“The Five will be attending today.” I state the obvious and immediately feel like an idiot. It feels as if a week has passed since yesterday’s class.
“Seems like quite the to-do,” nods Cordelia.
The benches slowly fill up, the air buzzing with chatter.
All talk pauses when Elodie and Maida cross the courtyard, toting a bulky case between them. Sadrie and Cordelia murmur to each other, correctly guessing that it’s the spinning drum Sister Delia mentioned yesterday.
The priestesses arrange the contraption on a table by the birdcage. By the apparent weight and the muted clacking coming from within, it’s already loaded with spheres.
The clock tower strikes the hour, prompting all meandering sisters, handmaidens, and initiates to come scurrying. Still, the Screamer is nowhere to be found.
Excitement ripples through the crowd. Every face is pointed toward the Residential Quarters as a group of well-dressed men exits through the doors. They are led by Sister Ailen and someone I haven’t seen before. Someone important.
She looks to be around Elodie’s age, but the way she walks ramrod straight, with her stark white robe peeking from her cloak’s opening, there’s no mistaking her for anyone other than the Head Sister. Lead Sister.
Do they have ranks? There must be some sort of hierarchy.
Both sisters parade the men across the cobblestones, ushering them up the aisle, past the drum and the birdcage, and around the great tree’s many boles.
“Those must be the illustrious patriarchs,” murmurs Sadrie.
Whispers surround us, the susurrations united in awe. “It’s them. It’s the Five.”
“Shhh,” Cordelia hisses.
Fear grips deep in my gut.
Each of the men is richly dressed in furs, brocades, and velvets; each is decked out in a hip-length, ceremonial cape of a different color.
They strut self-importantly across the cobblestones on polished boots, eyes fixed above our heads. The man in the green cape is remarkably taller than the others. His cape hangs from broad, muscular shoulders, depicting a golden bee.
The official crest of Nehel. My brain supplies the information from our history lecture.
The procession arrives at the dais. From here I can see the indigo cape bears a chrysanthemum, etched in pale pink. The crest of Aronya Dar.
Disquiet roils inside of me as the Five settle into their chairs—it feels like an oncoming storm. Blankets are tucked around their precious, highborn laps, and wine is poured. Meanwhile, the priestesses and Ghisele stand at attention, lined up between the birdcage and lottery drum.
The drum itself is made of polished wood set on a silver stand. There’s some sort of housing coming from the bottom of it, draped in black velvet.
Sadrie’s interest is piqued. “What do you suppose that’s for?”
“It’s the channel the spheres will roll down as they’re released,” whispers Cordelia. “I’m guessing the fabric is draped over it to hide the color.”
“But why—?”
They’re cut short by the Head Sister moving in front of the Waymark. Finished fussing over our revered guests, she aims a benevolent smile at us that seems to blanket the crowd. “Good morning, ladies! My name is Mother Deirdre, Prioress of the Temple of Eisha.” Her hair and eyes are a soft brown, her skin fair to the point of translucence. Her smile shows far too many teeth.
“Welcome to the Ceremony of Induction. We’re so very honored you all decided to answer Eisha’s calling.” The prioress glances toward the men on their dais. “The Patriarchs of the High Clans have traveled far to be here today.” She sweeps a magnanimous hand, starting on the left side of the dais. “Kaysen of Clan Leofel has arrived from Black City.”
The black-caped man is almost entirely blocked from view by the Waymark. All I can see of him is one leg crossed over the other, his foot bouncing incessantly.
“Jarreth of Clan Owin, from Nehel,” says the prioress, her hand moving over a notch.
Even sitting, the green-caped man towers over his counterparts. Most of his body is blocked by the tree, but his tawny face and dark eyes are clearly visible, along with his skepticism.
“Bard Fiach of Clan Jedrek, from Aronya Dar.” Deirdre presses on, her smile stretching wider.
There’s a vortex stirring inside of me.I want to rip that smile right off of her face. The notion comes from nowhere, seizing me to the bone.
