Chapter 6
six
. . .
Thessia
My sacred mark gyrates on my right hand.
More symbols bloom across my skin, glowing gold, rotating like burning suns.
A rush of heat rips throughout my body. Lava bubbles under flesh from fingertips to elbows, spreading into my chest and throat until it chokes my breath. Even my toes shimmer with light.
I claw at my skin, nails digging into the spirals, desperate to scrape them off.
But no matter how hard I gouge, the marks blaze brighter.
I stumble back from the woman. Her gold extinguishes, then mine.
The temple plunges into darkness. I panic, heave, bile rises up from my belly, but not enough to spill over onto the floor.
What in the Savior was that?
My hands tremble with blood that isn’t my own.
I keep scuttling backward until my spine collides with a pedestal cloaked in centuries of dust. A vase topples and shatters, dirt rains against my cheek.
I draw my knees to my chest and stare at the body sprawled a few feet away. Her chest rises, barely.
I should have grabbed my clothes. I should have run when she reached for the dagger at her hip. But she looks like the Goddess. Not curved and soft like the statue, but lean and strong, muscles honed, a body I used to envy in women who worked their fields beside their husbands.
I should have left! But when she reached for me, something inside my soul recognized her. The same connection I feel with the Daughters of the Covenant. Like family, blood, but something more. Something gnawing at me to hold her. Comfort her. Never leave her side. She needs me, and I her.
The azizas, with their little wings and glowing buds, settle around the woman. I lean in, hear the azizas buzzing. They know her, too. The little creatures are resting peacefully as they line her body.
No, no, no, no. My flesh is craving for something unholy.
I don’t know this woman. And, according to her short skirt and top that barely covered her breasts, she must be a madwoman. She might as well prance naked through the town. The Savior and his disciples would burn her at the pyre.
I steady my breath, then crawl to her. I examine her body. Mud smears her skin. When her hand slips to her side, I glimpse the wound. It’s a gash cut deep across her belly. Golden lines flicker along the torn flesh, eating rot, shedding dead skin, and stitching her back together extremely slowly.
But I see it. I’ve never witnessed anything like this before.
Is she a goddess or is she a Fallen One?
Who is this woman?
Her scent is sea and gunpowder.
This can’t be one of the terrible sea monsters, man-eaters, destroyers of worlds. In history books, paintings, and sermons, these creatures had shark teeth, humpbacks, octopus limbs, and serpent tongues.
This woman has breasts like mine. Eyes like mine.
Full lips like mine. And beneath the mud, her skin is a darker shade of my skin.
I brush dirt away, heart racing. She doesn’t stir.
I flick her arm, hard, and scoot back, but she breathes steadily.
I reach out again, dusting more mud off her skin to get a closer look.
Spirals writhe up her arms, across her chest, along her throat.
These marks resemble the sacred marks of the Daughters of the Covenant, but hers are everywhere.
This creature is no monster. She’s a Daughter.
No.
She can’t be. Why does she have the sacred marks?
It could be that her mother fled to the forest to give birth to her there in order to hide her from the Covenant.
But I doubt it. The Covenant keeps records of all women, their cycles, when they miss their bleeding, tracking the babies at conception.
Women birth Daughters. God wants Daughters.
There are few of us born each year. And she looks like my age.
Unless her mother is one of the Fallen, and somehow, someway, she was born undetected.
Should I turn her in to the authorities? If I do, then the temple will be discovered. My nights sneaking away, exposed. They would burn me with her.
I study her wound again. The bleeding has stopped. I could leave now, repent, beg forgiveness at the Savior’s feet, let him punish me as he sees fit.
But the thought of his hands on me turns my mouth dry. I stumble from the Fallen One and vomit into the corner. When I rise, my silk slip is stained with her blood. Still, no matter how much I know this is trouble, I cannot walk out.
I find an overturned wheelbarrow, flip it upright, and get to work. She is heavier than the barrow itself. Her muscles are taut, her skin ice. She moans as I settle her in, but she does not wake. I rest her head gently, then push her through the halls.
It’s dark, but the azizas light the way.
I turn into a room I cleaned for myself.
I lined it with stolen linens, towels, pillows — enough to rest in comfort, to lie half-naked without eyes upon me.
This room is my favorite. The walls are painted with women dancing beneath the moon.
Some are naked, others wear flowing, colorful gowns.
They skip around a tower of fire. The flames rise as if they were its own embodiment.
I can barely make out the rest of the paintings on the temple walls, but this room has the least amount of damage.
I wheel her to the bed and transfer her onto the mattress.
She’s so cold to the touch, I tuck her under a blanket.
I run to the well in front of the temple.
The water, just like the garden of fruits and vegetables, is always fresh.
I draw it, and bathe her carefully, washing mud and blood from her torso, face, legs, hands, and hair.
Hours pass, I dump the last of the murky water into the grass, and finish covering her wound with a clean strip of linen. I did the best I could for her. Supplies will be needed from the infirmary. I’ll have to steal them.
Tomorrow, I’ll return.
I peel off my bloodstained gown and hide it in one of the many empty rooms. Naked, I dress in my tunic, tighten the rope around my waist, and clip on my veil. Outside, nothing has changed. The old temple stands the same.
The azizas buzz. I hold out a finger, and one lands on my nail.
“Thessia,” I hear it say.
I bring the insect to eye level, watching its wings flap. Bend my ear closer, hoping that I’m not going mad. That a Goddess didn’t just fall into my arms, that my sacred marks didn’t glow gold.
I listen, pray, breathe.
“Thessia.” It calls my name, then takes flight up into the sky, flying across the moon, out into the night.