

"It cost more to move it from the capital to here." That did not answer the question, but that was all right; the price really did not matter, as it was likely just as much as everything else in this superfluous home.

"You're going first, Gysel," said Wyohla.

"Why?"

"Well, because—""You're the youngest," said Lyma, interrupting Wyohla.

"And since we start with Sylaenyna, the Maiden, who is the youngest of the Sisters, it only makes sense that the youngest starts."

"Well, yes," said Wyohla, nodding, "exactly."

"So what do I do?" asked Gysel.

"I have never done this before."

"Well, there are some steps to it. How good is your memory? You will need to say some prayers."

"Why do you not just write them down?"

"Sure, I can." Wyohla walked to the writing desk on the south side, and once she had everything she needed, she began to write. Once finished, she handed the paper to Gysel, and continued: "First, read the first prayer, then place the offering of food in the scrying pool. Then read the second, then drink some... some of the absinthe, but keep it in your mouth, and kiss Sylaenyna's forehead, then swallow, and pour some of the absinthe into the scrying pool.

Then kneel at her feet, and place your forehead against the top of her foot and read the last prayer." Lyma held out the bottle for Gysel, who took it by the neck, and gave the liquid inside a swirl, watching as it swished behind the glass.

"Do I start now?" Gysel asked.

"No," said Wyohla, "wait another minute, we need to start right on the twenty-second hour, it is a multiple of eleven."

"If I am going on the hour, will that not affect you two?"

"No, it's fine." Lyma's plaits of coppery hair swayed as she shook her head.

"Lyma and I are going to be downstairs," continued Wyohla.

"Once you are done, silently come down with your plate and the bottle. Then give the bottle to Lyma. Do not talk until we all are finished."

"All right." Gysel glanced towards the altar; the easiest part would be not talking. The next minute was filled with the shifting of feet upon the hardwood floor until the silence was broken by distant bells.

"It's time, Gysel," said Wyohla, as she followed Lyma to the stairs.

"Remember the steps."

"I do," Gysel answered. Gysel stepped into the nook and pulled the curtain shut behind her, leaving her alone in the moonlight with the altar. Setting the plate and bottle on the floor, she unfolded the paper and began to read the first prayer.

"O, Sylaenyna, pure lunar-Maiden; O, daughter begotten from Her s—silvery light. I first offer that which nourishes my body, so thee may nourish my soul." Gysel crouched, picked up the piece of cold baked potato, and set it in the scrying pool. Then she continued to the next prayer.

"O, Sylaenyna, pure lunar-Maiden; O, daughter begotten from Her silvery light. I second offer thee l—libations, so that thou can share in the joys of the material which warm my soul." Reluctantly, Gysel raised the bottle to her lips and took a swig; it tasted awful, burned the tongue, but she leaned in, and kissed Sylaenyna's cold marble forehead. The stone goddess's jeweled eyes twinkled in the moonlight.

Backing away, Gysel swallowed, and the absinthe burned her throat the whole way down, but filled her stomach with a strange warmth. Pouring about as much as she drank into the pool, and over the potato, she set the bottle on the ground. Prostrating herself, Gysel set her head against the top of Sylaenyna's foot, and moved the paper so she could read it from the corner of her vision—that is a lot longer than the rest... is one supposed to say that?

'I third offer thee myself'? that seems like something one should not say to a deity... but it is a bit late now, is it not, if the prayers are not finished, that will hinder Lyma and Wyohla, and that would make them mad, as well as angering Sylaenyna.

"O, S—Sylaenyna, pure lunar-Maiden; O, daughter begotten from Her silvery light. I first offered thee food, so thy body will never hunger; I second offered thee d—drink, so thee can share in my j—joy; I third offer thee myself, so that thee may watch over me, guard my purity in the material: may my silver light never tarnish from the corruptions of man and temptations, may my silver light stay pure for my Sisters, may my silver light stay bright and illuminate my clouded future.

In exchange for my being, grant me your open eye to the past, grant me the truth in my memories, O, Sylaenyna." Once finished, Gysel waited a moment, then stood back up, gathered the plate and bottle, and went downstairs. Lyma went up next, and when she came back, Wyohla went up, but not a word was spoken.

Gysel spent the nearly twenty minutes of silence looking around at the oil paintings in the dim hallway; most were paintings of scenes of people praying, dancing, and taking part in rituals, but there was a single portrait, and Gysel quietly padded her way over to it: it was small, no larger than a tray from the cafeteria; the paint and lacquer over the subject had cracked as if the canvas had been rolled, but the background, which seemed slightly raised in comparison to the subject, did not have the same cracking, nor the same yellowing; the edges of the canvas were uneven leaving the pale wooden frame visible; and, most importantly, the subject was a softly smiling, slightly plumper Wyohla, who looked no older than seventeen, with longer, ornately braided hair, beclad in an flowing, light-blue dress with white lace hemming and winter-esque silver embroidery, as well as a rather deep neckline revealing what her silhouette hinted at, but there was a large silver necklace hanging down before the cleavage with a large sapphire pendant obstructing most of it.

Lyma cleared her throat and motioned Gysel away from the painting; Gysel obliged. Finally, Wyohla came downstairs, shut the attic door behind her, and took a drink from the bottle, then another.

"You didn't stutter, did you, Gysel?" She asked.

"No," Gysel lied.

"Why? If the first person stutters, does it affect your prayers?"

"No. It is just best not to stutter. But I am glad you didn't." Whoops—Gysel gave a fake, tired smile.

"How often do I have to leave an offering to Sylaenyna?"

"Whenever you want. Sylaenyna is pretty relaxed in comparison to the others."

"Wait."

"Yes?"

"Why can we say Sylaenyna without any consequences?" Wyohla leaned in, and tapped Gysel on the forehead with the little finger of her cold, gloved, left hand. Gysel pulled back, and Wyohla chuckled, then spoke: "Because she only exists up here." Her breath reeked of absinthe, smoke, and the secrets Loach hid in his sauce.