Given (The Giving Chronicles #1)

1. Nothing but a Fucking Lie

1

NOTHING BUT A FUCKING LIE

WREN

I despise heights.

Unfortunately, I only reached this realization moments ago. Perhaps even more unfortunately, I’m trapped in a small alcove three stories above the temple’s shining white marble floor with a plan I’ll probably regret later.

I’m on my stomach, and my feet are stretched behind me as I peek over the thin ledge. The delicate slab of wood is the only thing keeping me from plummeting to what I’m certain would be a very painful death. My slippery palms struggle to find a firm grasp, and the floor seems so far away.

Suns, why had I thought that sneaking into a Giving was a good idea? There’s probably a reason these ceremonies take place behind closed temple doors.

Even though the glowing blue Mark on my forehead signifies that I’m gods-blessed, I’m not supposed to be here today. I just wanted a glimpse of my long-awaited future, not to tumble to my death and crack open my skull the day before my own ceremony is scheduled to take place.

Mistress Fyona, one of the three teachers at Grenbloom’s village school, always encouraged us to breathe through our fears. I haven’t attended school since my eighteenth birthday two years ago, but I’ll never forget her advice. She used to say that breathing through fear builds character.

I try to follow her counsel, but it’s practically impossible. Every time I peer over the ledge, a fist squeezes my lungs. Perhaps my character is strong enough.

Doubtful, though.

If anything, trying to breathe steadily is making things worse. My head is light, and my heart is a stampeding horse in my chest. No matter what I do, I cannot force the fear away.

It’s probably the darkness. Esyn’s temple is typically packed wall-to-wall with parishioners. The windows are usually open, allowing the twin suns to shine upon the villagers as they worship the gods and thank them for their benevolence. Statues usually line the walls, standing against the columns supporting the roof, and stone pews typically take up most of the floor space.

The statues and the pews are gone, having been removed for this sacred ceremony. Save for a few candles, the temple is cast in shadows. The holy space is utterly silent except for the sounds of my unsteady breaths.

Maybe I’m just imagining how bad the distance is. I squeeze my eyes shut, count to three, then open them and peer over the ledge again.

A moan crawls up my throat, and I barely contain the sound. My stomach twists into painful knots, and I can’t pull my eyes away from the ground. Has it gotten further away? It shouldn’t be possible, but it feels like it has.

Bad idea .

My head spins as I stare at the white marble, frozen in place. Sweat slides down the back of my homespun dress. The soft, pale green skirts stick to my legs as if it were the middle of the hot, humid summer and not partway through the giving season.

The massive stone altar at the other end of the temple catches my attention, and I lock my gaze on it. Hopefully, the stationary object will help ground me and stave off my panic. Unfortunately, as I sweep my eyes over the intricate leaves, vines, and flowers carved into the side, my heart starts beating faster .

Gods above. There’s just something about the vacant temple that feels off.

Or maybe I’m overreacting. Honestly, no one would be surprised to hear that I was being overly dramatic about something. If anything, they’d nod their heads in sympathy because, of course, Wren Nightingale is being a lot.

Honestly, they’re right. I’m not, nor will I ever be, the perfect Given. I ask too many questions, and I’m too curious. My presence here is proof of that, but it’s only cementing what I already learned a decade ago.

My tenth birthday had just passed, and I’d accidentally broken one kitchen table leg and cracked another right before dinner. I hadn’t been misbehaving on purpose, but I’d been chasing my latest stray cat, Brownie, and not paying attention to my surroundings.

That was typical for me. Unfortunately, my behavior didn’t go unnoticed that day. Mother sat me down in front of the hearth to discuss my lack of awareness.

“It’s a miracle you’re Marked, Wren Lilith Nightingale, because out of my five children, you’ve caused most of these.” Mother points to the streaks of grey in the indigo braid trailing over her shoulder. “What will the gods do with you, child?”

I’ve been asking myself the same question from the moment I understood what the Mark on my forehead meant.

“I don’t know, Mother.” I blink up at her, tucking an unruly indigo curl behind my ear in a futile effort to tame it. It springs back almost immediately, and my bottom lip wobbles. “Will they like me?”

It’s one of the many questions I wrestle with on a daily basis. What if the temple where I’m assigned has taken a vow of silence? What if they keep their Given locked up, and I never see the suns again? What if I have to travel to another province, one where it snows nearly every month of the year? I like the snow, but I don’t know if I could handle that.

I have so many questions and no answers. All I know is that taking a vow of silence would likely be the death of me.

The gods wouldn’t make me remain silent for the rest of my days, would they? Mistress Fyona says they care about us. Well, if that’s the case, they know how much I love to talk. Hopefully, that means they’d never take that away from me.

Mother’s smile softens, and she sighs, gathering me in for a hug. Her embrace is warm, and I melt into it. After all, these hugs will stop soon. I should enjoy them while I still can.

“Of course they will, Birdie.” My family’s nickname for me makes me smile, and I burrow my face against her chest. “Everyone likes you, even when you’re a lot.”

Mother is right; I am a lot. Over the years, I’ve tried to tone myself down, but it hasn’t really worked. This is just who I am, and I hope I’ll be enough for the gods, even if I ask a lot of questions.

Yanking my gaze from the altar, I take in the long white candles lining the temple perimeter. They cast ominous flickering shadows on the walls, reminding me far too much of the monsters I used to think resided beneath my bed.

The presence of shadows far outweighs the light, and the temple lacks the comforting air I typically associate with being in the gods’ house. Where is the safety, calm, and joy that usually resides within these four walls?

My heartbeat is growing louder by the second, and I want to bang my head against the floor. How did I ever think this was a good idea?

I look over my shoulder, where my feet are brushing up against the top of the thin white ladder I climbed earlier. Going down will be a feat in my heavy, floor-length skirts. The green garments are constrictive on the best of days, but they’re mandatory for the gods-blessed to wear.

Constrictive dress or not, I shouldn’t be here, and I need to leave. I’ll just have to be patient and wait for my ceremony tomorrow. Bracing myself for the long climb down, I shimmy back. I’ve barely made it an inch before the clock above the temple starts tolling, marking the noon hour. The sound is obnoxiously loud, and I wince as the entire ledge vibrates with each ring.

Blessed suns, this was a terrible idea. If Mistress Fyona saw me now, she’d tan my hide.

The doors beneath me open, and it seems I’ll get my wish, after all. I’m going to witness a Giving Ceremony. Drawing as deep a breath as I can manage, I make myself as small as possible. I pull my hair over my Mark, willing the swirl on my forehead not to glow for the next few minutes.

The candles flicker as a cool breeze enters the temple. Footsteps ring through the space, and the doors shut with a resounding bang that seems to echo in my soul.

I peer over the decorative ledge, barely breathing as four priestesses come into view. They stride forward as though in a dance, their hooded crimson robes trailing behind them like rivers of blood. Today’s guest of honor is walking in the middle, with two robed women on either side of her.

A resplendent vision bedecked in a green so pale it’s almost white, Amelia Lockheart’s Giving gown flows around her as she strides forward with her head held high. The traditional garment boasts floor-length bell sleeves, pristine lacework, and a four-foot train. I should know. I have one hanging in my own closet for tomorrow.

My best friend’s silken golden hair has been braided into a crown, highlighting her soft features. Her pale skin, several shades lighter than my tan, reflects the flickering candlelight. A brilliant pink glow comes from her neck, where her Giving Mark resides.

Amelia approaches the altar confidently, which doesn’t surprise me in the least. She’s even more eager for her Giving than I am for mine, which is saying something. It feels like I’ve been living my entire life in anticipation of tomorrow. I can’t wait to find out where I’ll be Given so I can get started on living the rest of my life.

Most Marked Ones born in Myreth’s villages don’t have the luxury of growing up alongside another gods-blessed child. Twenty years ago, it was considered highly unusual when two Marked girls were born in neighboring villages. Everyone, from our mothers to the priests and priestesses, was apparently shocked.

Amelia and I learned to walk together, went to school together, and even courted villagers at the same time.

Casually, of course.

Everyone knows not to get attached to the Given. We’re here temporarily, lent to our families by the gods until we are returned to them in our twentieth year.

When I turned twelve, my siblings and parents stopped hugging me. It was easier that way, Mother said, since it would prepare me for my future of serving the gods. I would find a new family in the temples; the one I was born into would be a marker of my past.

That was eight years ago. Now, Amelia and I will spend the rest of our lives serving the deities and thanking them for keeping the Kingdom of Myreth safe and prosperous. It’s my fervent hope that we will be stationed at the same temple after our Givings. I can’t imagine spending the rest of my life without my friend’s cheerful laugh, knowing smiles, or witty comments.

Amelia reaches the altar and clasps her hands in front of her. Pride swells in my chest, and I smile at my best friend. Unlike me, she’s the picture of a perfect, dutiful Given. Quiet, composed, and prepared to serve the gods no matter what they ask of her. She will excel at this, just like she has with every other task in life thus far.

The four priestesses line up in front of the altar, their backs to me, and then…

My brows scrunch together, and I frown. None of the women move or even speak as long seconds pass. A thick silence falls upon the temple. Amelia glances curiously at the women, and I know my friend well enough to recognize the look of confusion flitting across her face.

I don’t know these priestesses, since they aren’t the typical ones who serve in our village. These ones are blessed by the gods, and they travel across the land each giving season, performing the gods’ will. I don’t see their Marks, but that doesn’t mean they don’t have them. Perhaps they’re on their arms or beneath their robes.

A drawn-out, awkward moment passes, and I fidget in my perch. Is this normal?

Not for the first time, I wish someone had properly prepared us for our ceremonies. No matter how many times Amelia and I asked, no one would tell us what they would entail. Not the priestesses, not our teachers, not even our parents. They all said the same thing.

“Giving Ceremonies are secrets, and Marked Ones learn about their destinies on their Giving Days.”

Well, secrets are awful, and I want to know now. I’ve lived with this Mark on my forehead my entire life, and I deserve to know what it means.

A bang comes from the back of the temple as a door slams shut, and the air thickens. Breathing, which was already a chore, becomes more difficult. The hairs on my arms bristle, and I tighten my grip on the ledge.

Two figures emerge from the shadows. Something about them makes me want to fling myself back and run. Their presence is a reminder that I shouldn’t be here.

But it’s too late to flee. All I can do is watch as, on the right, a woman glides forward. The silver threads lining her scarlet robe mark her as a head priestess.

Inadvertently, I shudder. Something about her sets my entire body on edge.

A taller figure dressed entirely in black stands to the head priestess’s left. A hood obscures their face, and even though I narrow my eyes, I can’t make out their features beyond the shadows shrouding them.

Shivers crawl down my spine. This is odd, right? It feels that way. My stomach twists into knots as my lookout’s height is no longer my primary concern.

The head priestess reaches Amelia and takes her arm. The godly woman’s sleeve slides up, revealing a red swirl on the back of her hand. A Mark.

She leads my friend to the other side of the altar but doesn’t let go. The shadowed figure stands to the right, a silent observer.

Those knots grow barbs and tighten to the point of pain.

“Welcome, children.” The head priestess speaks in a honeyed voice, her words echoing through the vacant temple. “Thousands of years ago, when the skies were dark, and the twin suns were nothing more than glimmers in the distance, the gods came together. They decided to bless Myreth twice over. First, with life. Then, with magic. With a wave of their hands and a river of power, they created the land…”

On and on, she recounts the entire creation tale. I’ve heard it all before, and her words wash over me. Everyone knows how the story goes.

The gods created the land, and seeing that it was good, they blessed it. They drew light forth from the darkness and then created magic. They dragged water out of the depths of the earth, and life took root.

Plants formed, trees grew, and mountains rose.

Once nature presided over the land, the gods created animals. Big and small, each one was blessed as it was formed by hand. Only then, when everything else was complete, did they create people.

In the beginning, everyone was Marked. During those times, magic ran freely through the land, unlike now. Everyone lived in peace and harmony, worshipping the gods and the suns. Some, like me, bore the Mark of the Given on their foreheads. Others, on their necks. Some on their arms. A few were Marked on their legs, hands, or feet.

“As time went on, the Mark became rare,” continues the head priestess, removing her hand from Amelia as she gesticulates dramatically. “Fewer gods-blessed are born each year. No one knows why the number of Marked Ones has dwindled, only that it has. Magic, too, is no longer common in Myreth. Now, only the royals have access to it. It’s a gift from the gods, a reminder of what we once had.”

The royals are lucky to have magic. How nice must it be to have immeasurable power at your fingertips? No one else in Myreth has magic—just them. This is part of why the royal family has ruled over our kingdom for centuries.

“That’s why we are gathered here today,” she concludes. “Eight hundred and twenty-seven years ago, in her infinite wisdom, the Mother Goddess Esyn decreed that those bearing the gods’ Mark shall be Given in their twentieth year. Each giving season, we honor the Mother for her thoughtfulness, and we thank the gods-blessed for their willingness to serve her.”

Each of the priestesses turns to Amelia. One by one, they dip their heads and murmur, “Thank you, young one.”

The hooded figure remains a statue in the corner, hidden in the shadows. My stomach tightens, and I grip the ledge, forcing myself to breathe. I can’t help but feel that I’ve made a grave mistake in coming here today.

The head priestess places her hand on Amelia’s shoulder. “In the name of the gods and His Majesty, King Andreas, we thank you, Marked One.”

My chest warms, and I exhale. Okay. The ceremony must be drawing to a close. This is when they’ll tell Amelia where she’s going, right?

A nervous smile spreads across my friend’s face, and she shifts her weight from one foot to the other. Clasping her hands in front of her, she rubs her thumb across her pale flesh and bites the inside of her lip.

Maybe Amelia isn’t as confident as she appears. If she’s nervous, there’s no telling how I’ll feel tomorrow. Calm, cool, and collected, I am not .

Amelia’s eyes shimmer, and she dips her head. “You’re welcome, Head Priestess,” she murmurs.

This is it. Now, they’ll announce where she’s going. Then they’ll pray, and Amelia will be on her way to her future home. A little anticlimactic if you ask me, but that’s fine.

My mind starts whirling as I plan my escape from the temple. As soon as they leave, I’ll have to slip out of here and hurry back home to prepare for my ceremony tomorrow.

It will be?—

A glint of metal catches my eye as the head priestess reaches into her scarlet robe and withdraws a long, thin silver dagger. The blade glimmers ominously in the candlelight, and my stomach churns.

What? My mouth drops open, and a strangled cry rises in my throat. The sound escapes me before I can stop it, but it’s drowned out by sudden chanting. The other four priestesses move, circling Amelia as they pray out loud in a language I don’t recognize.

Goosebumps erupt on every inch of my body. The women’s voices crescendo, echoing through the vacant temple.

Wrong, wrong, wrong.

What is going on? Everything seems to happen in the blink of an eye, yet I can make out every detail in agonizing clarity.

Horror and confusion pin me in place, pressing down on me. My breath comes in strangled gasps. I can’t move. I can barely think.

All I can do is watch, a thundering drum taking the place of my heart, as the black-robed figure steps forward. They grab Amelia’s arms and viciously wrench them back, shoving her upper body over the altar.

My best friend screams. The blood-curdling sound is the worst thing I’ve ever heard, and the hairs on the back of my neck rise. I cry out, slapping a hand over my mouth to contain the sound.

The hooded person whispers something too quiet for me to hear in my best friend’s ear. A glint of something gold catches my eye, and I notice the obscene ring on the cloaked person’s finger. It rests on the ring finger of their left hand, and rubies are encased within the heavy piece of jewelry. Amelia sobs, struggling against the mysterious person’s hold.

Why are they doing this? This is wrong. Acidic bile rises in my throat, and my vision swims.

Being Given is a blessing.

Being Given is a good thing.

Being Given is a sign of the gods’ favor.

Being Given is…

No…

No…

No!

My best friend screams again, but the sound is cut off as the head priestess slashes her blade across Amelia’s throat. The godly woman moves with such force that her hood falls back, revealing a shock of straight lavender hair.

A flash of pink light explodes, and then, there’s blood.

Rising suns, there’s so. Much. Blood.

Crimson rivers pour from Amelia’s neck, coating her once-beautiful robe. Staining it forever. The rivers seem endless as they spill from her neck.

Seconds pass. Horrible, awful, never-ending seconds where I can’t breathe. I can’t think. I can’t move.

All I can do is watch as the head priestess calmly wipes her dagger on my friend’s dress. The hands holding Amelia release her, and she falls. Her head smacks into the side of the altar, and then she tumbles to the ground, landing in a growing scarlet pool.

The priestesses step back, and the hooded figure follows suit. I’m still frozen. Why isn’t anyone yelling? Why aren’t they screaming? Shouldn’t someone get the Watchers and report this murder?

Then, one of the priestesses laughs . The sound is so out of place that it hits the center of my chest like a lightning bolt on an otherwise clear day.

Another woman chuckles, and they move together, bowing their heads like gossips gathering around the village well.

“Did you hear her final scream?” A chittering laugh that has me tasting bile rises from the group.

“Suns save me; I hate it when the Blessed fuss.” The head priestess sighs, pulling her hood back up.

“They’re just making it harder on themselves,” adds a priestess who had yet to speak.

“This is their fate,” Amelia’s murderer agrees. “Remember the redhead from the north last year?”

The shortest priestess nods enthusiastically, rubbing her neck. “Orcus Midwater.”

“It took me days to wash his blood out of my robe,” the head priestess says conversationally. “If only he hadn’t fought back…”

A ringing fills my ears, drowning out their continued chatter. It doesn’t matter, though. I will never forget the way they laughed as they gossiped about murders. Gods above, who does that? Who commits cold-blooded murder, then stops to chat about it like it’s an everyday occurrence?

Eventually, the priestesses and their shadowed companion filter out through the back of the temple. There’s mention of a cleaning crew who will come and deal with the body later as the door slams shut behind them.

The resounding bang is as loud as an axe falling on an executioner’s block, and I tremble in my perch. I stare at Amelia’s discarded, lifeless corpse for so long, my eyes cross.

A lie. My entire life, everything I’ve ever been taught, everything I believe in…

It’s nothing but a fucking lie .