Poppy dragged her fingers over the dust in the alcove, the thick layer proof of what the boy was saying. Her eyes widened. In the path that her fingers had cleared, the stone was two shades?—one dark, the other faded several shades by the sun. She swept her hand through the dust in a wide arc, revealing circles of stone darker than the surrounding area. It looked as though multiple items had been arranged in the alcove, protecting the stone underneath from fading under centuries of sun.
Something about the placement of the circles, combined with what the acolyte had said, jostled a memory in her brain.
They ransacked the temples, then built cathedrals to their own god overtop the skeletons.
“How old is this building?” Poppy whirled on the acolyte. “Was it here before the Welkishmen arrived?”
He took a step back, overwhelmed by her vehement interest. “I don’t know. They don’t tell us much about before.”
Poppy’s mind raced. She was almost entirely certain she stood in one of the temples of old. If she asked for power now, would the gods still hear her even though the idols had been removed?
“Give me your dagger.”
“What?” the acolyte asked, putting a hand on the hilt, startled. “Why?”
Poppy lifted the veil off her face, looking the boy directly in the eyes. “What’s your name?”
He hesitated, wary. “Samuel.”
“Samuel,” she repeated, forcing her voice to be calm, coaxing. “I need you to trust me. Give me the dagger. I won’t harm you.”
He eyed her. “What about yourself?”
“I won’t harm myself either,” she said. “I’ll give the dagger back when I’m done.”
Samuel sighed. He took the dagger from his belt and turned it around, offering her the hilt. With the knife in her hand, Poppy tore the veil away and placed the sharp edge of the blade at the base of her neck, between the braid and her skin.
“Hey!” he protested. “You promised you wouldn’t harm yourself.”
She ignored him, sawing through the braid, working furiously through the thick strands of hair. Her soul cried out for her to stop. It had taken over a decade to grow her hair to this length. Her hair was the only feature that Welkish women had openly envied. But a sacrifice like this?—her hair, her femininity, her vanity?—the gods could not ignore. As Poppy hacked through her hair, she prayed fervently, calling out to Savana, the rain goddess.
My power is not in my husband’s name, but in my connection to you,she thought.Give me the strength to win my own hand.
Two hard raps on the door startled her from her prayer. The founderson’s voice came through the wood. “Miss Sutherland, Captain Montrose has arrived. Are you ready to come down to the main chamber and start the proceedings?”
“One minute!” she shouted, sawing faster.My veins are a vessel for your divine power. If my sacrifice is worthy, fill me with your cosmic energy.
“The ceremony will start soon,” Founderson Harold called. “Acolyte Samuel, what’s going on?”
“I don’t know, sir.” Samuel wrung his hands together, eyes wide. “She’s?—she’s cutting her hair?”
The knob started turning. “I’m coming in!”
The knife broke through the last of the strands as the door burst open. The braid fell to the floor like a dead snake, rose petals fluttering gently to rest around it.
“Poppy!” Her mother burst in from behind the founderson. Her gaze dropped to the braid coiled on the stone tiles. She pressed shaking fingers to her lips. “What have you done?”
Poppy ignored her, closing her eyes and reaching inward. Her hope was fragile and dangerous, but she had faith.
Please.
For a moment, she found nothing. Then the air in the cathedral lit up around her. She could locate every drop of moisture with perfect clarity; she could move them as easily as flinging a handful of sand. It was like she’d had a sixth sense all her life, one that had lain dormant until now. Her every nerve tingled, hypersensitive to the water around her. Was this how the maharanis of old had felt?
Her mother seized her arm with one hand. She opened her eyes, releasing the daivyakhi.
“Oh,” her mother whimpered, fingering the short, ragged locks of hair.
“Oh,” Poppy repeated, still drunk with the amount of power she had, an ocean compared to the puddles she’d been working with before.Thiswas her birthright. She had been born with the gods’ favor long before she had been dressed in silks and the Sutherland name. Her father’s legacy couldn’t give her the right to power. Poppy already had power?—and with it, a responsibility to care for those without.
