Chapter Three Kian #3
Beside me, Ulric prostrates himself, landing on his knees with a hard thunk, then leaning forward until his forehead touches the floor. “Mercy, High Priestess.”
I don’t follow suit. I know it’s the sort of groveling Sarai relishes. But in the long run, I need to become a peer, not a supplicant. So instead of kneeling beside Ulric, I step forward, standing very close to her. Around the room I hear sharp intakes of breath at my insolence.
“On your knees, Kian.” Brother Thad tries to step between me and Sarai, but I don’t give ground, so he’s nearly pressed up against me.
“Maybe one day,” I reply softly, with a quick glance up and down his body.
He stiffens; then a smarmy grin peaks out beneath his creature skull.
I barely withhold my grimace. I don’t enjoy flirting with Brother Thad, but I may need him—or rather, the dragon magic he wields—and so I play coy to keep the option open.
I turn my full attention back to Sarai.
Begging is expected. I need something surer. And while I can’t trust Sarai to be merciful, I can trust her greed.
I drop my voice so only she can hear. “Would you eliminate your two best chances to match with a newly dead dragon?” I’m not sure why I’m including Ulric in my preservation efforts; life would be easier if he weren’t always around, watching me, caring for me.
She leans back slightly, to make space to look at me closely without impaling me with her unicorn’s horn. I can see her ice-blue eyes gauging my face; no doubt trying to determine how much I truly know, or if I’m guessing on the details based on a half-overheard rumor.
“We are your two strongest novitiates. We work harder than the others. We’re more devoted.” I glance down at our feet, where Ulric still kneels, face to the floor. “Who else will have the strength to match and wield a dragon, and remain yours to command?”
She bristles, her always-straight posture becoming impossibly stiffer. “I am the high priestess of the Order of the Huntress, the fiercest and most powerful of the three orders. You. Are. All. Mine. To. Command.”
I dip my head in supplication and take a half step back. “High Holiness.”
There is nothing but silence in the room. No rustle of robes, no breathy gasps. I wait, head bowed.
This will work. Skulls know strength. They match, like to like. If she wants that dragon, her best chance is through the two novitiates before her, and we both know it. She cannot kick us out of the order.
Finally, she speaks, her words thick with anticipation. “You will earn my mercy through the lash. Remove your robes. Then we will leave for the matching. Let’s hope they go as well as we’d like.”
Thank the goddess.
Ulric stands, and we begin to undress as Sister Roberta brings High Priestess Sarai a nine-strand scourge, the tooth of a magical creature tied to each thong of leather.
Novitiate Jasmyn takes our outer robes with a smirk, flinging them over her shoulder.
Novitiate Svena whispers, “Huntress give you strength,” as she gently takes our tunics and folds them carefully over her arm.
If there is uncorrupted good in the order, as Aunt Ujvala insists, kindhearted Svena would be a shining example of it. I’m surprised she’s even here, instead of serving soup and yeasty rolls to the orphans of Tolepi, as she typically does at midday.
When Ulric and I are down to only our breeches, the intricate inked Huntress marks across our chests, backs, and arms bare to all, Brother Thad directs us to drape ourselves over the stone altar.
It is typically used by priestesses for prayer and supplication, though it’s not unfamiliar with the kind of ritual punishment we are about to receive, as the dark stains trailing down its sides attest.
None of the goddesses are squeamish, but the Huntress in particular likes violence.
Beside me, Ulric’s eyes are wide with terror, and I wonder at his early life that he’s so afraid of a few lashes. Not that I’m gladly anticipating what’s about to occur, but it’s better than being kicked out of the order entirely.
I try to breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth and take my mind far away. Fear will not lessen or prevent the pain I am about to withstand.
All around us, the others begin a chant.
“Your holy siblings pray for the Huntress’s clemency,” Sarai says, and her voluminous robes brush against my calves. “And I will dole out her retribution. Next time she assigns you a sacred duty through your betters, you will not fail her.”
When retribution comes, it is hot and angry. Sarai does not believe in holding back her power. The scourge shreds my flesh badly enough that many of those standing around to witness turn away.
Ulric chants with the others, but every time the whip descends, he screams the words and loses the rhythm.
I don’t bother. I know that’s what Sarai likes, so I stay absolutely silent in my prayers—or lack thereof.
She hits me harder to try to make me vocalize, but the only words I speak to the Huntress and her ilk are silent curses.
I receive more blows for my soundless insolence, but eventually the pain spikes hot enough that it blurs and blends, the individual blows no worse than every other moment.
Long after Ulric has collapsed onto the black-marble floor, Sarai finishes with me.
She flings the bloodied lash down in front of me and leaves the inner sanctuary, the others following.
Only Svena pauses, to place our folded tunics beside us on the ground. Not that either of us can move to put them on. Instead, we lie there, side by side, punished but still novitiates.
I do not suppress my smile.
One step closer to destroying them all.