I.
Kerasea
I stand at the feet of a god as a nobleman confesses his latest lie. The colossal statue of the god of truth looms behind me, while the man with blue-black hair whispers details of how he conned a wealthy woman out of her fortune.
I glance to the side.
The same sharp-faced man was on his knees last month when there was snow on the ground. He wore pungent lilac cologne as he confessed to cheating a business partner out of his share. Both the scent and the misdeed felt like ash against my tongue as I smiled and offered forgiveness.
Today, I bite my cheek and try to not react to his latest lie. My father told me to refrain from judgment because confessions are good for the soul. So long as we are honest before the divine, the god of truth forgives us for the frailty of being human. And, of course, the money nobles pay for indulgences allows our temple to thrive not just here in the capital city but throughout the Republic of Pryor.
Still, it’s hard not to judge. Judgment is as natural as breathing, as lying.
I’m about to bless the man when a boy runs through the colonnaded great hall. He slips past temple guards and enters the inner area, then stops at the other end of the reflecting pool, breathing hard.
“Sanctuary!” he yells out. His desperation echoes in the white marble space, and I step forward.
He’s young, at least ten years less than my twenty-two. Yet his clothes are several sizes too small—inches of his pale wrists and ankles stick out of his worn shirt and pants.
Two sentries rush in and grab his thin arms.
“What is this about?” I raise a hand, and everyone stills.
“Sanctuary, Great One,” the boy cries.
“A patron has accused him of stealing a Revelry mask, Excellency,” the elder sentry replies in a voice so loud that I hear him clearly from the other end of the room. The guard is old enough to be my father and trying to catch his breath, having lumbered after the boy.
“Northside trash coming over the bridge to pickpocket—that is all, High Priestess,” the other sentry adds. He is either a teenager or barely able to grow a patchy mustache. “He ran in here to evade us. Our deepest apologies for the disturbance.”
“Whip him at the post and make an example of the boy,” the nobleman says from behind me.
I keep myself from sneering at the man who was just confessing to stealing far more than a mask. But he is elite and this child is not.
“A priest will take the remainder of your confession in the silent alcoves,” I say, faking a genial smile at the nobleman.
Then I walk to where the sentries hold the boy. My long, gold-embellished robe swooshes as I glide toward them. The two sentries incline their heads as they both take a knee, but the boy just stands staring at me. He’s only an inch or two smaller than my five foot three, but he looks up with his mouth agape. His eyes are slightly tipped at the corners like mine, but his hair is far shorter than my waist-length locks.
“Is what they say the truth? Did you steal a mask?” I ask.
His lips quiver. “Yes, Excellency.”
“Do you have it now?”
He nods, and a tear falls from his thick lashes as he pulls the item from under his shirt. It’s a silver mask—the kind that will be worn this evening by elites as they mark the founding of the republic.
Tonight we will commemorate our senators murdering the Elusian king and his magical bloodline. Through bloodshed, they ended the monarchy and the Hundred Year War. It used to be known as the Crimson Night, but now it’s the Revelry. Blood rinsed clearer every year until solemnity became a celebration.
I hold out my palm, and the boy’s hands shake as he gives me the mask. I then hand it to the older sentry.
“There. No harm has been done.” I smile without showing my teeth. “You may both return to your posts.”
“But—” the younger sentry begins.
I raise an eyebrow, and the older sentry shakes his head at the younger soldier. They are part of the legions of Pryor, but I am the High Priestess of this temple. They are only welcome for as long as I permit them to remain. And they wouldn’t have dared question my father.
“Yes, Excellency,” they say together.
They both bow and withdraw. The boy looks around, now free, but he shifts his weight under my gaze.
