Chapter Eleven
Eleven
The Temple
Every person had Shadows. Even Shadach.
There were Shadows of the heart, Shadows of the soul.
Shadows of shame, of fear, of hate. Not every Shadow was born of evil.
Some were born of necessity. Of the need to protect love.
Protect dreams. But in Shadach’s experience, the majority of Shadows did not come from good intentions. The majority of people did not either.
Aoife was a woman with more Shadows than most.
Shadach glanced away from her just as she was to catch him looking. Why did she have so much to hide? And why were the things that should have been lies seemingly true?
“Is something on my face?” Aoife said.
He’d been staring again. He looked away, again, and tried to focus on what was before him.
They were standing at the precipice of the holy and the mundane.
The Temple of the God of Lust. It was a sprawling stone structure nestled in the heart of the Evernight Forest. As Shadach studied its beauty, fear and awe twisted his heart.
This had been the seat of power of the God of Lust, before he had become the Shadow God worshipped by Shadach’s people, back when he was only a god of the Xana.
Inside that temple was a host of Xana priestesses that would either keep Shadach safe … or kill him.
The Xana and the Halcin were not on particularly good terms.
Mist hung in the air, Shadows and clouds mixing together in a bittersweet dance. Flames from candles whispered in windows, a red rope slung across the main path to the temple. Daring Shadach to enter. Daring him to be worthy.
“Do we just … go in?” Aoife said.
“Not if we want to live.”
Aoife nodded, solemn. She had been serious, rigid ever since the Halcin art. As if she were trying to keep something locked up tight inside her.
The truth, perhaps.
She had lied about coming from a land of disputed territory.
But had told the truth about being from “Ireland.” Which was perplexing.
Shadach was not a traditionally learned man, but he knew a great deal about the world.
He was certain there was no “Ireland” in it.
Aoife had also told the truth about thinking she was speaking something called “English,” which was more than perplexing.
How did she not know what language she spoke?
Yet, she had lied. The most absurd lie. She had claimed to not appreciate his people’s art, when it could not have been more obvious that she did. The way her eyes had lit up, the way her body had softened, the way her smile had spread across her face as if she’d never known such beauty.
To dream, to create, was integral to Halcin culture.
Or, at least, it had been. Before his people had fractured.
Lost their way. To see that look of artistic rapture in Aoife’s eyes …
it had stirred something in him. And yet, as he stood next to her, ready to walk into the precipice of the unknown, he realised his life was in the hands of a woman he didn’t know.
A woman who lied about unfathomable things.
A woman he could not trust.
“Who comes to worship?” a woman’s voice spoke from the darkness.
“Shadach the Halcin.” Shadach straightened, trying to seem both respectable and non-threatening. Both of which, for him, were impossible. “And Aoife, the God’s Messenger. From the Emperor’s City.”
Silence.
Shadach waited. Would they deny him? They were Xana, after all. Why should they trust him?
“We’ve been waiting for you.” A priestess stepped out of the Shadows and mist, thick red robes draping her body. Her hair was tied back in scarlet ribbons, her feet laced with leather sandals.
“Waiting for us?” Shadach said.
The priestess nodded, silver teardrops hanging from her ears. “The oracle, she told us. Come.” The priestess’s speech had the typical lilt of a Xana when speaking Selatian, the lingua franca of the Kingdom of Shadows. The sound was gentle and calming, yet erotic in its own delicate way.
Lighting a torch, the priestess unhooked the rope blocking the path and led them into the temple.
The grounds were a series of conjoined buildings and courtyards littered with palm-sized candles encased in marbled holders.
The air was light, the Shadows thin, the mist deep and provocative.
The whispers of the God of Lust on these grounds were ancient, subtle, and every bit as rapturous now as they had been when the Halcin had first arrived.
There were stories, documents, journal entries from that time speaking of how the Halcin had imagined the Xana’s temples held lewd statues and wild orgies.
After all, a God of Lust must be about nothing else, right?
They had been sorely and delightfully mistaken.
In truth, in the Emperor’s City, where most priestesses were Selat, these fantasies of what a god of lust must be sometimes became reality.
But here, in the First Temple, the old ways were preserved.
The priestesses walked the grounds in thick, modest robes, moving with an effortless sensuality that belied words. The way they walked, the way they spoke, it was as if they moved in a choreographed dance meant to tantalise and inspire.
Everywhere Shadach looked was a new invitation to delve deeper into his senses, to allow himself to be lost in the carnal pleasures of touch, of emotion, of lust. There were swathes of warm coals to let heat radiate through one’s body.
There was a building dedicated to the crafts, to pottery and needlepoint, that allowed the feel of earth, of fabric to titillate one’s senses and creativity.
There were rooms of lavish blankets and decadent oils to set one’s senses alight.
And when the body had been brought to a euphoric level of physical awareness, the temple invited oneself into sexual lust with whomever was eager and willing.
This was the Xana’s vision of worship: reaching a higher plane of existence through physical sensation.
To be closer to the God of Lust, a person needed to delve into their own body and discover what beauty it held.
For the body was the God’s gift, the sacred and perfect way he connected to his people.
“This is … different.” Aoife looked around the temple grounds, the look on her face like a child drowning at sea. Shadach had seen many reactions to the God of Lust, but never this one.
“You needn’t be afraid,” he said. Trying to be gentle. Reassuring. It was only him that might be in danger here. “You’re the Messenger, they’ll never harm you.”
Aoife looked to the building dedicated to the crafts. She jerked her gaze away as if she’d touched fire. “I’m not afraid.”
A Shadow spun itself from her body.
Shadach watched the Shadow dance about Aoife’s head then float away.
Two feelings pulled at him at once. Abhorrence for the Shadow and admiration for the reason.
Most Shadows did not come from good intentions.
But a few, every now and again, came from the desire to be brave.
Even Shadach could not fault a Shadow of that nature.
“This way,” the priestess said, gesturing to a small building, the inside alight with candles.
“The Head Priestess awaits.”
~*~
“The God told us you would come.” The Head Priestess, Tafana, sat on a decadent black pillow on the floor, a cup of sweet tea in her wrinkled hands.
She was a woman well into her years and yet her eyes were as quick and young as ever.
The room was intimate, warm, the walls decorated with intricate paintings that must have been hundreds of years old.
In some places, the paintings were cracked and weathered, in others they were bright and fresh, suggesting a restoration effort was underway.
It was a place of peace. Of quiet. Of possibility. At least, it was supposed to be. Shadach felt cold in his soul as he sat on a pillow before the Head Priestess. He was putting his life in this woman’s hands.
That couldn’t possibly end well.
“I must confess,” the Head Priestess said, “I did not at first believe the oracle when she said a Halcin would be chosen.” Tafana’s voice was aged, but rich with delicate, sultry tones. Because when serving the God of Lust, even conversation should be worshipful.
Aoife sat beside Shadach, moving her hands from her knees to behind her back to her knees again. This was the third time she’d done it.
“I’m not certain I believe it at all,” Shadach said.
There was a whisper from one of the priestesses standing in the back of the room. It echoed even in this intimate space and when he glanced at her, he saw it in her eyes. He saw it in nearly all priestesses’ eyes: they did not want to believe it either.
Why would the God choose a Halcin over a Xana? Had they not been faithful? Had they not worshipped the God before the Halcin even knew the God’s name? Had the Xana not suffered enough, first seeing the Halcin take their lands and then the Selats?
It wasn’t fair. Of course it wasn’t fair. Few things in life were.
“The God chose you,” one of the priestesses said, her voice thin. “We trust wholly in his decisions.” She smiled. Light. Her reassuring words were suffocated by the grizzly Shadow clawing itself from her body.
Shadach glanced at the door. Could he escape if he needed to? Would they harm Aoife, too, out of spite? It was all foolishness besides. Shadach didn’t want to be Emperor. Let someone else, anyone else, be Emperor. Let Aristen be Emperor as long as it didn’t mean the innocent dying.
But as it stood, Aristen becoming Emperor and the innocent dying went hand-in-hand.
Until that wasn’t true, Shadach couldn’t reject the God’s choice.
If he even truly was the God’s choice. Perhaps his name being chosen had been a blunder in more ways than one.
Perhaps, the God would intervene and right his mistake.
Steam from Tafana’s cup wafted across her face. “The priestesses of the capital have been choosing emperors in the God’s name for centuries. But the God hasn’t seemed to mind. Until now.”
“You knew about the capital’s corruption?” Aoife said suddenly. Fervently. The priestesses stared at her, surprised she’d spoken. Aoife trained her eyes on the ground as if in apology.
Tafana laughed, the sound oddly joyful amidst a serious situation. “Of course I knew. I only wonder why the God chose to intervene now. But,” the Head Priestess shrugged, “he is the God. He can do what he likes when he likes. Even choose a Halcin.”
Shadach felt his throat tighten. Let the God choose another Halcin. Shadach glanced at Aoife, her long red hair falling over her shoulders. Her thoughtful gaze had left the floor and was instead taking in the delicate paintings. She looked enraptured.
That expression on her face was more intoxicating than the dried powder of the aginda flower, more seductive than the three-day pleasure trip the powder could bring.
Sexual heat flooded Shadach’s body. Her gaze moved over the painting, lingering on every line, every colour.
She looked with such fascination, such desire.
Such craving. As if she could never have enough of the world around her.
Shadach wanted to know what she was thinking.
To speak with her of art, of intent, of beauty.
To delve into that part of her she let slip when she thought he wasn’t looking.
Shadach shook his head, trying to quell the fire.
Aginda powder could illicit the most erotic, sensual experiences. Or, it could kill you. Shadach wasn’t sure which one was Aoife.
“There is the small matter, however,” the Head Priestess said, “of the murder charge.”
Shadach’s body went rigid as Aoife’s gaze snapped to the Head Priestess.
“Murder?” he said. “Who?”
“Apparently you,” Tafana pointed at Shadach, “murdered her.” She pointed at Aoife.
“But, I’m alive,” Aoife’s voice was flat. “Nobody murdered me. Well … Aristen tried.”
“It’s only a ploy,” Tafana said. “A way for General Holt to turn the Kingdom against the true Emperor. It will make protecting you both more difficult.” The Head Priestess rose from her seated position with a grace that belied her age. “But we will do everything we can.”
“I don’t suppose,” Shadach said, “you know how to get us out of this?”
“Carefully,” Tafana said. “And slowly.”
It was not the answer Shadach had hoped for.
He’d wanted the God to have revealed to the oracle a plan of escape, a path out of this mess.
It seemed the God was choosing to stay silent.
But even as the God was silent, Tafana’s lack of Shadows spoke volumes.
There was no malice, no trickery in her words.
She intended to help even if they were thin on options.
“You must be exhausted from your journey,” Tafana said. “We’ll prepare your rooms. In the meantime,” she gestured towards a doorway covered in sheer black curtains, “please indulge if you feel led to worship and thank the God for bringing you safely to us.”
She left, leaving Shadach and Aoife alone in the quiet.
Aoife looked to the closed-off room then looked to Shadach. “What does she mean?”
Shadach flushed hot, remembering the feel of Aoife’s lips on his in the tavern. “There is a room for worship. Should we want it.”
“Worship …” Aoife avoided his eyes, the base of her neck turning nearly as red as her hair. “As in lust.”
“Yes.” The word came out guttural. Raw. Aoife’s cheeks flooded red, her breath hitching.
She said nothing. So Shadach said nothing. His body was saying a lot of things.
There were more pressing matters than lust, such as food, rest, plans for how to not die.
But it all failed in comparison to the way Aoife was looking at him.
Or trying not to look at him, as it were.
As if half of her wanted to take his hand, run into that room, and strip him down while the other half wanted to run away.
Memories of their worship in the cave, in the tavern, flooded him.
The soft curve of her lips, the wild fire of her hair, that look in her eyes when she was drowning in lust for—
He swallowed hard, his eyes struggling to look away from her exquisite form, from the plumpness of her breasts, from her intoxicating eyes that were now, finally, staring back at him.
She bit her bottom lip in a sultry motion that spiked his blood and made him heady.
Shadach fought to remind himself of the truth.
Of what he could not let himself forget: she was a woman of endless lies.
She was unfit to be trusted. She was all he wanted.