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redoubts - we missed
the company of our own kind - but I found the Lannish eloim
oppressive; their paranoia is infectious. Discreet enquiry assured
us no one but Sacramantan artisans appeared to be suffering from
the sickness of despair. Perhaps their consistent anxiety about
being discovered left no room in the hearts of Lannish artisans for
yet darker pressures.
    Because eloim
outside Bochanegra have no human patrons, they really do have a
much harder time than their Sacramantan peers; there are, for
example, no willing offerings for the sup from outside their own
staff. Beth and I wondered how they ever managed to find time to
express their creativity, and it was true all works of art we saw
in these houses were frantic, doom-laden affairs. Their reluctance
to seek sanctuary in Bochanegra mystified both Beth and myself. We
concluded they must have a proud and defiant streak within them,
and must, in some ways, enjoy their precarious existence.
    We discussed
our intentions with no one; as far as the Lannish eloim were
concerned, we were simply the spoiled scions of a noble Sacramantan
house, idly exploring the continent. Most advised us to return home
as soon as we could. They thought we were too innocent to be
roaming Lansaal, that in our ignorance we might betray their
existence to humanity, although they disguised their self-concern
as being worried about our safety.
    As we
approached Toinis, we stayed for two days with a venerable eloim
diva, a sweet and incredibly ancient lady who, in order to protect
herself, had resorted to supping only on the blood of chickens. Her
name was Favariel Eshahim, and she claimed to be the last daughter
of a lost eloim throng. Her skin was in a disgraceful condition -
only to be expected, considering her meagre sustenance. She lived
in an area plagued by a particularly stringent religious code -
implemented by a particularly stringent local priest - so was
forced to be meticulously careful in her behaviour. A myriad of
diverse cults thrived in Lansaal, and a group of rich mystics had
formed the Church of Pure Soul in Favariel’s area about sixty years
ago. Any eccentrics were regarded as heretics by the infuriatingly
active high priest, especially those who did not attend the church
on a regular basis. Favariel tried to appease this quick-tempered
zealot by sending yearly offerings of gold to the church - an act
that allowed her a precarious security - and pleading a frailty of
age that precluded church worship. ‘I fear he will live forever!’
she declared, when telling us of her difficulties with the man. ‘I
only hope my gold lasts longer than he does! Whoever comes after
him just cannot be as bad!’
    She lived in a
wonderful old house, which was falling badly into decay. And yet,
with its rose-garlanded, crumbling walls, its ancient stone
embellishments, the house only appeared more beautiful because of
its dissolution. There was but one servant left in the house - an
elderly peasant woman - who had been with Favariel for eighty years
or more. At one time, she had provided her mistress with
sustenance, but now Favariel refused to sup from the woman; she was
too old, her blood was thin, and the strain placed on her heart by
being supped might easily kill her. Favariel feared being left
alone. She, more than any of the Lannish eloim we had previously
encountered, was delighted to meet us, and laid the amenities of
her household at our feet, insisting on showering both Tamaris and
myself with gifts. Our luggage cases were stuffed with exquisite
antique jewellery and elaborate gowns of pale, powdery silk. In
return, Beth quickly painted a flattering portrait of her, and our
servants insisted on letting her sup from their veins to her fill.
By the time we left her, she looked much healthier, and a youthful
bloom had come back into her flesh. We also arranged to send her a
couple of human retainers from Sacramante, once we returned home. I
thought it disgraceful that no other Lannish