‘Plenty of Rettlings don’t make it out of the trials,’ he finally says, his voice almost a hiss. ‘I’ve even heard of one or two not making it through the vowing. I’ll be keeping my fingers crossed for you.’
What a delightful human, I think sarcastically as he turns on the ball of his foot and strides away.
‘What was that about?’ Jonas asks, appearing at my side.
‘Oh, nothing at all,’ I say, watching Holden march away. ‘Just another person who wants to see me dead, that’s all. Come on, we should go.’
Chapter 20
As we enter the temple itself, an unexpected blast of light causes me to squint. When the shock and pain fade, my eyes open and gravitate upwards, to the tiers of white marble seating that stretch upwards to the pale blue sky. It’s unlike any holy sanctum I’ve been in before. There are no altars. No candles set around the edges. Instead, sand covers the ground of the perfectly circular space where only a single raised platform sits in the middle, topped by a marble font glistening with water. A line of priestesses stands behind the dais, all in their ceremonial robes with blue stones embedded in their foreheads. My heart clenches. If only Dinah were among them.
We file in and stand around the dais, and once we’re all in place, a priestess holds up a hand to signal the others. As one, the priestesses around the dais stamp their feet, and in the echoing boom, King Korvane and other courtiers appear in the lowermost marble seats.
Portation, I think as my mouth dries.
Another beat, another choral stamp, and another level of seats is filled.
The Rettlings watch agog as, stamp by stamp, the noble spectators are brought in, dressed in their finery. They, too, must have been warned about the need for silence, for despite the pageantry, no one dares to speak.
The tension grows heavy as the stands fill in eerie silence, and the weight of the assemblage’s stares crushes us.
When the stands are finally full, a single priestess steps forward. Mygaze swings to her, and my vision tunnels, my veins fill with ice, and my knees struggle to keep me upright.
With Dinah unable to attend, I did not expect to recognise any of the priestesses present today. And yet I do. Mila, the one who took our powers. The knowledge is enough to set my head swirling.
‘People of Morathka,’ she begins. Her voice is resonant, yet I can barely hear her over the blood that rushes behind my ears. Desperately trying to brush off the remembered agony of having my magic stripped by this very woman, all I can do is breathe and try to ground myself in the here and now.
Her forehead stone is different from those of the other priestesses – an amethyst purple rather than pale sapphire blue. So Mila is the High Priestess now. I wonder if she profited from our stripping, if our magic bought her that purple stone?
‘We have come today to take the blood offering of the Retterheld,’ she continues. ‘Before you stand our Rettlings, those the Great Goddess Etta has chosen to compete for the greatest reward of all: the gifting. Only one here will be granted this almighty blessing. By their presence, they were judged worthy. Whether theyremainworthy, we shall now see.’
What? I turn to my side. Llinos’s wide eyes reflect my own thoughts exactly. What the hell?
A surge of fear sweeps through the Rettlings, but in our enforced silence, there is no opportunity to react. No one speaks, though several sniffs echo their way to my ears. Coulter. Coulter is crying. I catch his eye and reach out to give his hand a squeeze. I want to tell him it’ll be all right – mouth the words at least – but I can’t risk a sound escaping from my lips. Not here. And so all I can do is offer a smile.
He nods and tries to reciprocate but manages only a grimace. While his shaking continues, the High Priestess calls the first name. ‘Baylis Airlan,’ she says.
With his head held high, one of the knights walks forward.
‘Take your place.’ She points to the dais and he is followed up by two priestesses. ‘Baylis Airlan, kneel and pray as the Goddess demands.’
This isnotwhat I expected. I thought it would be a hands-out, palm-cut scenario. And I’m sure that’s what the others thought as well.
The priestesses whisper something into Airlan’s ear and he leans forward, arms stretched out in front of him, palms down.
‘Baylis Airlan, you have offered your tears. Now you will offer your blood. May Etta accept it, or may the consequences be just.’
She raises a dagger and then plunges it straight through the back of his hand. His body tenses, and a collective gasp rattles the air around us. But while my chest lurches, it’s not the pooling blood that has my attention. It’s the dagger in the priestess’s hands.
It reflects the light almost as if it is luminous, the hilt copper and the blade two-toned. It’s exactly the same as the one Dinah gave me.
As I force myself to swallow the lump in my throat, I glance across the other Rettlings, only to see that one has his gaze fixed straight on me. Kyor. He saw it too. And now I’d bet my already vulnerable life that he’s wondering, like me, what the fuck I’m doing with the dagger’s twin in my possession?
As Baylis Airlan descends from the dais, my eyes stay focused on the knight’s hand. I saw the blade disappear behind his knuckles, heard the crunch of the bone, and saw the blood dripping from the blade of the dagger as it was removed. A wound like that should require urgent attention, but the cut isn’t even bleeding.
So is the knife imbued with magic? Magic that limits how much damage it can do? That certainly feels possible. But if that’s the case, then Dinah’s gift is close to useless. A knife that can’t kill, that would only mildly aggravate a person, isn’t exactly ideal.
When the next name is called, the Rettling is substantially more apprehensive, which is unsurprising given what we just saw. They flinch as the cleaned blade is impaled into the back of their hand, then gasp with relief as it’s pulled out. No words, just sounds. With that, they’re walking back to their place, and the next name is called.
