Verity Guild

Chapter 1

I.

Kerasea

I stand at the feet of a god as a nobleman confesses his latest lie. The colossal statue of the god of truth looms behind me, while the man with blue-black hair whispers details of how he conned a wealthy woman out of her fortune.

I glance to the side.

The same sharp-faced man was on his knees last month when there was snow on the ground. He wore pungent lilac cologne as he confessed to cheating a business partner out of his share. Both the scent and the misdeed felt like ash against my tongue as I smiled and offered forgiveness.

Today, I bite my cheek and try to not react to his latest lie.

My father told me to refrain from judgment because confessions are good for the soul.

So long as we are honest before the divine, the god of truth forgives us for the frailty of being human.

And, of course, the money nobles pay for indulgences allows our temple to thrive not just here in the capital city but throughout the Republic of Pryor.

Still, it’s hard not to judge. Judgment is as natural as breathing, as lying.

I’m about to bless the man when a boy runs through the colonnaded great hall. He slips past temple guards and enters the inner area, then stops at the other end of the reflecting pool, breathing hard.

“Sanctuary!” he yells out. His desperation echoes in the white marble space, and I step forward.

He’s young, at least ten years less than my twenty-two. Yet his clothes are several sizes too small—inches of his pale wrists and ankles stick out of his worn shirt and pants.

Two sentries rush in and grab his thin arms.

“What is this about?” I raise a hand, and everyone stills.

“Sanctuary, Great One,” the boy cries.

“A patron has accused him of stealing a Revelry mask, Excellency,” the elder sentry replies in a voice so loud that I hear him clearly from the other end of the room. The guard is old enough to be my father and trying to catch his breath, having lumbered after the boy.

“Northside trash coming over the bridge to pickpocket—that is all, High Priestess,” the other sentry adds. He is either a teenager or barely able to grow a patchy mustache. “He ran in here to evade us. Our deepest apologies for the disturbance.”

“Whip him at the post and make an example of the boy,” the nobleman says from behind me.

I keep myself from sneering at the man who was just confessing to stealing far more than a mask. But he is elite and this child is not.

“A priest will take the remainder of your confession in the silent alcoves,” I say, faking a genial smile at the nobleman.

Then I walk to where the sentries hold the boy.

My long, gold-embellished robe swooshes as I glide toward them.

The two sentries incline their heads as they both take a knee, but the boy just stands staring at me.

He’s only an inch or two smaller than my five foot three, but he looks up with his mouth agape.

His eyes are slightly tipped at the corners like mine, but his hair is far shorter than my waist-length locks.

“Is what they say the truth? Did you steal a mask?” I ask.

His lips quiver. “Yes, Excellency.”

“Do you have it now?”

He nods, and a tear falls from his thick lashes as he pulls the item from under his shirt. It’s a silver mask—the kind that will be worn this evening by elites as they mark the founding of the republic.

Tonight we will commemorate our senators murdering the Elusian king and his magical bloodline.

Through bloodshed, they ended the monarchy and the Hundred Year War.

It used to be known as the Crimson Night, but now it’s the Revelry.

Blood rinsed clearer every year until solemnity became a celebration.

I hold out my palm, and the boy’s hands shake as he gives me the mask. I then hand it to the older sentry.

“There. No harm has been done.” I smile without showing my teeth. “You may both return to your posts.”

“But—” the younger sentry begins.

I raise an eyebrow, and the older sentry shakes his head at the younger soldier. They are part of the legions of Pryor, but I am the High Priestess of this temple. They are only welcome for as long as I permit them to remain. And they wouldn’t have dared question my father.

“Yes, Excellency,” they say together.

They both bow and withdraw. The boy looks around, now free, but he shifts his weight under my gaze.

“Why did you take the mask?” I ask once we are alone.

“To sell it. My little sister needs tonics from the apothecary and good food to eat, or she won’t make it through the spring. I… We can’t afford to heal her.”

The truth rings out in his voice, and I clench my fists. No more than twelve, and he’s already the provider for his family. The capital has changed for the worse in recent years.

Being young and poor, he probably had few options to raise the money for medicines. Although I am from the Southside of the capital, I know all too well what it’s like to not have choices in this world.

“I see,” I say. “And that was the sole purpose? Just to heal your sister?”

“And to buy a meal for myself at the taverna.” His cheeks color with shame, but doing good doesn’t mean you have to be selfless. The weight of a good deed is measured alone.

“You know that stealing from the elite carries heavy punishments?” I ask. “And that it is wrong to steal? The act of stealing is predicated on a lie.”

He slowly drops his head in a nod. “I know. But I had to try for Tria.”

There’s so much love in the two syllables of his sister’s name that my heart squeezes.

“I believe you,” I say. Then I look past him and gesture to a temple guard.

The guard strides over. He salutes me and stands ready. He must’ve overheard all of this, but he is expressionless. If I asked him to whip this boy, he would do so without hesitation. The boy stares at the guard’s tall frame covered in steel and leather armor, and dread flashes in his eyes.

“Give this boy three gold coins and have the cooks feed him supper,” I say. “He is welcome to remain in the temple until we shut the doors at nightfall.”

“Great One, I am not worthy,” the boy says. But he doesn’t hesitate to pocket the money the guard hands him. It will more than cover the tonics.

I reach out and rest a hand on his shoulder. I can feel the hollows between his bones under my palm, and my stomach twists. “You were truthful in this temple, and that is what matters. We are all worthy of forgiveness when our hearts are pure. I hope you can heal your sister.”

He falls to his knees in tears, and I bless him, signing over his head with my hand as I saw Father do all my life. The guard escorts him out of the inner hall as the boy praises my name.

“A million thanks to you, Excellency. May all of Pryor see your goodness and know your generosity.”

I exhale. I suppose that’s better than them knowing the truth.

“Your good heart will be your downfall, Kera,” Priestess Mirial says.

She stands to my side with her arms folded.

I’d startle, but I’m used to her moving on silent feet.

Her chin-length gray hair is perfect as always, her lined face in the permanent scowl I adore.

“He’ll talk, and we will have brats trying for sanctuary from now until the next solstice. ”

I shrug. “There are worse things.”

Mirial harrumphs, but ever since the death of my father and my subsequent elevation to High Priestess a few months ago, she doesn’t question me.

“Indeed, there are,” she says. “Come with me to the divining room?”

I nod.

“Here I thought you were going to lecture me about not being ready for the Revelry,” I say as we walk around the pool and down the narrow hall in the rear.

The afternoon light is already dimming, and I will need to bathe and dress before the celebration begins after sunset.

“That, too, but this takes precedence,” she says.

A chill crawls over my shoulders—something is wrong, because little is more important to Mirial than punctuality and decorum.

I discreetly clutch my sleeves in my hands, holding myself together, as I’m always being watched. We pass servants and acolytes in the halls, and they bow to me. Luckily, I have experience hiding how I feel, so no one looks twice as we turn and climb a set of winding stairs.

The inner sanctum of the temple, the holiest place, is the divining room.

With an oculus open in the gilded, domed ceiling, we use this space to commune with the gods and foretell the future from the livers of sacrifices.

One such sacrifice, a bronze-colored eagle, lies cut open on the marble altar.

When I was younger, I used to hate that my father had to use dead birds for prophecy, but he pointed out that all creatures die, and omens are a divine blessing. We see the future while most of the republic dwells in the past.

But whoever did this sacrifice nearly butchered the animal.

“Is this what you wanted me to see?” I ask Mirial, pointing to the carcass.

She shakes her head and lifts a cloth from the golden offering tray. I glance down and gasp, the sound echoing in the small, stone-walled room.

A mal omen.

I press my hand to my lips and swallow the bile rising in my throat, but my fingers are shaking.

I’ve never seen a mal omen in person, but it’s unmistakable.

The pink liver of the eagle has turned as black as my hair and reeks of death.

The solid charcoal appearance is the worst harbinger of rot and chaos.

My mind races back to the last time one was seen.

It was right before the Hundred Year War began, when the nearly immortal king locked us into battle with the Kingdom of Arthago for a century, killing hundreds of thousands of men, women, and children.

The sign means that death is coming to Pryor—and a great deal of it.

My stomach bottoms out as heavy foreboding shatters my composed facade. I scratch at my wrists, wringing my hands.

Bloody lies, what do I do now?

Mirial’s pale blue eyes are locked on my green ones. She’s as close to a mother as I’ve ever had, but she’s awaiting instruction from me. As High Priestess, it is my role to lead the Faith, my responsibility to know what to do.

But I don’t.

I was only a first-year acolyte when my father died and the elder priests pressed me to fill his position.

Having grown up in the temple, I’ve always been considered god-chosen, but my father fell ill quickly and didn’t have the time to teach me everything I needed to know.

We assumed we’d have time. But time and health are never guaranteed.

For the most part, I’ve held things together, but I am not Osiris Vestal. I’m not even the person they all think I am.

I swallow hard, forcing down the word that claws up my throat—the truth of what I am—but I can’t even think it again.

My breath comes in shallow sips, and I ball my hands in fists as I try to focus on the mal omen before me.

What now? With an omen like this, the Revelry should be canceled and the Senate Council convened on Mount Ara. But…that’s not my decision to make.

We divine the truth from the god and share it on earth. The Senate Council worries about the impact on the people. That separation keeps the Faith from ruling the republic. But I have to do something. Maybe I should refuse to start the celebration or—

“It’s nearly sunset,” Mirial says in a clipped tone.

I eye her. She’s not helping, and she knows it.

“I don’t…I don’t know what to do,” I admit. I hate the weakness in the wobble of my voice almost as much as I hate disappointing her.

Mirial sighs. “You need to report the omen to the Senate Clerk and then start the Revelry.”

“But…”

“But nothing. It is tradition and your duty, Kera. You must tell the clerk and go take your place on the Revelry dais—unless the Council decides otherwise.”

Before I can say a word in reply, Mirial is gone, and I’m left with a liver that reeks of blood and rot.

I close my eyes for a long blink as dread courses through me.

And not just from the mal omen.

I try to forget who I’ll be seated next to on the dais, as he is the last thing I need to think about right now.

But with my elevation to High Priestess, I’ll have no choice but to sit next to the dreaded Praetorian.

I’ll see him tonight, all next week, and after, when the Verity Guild will convene for the first time since my father’s passing.

Shaking out my hands, I try to loosen the noose of fear, but it fits my neck like a vise.

With one more exhale, I give up. I raise my chin and glide toward my chambers despite the choking feeling.

I have acted the part for my entire life—I can do it for another night.

Even with the mal omen, even if it’s next to Torren Morvane.

Even if I am not actually a Vestal, but the last of the magical Elusian bloodline.