Chapter 3. Before Maris #2
My head turned, and I looked at Ophelius. Her expressionless face was still cast upward, toward the tapestry.
“Why?” I asked.
“To incite the wrath of Eris’ new husband, Toranus.
” Finally, her eyes drifted to mine and they caught the light with a silver glow.
Her narrow face was lined in soft wrinkles, her irises the color of moonbeams. “Aster could not beat her enemy, so she found someone who could. She told her new brother that the doves had been cursed by Remillion, and Toranus sent his armies to join Aster’s.
The battle was swift, and after only two days and nights of fighting, Remillion was vanquished. ”
I wanted to ask the meaning of the story, but I’d learned a long time ago that I had to be sparing with my curiosity.
There were only so many questions Ophelius would tolerate from me.
So, I waited for her to impart some lesson that I was meant to take with me to the Forum in my days as a Magistrate.
Or some deeper wisdom I could use as a novice.
But Ophelius just looked at me, eyes moving over my face as if she were looking for something.
The Priestess was like water, filling space and receding in a flow that made her seem as if she weren’t as material as the rest of us. And she wasn’t. She was the third-generation daughter of Priestess Ursu, who’d stood at the side of the legion on the front lines of the Old War.
I could see the fierceness of her ancestor in her eyes.
The one who had performed the blood rites to secure the greatest bounty Isara had ever won.
When the legion conquered the great city of Valshad, it wasn’t gold and silver they were after.
The legion laid waste to the city in search of only one thing—the gifted magic that had made Valshad prosper. Godsblood.
There were five Valshadi Priestesses in the temple when they stormed the gates, all souls within whom that magic dwelled.
Two successfully took their own lives rather than give the godsblood to Isara, but the three who failed were subjected to the blood rites when they refused to gift their magic to three Isarians.
Leah, Cadie, and Ursu—Ophelius’ great-grandmother.
The act of the blood rites was a shameful desecration.
One that hadn’t been performed since and that Ophelius never spoke of.
There were only two ways for the magic to pass from one mortal to another.
It had to be given or it had to be taken.
And the only way to take the godsblood was to drink it. Every single drop.
Over the last hundred years, the stolen magic of Valshad had bolstered the city of Isara with the favor of the gods, sparing us famine, disease, and even war.
It was bound to the bodies of the three Priestesses who dwelled in the Illyrium until the day they chose to gift it to someone else.
But Ophelius had no child, and it was no secret that the Magistrates were growing concerned over the fact that she hadn’t yet passed on her magic.
She was a stubborn woman who wasn’t easily controlled, and the Citadel was eager for a young Priestess who could be tended.
Coaxed to grow in one direction like a loyal grapevine.
The gold-tinged blood dripped into the bowl, and once it was filled, I tilted her arm carefully.
The wound slowly healed, knitting itself back together.
I reached for the thin, flat mother-of-pearl stone set on the cloth before me and placed it against her forearm.
Gently, I scraped it against the skin until the last of the godsblood was gathered onto the stone, and I set it into the grooves of the bowl so that it could drip.
From there, the precious liquid would be siphoned into vials and delivered to the Citadel.
A single drop of godsblood lent the strength of the gods to mortals.
The entire city had been built with its magic.
It was sown into the fields, baked into the clay bricks of the Citadel, infused into medicines, and even forged into the weapons of the legion.
But over the course of one hundred years, its use had been all but defiled.
Now the godsblood was cast into jewels, spun into thread, painted onto trinkets—anything the highborn of Isara desired.
There were even vials sold to the highest bidder, an idea that made my stomach turn.
Ophelius’ eyes fell to the jar of honey on the altar stone. “Very good, Casperia. But be careful. You don’t want to become a favorite of the gods.”
“I thought it’s an honor to chosen by the gods,” I said.
She glanced back up at the tapestry, to the halo-crowned doves that arced across the scene. “I’m not sure the doves would agree.”
I didn’t notice until then that she was a shade paler than usual, a darkness hovering beneath her eyes. Down the hall, the hiss of the temple smith working sounded again.
“You don’t look well, Priestess.” I touched her elbow gently, but she pulled away from me, taking a stick of incense from the silver bowl at her side.
“Are you ready for tonight?” She ignored my concern, changing the subject.
“I am.”
“I hear Matius will finally be introducing his heir to the Magistrates.”
I’d heard the same, but her mention of it surprised me. Ophelius didn’t usually take any interest in the frivolous, vain world of the Magistrates. In fact, there was nothing she despised more.
My mother had talked of almost nothing else since the rumors of Magistrate Matius’ illness started circulating.
He was her rival in every sense of the word, the leader of the opposing political faction in the Forum.
My mother had spent her entire time in the Citadel slowly chipping away at his majority hold, and she was close to balancing the scales of power. But now, he was dying.
It had been years since Matius had adopted his nephew in order to secure the inheritance of his seat in the Forum, but for the most part he’d kept his heir out of sight.
Everyone in the Citadel District was talking about the succession of the seat that would open upon Magistrate Matius’ death.
He had managed to ensure it would stay with his family name, but no one knew anything about the nephew who would wield the judgment stone.
He didn’t bring him to gatherings in the Citadel District or parade him on the balcony of the tribunals the way other Magistrates did with their children.
He’d waited. For what, I didn’t know, but it was no coincidence that the night he chose to finally bring his new son into the light was the same night my mother was hosting the First Feast. It was a slight. A declaration of war, even.
Matius’ faction was determined to keep its majority in the Forum after his death, and the most reliable way to do that was to find a reputable Magistrate family to marry his nephew into.
There were those among my mother’s faction who could be swayed by the prospect of joining with a family name as prestigious as Matius.
The party tonight would be a perfect opportunity to make that kind of alliance.
“I want you to get a sense of him,” Ophelius said.
My eyes narrowed on her. “Matius’ heir?”
She nodded.
“I’m not sure my mother would—”
“If the favor of the gods is truly what you seek, it will take more than a clever gift to gain it, Casperia,” Ophelius said, cutting me off. “You can’t lead a city with a jar of honey.”
I swallowed, instinctively glancing again to the gift I’d left on the altar.
“You will hold your mother’s seat sooner than you think.” Her voice lowered, the words making me shiver.
Her pale silver eyes shone just a little brighter as she said it, her tone ringing with prophecy. It was one of the gifts the magic afforded her, but it was incredibly rare for Ophelius to share her insight into the future with me.
“You will meet Matius’ heir. You will learn what you can of him,” she said again.
She waited for me to answer with a nod before she reached into the sleeve of her robe and produced a small scroll that matched the many she’d had me pen for her in the past. She held it in both hands, fingers careful, as if considering its weight.
“A message?” I reached for it, but she moved it from my reach. Her eyes were searching mine again with that same penetrating look.
After a long moment, she finally let me take the scroll, but her eyes followed it as I tucked it into my chiton.
“Where would you like me to take it?” I asked.
“The Philosopher Vitrasian.” Ophelius turned back to the altar, dipping a stick of incense into the fire. Once it was lit, she waved it through the air, letting the smoke drift over her. “Now go. I must pray.”
The smoke began to billow, the sound of her voice already taking on the monotone timbre of chanting.
I picked up the bowl before me, the godsblood gleaming in the light, and cradled it in my steady hands as I made my way down the aisle.
When I reached the doors, I glanced back, tracing the hazy image of the Priestess enveloped by the smoke.
She always spoke in riddles and stories, forcing me to unearth the meaning of things. But her request had been simple and direct, and that could mean only one thing. Ophelius had taken an interest in Matius’ son.