Chapter Four
Four
There is no greater honor in this existence than to be chosen by the Goddess to become part of them, one of their own. We are their children. They are our mother. They care for us. We serve them. There is no greater honor.
—THE SAME SPEECH PRIOR PETRONILLA GIVES ALL THE NEW POTENTIATES.
I WAS A GIFT.
A fucking gift.
Presents should be things like a knit sweater or a really good knife, not a dozen shivering children torn from their homes, kneeling on a cold stone floor before a golden ossuary.
But that’s what we were, each plucked from obscurity by one of the Goddess’s Chosen—in my case, a Bellator whose name I never learned.
My journey to the Cathedral? Barely remember it, a blur that only came into focus once I was added to the pack.
I was heavy then, a creature of clay, hollowed out by the circumstances of my acquisition.
That at least meant I was quiet. Others were less stoic—there was a fair amount of sobbing and snot, though a few were ensorcelled by the sheer grandiosity of the Cathedral.
As we waited, some part of me clarified, the idea of escape flickering, probably my first sharp thought in days.
Which led my gaze to Alastair, the skull with the daggered eyes.
I wondered if the blades came free, and how far I might get wielding them.
Stupid thoughts given the Chosen still surrounding us, any one of whom could have cut me down in the blink of an eye.
Then, Alastair began to move, the wall of bones sliding aside like a curtain.
I’d heard the stories of Tempestra-Innara, of course.
But a goddess a thousand leagues away is not the same as a goddess so close you could spit on them.
And as soon as they appeared, I understood.
For the first time in my short, sheltered, upended life, I understood: I was a heretic.
A sinner. And that the Goddess was truly, exceptionally divine.
It was an understanding that pissed me off like nothing since. Even more than when Morgan used to sneak shards of glass into my boots.
There were no introductions. No pesky orations about the offerings being made or where we came from.
Only us, lined up before the apse like dolls, and Tempestra-Innara’s penetrating presence.
The Goddess examined each of us in turn, gliding down the row, silent as they gazed down at the terrified children at their feet. Most trembled. A couple fainted.
When they reached me, I expected death. That Tempestra-Innara would see the rage beneath my awe, the hate beneath the reverence.
But the Goddess only smiled. Reached down to brush the strands of filthy hair from my face.
The brief contact nearly toppled me, their power a flooding, welcoming light out of the darkness, the warmth of the sun after a long, cold night.
For the span of that brief caress, my fear, hunger, pain… gone. There was only the Goddess.
There was only their love.
The other children were taken away. I never saw any of them again.
And then, following my divine communion, I was ferried off to the Dawn Cloister.
The slamming of a door jolts me awake even as the dreamy sensation of godly fingers brushing my cheek lingers.
Night has fallen. I am in my cell, alone. The door is locked and bolted.
I hadn’t expected to fall asleep.
I probably shouldn’t have. I don’t need as much sleep as most, but years of structured training has conditioned me to take rest, sustenance, and advantage whenever I can.
I throw my blanket aside and pad across the worn carpet.
Someone is in the corridor, their steps as angry as they are uneven.
I slide open the door’s narrow viewing port.
The hall is dim, only a few oil lamps lit this late at night.
A figure cuts across my view: Morgan. Wherever she’s come from, she’s pissed.
So much so that she doesn’t catch me spying as she stops abruptly before her door and slams a fist against the wood.
It creaks painfully. When her arm drops, there’s a fresh, fist-sized divot in it.
Only then does Morgan wrench the handle open and enter, the next slam likely waking whoever the first one didn’t.
There’s only one place she could have come from at this hour, in that mood.
Prior Petronilla must be back.
Questions.
After the shock of the execution, after my thoughts stopped being wild things rampaging through my mind, that’s what I was left with: questions. None of which I had answers for.
But I knew who might.
I knock on the door to Prior Petronilla’s office.
At first, there’s no response, but a thin line of light betrays the room’s occupancy.
As does the smothering incense the Prior insists on burning day and night.
Burnt orange and peppery clove. Wood resin.
A scent that I will associate with being in trouble until the day I die.
Finally: “Enter.”
The Prior blinks at me as I do. “Lys.” Her voice is flat, betraying nothing. “I didn’t call for you yet.”
Yet? Shit. That means she already planned on summoning me, something that, historically, has never been to my benefit. Still, I smile. “Thought you might want some company.”
She sighs with irritation. “Sit.”
I plunk onto the hard wood bench set before her desk.
The one that completes the sensation of impending punishment.
Prior Petronilla’s office is the most unwelcoming yet warmly appointed room I’ve ever been in.
Thick, hand-knotted rugs, a wall of books, exquisite tapestries—it’s like camouflage for a snare.
There is only one thing I like about it, one part I’ve even, on occasion, manufactured my own chastisement in order to see: the huge framed map on one wall, the most detailed I have ever seen of the Devoted Lands.
Lumeris sits southwest of center on the lumpy potato of a continent, the Ordained Cities forming a rough circle around the capital.
Aerdis for the Bellators, Pirga for the Priors, Siscia, where the Clerics of the Blood commune, and—smallest of them all, more fortress than city—Osturan, where the Arbiters reign.
I’d find myself in one of them soon enough, baptized into whatever Order Petronilla decides to burden with me, before being shuffled off to one of the countless smaller cities and towns scattered beyond.
These thin out the farther the map reaches, leading to a jagged diagonal of islands along the southern coast, tangled river marshes to the north, the swells and clefts of countless valleys and hills, and, finally, to the very fringes of the Devoted Lands, including a cluster of sharp peaks where a Bellator once kidnapped a broken little girl.
But it’s not what I can see on the map that sparks my interest, but rather what I can’t—the world that lies beyond its edges, in those sparse, vaguely sketched spots slipping beneath the polished wooden frame. Places untouched—unfettered—by the Goddess’s light, beyond their reach.
And mine.
Unbalanced by my semi-expected arrival, I sit in silence and wait to be addressed, but the Prior only stares at me, expression one part contemplative, one part sourpuss.
If she’d already planned to have me here, it must be about what happened in the Cathedral.
And yet, I get the sense she’s disappointed.
As if I’ve disappointed her. Not sure how, though.
I survived, didn’t I? That’s one up on Jeziah and the others.
I get tired of waiting. “I want to know what happened this morning.”
She leans back in her chair, exhaling bitterly. “Of course you do.”
No explanation follows. “Do you even know?”
That snaps the fire into her eyes, more the Prior Petronilla I’m used to seeing on the other side of that desk.
“Tread lightly, Lys. Your insolence is the last thing I need right now.” But her anger recedes almost immediately.
“A tragedy. That’s what happened this morning.
The heretic, prior to his execution, managed to release a powerful poison into the Cathedral.
Only those with our blessing survived it. ”
It’s exactly the sort of horseshit explanation I was expecting regular folks to get, but not me.
“Oh, of course. One of those rare, dismembering poisons. Hate those.”
Her annoyance flashes again. “This is no joking matter, Lys. What happened was…” She stops, unsettled. Which is unusual enough to unsettle me. “This is what is important right now: Andronica is dead.”
“Yeah, I saw the pieces.”
“Andronica is dead,” she repeats more forcefully, “which means the Dawn Cloister needs to put up a candidate for Executrix.”
“Already? You’d think they’d at least give her body a chance to cool—”
“Quiet.” She doesn’t sound mad now. More… tired. “There will be mourning, but the Goddess has requested candidates immediately.” Her eyes lock with mine. “Jeziah and the other senior Potentiates are dead. Morgan is injured, and the others are too young and untrained. That leaves you.”
I laugh, a little snort, totally unintentional. Partially out of surprise, more because that’s the last godsdamned thing I care about right now. Though it does explain Morgan’s tantrum. “So put up Morgan. She’ll be kicking down walls in a week, maybe—”
“This isn’t a request, Lystrata.” The words snap like a switch. “There is no time to wait for Morgan to heal. Tomorrow you will accompany me to the Cathedral. There, you will conduct yourself as nobly as a Potentiate of the Dawn Cloister should, and serve the Goddess as they order.”
Resignation sneaks into her tone by the end. I sympathize. The only person who wants me to be the Cloister’s candidate less than Prior Petronilla is me. And maybe Morgan.
“No,” I say.
“Excuse me?”
“No. Not until you tell me what really happened.”
Silence simmers. I try to read her eyes, but I’m not sure I like what I see.
It’s more than the usual frustration, for sure.
But then again, I did just refuse to serve the Goddess, which definitely borders on sacrilege.
There are plenty of lines I’ve crossed since coming to the Cloister, but for the first time, I wonder if I’ve gone a smidge too far.
Then, the hardness in her gaze softens. “Why do you let Morgan beat you?”
“Excuse me?”
“In your training. You almost always let her win. Why?”
I cross my arms. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You do. As much a pain in the ass—in my ass—as you are, Lys, you are a more than competent Potentiate. Impressive, even. But you hold back. You hide, both in your physical training and in your educational examinations. I tolerated it because your potential didn’t make up for your insolence.
And because I never expected to be in a position like this. ”
“Morgan beats me fair and square all the time.” But not always.
It’s a lesson I learned early on—being the best means you’re the one everyone is trying to knock down.
We all serve the Goddess, but that doesn’t mean we aren’t encouraged to try to serve a little better than the next Potentiate.
Failure results in punishment, sometimes even death.
But so does success. Jeziah and I both understood that, which was about two-thirds of the reason for our “friendship.” Best to be near the top, but not on top.
Not if you wanted to survive long enough to leave this place.
“She’s a better fighter than me. If anyone should be Executrix, it’s her. ”
“Yes.” The Prior folds her hands in front of her.
“But that’s not a possibility right now, and this is not a negotiation.
And, frankly, if I could punish you for turning it into one, I would.
But I don’t have that luxury. So, know this: If you wish to learn more about what happened at the Cathedral, you will accept this path.
This is your responsibility. This is the Goddess’s will. There is no other.”
Her meaning is crystal clear. To refuse again will be regarded as blasphemy. At least this shows that she doesn’t suspect me of anything more than my usual obstinance, that she hasn’t picked up on my penchant for imagined deicide any more now than in the past.
I let out a breath. “The Goddess’s will it is.” The words taste sour in my mouth.
Executrix. Bound even closer to Tempestra-Innara than I already am. Not exactly what I had in mind.
Assuming I get the job. Because the Dusk Cloister will be putting up a candidate too, and there’s no telling how good theirs will be.
The two of us will be tested, pushed to our limits, pitted against one another—and probably end up with a few chances to whittle two candidates down to one.
More often than not, the choice for Executrix isn’t really a decision—it’s based on whoever is left standing.
But this is how I’ve been tasked to serve the Goddess.
It is also, apparently, my only chance to learn how to escape them.
“Cheer up,” I say to Prior Petronilla, who still looks like she’s had to swallow something rotten. “At least this means you’ll be rid of me, one way or another.”