Teryn stood at her side, tense with trepidation. He had no idea what to expect or how her memories had anything to do with the curse Cora had mentioned.
The bedroom door opened and in walked another version of Emylia. She appeared to be a year or two younger than the Emylia he knew now, but perhaps it was the carefree smile, the sparkle in her eyes, and the buoyancy of her steps that made her seem so youthful. She wore a simple silk shift, belted at the waist with a red braided cord. A similar red cord framed her face, keeping her halo of black curls off her forehead, and ended in a bow at the nape of her neck. Her arms were full of leather-bound books.
Behind the Emylia of memory followed an older woman. She was tall with brown skin and short-cropped black hair. Her state of dress was slightly more elegant, her shift patterned with floral designs, and her braided belt was gold in color.
Neither figure paid any heed to Teryn and his companion. He and Emylia were merely spectators in this memory, not participants.
“He says he’s from Syrus,” the older woman said. Her voice was soft and slightly muffled, her tone inconstant, as if whatever magic Emylia was using to replicate this memory was unable to properly recall how the woman was supposed to sound. “He seems to be about the same age as you, and with the same fascination with books. For seven days, he’s been in our library, asking questions that our archivists don’t have answers to.”
The younger Emylia set her books next to her bed and turned back toward the woman. “What does this have to do with me, Priestess Calla?”
“The young man is in need of a channel, either an oracle or seer. Moreover, I need him out of our library, and you need to hone your craft.”
Emylia’s eyes brightened. “You mean I can practice channeling for someone outside of the temple?”
“Yes. I believe you are ready. The man’s search is of a nature that will provide you a challenge.”
Emylia cocked her head to the side. “What is he asking about?”
“The fae.”
Her mouth dropped open, expression falling. “The fae. He seeks answers to…faerytales.”
Mother Calla gave her a knowing grin. “I told you it would be a challenge.”
Emylia’s face wrinkled with disgust. “It’s a challenge because the fae aren’t real. A channel is a seeker of truth. How can I act as his seer when the subject is one of myth?”
Mother Calla’s mirth slipped from her face. “It is not a temple acolyte’s job to judge what is and isn’t real. If you are to become a Priestess of Zaras, you must open yourself to new possibilities. You cannot reject a patron based on your preconceived prejudice. You must be willing to seek before you judge, regardless of the subject.”
Emylia stiffened, then bowed at the waist. “Forgive me,” she said in a rush. “It was wrong for me to judge. Of course I’ll channel for this patron.”
“You will,” Mother Calla said, then closed the distance between them. Placing her finger under Emylia’s chin, she urged her to straighten from her bow. The older woman’s eyes crinkled with clear fondness. “You’re as bold as your mother, and just as stubborn. I believe in you, the same way I believed in her. You’ll do her memory proud.”
The image stilled. Teryn was about to ask what that memory had to do with Cora, when the fog returned and swept the room away completely. In its place, a new location formed, darkening the edges of Teryn’s vision until it formed a cobblestone street bathed in shadow and moonlight. Both sides of the street were lined with narrow townhomes and clustered storefronts.
Teryn caught a glimpse of a hooded figure strolling up to one of the buildings before the image shifted again. The figure was now approaching the door of an inn. Teryn saw Emylia’s telltale black curls peeking out from under her hood as the acolyte entered the building. The fog swept the image away once more and formed a small candlelit room. Like the temple bedroom, the room shifted whenever Teryn tried to focus on details, but he was able to make out a narrow cot and a small desk.
Emylia entered the room, tossing back her hood as a young man closed the door behind them. Teryn assessed the man’s fair skin, his pale eyes, his shoulder-length black hair. He looked young—perhaps a year younger than Teryn—but there was no denying his resemblance to Morkai. But unlike the duke, this man wasn’t impeccably dressed. Instead, he wore plain brown trousers and a cream linen tunic.
The man faced Emylia, frowning as his eyes landed on her face. “You’rea Priestess of Zaras? You look…young.”
She scoffed. “Is that how you greet people in Syrus?”
His expression hardened. “I requested a priestess.”
“Well, you got an acolyte. Shall I leave, or are you going to be a gentleman and introduce yourself?”
He ran a hand over his face, then crossed his arms. “Desmond.”
Teryn frowned. He’d expected the man to introduce himself as Morkai, based on their striking similarities. Was this truly a younger version of the sorcerer as he’d first assumed, or a close relative? Was Desmond the sorcerer’s true name? He glanced at the real Emylia to ask but found her lower lip trembling. A sheen of tears coated her eyes, and her expression sagged with longing.
“Is Desmond your surname?” The Emylia of memory stole his attention back to the scene playing out before him. She arched a brow at the man. “Or are we already on a first-name basis?”
“Desmond is the only name you need to know.”
Her jaw shifted side to side. “Fine. Acolyte Emylia.”
Desmond’s only reply was to extend a hand toward the chair at the desk. “Take a seat and we can get started.”
