The dress is midnight blue, such as I’ve only seen in the glass of the temple. She has only worn gowns that mask her pregnancy, and now she is standing I gasp to see it fully. Around her waist is a large, embroidered sun, swirling dizzyingly until it reaches her navel. The swell of the child fills it perfectly.
‘Is it not a pretty thing?’ the queen says, and I realise I must be staring.
‘Yes, Your Grace.’
I hurry to secure the braid into a crown around her head. Dazzling golden thread shaped like stars glitters her hair, woven between the locks. I cast my eyes down, away from her face now rouged and painted. I sense her appraising my formless black gown, which must appear so similar to temple robes in her eyes; my plain, unadorned features. We continue in silence.
Preparations finished, I trail behind her as we enter the banquet hall, followed by a procession of lady’s maids. I see one of them scowling at the braided crown. From this angle, it is slant.
‘Pet,’ she says, so quietly it may have been a cough.
I shoot her a cutting look, and she colours, making the warding sign of the circle at her heart. Fool girl, doesn’t she know the symbol of life’s cycle is the same one we worship at the temple? Later I touch the bare skin of the lady’s maid’s throat, on the pretence of moving a loose strand of hair. The lady’s maid starts, shrinking back from my touch. The patch of skin reddens into a sore rash, eventually splitting open. A slight harm, payment in kind.
The queen takes her place at the head of the table, and I kneel behind her chair. The tall gilt frame conceals much of the room, but I can hear the amiable laughter and smell the steam of something rich and succulent. I shift my weight back onto my heels. The stone beneath my knees is as hard as the temple pews, but never has worship been as tantalising as this feast. From my vantage point, I can make out a great pit in the centre of the room, burning white-hot with stones. Flesh is skewered on a spit, spinning slowly like a dance, above the fire. Whatever it is, it is huge: with limbs and no head. An attendant hacks at the meat with a cleaver, and I chanceanother glance. By Paranish, it is a massive bird. I see the limbs now for wings, strung close to its body. I can’t tell what type of bird.
‘We feast tonight in honour of Magliyab, the festival of flames,’ the queen says. I angle to catch her profile as she raises a steaming bowl of broth. The smell of the meat mixed with the oil, herbs, and smoke makes my mouth water. I haven’t eaten all day. ‘We nourish ourselves from the land and sea and sky so that we may nourish it in return. And the next stewards will spring forth from our bodies like Paranish’s own crops.’
The queen raises the bowl to her lips, and I see the nobles mirror her. I almost drop the bowl that is thrust at me; the server barely breaks stride. The broth is tangy and sour at first, then mellows to a salty umami flavour. Small sharp onions float on its surface alongside the fat of the meat. I stare at the meat, red and tender in the middle, surrounded by crispy skin. I take a morsel in my next mouthful, and it bursts on my tongue. I’ve never tasted the like. I have been eating dirt until now.
The feast goes on for hours, and my legs are numb from kneeling. Eventually the queen stands, and we all follow.
‘Please, my friends, continue your festivities. Enjoy, enjoy!’ The queen raises her hands in elegant deference, the long sleeves of her dress billowing out. She reaches for me, and I help her descend her dais, shadowing her as she leaves the banquet hall. Salvacion dogs our steps, always just behind.
‘I have a frightful headache,’ the queen says, bringing her fingers to her temple.
My hand is twitching before she even tilts her head. I brush her hair back, placing a light cooling hand on her neck until her breathing slows, and she lets out a sigh of pleasure, her skin gooseflesh.
We look at each other in surprise. I step back and flush, wondering if I have done ill. The queen breathes heavily for a moment.
‘Do you know why you were sent to me?’
I shake my head and cast my eyes down.
‘The last priestesses were all grave disappointments. None of them could save my husband from the wasting sickness,’ she says. Her voice is steady, but I catch the cloud in her expression.
I’ve heard whispers of the wasting sickness, one that only strikes down royalty. Malostra once confessed she thought it was nature’s punishment for keeping their marriage circles so small, only marrying into nobility every once in a while.
‘This child is a symbol of hope for Paranish. I will not let anything happen to them.’
I must be her herbalist, her midwife. That is the realm of the priestess: to keep the royal family happy and healthy, by any means necessary. That is the danger from which I must shield her.
She walks down the corridor, and I follow in her wake. She moves slowly, observing everything in the Bastion. Her fingers move across the fine candlesticks, the golden embroidered tapestries. Eventually she stops outside a great wooden door. I feel a humming from within the room, and I’m transported back to Aistra, to the temple library.
‘Midnight is an hour for absolute secrecy,’ she says, touching her finger gently to my lips.
I repress a shiver as the queen reaches for her waist and retrieves her chatelaine. I have seen her fondle this absent-mindedly. She is never without it. Even when she goes to sleep, it rests under her pillow.
She fingers a key from the collection and places it in my hand. The metal is cool to the touch, as is her skin. I flinch at the contact, as though some unspeakable threshold has been crossed again. She indicates the door, and I slip the key in the lock. It turns reluctantly and I push the heavy door open with my full weight.
‘You may wait out here, Salvacion.’
Salvacion hesitates, eyeing me for a moment. ‘As you wish, Your Grace.’
As we step inside, I’m hit by the familiar musty smell of old books, the hint of paper and ink and the promise of secret knowledge. My heart flutters.
The library is huge in comparison to the temple’s and the queen leads me round the maze of shelves and drawers. The domed ceiling has been painted with all the seasons merging into each other, with a sun and crown at the centre. I cannot imagine the thousands of hours of painstaking detail and labour going into something that hardly anyone would ever see.
‘I am very particular about who has access to this place. But I understand the Temple of Aistra has similar rare collections. I trust you know how to behave around such artefacts.’
