They arrived at the furnace itself. Wasten took off her cuffs and led her through the great iron doors into a narrow circular room, the soot-blackened walls rising out of sight. Another fell-witch that Noon did not know the name of was just being led out, her skin beaded with sweat and a faraway look in her eyes. She didn’t look at Noon as she passed her, and she stumbled as though she had no bones in her legs.
‘You know what you must do, so prepare yourself, Fell-Noon,’ said Father Wasten, his voice solemn now. The other fell-witch left, and Noon walked into the centre of the circular room. She peeled off the gloves and threw them on the floor, and then pulled off the long-sleeved shirt and piled that on top, leaving her in her vest. Next, her soft slippers – she preferred to be barefoot. ‘You are the weak place between worlds, you are the fracture that permits evil to enter. This is your penance.’
Noon coughed into her hand. ‘Horseshit.’
Father Wasten left, clanging the iron door shut behind him. After a few seconds another door opened, and a slim young man stepped through. Noon looked away. It was Novice Lusk. She hated when it was Novice Lusk.
He was tall, with skin the colour of good cream, his shoulders and neck slightly pink from the outside work he was tasked with – clearing away any stray debris, scrubbing the bat guano from the stones – and his hair was like corn silk, so blond it shone. Noon remembered corn like that on the plains, whole sunny fields of it like a dream. His eyes were blue. He had already removed his shirt, and his chest was taut with muscles, the low band of his loose grey trousers riding on his hips.
Once, Noon had wondered why they didn’t just use plants for the purging, or even animals of some sort, and she had asked, not the sisters or the priests, but another fell-witch who had been there longer than she had. People get over it, the witch had told her. They have a rest, and come back. Have you ever taken life energy from grass? Dead straight away, isn’t it? You could use pigs, maybe, or goats, but then you need someone to look after them, and you’d need a lot of goats. Men though – stupid men with nothing better to do – can look after themselves.
Lusk came over to her and nodded, once.
‘Are you ready, Fell-Noon?’
There were tiny creases at the corners of his eyes as he frowned in concern. Noon sighed.
‘Let’s get this over with.’
He nodded again, and went to his knees in front of her. ‘As ever, it is my honour to assist you in your purging.’
She looked down at him and the top of his bowed head. Lusk’s shoulders shone in the lamplight, smooth and lightly freckled. When everyone she saw was covered up lest they come into accidental contact with her, it was shocking to see so much bared flesh, so much skin uncovered, and part of her never tired of seeing it.
Lusk cleared his throat.
‘Are you ready, Fell-Noon?’
She glanced up once, into the crowded darkness above them. There were more iron grids up there, and on top of them shallow pans full of the substances they used to make akaris. She walked behind him, and taking a small breath, placed her hands on his back, almost leaning on him. His skin was warm, and she could smell him now too – he smelled of soap and earnestness. A warm flush moved from the soles of her bare feet to the top of her head, and she sought a little deeper, seeking out his living energy. Lusk was murmuring a prayer of acceptance under his breath, and not for the first time she wondered what brought a man to a place like this, to take up this particular duty with all its risks, but the urgency of the winnowfire was growing and she pushed that thought to one side.
Her palms tingled, and with a shiver his energy flowed into her. She took it eagerly, filling her and crowding out the darkness within, letting it pool and grow and surge. Lusk was trained for this, and she knew, more or less, how much was safe to take, but the more she could absorb in this first contact, the purer her winnowfire would be. And the moment was coming.
Noon lifted one hand and pointed up into the dark above them. A crackle in the air, and a bloom of blue-green flame curled from the end of her arm and shot up into the echoing chimney. A bare second later and she was wreathed in it, a glowing column of ethereal fire that surged up, crashing and rolling against the steel sides of the chasm above them. The roar of it filled her ears and everything was light. She could feel from the muscles in her face that she was grinning, and she savoured every moment. The fire poured from her like water from a broken dam, and she revelled in the power of it. Here, at least, for this brief time, she was free and powerful.
Lusk shifted under her hand slightly and she remembered to keep part of her consciousness monitoring the life energy she was taking from him. Already he was tiring, and she was surprised by how much she had taken. Somewhere above them the flat pans of chemicals would be cooking nicely, and the priests of Tomas would be waiting to harvest their precious akaris. She wondered how much she made for them, and who used it outside of the Winnowry.
Noon stood on the tips of her toes, reaching as high as she could for one final blast, and then abruptly the flames winked out. She sagged, half stumbling, and Lusk made to help her before catching himself. Contact outside of the purging was strictly forbidden. Noon shivered, her grey vest sticking to her back with sweat. Lusk was a shade paler than he’d been, and his forehead and chest were also beaded with moisture.
The steel door clanged open, and Father Wasten appeared. He eyed them both warily, and nodded to her. ‘Get dressed, Fell-Noon.’
Novice Lusk turned and left without looking at her, going through the other door, and Noon hastily pulled on her long shirt and soft slippers. She hated wearing them again when she was so covered in sweat, but she would not be permitted to go anywhere until she did. Once her hands were covered in the long gloves again, Father Wasten came fully into the room.
‘Once again you are purged, Fell-Noon. You are, briefly, pure.’
Noon rubbed her hand over her face, grimacing as the ash there mixed with her sweat and turned into smears of dirt. She didn’t feel pure. She felt sticky and dirty, and oddly ashamed. There was such a sense of release with the purge, and then, afterwards, guilt. The rush of the flames and the eerie light made it too easy to remember things she’d rather forget. Things she had to forget.