Chapter Six
The conversation with the woman was unnerving, but I try to push it from my mind as I head through to the third ring, the hood of the cloak concealing my hair. Considering how thin the fabric is, it holds more warmth than you’d expect, and I wonder about her magic.
Perhaps she has something like Ruben but is able to imbue her heat into inanimate objects? Or perhaps she was simply wearing it in a warm tavern for several hours.
‘You,’ a knight calls out as I approach the gate. ‘Where are you going?’
I turn to look at him, trying to still the drumming in my ears as a layer of nervous sweat rapidly covers my palms.
The maroon-clad guard isn’t the problem though – it’s his dire wolf. Sitting at his side, her bottom lip is curled up as she stares at me. Not snarling, but a long way from quiet.
Like all bonded wolves, there’s a circle of white around her irises, the ring showing that the dire wolf has traded its wild life to be bonded to a Morathkian knight.
There are all sorts of rumours about exactly how much you share with your bonded dire wolf, whether it’s a case of being able to transfer thoughts, full conversation, or simply an emotional connection.
The latter would make more sense; it would mean the dire wolf could come to your aid whenever you felt fearful. But sharing direct thoughts? I can’t even imagine what such a beast would want to think about.
Although, from the way she’s looking at me right now, I suspect hunger and violence would be top of the list.
‘Where are you going?’ the knight asks again.
‘To the temple of Etta,’ I tell him truthfully.
He eyes me suspiciously as the dire wolf moves closer and sniffs me.
‘Why?’ the guard asks next.
‘Why am I going to the temple? Why else? To pray,’ I say flatly.
He presses his lips together. ‘You got travelling papers?’ he questions.
My eyes slide sideways, and panic grips me. Fuck. Travelling papers? I didn’t know I needed such a thing. If I need papers, this heist is screwed before I even get started. A cold rush surges through me as my heart adopts an erratic new pace.
I swallow and try to claw my anxiety down. I’m not giving up now. Kay needs me to do this and Rula is not a woman to disappoint. There’s a reason she has men like Tella on her payroll. I’m not letting one idiot guard screw us over.
I give him an annoyed look, styling it out. ‘You’re joking, right? You don’t need papers to get into the third.’
He snorts. ‘Of course you do. Everyone knows that.’
‘Since when?’ I argue. ‘I’ve been to the third before. Plenty of times.’
‘Is that right? And when did you last come here?’
I open my mouth as I try to remember. It wasn’t in the last moon; I know that because Dinah came to see us instead. So what does that make it? Two moons, maybe three? I’m not sure.
‘At least within the last four moons,’ I tell him. ‘I can’t remember which. I have a friend among the priestesses – Dinah Poltick. I visit her often. She never mentioned needing papers to visit her now.’
‘Is that right?’ His face is completely stern until suddenly, without warning, it cracks into a wide smile. ‘Well. Guess you should go right through.’
I don’t understand.
Seeing the confusion on my face, he explains, ‘There’s no such thing as travelling papers. I made them up.’
‘What?’ I ask, aghast.
He winks. ‘Helps weed out the ones who shouldn’t be going in, you see. They start acting like they’ve lost theirs, rummaging through their bags and stuff. That’s how you know they’re lying. Ones who’ve been before know it ain’t the case. Smart, right?’
It’s obviously the answer he wants me to give, and I oblige with a quiet mutter of, ‘Right.’
But that’s not how I feel at all. I don’t think it’s smart. I think it’s cruel.
The third ring holds the biggest temples to six of the seven Gods of Morathka, and the only reason there isn’t one for Sanrott is because he’s the God of Land and Sea – he can be worshipped anywhere.
Everybody should be allowed into the third ring to pay homage to their fealty deities, and the fact that this guard thinks he’s being smart by tricking people and keeping them out makes me feel sick to the gut.
I glance down, only for my eyes to fall on the dire wolf, who’s lost her snarl. Maybe she knows she’s bonded to an arsehole.
‘Well, I should be getting to the temple,’ I say, ensuring my hood is completely in place before I move through the gate, past the knight and his poor bonded wolf.
The deeper into Wrohelm you go, the thicker the walls of the rings are. And higher, too. This third wall is higher even than the temples, not allowing people on the outside a chance to see their houses of worship, but it’s only a fraction as narrow.
In just a minute, I’m back in the daylight and staring at some of the most beautiful buildings in Wrohelm.
As a child, I would come here often. And not just to worship the Gods. Dinah raised my mother when she was dumped as a baby at the temple of Etta. Mother’s surname, Aesir, means exactly that: Child of God.
Not having her own family meant that Dinah was everything to Mother, and by extension to us. And as such, I know the Goddess’s Garden a little. It is directly behind the brick wall that extends around the back of the temple.
I also know there’s absolutely no way for me to get in that way without a priestess to guide me through, and with good reason.
The Goddess’s Garden is not just for decoration and beauty.
My mother used to talk about the garden frequently when we were in her own orangery, back in the High Hold. She would tell me about the wondrous plants that grew there. So many herbs and flowers, with so many uses, magical and otherwise.
Of course, nestled along with all the plants that can help are those that can harm – including hemlock. Which is why the priestesses keep such strict control over access. Only they decide who is granted its mercy.
The garden is dangerous for the uneducated, but thanks to Mother’s tutelage, I am not one of them.
Still, any regular person can unknowingly pick a pretty yellow blossom and take a sniff of a stunning flower, only discerning it’s Cytisus scoparius when their heart begins to fail.
Or maybe it’ll be the heart-shaped blooms of Lamprocapnos that get their attention. Or the deliberate hues of the oleander.
There are so many plants that can kill you, and so I understand – and agree with – why they keep the wall so closely guarded.
Except right now, I wish they didn’t. Even though it’s only ten feet or so high – far shorter than the tree I scaled this morning – it’s too busy to risk climbing, even with darkness creeping in.
I have to try a different option.
For a moment, I consider simply going into the temple. I’m sure there’s a route through somehow, a way in which I could sneak through the back corridors and get to the garden, but it would be too easy to get caught.
I’d hoped that with night falling, I would have more cover, but the reality is it doesn’t matter what time of day it is, the temple is always busy.
Full of priestesses, each with a distinctive blue stone embedded in their foreheads, working in service to the Goddess of Life, and full of penitents and worshippers making their offerings.
Pinching the bridge of my nose, I force my panicked mind to calm and think. As Father used to say, There are always options, Rose.
I can’t go through the temple.
I can’t go over the wall.
That leaves one option.
Go under it.