Chapter Two Adela #3
They must not have felt the pulse of magic that the phoenix threw out.
I wonder if Bartholomew did, before he died.
I wonder, too, what I should tell them. The wisest, most experienced minds of our community need to know so they can work through solutions.
A bright spot of hope flares as I realize there may be a chance this giant misstep means I would be punished and not be allowed to step into my role as matcher.
Instantly, I flush, a hot storm cloud of shame rolling through my body. Not only did my actions lead to death, but now I’m silently hoping to avoid my destiny? My embarrassment keeps me quiet for longer than it ought.
“We can discuss this more in depth later, once we’ve had a chance to rest and discover more facts.
” Dad’s voice is low and soft like Petra’s, and the others quiet to hear him.
“Let’s focus on the immediate for now. The Huntress’s high priestess, entourage, and novitiates will be here by midday tomorrow. ”
“And we have no matcher for the upcoming ceremony,” John points out, a bit sulkily.
Cecelia turns to me, fidgeting with her quill, watching me closely for a reaction, but I am as still as stone.
“Yes, thank you, John,” Petra says with a nearly silent sigh.
“First order of business: we need to ensure the order’s safety on their trek through the forest. Niclas and Redonna, please gather a dozen careful, levelheaded keepers to patrol their path in the morning.
We don’t know what’s gotten into Enkidus, but we know better what signs to look for than blindfolded outsiders will.
“Stay out of sight as much as possible, but do not hesitate to raise an alarm if necessary. The last thing we need is their blood being shed. They’re already talking of tightening their belts and reducing support because of their dissatisfaction with the diminishing magic.
“I’ll join you as soon as I’m able.”
Niclas and Redonna both agree and move to leave the meeting. The night is encroaching on morning, and if the order arrives when they ought, then they’ll be hitting the far edge of the valley’s forest in a couple of hours at most.
I am thinking about their journey, about the danger the creatures pose and what they might do to a band of blindfolded, white-clad strangers traipsing through their territories.
I’m just hoping no one else will get eaten when Petra stops them. “A moment please. Before we disband, we need to discuss the issue John rightfully raised. We need to formally install Adela as matcher for the ceremony. And choose a new assistant.”
All eyes turn to me. When I don’t speak, or even move, Petra prompts, “Adela, you’re going to have to lead the ceremony. Are you prepared?”
“Yes?” I reply, more a question than a confident statement of assent.
“She doesn’t sound very certain,” John says. No one replies. Everyone can see I am about to bolt or puke or just start sobbing and never stop.
I glance at Dad, who looks stricken. Is it because he knows, deep down, that I should not be given this sort of power in our community? That I will only cause further ruin?
Ziba hands me a mug of tea from the tray, and I wrap my hands around the warm porcelain, breathing in the earthy steam. I take a sip. It’s sweet and tangy with lemon and honey and tastes like liquid comfort.
I still cannot find my voice.
I had planned on spending decades still as an assistant.
Matchers should have gray hair and wrinkles, soft bellies, and hard-earned wisdom.
They need time to learn the skulls, how to match their whims and magic to the personalities and needs of the religious novitiates and their superiors.
As rude as Bartholomew was to me, he was expert at navigating the tetchy temperaments, demands, and politics of the three orders and their high priestesses.
I have none of that knowledge. Or the finesse.
Ever practical, Petra brings me out of my stupor by digging deep into the details.
“Of course, we will need to get you outfitted. I assume Bartholomew’s robes went up in dragon fire.
I will talk to the tailors, see if they can work quickly to make you a suitable robe for the ceremony.
We cannot send you before the skulls and goddesses in assistant lavender. The mask is another matter, however.”
“I can search for Bartholomew’s mask in the ashes,” Ziba offers. “Perhaps I’ll find some of his ceremonial jewelry, too.”
I think of the charred husk of a house, of a body. What gold-crusted bone or aspen would survive those temperatures? But Petra nods. “Let me know by noon at the latest so we can figure out an alternative if we must.”
“Maybe some paint,” John offers with a chortle.
No one laughs.
I think of the neat pile of Bartholomew’s things beside our back door. The robes would never work; they’re too plain. But the mask sitting on top could. “I have a suitable mask.”
The elders turn to me, waiting.
“From our prep work today. Bartholomew left it behind with his robe, for me to clean. I was going to return it after the cerem—” My voice cracks.
“It’s gold and aspen,” Dad points out the most important details for me, a heavy hand on my shoulder. I lean in to the comforting weight of it, the way it grounds me.
“That’ll do then.” Petra nods, her tone firm, leaving no space for argument.
Not that any sane keeper would argue about this.
We know dead skulls don’t care how fancy the mask or robes or jewelry the matcher wears is.
The precious metals set the matcher and assistant apart.
All the rest of the pomp is for the orders.
She turns to me, and says gently, “You will need an assistant immediately. Have you thought of who you’d like to replace you?”
The instant she poses the question, my mind goes blank of anyone and everyone I know. Danni, our torchbearer, would be the next in line traditionally, but she’s far too young at only twelve. And though torchbearer to assistant to matcher is the common progression, it’s not the only path.
I’ve never thought about who would succeed me.
Typically, keepers are tested with the skulls as children and a list is kept.
Many of us can hear the skulls, but some have more affinity than others.
Then, when a matcher grows old and tired, they have lengthy discussions with the elders to choose the next assistant.
I began as assistant matcher when I was sixteen, and I know Dad’s role as a respected elder had more to do with my appointment than my own unique talents, despite my affinity to the skulls.
I wouldn’t want to choose someone too close to me in age, as they’d end up stifled in an assistant role that lasts longer than typical, but neither could I choose a child.
The role is physically and mentally grueling, and I’ll need someone strong, intuitive, and responsible to assist me.
I have no idea whom to name, and take another gulp of tea. I cannot get this wrong. They expect leadership and confidence from their matcher, not a breakdown. But I am frozen with both rage and shame.
“Beadda might be a good choice?” Cecelia offers softly.
Her voice startles me. But of course her younger sister is a great choice, and I’m mad for not thinking of her immediately. She’s just sixteen, so neither a child nor too close to me in age. She’s steadfast, hardworking, and clever without being overly ambitious.
Plus, she hates her current position in the kitchen. Being suddenly promoted to assistant matcher would be a welcome status change for her. And not having to listen to her whine about how long it takes bread to rise would make Cecelia happy.
I hardly have to give it a thought when I agree. “Beadda is perfect.”
John gives me a look that clearly says I have no idea what I’m doing. I agree with him, for once. But I can’t show fear. I must be strong. That is what they expect of a matcher.
Petra says the words to make it official, and they all assent—even John in the end—and she dismisses us to our tasks.
And so I walk out of the hall and into the deep blue of a midnight sky, officially a matcher.
Dad leads us home, his steps heavy. Beside me, Cecelia follows, talking nervously through the preparation I will need to do, and where she can find the scrolls that discuss the herbs and oils I’ll need to bathe in and apply, and the ones that demonstrate how a matcher must braid their hair and also when I’ll be able to squeeze in at least one fitting with her mother, the valley’s best seamstress.
Now that I’m no longer in front of the elders, something inside me crumples. I follow along, numbly agreeing, letting her lead as she chatters about how much impact I will have on our community and the wider world in my new role.
One touch of a cheek to a long-dead creature skull led to three deaths in the span of one night. If that’s the path of my impact, no one deserves it.