Chapter Fourteen #2
“We’re invited to a ritual tonight.” He let go of her hand with dear effort. “Here in the temple. The priestesses have invited us to join them. I’ll be there, if you care to come as well.”
Aoife glanced at his hand. She reached her fingers out ever so slightly then pulled them back. “Of course,” she said. Swallowing. “They’re giving us shelter. We shouldn’t be rude and not attend.”
“Then I’ll see you there?” Shadach knew the answer, but he needed her to say it. To be sure she meant it.
She looked into his eyes and said, “I’ll be there.”
~*~
She wore red.
Shadach swallowed, his heart pounding in his throat as he watched Aoife from across the small room.
Priestesses flittered back and forth, finishing preparations for the private ritual.
The room was simple and unassuming, and Shadach suspected until recently it had been used for storage.
The main advantage of the room was that it attached to several smaller rooms which could be used for yet more private worship.
The public ritual was in the grand hall, containing all the glamour and exotic incense one would expect of the oldest Temple of Lust.
The ritual robe Aoife wore only deepened the red of her thick hair draping her shoulders, the fabric sheer enough to tantalise, but not to give anything away.
He held in his mind, for a brief, glorious moment, the images he had of that body of hers.
He imagined ripping off that robe and showing her without a shadow of a doubt how beautiful she was.
She looked at him then, those perceptive, secretive eyes piercing him.
She smiled at him and that simple gesture knocked the air from him, the desire to go to her and rip off that robe nearly suffocating all sense of propriety.
But propriety won in the end and Shadach smiled back, reminding himself there would be ample time to rip off those clothes in the coming ritual.
One of the priestesses called attention, her crimson robes sweeping the floor.
She held out her hands as if welcoming each participant individually and yet all at once.
The other priestesses ceased their preparations and formed a circle.
Shadach stepped back to join the circle.
Aoife stepped forward to do the same. The priestess leading the ritual began the opening chants in the Xana language.
Shadach wasn’t familiar with the chants in this tongue.
If you’re going to be Emperor, you’re going to have learn the Xana language. To know the languages of all your people. The thought came to Shadach in a flash. Sharp. Unwelcome.
If he was going to be Emperor? He wasn’t going to be Emperor, he was going to find a way to avoid being Emperor. That was the point of being here, after all. To find a way out.
“The God,” the priestess continued in Selatian, “is a being of infinite wisdom. Infinite pleasure, desire, and inspiration. His whispers are loud, striking when necessary. Yet they are soft, gentle when the time is right. We strive to be the same.”
The God’s whispers. Shadach shook his head.
The God wasn’t whispering to him … was he?
No. Of course not. Why would the God speak to Shadach of all people?
His choosing had been a mistake. This was all a grand, cosmic error and the God would have no reason to talk to him.
Except to tell him that yes, in fact, this was all a grave misunderstanding and Shadach could go back to his small, contented life now.
Shadach shuffled to the left as the priestesses began to move in a circle, as demanded by this particular ritual.
The ceremonies of the God were mostly predictable.
The rules of worship were laid out in books, the same routines practiced again and again throughout the centuries.
It had always been comforting to Shadach to partake in this unbroken line of ritual and worship.
It made him feel connected. A part of something bigger than himself, past, present, and future.
In this part of this particular ritual, there was a dance.
A recreation of the Dance of Tamar, a woman from Xana legend who was said to have danced a dance at the site of this very temple.
The dance had been so erotic, so breathtaking, she’d seduced the God of Lust himself.
Entranced and bound by her lustful spell, the God promised her whatever she wished.
She asked for the life of her people. She asked that the Xana live on this land forever, never to be erased.
The God granted her wish, and to that day the Xana had remained through war, famine, and sickness.
Shadach stepped forward, stepped back, following the priestesses in the dance. The dance he should have taught to Aoife. He hadn’t even thought of it. He’d been too lost in his thoughts of Aristen’s plans … and of the chance to worship with Aoife again.
Shadach glanced up.
There was no need to worry. One of the priestesses must have taught her the steps because she moved in perfect rhythm, her robe twirling around her legs, her arms moving through the air with the seductive grace of Tamar herself.
Shadach’s blood went hot, the God’s gift of lust pouring through him unabashed.
He swallowed hard. Not yet. The time wasn’t right.
The dance came to a close, and a moment of quiet followed, the only sound to be heard the in-and-out of quick breaths. Some had danced more vigorously than others.
The priestess leading the ritual called attention once more, offering their collective prayers to the God and then, asking him to accept their worship in preparation for the next part of the evening.
Although most rituals were repeated verbatim year after year, there were liberties that could be taken.
Ways the temples could change parts of the ritual to focus on what the oracles said the God wanted in that particular season.
Normally, this added a bit of mystery, of wonder that might otherwise be absent.
As Shadach listened to what was to come, his blood went cold, his chest synching up like skin beneath overly-tight stitches.
“The oracle,” the priestess continued, “has told us this is what the God desires tonight. In honour of the Emperor’s presence here, the God has chosen to indulge his Shadow form alongside Lust. The seduction will include the giving of Shadows, of secrets.
And to aid the meditation, the God asks us to do away with our pre-occupation of sight.
To experience the seduction by physical sensation only. ”
Shadach felt numb as a priestess handed out silk blindfolds as dark as the Shadows that crept about the room. The Shadows grew darker, thicker, as if they could sense Shadach’s trepidation. His panic. The priestess handed him a blindfold. He stared at it in his hand, wanting to run.
He was meant to wear this? To make himself vulnerable?
To trust someone enough to divulge his secrets?
A cold, terrible thought clanged in Shadach’s head.
What if this was a trick? A trap? What if the oracle had been mistaken?
What if Aristen was somehow behind this and the God hadn’t demanded this at all?
What if I have? whispered in Shadach’s head, as soft as a breeze yet as powerful as a crashing wave.
The silk of the blindfold pierced like thorns in Shadach’s hand.
No. He could not allow himself to be blindfolded, to be so exposed.
Shadach knew better than to truly trust anyone and this could mean putting his life in Aoife’s hands.
Or the hands of would-be assassins. What if they were waiting around the corner, waiting for this exact moment to strike?
Shadach swallowed down the tension in his throat.
He had to get out of this, but what was he to tell Aoife?
That he didn’t want to worship with her? Absurd.
Wait. Of course. Aoife would wear the blindfold. The thought of seducing her in this way made Shadach’s chest relax, a passionate heat taking the place of fear and panic.
“In accordance with Tamar’s seduction of the God,” the priestess said, “the one with the deepest connection to her feminine spirit will seduce. The one with the deepest connection to her masculine spirit will be seduced.”
Shadach’s mouth went dry. The priestesses paired off to seduce each other, vacating the main room in favour of smaller, private rooms, and leaving only Aoife and Shadach. He crushed the blindfold in his hand, as if he could suffocate it into oblivion.
Would anyone believe he was feeling particularly in tune with his feminine spirit tonight?
Even if they did, that would make him a liar. And how could Shadach, devout as he claimed to be, lie to the God in his own temple?
“So, do we …” Aoife stepped toward him, gesturing to the sole remaining private room to their right.
Did they, what? Blindfold him? Destroy him?
Force him to reveal his secrets? Shadach had many secrets, of course.
But some were more dangerous than others.
More dangerous than even his ability to see the creation of Shadows.
Shadach didn’t think he was a capable of divulging that.
Not now, not ever. Besides, what if Aoife couldn’t be trusted?
What if she had been gotten to? Bribed? Threatened?
What if she held the knife meant for his chest?
“Or we could stay here, I guess,” Aoife’s voice was soft, uncertain, “though it might be a little scandalous being so public.” She smiled that soft, beatific smile once more and it was like a punch in the gut of Shadach’s fears and doubts.
“The private room will be perfect.” Despite his heart hammering against his temples, Shadach stepped to the room to the right.
The intimate worship space had walls draped in thin paper, centuries old stories painted across them.
Pillows and a large, feather mattress adorned the floor, candles in enclaves in the walls illuminating the room.