Twang!

“Done. Luck be with you girl, ’cause we can’t go beyond the door with you. Never give in!”

Priscilla pulled the lock off the clasp and hurriedly began stuffing the locker contents into a cloth sack: shoes, a belt, work trousers, a few old copper and aluminum coins—

She left to the Temple and its minions the costly clothes, the makeups, the gold armbands and necklets, signs of power, while happily grabbing up the tight-wrapped soya bar she’d left negligently behind the week before. She covered her newly-shorn head with an old blue kerchief that had been a dusting rag for Moonhawk’s ceremonies. What else?

Her gaze fell again to the bright—wrought things, eyes full of the greed of necessity. Dare she?

An odd song tickled at the back of her head, though she couldn’t catch the words. Still—When she moved on she held her right hand tight to seven silver bracelets.

She turned toward the door, found she still held the silver lock in her left hand, under the twisted top of the cloth bag. Her impulse was to toss it away—Silver! She looked at the magic symbols, shrugged her shoulders, and dropped the lock into the bag.

“Good girl!” came distant approval. “Silver travels well! Go as far as you can!”

She hobbled out as best she could then, the grief chants of the Temple covering the sound of her ungainly escape.

Across Sintia the Priestesses waited for the proper hour, and then covered the carved Temple figures of Moonhawk in green cloth, signifying her return to the Goddess, this time.

No one dares mention that the eyes in the statues continued to glow, despite the funereal announcement.

No one dares mention to the Inmost Circle that Moonhawk still lives.

So ends the 55th tale of Lute and Moonhawk.

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