Talia hurried to keep up, the temptation to gawk at all the sights and sounds of Ja’ni like a mere visitor burning through her still. The last time she had been allowed in the city wasbefore. Before her father sold her to the Order of the Sisterhood. Before she ever became Skatia’s apprentice at the tender age of six.
Apprentices were never allowed outside the compound—not until their trial—just on the off chance they tried to run away.
But now that she was a full-fledged witch, Ja’ni was finally hers to explore…so long as the Mother did not need her. Or she did not have other duties to perform.
Sunset bled across the sky in streaks of pink and gold, bathing the market in soft light as the vendors packed up their stalls for the day. Young boys flitted through the streets, lighting the silver lanterns strung from their poles, swiftly turning the square into a place of magic and wonder.
Talia’s chest tightened. It was the first night of the Harvest Festival. There was to be feasting and dancing all throughout the district. A part of her longed to stay and take part. A small, girlish part that should have been snuffed out the moment Our LadyBelow breathed dragonfire into her lungs and put a soulblade in her hand.
The sound of masculine laughter drew her attention to the left, where a man stood, ruffling the hair of a young boy with him. His brother? His son? The man had a kind look about him and a warm smile—a smile that immediately died on his lips when he lifted his gaze and found that he had earned Talia’s attention.
He ducked into a low bow at once, her eyes fixated on his boots. Knuckling his forehead in a show of respect, he babbled, “Forgive me for staring, Sister. All glory to Our Lady Below. Peace be on you. Forgive me.”
The familiar sting of loneliness pricked her heart as she looked away and hurried onward, her back straight and her head held high. She was a witch. A revered member of the Order of the Sisterhood. A priestess of the Lady Herself.
What did it matter if men only ever looked at her with fear now?
What did it matter if women only ever looked at her with envy?
She hadpower. She had survived the trial. She could breathe fire. She could wield a soulblade. She could command Witchsworn whose souls had been placed into her keeping—her own little army of immortal warriors.
Immortal to a point.
The point when she became wounded and had to consume their captured souls to heal herself.
Just ahead of her, Skatia let loose with an annoyed hiss. Talia winced, momentarily worried her Sister was somehow aware of her thoughts. But then she spied the glow of Skatia’s soulblade inthe growing darkness and knew at once what was truly vexing the woman.
It was her wayward Witchsworn again.
“He still does not answer your summons?” she asked, lengthening her stride to come alongside Skatia.
Without glancing her way, Skatia stiffly replied, “He does not, no.”
And that was that.
Talia frowned. It was all very strange. She had never heard of a Witchsworn not obeying his mistress. But then again, she had never heard of a Witchsworn being made with only a sliver of his soul sacrificed rather than the whole thing.
But that was what Skatia claimed had happened that night in Mysai when she assaulted the young man in the usuri tower. And Talia wasn’t about to try to contradict her again.
The last time she had so much as suggested her former mistress take the matter to the Mother, she had nearly earned for herself a crisp slap across the face.“No one can know, Talia,”Skatia had hissed that day, wild-eyed with fear.“No one can know I can’t control the Elmorian.”
They were late. So very, very late. The temple was already packed with Sisters and their Witchsworn by the time she and Skatia finally slipped inside. As ever, she was struck by the dark beauty of this holy place.
Deep shadows pooled in the corners of the room, writhing as if they had a mind of their own. Black marble gleamed in the candlelight, slick and smooth. The symbol of the Lady Herself—a crescent moon pointing upward, crowning an inverted mountain peak—shimmered upon the floor and walls.
The Mother stood at the very center of it all—a wizened crone with silver-white hair and papery skin. Black silk draped her withered frame. Her back bowed beneath the weight of her many years.Ancient. The high priestess was ancient.
But her age certainly hadn’t dulled her edge.
“Sister Skatia. Sister Talia,” the Mother boomed, her voice reverberating off the temple walls. “You are late.”
Talia’s back stiffened as fifty-seven pairs of golden eyes swung toward her and Skatia. Fifty-seven Sisters in residence within Ja’ni, now all watching her. Staring. Judging. She bowed her head, her mouth working over the apology she wanted to utter yet dared not.
A witch never apologized, not even to her own kind.
The Mother continued, “Your Sisters have already received their assignments. Assignments fitting their skills and rank. Because they wereon time.” Those final two words slammed home, pounding into her chest like the beating of war drums.
Irritation radiated from Skatia like heat from a flame. No doubt her former mistress would blame her for this, their lateness. Even though it had been Skatia who had taken too long in the market. But she was the junior Sister.
