Total pages in book: 210
Estimated words: 200096 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1000(@200wpm)___ 800(@250wpm)___ 667(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 200096 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1000(@200wpm)___ 800(@250wpm)___ 667(@300wpm)
“Your Highness.” Two guards slap their heels together in a stiff stance and bow.
“Which way to the sanctum?” I ask without preamble.
“Through those gates.” The one on the left nods toward the twisted metal. A team of blacksmiths have been working to repair them since the morning. It will likely take them weeks. “We will escort you for your safety.”
“My safety?” I snort. “I could kill you both with nary a thought.” And no one would dare say a word to me about it.
Fear pumps through his lanky frame while the other guard pales. “But His Highness insisted.”
My hands clench. “Very well. I would not wish you to be punished for not following his orders. But you will remain outside the doors.” I will not tolerate spies and tattletales.
They bow again, and spinning on their heels lead me down a path.
Fools.
All of them.
What I would have done to have such a place to worship in.
I pause to admire the splendor of Cirilea’s sanctum. The exterior is a sight to behold—a Gothic vestige built to honor the Fate of Fire, its obsidian walls dominating the gleaming gold, silver, and bronze trim—nods to the other fates but, in their eyes, likely a dismissal. Bold on the part of these Islorians. It isn’t a wonder Malachi pined for this throne. These people have already deigned to grovel at his feet.
But inside is equally splendid, the gold mosaic ceiling glittering in the sunlight that peeks through the many small windows, highlighting how much dust has collected over the mahogany pews. From what information I have gleaned so far, I imagine the sanctum was pristinely kept before the last ruler slaughtered the priestesses.
Save for one.
Bowed heads line the first six rows of pews. I’m sure if I closed the distance, the stench of unwashed bodies would assault my senses. It’s difficult to decipher the common mortals from the exceptionally destitute in this world—the luxury of running water and soap seemingly nonexistent. Thankfully, the ones living in the castle have better grooming habits.
The person I am looking for—the reason I am here—sits in a chair within the sanctum’s circle, the grand sculptures of the fates towering over her. Gone is her tattered dress, replaced with a white robe trimmed in gold. I suppose she has an abundant supply hanging in closets of empty rooms now, her sisters all gone. Her neck is bent forward in prayer, her injured hand cradled within her lap.
She must feel my eyes upon her because suddenly, her head snaps up and our eyes meet. With a faint nod, she rises from her seat and makes her way down the steps toward me.
I momentarily consider shielding myself. What if this feeble priestess is waiting for an opportunity to exact revenge for her suffering? But the closer she gets, the more I see the husk left behind after her ordeal. Perhaps once she could have been a formidable threat to the unsuspecting.
More than one head turns in the pews, and the glares aimed at the caster ooze with venom. Do they blame her guild for what has befallen them, or her in particular? She has certainly earned their hatred.
“Your Highness.” She bows, her shoulders hunched—from trepidation or the weight of all she carries, I can only guess.
“Walk with me, Priestess.” I lead her down the aisle, away from prying ears. “Is the sanctum normally filled with so many mortals?”
“It has been some time since we’ve seen so many patrons of their kind.” She follows my gaze.
“And what has inspired this sudden influx?”
“Some are here to praise Malachi for ending the blood curse.”
“But not all?”
“Not all. Many lost loved ones in the rebellion. Others have not seen their children since they were rounded up by King Atticus and pray to be reunited.”
“They have little love for you, it seems.”
“They blame me for doing the king’s bidding when I helped root out those with tainted blood.” She says more quietly, “I cannot fault them for that.”
I jut my chin toward her bandaged hand. “Something tells me you were not given much choice in the matter.”
“There is always a choice, Your Highness.”
“Comply or die?”
“Still, it is a choice.” In her eyes is a forlorn sadness that I have seen from time to time when I look in the mirror.
I gesture to the last pew. “Please, after you, Wendeline.” It took no effort to gather information on the only caster left in Cirilea, at one point a trusted advisor to the royal family. From there the stories fray in different directions, but all end in the same conclusion: she betrayed many.
Wendeline slides in. “I wondered when you would come.”
“And why is that?”
“You are the key caster who sent Romeria to us, are you not?”
“I am.” This one is intelligent, though I’m not surprised. “What did Romeria tell you about me?”