Chapter Seven Adela
Etana deposits me in front of the matching hut and a small crowd of people—the order and the keepers who went to ensure their safe passage through the forest.
I ignore them, focusing on catching my breath. I’m not sure who is breathing harder, me or Etana. We both gulp air, her swollen belly heaving, me trying to breathe through the solid mask. But she is tossing her head in playful delight, and I can’t stop laughing.
I take a few steps and collapse on the ground beside Beadda, who is clutching the long grass like she will never part with it. I think she might be crying. Or laughing. Or both?
Etana and Lathai greet, rubbing their faces together briefly before turning to gallop off toward the cliffs they call home. As quickly gone as they’d come.
Worry slithers down my spine, chilling me as much as the frozen ground. I sit up and look back at the hut. Something inside calls to me.
Behind me, I hear a throat clear.
Right. I cannot ignore them all forever. I turn to find Petra, John, and Redonna, along with the order they’ve safely ushered here.
Or mostly safely.
They seem to be missing a priest and at least one novitiate from what we expected. The others look disheveled—their white robes wrinkled and dirty, with bits of dried foliage stuck amongst the heavily embroidered designs. Still, they stand in a row with their blindfolds firmly in place.
All except one—a man with dark hair and broad shoulders who is hovering protectively behind Beadda.
He doesn’t wear his blindfold like he ought, and he watches me with dark, hungry eyes.
His robes are filthy and a little bit singed in spots, as if he’s rolled across the forest floor and into a few embers.
I can’t help but notice the way he’s built more like a keeper than most priests, who tend toward lanky grace or general softness.
“Novitiate Kian,” a priestess says, pulling him back into line with his peers. She ties a blindfold on him so tightly it flattens his nose.
“Matcher Adela,” Petra says formally with a raised brow.
I scramble up to my feet and brush my skirts back into place.
“Sorry, Petra,” I mumble to her, and then turn to the high priestess. “Greetings, Your High Holiness. I apologize for our… unconventional entrance. I am Adela, your matcher. And this is Beadda, my assistant.”
Beadda does not move to stand. I nudge her with my foot, but she just moans slightly.
“We will commence with the greeting ceremony as soon as my fellow keepers join us.” We can hear them in the near distance.
The high priestess—a stiff, severe woman wearing an elaborately bejeweled unicorn skull—nods once.
We wait for a bit until the rest of the keepers join us.
Beadda finds her feet. The welcome ceremony goes without a hitch.
When everything is complete, the novitiates remove their blindfolds.
Usually this is where cheering and more informal greetings happen, but their eyes are haunted, and I listen to the story of the dragon and their fallen priest on the way back across the meadow.
After my trip on Etana, my head is pounding, my vision blurry, and my hands won’t stop shaking.
All I want is to go curl up in bed, but the welcome feast for the Huntress is the best food of the year by far, and I need to eat.
The last twenty-four hours have been too long, too odd.
Consuming abundant varieties of smoked cheeses, sweet rolls, and pudding will most certainly help quiet the uproar in my head and heart.
I return home first to change. Slowly, I remove my unicorn-hair-covered matcher’s garments and change into a deep-sapphire silk gown that Cecelia chose for me. The neckline is lower than I would dare on my own, tight across my shoulders and breasts, and then flowy everywhere else.
The Spinner priests and priestesses would hate this dress, at once both revealing and ethereal, but it’s perfect for followers of the Huntress.
They’re very corporeal, enjoying food, and sex, and dancing, and games.
They love bodies, both their own and others’.
And so even though I squirm a bit at its drama, I say a quick prayer of thanks for Cecelia’s forethought and skill in choosing me something that will meet their expectations of my role as matcher.
The fabric skims across my body as I move here and there, preparing myself.
My braids are fine if a bit frizzed around my hairline, but I leave them in rather than deal with the knotted mess I would create by removing them myself. I’ll have to get help with them later. Tomorrow, perhaps.
In deference to my aching head, I skip the heavy jewelry Cecelia laid out, as well as the elaborate leather-laced boots.
The boots would look nice, crisscrossed and tied up the length of my legs, showing through the skirts’ slits when I walk or dance, but they’re too much to bother with.
I slip on thin slippers instead. I make a small effort with my face, dabbing a shimmering powder on my lids, some beet-stained oils on my lips and cheeks.
Finished, I stand before the mirror and really look at myself. Cecelia’s work is stunning, and all I can see is the fiercest, boldest version of myself.
Is this who I am?
I followed my whims and awakened the phoenix, sending a pulse of magic through the valley that has hurt us but also potentially strengthened us beyond our understanding.
Imagine if I could match a phoenix to one of the novitiates.
The creatures are wild and wonderous; the skulls are loud and eager; the keepers and order are keen with anticipation of influential matches despite the day’s losses.
I did that.
Before the door to the great hall, I pause, inhale, prepare myself for whatever’s about to come. I step through the doors and brace myself for any whispers, stares, or judgments that might be directed my way.
Instead, nothing happens.
People wave in distracted greeting or nod hello as I thread my way through dancing, feasting, imbibing bodies.
I must have taken longer than I thought to prepare, for everyone is already well into the day’s merriment.
I find my spot beside Dad, and our guests’ leaders at the head table.
He is in deep discussion with the high priestess, and when he sees me, he bends closer to her and lowers his voice.
Apparently, I am not welcome to participate in their conversation. Which is fine; I cannot hear him over the rowdy tune of the musicians anyhow.
They are in fine form today, with cherry-red cheeks and quick hands.
And loud. No doubt they feed off the energy of the room, which is raucous, but strange.
We’ve all lost someone recently—the order lost one of their priests; we’ve lost Bartholomew, Gilcriss, Duschwa, and Donna—and it’s as if by drowning and dancing away our sorrows, we could bring them back to us.
Or at least forget the pain of their absence for a day.
Tomorrow, we will continue to mourn and move forward. Today, we will forget.
I watch as novitiates and keepers alike hunt each other, staking claims. No one’s bed will be cold tonight for lack of company unless they prefer it that way.
The sour tang of ale and cider permeates the air and mixes with the rich, peppery scents of various veggie dishes and sweet-smelling pastries.
My mouth waters, but before I can move to find my way to the food, Cecelia walks up carrying two heaping plates.
We sit, and she places both before me. One has savory foods, one sweet.
“You’re an angel,” I say as I dig into marinated mushrooms and cornmeal pudding and egg pasta with béchamel and purple cabbage and honey-glazed carrots. Thank the goddess for feasts. And Cecelia for knowing me so well.
She snatches a stuffed quail egg off my plate and asks through a full mouth, “So… how was it riding Etana?”
“Oh my goddess. Toe-curling, life-changing bliss.”
Dad must have finally finished conspiring with the priestess or heard Cecelia’s question, for he shifts on my other side and attends to me for the first time since I arrived. He gives me a half hug and steals a chunk of roasted sweet potato.
“Take another and I’ll stab you with my fork,” I warn him.
He chuckles and leans back, resting his rough hands on his belly. “The priestess is pleased we have a new kelpie and a new dragon skull as options. She’s prepared to provide us a generous offering of thanks if they match.”
I frown.
“She wants the novitiate Kian in particular for Gilcriss.”
Kian. The one with the dark hair, delicious shoulders, and ravenous eyes.
I scan the hall and am surprised to find him looking back at me with an intensity I can practically feel.
Between us, bodies writhe and sway to the music.
But it’s as if the rest of the room falls away.
Deep in my belly, I find my want awaken.
I glance away and take a large gulp of mead. I swallow wrong.
“It doesn’t work that way,” Cecelia says for me as I splutter and cough.
She’s always concerned with clarity and rules.
But she’s right. The skulls talk to me, not the other way around.
Maybe Bartholomew could sway the skulls’ choices, but if it was a developed skill, it’s not one he’d trained me in yet.
“Why Kian?” I ask. I would guess him a poor match for a dragon skull. Despite their love for indulgence, they’re persnickety and lawful. Based on the way he stood separate and unblindfolded from the other novitiates, I imagine he defies rules when he feels he must.
Dad shrugs with his whole body and snatches a pistachio baklava from my plate of sweets.
“What are they offering?” Cecelia asks. So practical. So thorough.
“Increasing their contributions. It’s enough to bring in four new keepers and cover the expenses for the additional buildings we’ll need to house them. Plus, an additional annual sum for discretionary use.”