Chapter 20
As we enter the temple itself, an unexpected blast of light causes me to squint.
When the shock and pain fade, my eyes open and gravitate upwards, to the tiers of white marble seating that stretch upwards to the pale blue sky.
It’s unlike any holy sanctum I’ve been in before.
There are no altars. No candles set around the edges.
Instead, sand covers the ground of the perfectly circular space where only a single raised platform sits in the middle, topped by a marble font glistening with water.
A line of priestesses stands behind the dais, all in their ceremonial robes with blue stones embedded in their foreheads.
My heart clenches. If only Dinah were among them.
We file in and stand around the dais, and once we’re all in place, a priestess holds up a hand to signal the others. As one, the priestesses around the dais stamp their feet, and in the echoing boom, King Korvane and other courtiers appear in the lowermost marble seats.
Portation, I think as my mouth dries.
Another beat, another choral stamp, and another level of seats is filled.
The Rettlings watch agog as, stamp by stamp, the noble spectators are brought in, dressed in their finery. They, too, must have been warned about the need for silence, for despite the pageantry, no one dares to speak.
The tension grows heavy as the stands fill in eerie silence, and the weight of the assemblage’s stares crushes us.
When the stands are finally full, a single priestess steps forward. My gaze swings to her, and my vision tunnels, my veins fill with ice, and my knees struggle to keep me upright.
With Dinah unable to attend, I did not expect to recognise any of the priestesses present today. And yet I do. Mila, the one who took our powers. The knowledge is enough to set my head swirling.
‘People of Morathka,’ she begins. Her voice is resonant, yet I can barely hear her over the blood that rushes behind my ears. Desperately trying to brush off the remembered agony of having my magic stripped by this very woman, all I can do is breathe and try to ground myself in the here and now.
Her forehead stone is different from those of the other priestesses – an amethyst purple rather than pale sapphire blue. So Mila is the High Priestess now. I wonder if she profited from our stripping, if our magic bought her that purple stone?
‘We have come today to take the blood offering of the Retterheld,’ she continues.
‘Before you stand our Rettlings, those the Great Goddess Etta has chosen to compete for the greatest reward of all: the gifting. Only one here will be granted this almighty blessing. By their presence, they were judged worthy. Whether they remain worthy, we shall now see.’
What? I turn to my side. Llinos’s wide eyes reflect my own thoughts exactly. What the hell?
A surge of fear sweeps through the Rettlings, but in our enforced silence, there is no opportunity to react.
No one speaks, though several sniffs echo their way to my ears.
Coulter. Coulter is crying. I catch his eye and reach out to give his hand a squeeze.
I want to tell him it’ll be all right – mouth the words at least – but I can’t risk a sound escaping from my lips.
Not here. And so all I can do is offer a smile.
He nods and tries to reciprocate but manages only a grimace. While his shaking continues, the High Priestess calls the first name. ‘Baylis Airlan,’ she says.
With his head held high, one of the knights walks forward.
‘Take your place.’ She points to the dais and he is followed up by two priestesses. ‘Baylis Airlan, kneel and pray as the Goddess demands.’
This is not what I expected. I thought it would be a hands-out, palm-cut scenario. And I’m sure that’s what the others thought as well.
The priestesses whisper something into Airlan’s ear and he leans forward, arms stretched out in front of him, palms down.
‘Baylis Airlan, you have offered your tears. Now you will offer your blood. May Etta accept it, or may the consequences be just.’
She raises a dagger and then plunges it straight through the back of his hand. His body tenses, and a collective gasp rattles the air around us. But while my chest lurches, it’s not the pooling blood that has my attention. It’s the dagger in the priestess’s hands.
It reflects the light almost as if it is luminous, the hilt copper and the blade two-toned. It’s exactly the same as the one Dinah gave me.
As I force myself to swallow the lump in my throat, I glance across the other Rettlings, only to see that one has his gaze fixed straight on me.
Kyor. He saw it too. And now I’d bet my already vulnerable life that he’s wondering, like me, what the fuck I’m doing with the dagger’s twin in my possession?
As Baylis Airlan descends from the dais, my eyes stay focused on the knight’s hand.
I saw the blade disappear behind his knuckles, heard the crunch of the bone, and saw the blood dripping from the blade of the dagger as it was removed.
A wound like that should require urgent attention, but the cut isn’t even bleeding.
So is the knife imbued with magic? Magic that limits how much damage it can do? That certainly feels possible. But if that’s the case, then Dinah’s gift is close to useless. A knife that can’t kill, that would only mildly aggravate a person, isn’t exactly ideal.
When the next name is called, the Rettling is substantially more apprehensive, which is unsurprising given what we just saw.
They flinch as the cleaned blade is impaled into the back of their hand, then gasp with relief as it’s pulled out.
No words, just sounds. With that, they’re walking back to their place, and the next name is called.
I watch the Rettlings ascend the dais one by one, trying to ignore the pounding in my chest. It doesn’t help that I constantly find my attention back on Kyor.
From here, I can see the marks for his fealty Gods with perfect clarity.
Yordenrin and Niairah. I was right about the chaos then, and Niairah is hardly a surprise, given he’s probably a fire wielder like his father.
I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I don’t feel the same need to look at Jonas or Benny, but then maybe that’s because I don’t fear what they might do to me.
I’m only able to forget about Kyor entirely when the first of our allies is called up. Loch.
His pace is quick, almost a near sprint over to the priestess. Unlike with Baylis, when the blade is removed, a fair amount of blood streams from his hand – enough to cause droplets to fall into the sand as he rushes back to his place – and then Jai is called next.
I can’t help but notice the possibly stolen dagger still protruding from Jai’s weapons belt, and I wonder if Kyor’s seen it too. He would know for certain if it is indeed the missing one.
As Jai takes his place with arms extended, she recites the standard line. ‘Jai Den, you have offered your tears. Now you will offer your blood. May Etta accept it or may the consequences be just.’
The knife plunges into the back of Jai’s hand, but when it’s removed and Jai stands, there is a slight wobble to his frame.
It could just be due to his size, of course.
He’s a big man and was near enough lying on the ground, but as he takes his first step off the dais, I notice the cut on his hand.
While the other Rettlings’ wounds varied from a deep gash to a mere scratch, Jai’s hand is streaming with a torrent of blood, colouring his fingers, his nails, and even his trousers.
It pours like a river, staining the sand beneath his feet.
I thought the magic was supposed to limit the damage, yet blood is rushing from him so fast that his face is paling.
With one hand covering my mouth, I reach out for Llinos with the other.
But she’s not looking at me. She’s not even looking at Jai.
Instead, her gaze is locked on Coulter, who is watching his idol with abject horror.
The young Rettling’s eyes are red with tears, his whole body shaking as he bites down on his knuckles, low whimpers escaping from his mouth like a wounded animal.
Jai is still moving, staggering slowly towards us, towards Coulter.
But every step he makes is a stumble, a sway that knocks him more and more off balance.
He’s still walking … until he’s not. Sand billows up from the ground as he falls to his knees.
His glassy eyes meet his protégé’s for a heartbeat before he drops face-down to the ground.
‘No!’ Coulter screams. That single word is all it takes, and he knows it.
His hands fly up to his mouth as he shakes his head repeatedly. But it’s too late. Two priestesses move in to grab him, eyes flashing with fury.
‘Please, no …’ he says, eyes wide with panic as they grab him by the wrists and drag him through the trail of blood left by his friend.
Three words. Three stitches. Three years.
Shut up, Coulter!
He’ll still be young when he’s free if he just stops now.
He doesn’t stop. ‘I didn’t mean to disrespect them! I didn’t! I didn’t! Please believe me!’
Pain sears through my chest. How many words was that? My mind can’t keep a tally. More than ten, surely. Fifteen? Twenty? I feel sick. Twenty years? That’s more years than he’s been alive.
He doesn’t deserve this. I want to run to him and clasp my hand around his mouth. Or to scream out at him to shut the fuck up. But I can’t. None of us can.
Not unless we want to share the same fate.
I press my lips together as a tear slides down my cheek. I hear a soft, pained sound next to me and I reach again. This time my hand finds Llinos’s, though I don’t look at her. I don’t need to. I know she’ll be crying too. Tears of impotence and fury. It’s wrong.
I’ve seen plenty of dead bodies during my years in the slums – killed by sickness or starvation, or murdered for not paying what’s owed to someone like Rula – but hollow eyes and lifeless lips never fail to evoke the same sense of sickness, especially when they belonged to someone you knew.
Guilt strikes, hot and thick, and I choke on it.
What if the Goddess decided it was Jai’s time to meet Mortidem because he stole the blade?
Kyor told me to tell the thief to return it, but I didn’t.
If I had, if Jai had returned it, would he be standing beside me now?
No, there had to be more to his death than simply theft, or else surely Zara would have been struck down too.
She killed Rettlings, yet from what I could see, she had no issues when the blade impaled her hand.
I look again at the priestess’s dagger. I now have no doubt that it holds magic.
My grip on Llinos remains unwavering, as does hers on me, the pair of us offering the only support we can.
To die like Jai just did, with no chance of even fighting back and surrounded by people watching on in stunned silence, doesn’t feel right. None of this feels right.
In a daze, I watch Kyor take to the dais. The ritual is completed without issue and Kyor returns to his place, a thin trickle of blood weaving its way down his wrist. My gaze meets his for just a second before it’s torn away by the calling of another name.
Mine.