Prologue
Itissa
The first day after the ritual, one sour old sister corrected me.
She said, “It’s notamnesia. It’s called ritual purification of the mind, and it’s a gift from Eisha herself. It’s also permanent, so you might as well stop whining and get used to it.”
Within hours of waking up with large swathes of my mind erased, I was told that I must “maintain chastity” and “avoid intimate contact of any sort.” Which seemed overly specific if I’m being honest.
Then a fancy, ceremonial knife came out, and the tip of my index finger was pricked open.
I was made to swear a series of chastity vows while pressing my bloody print onto the page of a registry. In no uncertain terms, I was also informed that I’m not allowed to leave this place. The Temple Guardsmen posted at the Entry Arch make sure of that.
Somehow, I don’t know how, I think I already knew about those two caveatsbeforethe ritual.
When I protested, I was told, “You asked for this, Tiss. Whether you want to accept it or not, you pledged your life in service to the goddess.”
Except I don’t strike myself as a particularly devout woman. I hardly know a thing about myself, but my intuition tells me I didn’t come here willingly. I’m certain of it, marrow-deep, to the hollows of my bones.
Not to mention this mountaintop is so isolated, none of the buildings are wired for electricity yet. There’s barely indoor plumbing, if you count the rustic communal washrooms we have to share.
No, I may not remember who I used to be, but I’m dead certain I wouldn’t bring myself to this remote, suffocatingly repressed, backwater hellhole voluntarily.
Those delusional sisters need to come off it. And I desperately need to know who put me here.
Part 1
Starting Over Again
Chapter 1
Itissa
My head is still empty, and my heart is sick, just like every other miserable day since the ritual. Pain pounds in my temples, throbbing in time with my pulse. Tears prick my eyes yet again, and I steel myself against a wave of helpless resentment.
Stop, damn it. Don’t cry.
I blink at the empty air beyond the heavy iron bars. The disappointment is smothering.You’ll just… find another way.
A cluster of three greenhouses blocks my view to the rear of the temple complex. On the opposite side, the blacksmithand his apprentice bang and clank away. Snatches of their conversation drift to me over the racket.
The smithy’s presence could be traditional or ceremonial, given Eisha is their patron goddess. Otherwise, why the temple would require one is beyond me, but the background noise is aggravating my angry head.
Alone in the kitchen gardens, I loiter near a patch of turnips. The tidy vegetable rows extend nearly all the way to a sheer drop. A ten-foot-tall wrought iron fence spans the cliff’s edge, keeping anyone from slipping off and plunging to the valley below.
This evening is the first time since the ritual that I’ve felt well enough to leave my room. After nearly two full days, I couldn’t spend another minute cooped up in the dark.
Not that it’s much better out here.
A chill, misty gloom blankets the rows of kohlrabi and cabbage, thickening with impending evening. Overhead, bands of rose pink, orange, and gold streak the sky.
I’m about to head back to our residence for dinner when a spate of laughter reaches my ears.
“Huh?” My head whips around, unshed tears cold on my lashes.
A weathered compost shed sits just beyond the bounds of the gardens, built into the rock wall by the blacksmith’s cottage. More laughter goes up, followed by the noises of the smithy.
The next sound that reaches me is a subdued moan.
