Pinnacle #2
Samira squeezes my hand briefly as Jahanna says, “Bye, Olbric.”
I watch as they take the path up to the Shykhdar’s private box. It’s bad form to miss Pinnacle, and currently, all but Shykh Farras and his family are in attendance. My mother sits with my father under a shaded canopy on cushioned chairs, and my sisters take their seats beside them.
Even though I hoped he wouldn’t notice me, I feel my father’s gaze land on me. I avoid his eye, looking resolutely at the gathered population of the city in the bowl-shaped amphitheater below.
Only a moment later, Farras and his family arrive.
Feisal follows behind his parents as they emerge from the same hall my sisters and I took.
As he passes my seat, Feisal’s eyes flick to me before a smirk spreads across his face.
He murmurs something to his father that makes him laugh before they both take their seats under the shade.
I ignore them all as the call to worship rings out. The gong of bells, louder even than the ones in the Crux, echo off the stone in a chorus of sound. The crowd below goes quiet, and I do the same as I close my eyes, falling into the familiar stillness of prayer.
When I was younger, I used to hate this seemingly endless hour. I’d fidget and complain at the long, boring stretch, but now, after so many years of being away from it, it feels... nice to be back.
One of the strangest culture shocks I’ve had while living in Straetham came from how they view their gods.
They don’t have Pinnacle or any other weekly holy day.
Instead, they have festivals or celebrations dedicated to various gods throughout the year, though they range from raucous to solemn depending on which god is being honored.
For some time, the thought of recognizing no singular God was hard to wrap my mind around. It wasn’t until nearly a year at the Crux that I realized they view the Lightbringer and Quietus, Tecton and Hadallis, as holding a greater power above the rest.
Dom once told me that the greater gods don’t care about us mere mortals. Such grand things as life and death, the earth itself, and the depths of the ocean don’t even recognize our existence. Or if they do, they recognize it as something small and inconsequential. An ant to a giant.
People respect and fear the greater gods, but they save their prayers for the smaller ones that might actually listen.
It’s so different from how I was raised. My entire life, I had been told that God was watching and listening and judging. Yet I had never felt seen or heard, and the only judgment I received was from the priests and the people who listen to them. Never God.
Even now, sitting on its crown, as close as I could be to the God the priests speak about, I feel... nothing.
No, that’s not quite true.
I feel... awe that the earth has crafted a place so beautiful, that a belief has brought so many people together.
But none of that relates to the God the priests claim to speak for.
The one who watches and listens and judges, who would send a scorching drought or swarms of locusts because too many people had sex outside of marriage, or because a man would sometimes rather be a woman.
The thought used to scare me so much. That my urge to explore my magic, to be who I am, was some great sin in the eyes of God.
“Good morning, and may God bless your presence at Pinnacle.”
A voice rings through the amphitheater, jolting me from my own thoughts. Another marvel of this place is how easily sound travels from the stone stage at the base of the rock crown. And even though the priest is barely shouting, his voice carries to the thousands of ears who have come to listen.
“Today, I will be reading to you from the Book of the Son.”
All ears, that is, except mine.
I scoff as I rise from my seat. The priests and the Shykhdar work closely with one another, and I have no doubt that today’s lesson has been plucked from the books just for me.
Something about duty to your family or obeying your father, no doubt.
Yet for some reason, a passage from the book of the Father keeps running through my head.
For a son should only grieve his father after he is buried in God’s final embrace. A son that needs his father’s wisdom after his passing is one who was not prepared for it in all ways.
Ignoring the stares I get from the Shykhdar, I head back into the temple. I almost make it to the path to the palace when a voice calls out behind me.
“Bold of you to show your face here. Even bolder for you to leave before it’s over.”
I whirl to find Feisal walking towards me, his hands folded behind his back.
“I didn’t give a fuck what the priests said before I left, so why change now?”
“Blasphemous,” Feisal tsks as he approaches me. “Not that I expected anything less from you. Why come to Pinnacle at all if you’re just going to spit in the face of tradition?”
I roll my eyes and lean against the red stone of the temple wall, crossing my arms over my chest. As much as I’d like to leave, this is the first time I’ve seen Feisal since the ball. The fact that he sought me out just makes my next step that much easier.
“God didn’t create tradition, Feisal,” I say. “People did.”
Feisal hums. “Wrong again. People with power did. Power that you could have, you know.”
Something about the forced casualness of the statement raises my hackles.
“I thought we’d already established that I don’t care about power, Feisal,” I say as I push off the wall.
“I think you’re deluding yourself,” Feisal says, his eyes tracking my every movement. “I think you care about power more than most. Why else did you leave Marikadar for the Crux?”
A slow grin spreads across my face as I step towards him. I let my hips sway even as my hand casually drifts towards the strand of spells Arlon returned to me.
Feisal follows my movement, and his eyes widen when he sees the necklace. I’ve been neutered this entire time, but with my power back, he takes a wary step away from me. I follow, relishing in the unease that lights on his face. His back hits the far wall, halting his retreat.
“What do you think you know about me?” I ask, voice dipping to a purr. I stop just shy of pressing my chest to his, trapping him as I lift an arm up to brace against the wall at his back.
The knot in Feisal’s throat bobs. “I think you’re a liar and a coward.” He tilts his chin up, so proud, so defiant. “You lie about wanting power because you’re too craven to claim it.”