.png)
The stone was gray and cold and she supposed perhaps that was a mercy. The stairs descended down into the warm glow, a dozen altogether, but she squeezed every bit of herself into the space of the uppermost step, against the temple door. She watched the single priest a few steps below turn and offer a hand to her.
Below, the other priests chanted in the darkness. The sound—droning and circular—continued on an endless loop, and every three-dozen breaths a single, iron-masked priest would step into view at the bottom of the stairs, looking up impatiently. He held a knife as long as her hand and sharp as the acolyte's tongue, the masked priest would tap the flat of it against his hand before stepping back out of sight.
She could smell their want.
They needed her flesh.
The acolyte standing beside her descended slowly down the stairs, urging the impatient priests back to their stations, but hard experience has taught her to hate this false hope. Below, in the shadows, forty-eight priests sang in anticipation of her arrival.
There was nowhere else left to go, so she followed down after the acolyte on bare feet. Then, the acolyte offered her to walk ahead, and she did. Because there was nowhere else to go. Because there was nowhere left to run.
And below she heard their chanting rising to a fever-pitch. The sang in ancient, forgotten tongues with wet-lipped anticipation as if awaiting a meal. A symphony of giddy devotion, so that when the moment finally came, it was silent.
Without vision or hearing, her only warning was a half-second of scent—a sharp pain in her side, the scent of blood and rose petals—and then the pain of a knife sinking into her spine. Animal instinct seized hold and her legs ran blind, stepping out into the air above the obscured stairway. She toppled and with each impact her black vision flash red-green with pain until she rolled to a stop on the stone floor below. Something had broken in the fall, but she could no longer tell arm from leg in the chaos of the moment.
The knife sunk into flesh again and she screamed.
The first incantation silenced her, stealing her voice. The second bound her hands, her legs. She knows she was moved, carried, preyed upon. Knives sank deep again and she could feel the honeyed words piercing her thoughts. Her mind reeled, her soul churned behind her breastbone, mingled with their own. She could feel the magic ebb and flow through them, through her, until there was no distinction.
Words, deep. Again and again.
And what was her faded.
___________________
Sky Citadel Kraggodan
Mindspin Mountains, Nirmathas
Date Unknown
Year Unknown
___________________
"You can't leave."
Durgan Ivoh was adamant, affronted. He stepped between Thramirra and the door, palm held up to her. "The bloody war's only just ended. Your brother needs you here. We all need you here."
Thramirra snorts, getting in Durgan's face. "You know I'd knock you to your knees if it came to it." She says defiantly, but he knows it's bluster. She doesn't fight without honor. She would never strike him. And yet, Durgan feels the heat of anger rise in his chest.
"We have diplomats from Korvosa coming in three days, we can't have the royal family split at a time like this. King Arabasti's liaison may've taken kindly to the ways the Militia handled the war, but there's expectations of decorum." Durgan lowers his hand, but his stare is fixed on Thramirra's.
She puts a hand on his shoulder. "I need a week," she says and she can see the redness rise in his face. "Maybe two." Because he can't get any madder at this point. "They came after the seal, Durgan. They took advantage of our vulnerability and they struck when we were defenseless. The Way had people here in Kraggodan the whole time and we didn't notice. I need to go to Lastwall. I need to talk to the Lord-Watcher and find out what the Knights of Ozem know."
Durgan sighs, swallowing down his pride and his irritation. "Then you're taking Mechiam with you."
She rankles at that. "I'm not a child anymore, you don't need to protect me."
"No, you're not." Durgan agrees. "But you're second in line for the throne. And I'll hear no more about it. I may not be able to give you an order, but I can give you advice." She eases a little at his phrasing. "Mechiam's fought the Whispering Way before and the Precentors like him. His father has influence. He'll be useful."
"Fine." Thramirra blurts out, not wanting to be brow-beaten about it any further. "I'll take him.
"And for the love of all the gods, don't let just any street urchin know you're the Greathammer heir." Durgan insists.
Thramirra gives him a wink and pats him on the cheek. "I can't lie," she says with a smile. "But I can be indirect. I'll just use my oath-name."
Durgan's brows furrow. "I... don't believe you ever told me that."
She winks, stepping around him and out the door. Then, over her shoulder she calls back. "It's my mother's name."
"Odenna."
Comments