Chapter 9 Myla #2
My skin crawls with the urge to defy her, but I know from experience that it won’t give me anything but temporary triumph now and more attention I do not want later.
Turning the water off, I step out of the shower and stand in the cold room as she runs a towel over my body, the rough strokes of her hands leaving my normally pale skin red.
Once I’m dry, I follow her back into the bedroom, where my clothing is already laid out.
“Before tea, you have a meeting with the Divine Father in his office.”
My chest tightens at the mention of Father Yamin. So much for avoiding unwanted attention.
Leesi waits for me to stand in front of her, my arms spread out wide.
Today’s gown is a satin pink monstrosity, the wide sleeves hanging past my fingers as she slips it over my arms. I keep my gaze on the wall across from me, above the standing mirror and in between two portraits of some goddesses I am sure I’m supposed to know the name of, as she cinches the wrap gown around my waist, tugging on its straps until a burst of breath is forced from me.
Panic flares briefly, my nails digging into my palms and vision blurring before I force myself to calm as she reaches for my headdress.
Tiny pearls on transparent strings tickle my forehead where they dangle, a veil in matching pink draping over my shoulders to hide most of my hair.
She connects the piece that covers the lower half of my face with small clips, only my eyes and the bridge of my nose fully unobstructed.
As she works her way around to my back, ensuring no thread is out of place on my gown, I stare at my reflection in the mirror.
Lightless eyes glare back, the dark depths of them as empty as the space between my ribs.
Visiting Father Yamin is nothing new. It has been encouraged by the king since the moment I was born.
The gods so hated that we put our faith in our neighbors to the west that they cursed us with a princess instead of a prince.
And they gave her the spirit of the traitors who tricked us.
There is only one way to fix what has been done.
We must pray, and we must show the gods that no matter how far a fae has strayed from their teachings, we can bring them back.
Our faith in the gods must be strengthened, and all those who oppose their reign must bear the consequences of their actions.
I had spent a lifetime hearing that prophecy. My skin bears the scars of those consequences, to the point that not even fae healing abilities could rid me of the evidence of them. Of the pain that still flares from time to time.
“You are set. Now go before Father Yamin is kept waiting too long.”
Incense is heavy in the air, the cloying scent churning my stomach as I continue deeper into the bowels of the inner sanctum wing of the palace.
I pass framed pictures of moments in our history meant to inspire piety.
A hand wreathed in light reaching down from the heavens to pour liquid gold onto a dying field—the ground coming to life where the light touches it.
Another shows a woman, her dark skin and curvy figure glowing against the white sash that is wrapped around her body, concealing it all except for the swell of her belly.
White light glows in the background of another, a trio of fae females staring longingly at the goddess dressed in black and white in front of them.
The farther I continue down the corridor, the cooler the air gets and the more that the natural light is replaced by flames flickering in sconces on the black stone walls.
I have dragged my knife across the throats of countless fae in the past five years, all without hesitation.
Yet as I near a familiar black metal and wood door, my steps nearly falter.
Get it the fuck together. I have already been through the worst that the father and his brethren can do.
I have experienced their wrath—anger and power disguised as righteous indignation under the council of gods that are supposed to protect us.
But there is no protection here, only the will of the males who have always viewed themselves above everyone else.
The guards that follow me—two males dressed head to toe in burnished silver, their swords peeking up over both shoulders—come to a halt, metal creaking from the weight of their steps. My knocking is loud in the cavernous space, making my ears ring.
A rush of thicker incensed air billows out when the door creaks open, a male who can’t be much older than I am pushing his head past the threshold.
“Ah, Princess, we’ve been expecting you.
” Despite his relaxed tone, his black brows draw down towards the center of his nose, like he isn’t sure if my arrival was indeed expected or not.
I walk past him, careful not to let my garments brush against the dark brown robe he wears, a silver chain belt holding it closed.
Once I’m past the door, he lets it shut, and the space plunges into silence.
I wait until he walks past me, keeping a respectful distance between us.
Visions of what it would feel like to plunge a blade into his shoulder works to calm my heart rate, and by the time I’ve been guided to the main prayer room, everything I feel about this impending meeting is hidden behind a mental shield.
“He will join you here in a moment.” The brother leaves through a small side door, a whisper of air sounding as it seals me in the room.
I turn my attention to the dais at the front, each step lined with a bundle of thick pillar candles, their flames casting small shadows on the pulpit that sits centered at the top.
I interlace my fingers together in front of me, the pulsing of my blood somehow louder in this space—a place so devoid of anything good.
Not that I deserve such a thing. There was a time in my life, long ago, when I thought I might.
When I strived to be devoted to the teachings.
To be as obedient as possible. It took far too long to realize that was a futile effort, that the nature of having a womb would automatically make me a target for things far more sinister than praying away the evil they claim I have within me.
The door behind me opens, but I stay facing the dais, staring at a painting of a god that takes up the entirety of the wall there.
His dark hair is cropped close to his head while his golden eyes glow in sharp contrast to the dark pigment of his skin.
He is a beautiful male, his pointed ears marking him as fae.
The gods and goddesses are always depicted as some version of fae or mortal, a fact I find heinously ironic.
If one were truly all powerful and all knowing, why would they dress themselves up as their more common parishioners?
I don’t adhere to the belief that there are gods—benevolent or otherwise—watching over us, but I do believe in the power of a different source.
Dragons. I will not cower before an invisible deity based on the rantings of supposed holy males, but I will bend the knee in honor of a different beast. One that rules over sky and flame.
Freedom is a luxury granted not to those who are worthy of it but to those willing to fight for it.
And only dragons have the power to take it.
“It seems you can’t go more than a few weeks without earning a reprimand,” Father Yamin says as he steps up to my side, the sneer on his face evidenced by the disdain in his voice.
As if he hasn’t looked forward to another disciplining session with me.
When I don’t respond, he blows a heavy breath past his thin lips, and I know a cruel smile shapes them without having to look.
“Why must you rebel against those who want only the best for us?” Again, I say nothing.
“Your father, our great and magnificent king, has spent centuries trying to rectify the consequences of the war. Our dragons are being turned against us, the gods so displeased with the faithless in this land that they are taking away that which is most precious to us. And you act as nothing more than a petulant child. One who digs her heels in to the destruction that she’s brought upon the land. ”
Destruction. His dramatics, as they usually do, draw a smirk to my lips. The action is hidden by my veil and mask, but Father Yamin must sense it in his ancient bones because he abruptly grabs my arm and yanks me forward towards the first step of the dais.
“Repentance is the only way forward for someone like you,” he snarls.
I let him push me down onto my knees, my bones slamming into the stone with a deafening crack.
“You will repent until your sins no longer stain this kingdom.” His hand lands on the middle of my back, and I go willingly as he forces my upper body to bow.
“You will pray until your knees bleed and I no longer sense such unholy defiance within you.”
Seconds drip into minutes that burn into hours, the pain in my body nothing compared to the fantasies that drift in my mind.
There is no praying anymore. There is no begging to be something other than what I am.
There is only the vision of my knife in my hand, the blood that it spills for those who deserve it.
My piety now starts and ends at the altar of my blade, and I vow to myself as the father’s hand grips on to my shoulder roughly that I will one day sacrifice the entirety of the church to that altar.