Chapter 17
Chapter seventeen
Talia
Arath’s capital city of Ja’ni glittered in the dying light—a desert jewel built around the cool, clean water of the Lady’s Oasis.
Layers upon layers of buildings sculpted from red clay and decorated with bright blue mosaics lined the winding streets.
A warm breeze blew. Laughter and song spilled from the open windows. Her people were happy.
But then again, there was much to celebrate.
The palace reported that the King of Arath, Andreas Saadeh, was finally on the mend. It had been over a year since anyone had seen him after a strange illness first laid him low, but news from the front was bolstering his spirits. The war against their Elmorian oppressors was going well.
They were winning.
Continuing her thoughts aloud from where she stood on the edges of the market district, waiting for Sister Skatia, Talia commented sidelong to the two Witchsworn who accompanied her, “I imagine the siege on Mysai will break any day now.”
The men were silent in reply—mere statues built from rippling muscle and smooth, walnut-hued skin. She frowned and pushed back the crimson silk of her cloak, revealing the soulblade strapped to her hip.
When she wrapped her hand around the jewel-crowned hilt, it warmed beneath her touch, power buzzing against her fingertips. With authority, she barked, “Malik. Hazim. Speak to me.”
The men moved in unison. Two sets of dark brown eyes swiveled her way.
Malik spoke first in his deep rumble. “Yes, Mistress.”
Hazim asked, “What should we speak about, Mistress?”
A peal of laughter sounded from just behind her. Mocking. Familiar. Skatia. “Why are you trying to speak with them, Sister?” the other woman asked as she swept into view, painfully beautiful as ever and accompanied by two Witchsworn of her own.
Her long hair spilled down her back in an ebony curtain.
Gold jewelry flashed at her ears and throat.
Her full lips curved into an amused smile.
Lips painted crimson to match her robes.
“You know Witchsworn are good for two things and two alone.” She ticked them off on her long, slender fingers. “Fighting and dying.”
Talia shot a look toward Malik and Hazim, but neither man looked at all bothered by being spoken about in such a way. They simply stood there, watching her, waiting for her next command.
Averting her gaze, she changed the subject. “Are you ready, then?”
Skatia rolled her eyes. “Yes, yes, let’s go before we’re late for the meeting.” Her older Sister led the way through the marketplace, prowling back toward the temple compound with feline grace.
Talia hurried to keep up, the temptation to gawk at all the sights and sounds of Ja’ni like a mere visitor burning through her still.
The last time she had been allowed in the city was before.
Before her father sold her to the Order of the Sisterhood.
Before she ever became Skatia’s apprentice at the tender age of six.
Apprentices were never allowed outside the compound—not until their trial—just on the off chance they tried to run away.
But now that she was a full-fledged witch, Ja’ni was finally hers to explore…so long as the Mother did not need her. Or she did not have other duties to perform.
Sunset bled across the sky in streaks of pink and gold, bathing the market in soft light as the vendors packed up their stalls for the day. Young boys flitted through the streets, lighting the silver lanterns strung from their poles, swiftly turning the square into a place of magic and wonder.
Talia’s chest tightened. It was the first night of the Harvest Festival.
There was to be feasting and dancing all throughout the district.
A part of her longed to stay and take part.
A small, girlish part that should have been snuffed out the moment Our Lady Below breathed dragonfire into her lungs and put a soulblade in her hand.
The sound of masculine laughter drew her attention to the left, where a man stood, ruffling the hair of a young boy with him.
His brother? His son? The man had a kind look about him and a warm smile—a smile that immediately died on his lips when he lifted his gaze and found that he had earned Talia’s attention.
He ducked into a low bow at once, her eyes fixated on his boots. Knuckling his forehead in a show of respect, he babbled, “Forgive me for staring, Sister. All glory to Our Lady Below. Peace be on you. Forgive me.”
The familiar sting of loneliness pricked her heart as she looked away and hurried onward, her back straight and her head held high. She was a witch. A revered member of the Order of the Sisterhood. A priestess of the Lady Herself.
What did it matter if men only ever looked at her with fear now?
What did it matter if women only ever looked at her with envy?
She had power. She had survived the trial. She could breathe fire. She could wield a soulblade. She could command Witchsworn whose souls had been placed into her keeping—her own little army of immortal warriors.
Immortal to a point.
The point when she became wounded and had to consume their captured souls to heal herself.
Just ahead of her, Skatia let loose with an annoyed hiss. Talia winced, momentarily worried her Sister was somehow aware of her thoughts. But then she spied the glow of Skatia’s soulblade in the growing darkness and knew at once what was truly vexing the woman.
It was her wayward Witchsworn again.
“He still does not answer your summons?” she asked, lengthening her stride to come alongside Skatia.
Without glancing her way, Skatia stiffly replied, “He does not, no.”
And that was that.
Talia frowned. It was all very strange. She had never heard of a Witchsworn not obeying his mistress. But then again, she had never heard of a Witchsworn being made with only a sliver of his soul sacrificed rather than the whole thing.
But that was what Skatia claimed had happened that night in Mysai when she assaulted the young man in the usuri tower. And Talia wasn’t about to try to contradict her again.
The last time she had so much as suggested her former mistress take the matter to the Mother, she had nearly earned for herself a crisp slap across the face. “No one can know, Talia,” Skatia had hissed that day, wild-eyed with fear. “No one can know I can’t control the Elmorian.”
They were late. So very, very late. The temple was already packed with Sisters and their Witchsworn by the time she and Skatia finally slipped inside. As ever, she was struck by the dark beauty of this holy place.
Deep shadows pooled in the corners of the room, writhing as if they had a mind of their own. Black marble gleamed in the candlelight, slick and smooth. The symbol of the Lady Herself—a crescent moon pointing upward, crowning an inverted mountain peak—shimmered upon the floor and walls.
The Mother stood at the very center of it all—a wizened crone with silver-white hair and papery skin. Black silk draped her withered frame. Her back bowed beneath the weight of her many years. Ancient. The high priestess was ancient.
But her age certainly hadn’t dulled her edge.
“Sister Skatia. Sister Talia,” the Mother boomed, her voice reverberating off the temple walls. “You are late.”
Talia’s back stiffened as fifty-seven pairs of golden eyes swung toward her and Skatia. Fifty-seven Sisters in residence within Ja’ni, now all watching her. Staring. Judging. She bowed her head, her mouth working over the apology she wanted to utter yet dared not.
A witch never apologized, not even to her own kind.
The Mother continued, “Your Sisters have already received their assignments. Assignments fitting their skills and rank. Because they were on time.” Those final two words slammed home, pounding into her chest like the beating of war drums.
Irritation radiated from Skatia like heat from a flame. No doubt her former mistress would blame her for this, their lateness. Even though it had been Skatia who had taken too long in the market. But she was the junior Sister.
It was always the junior Sister’s fault.
A whisper of disdain wove itself through the Mother’s voice when she admitted, “Were it my will, I would keep you both here, tending to the temple while your punctual Sisters see to the more important tasks. But…”
Talia’s heart fluttered. She could hardly dare to hope. Where were they to be sent? Were they to join their two Sisters in Elmoria? Journey to Kuni? To Drakmor to be with Princess Mariana? She had never known anything beyond the compound, beyond Ja’ni.
Now, she might very well see the world.
“The Lady demands I send you both to Mysai, to join Sisters Yara, Nadia, and Shula in their assault on the fort,” the Mother finished, sounding displeased with this turn of events. “You will leave in the morning.”
Talia’s head snapped up, her eyebrows knitting together. “But—” she started to protest before Skatia’s arm snaked out and her fingers clamped around her wrist like a vice. Her Sister showed no mercy as she squeezed hard enough to bruise, fingernails digging into flesh.
Gritting her teeth, she bit back a yelp of pain. Witches should feel no pain. Fire could not burn them, after all. Cuts from mere fingernails should not faze them either.
The Mother shouted with such force, the candles flickered, “The Lady has spoken. And so have I. You will all leave in the morning.” The older woman fixed her with an acidic stare, as if daring her to speak out of turn, when she added, “All glory to Our Lady Below.”
“All glory to our Lady Below,” she echoed along with her Sisters before prying herself from Skatia’s grip.
Her wrist smarted. Droplets of blood welled, staining her tawny skin.
She ignored it all—the pain, the blood—and turned away, making for the darkness of the night beyond without a glance spared for Skatia or a word offered to any of her other Sisters.
Malik and Hazim followed as always. Her loyal dogs. Her silent shadows.
The moment the cool night air washed over her, bringing with it the distant sounds of music and laughter, she let her mounting frustrations boil over.
She wanted to scream. She wanted to set fire to the thick hedges full of sweet-smelling roses ringing the temple grounds.
How heady their scent would be then, when they were aflame, smoldering like incense.
The burbling of the fountain at the center of the garden guided her onward, leading her toward its familiar silhouette: a deep basin crowned by a lithe woman clothed in flowing robes. Tall. Strong. Confident.
The very first witch.
Talia’s hands balled into fists. Why? Why was she being sent to Mysai of all places?
Why not distant Kuni with its misty forests and strange people?
Why not Elmoria to see it with her own eyes before her Sisters burned it to the ground?
Surely Yara, Nadia, and Shula could breach the outer walls of Mysai without her assistance.
A sudden presence swept through her mind like a shadow. Dark. Cool.
It is not for you to question my will, child.
Pain exploded just behind her eyes. Her knees crumpled, pitching her into the gravel ringing the fountain. Neither of her Witchsworn moved to catch her, nor to help her up. Because she had not ordered them to do so.
The small stones bit into her shins through the fabric of her robes as she bowed her head low. Tears misted her vision. She still was not accustomed to the sensation of her goddess speaking to her.
The Lady deigned to speak to her.
A soft chuckle unfurled within her thoughts. Soon, She promised yet again. All will be revealed soon. Sooner than you think.
And suddenly, Talia was no longer in the garden. The sounds of the fountain melted away. The gravel beneath her disappeared. She was in the air, looking down at an ancient fort ringing a seaside city. Mysai. It could only be Mysai. She reeled, hardly believing what she was seeing.
The banner of Elmoria—a golden stag rearing against a blue field—cracked in the wind, still flying from the fort’s towers.
But Arath’s army stretched as far as the eye could see upon the dunes beyond the fort.
A sea of tents and lights that shimmered far below, filling her heart with hope.
She had been right. Soon, Mysai would fall.
Yes, the Lady agreed on Her oily hiss, Her voice stirring against the back of Talia’s neck like a cold breeze. Soon, Mysai will be mine. All of it. Including the old city. Including what’s buried deep beneath.
Buried? Talia asked, turning about mid-air to try and catch a glimpse of the Lady for herself. But when next she blinked, she was back in the garden. In the gravel. Her Witchsworn looming over her.
Yes, buried, the Lady whispered, each word dripping directly into Talia’s thoughts. There is something hidden beneath Mysai, my dear child. Something important.
Suddenly, Talia heard the distant trickle of water on the wind. She felt a rush of stale air ruffling past. Her thoughts whirled with the impression of something waiting in the shadows beneath Mysai—in ancient tunnels long forgotten.
A treasure of some sort. Something priceless.
Something…dangerous.
A weapon, yes, the Lady agreed again, sending a trill of excitement fluttering through Talia’s veins. And you will bring it to me.