I am Mirial Bauman, twenty years ago.
Mirial’s fear and knowledge fill me—this isn’t a dream, not exactly; it’s a memory, passed to me from godless death. That is the only explanation for how I know that it’s the Crimson Night and that I am a priestess, the middle daughter of a merchant family. I love to sleep with my window open, not only for the breeze but to catch stray secrets.
Hushed voices make me hurry out of my room. I don my robe but leave my feet bare despite the chill of the spring night. Bare feet are better for staying silent.
Something is happening in the temple and I have to protect the Faith, protecthim.
I slip into the shadows on soundless steps. Overlooked my entire life, I’m well accustomed to moving without being noticed. I pass the empty divining room and then, as I enter the Inner Hall, I find the High Priest speaking to a common woman. They talk in low tones, standing near the feet of the god of truth.
I was correct—something is amiss. The temple closes at dusk. There is no reason for a commoner to be here in the middle of the night.
Creeping nearer, I get a better look at the woman. I keep hidden behind a pillar, but I can see that it’s not just a woman but a wet nurse with a child in her arms. I wrinkle my nose. Why is a servant speaking to Osiris Vestal?
“Sanctuary, please, High Priest,” the woman says. The desperation in her voice and on her round face is obvious, but if she is asking for sanctuary on this night, she is either Elusian or, more likely, a sympathizer.
I wait for Osiris to reject her out of hand, but he doesn’t. His good heart is preventing him from tossing her onto the street where she belongs. But this isn’t the time for mercy. We cannot put the temple in jeopardy.
“Cut her down,” I say, stepping out of the darkness. “This is trouble we don’t need. Not on this night.”
Osiris Vestal turns to me, handsome always with brown hair so dark, it’s nearly black. But his brow is troubled as he looks from me to the wet nurse. Frustration fills my chest that he doesn’t immediately side with me, but he is the great leader of our Faith, and I am not. I defer to him in all things.
The nurse holds the baby forward. The child is around a year old, I think, maybe a year and a half. I am not certain, as I’ve never had nor wanted children of my own.
“She is the last heir of the king and so young that she has no recorded name.”
The Elusians lost many babies as infants, so the naming ceremony was performed only after the child reached two years old.
Osiris glances at me for counsel. I shake my head, but I know he has a profound weakness for babies. His wife died in childbirth, and the newborn she produced died three days later—a scrawny, sickly thing. It was ultimately a kindness, as that boy would never have been worthy of being his heir. Yet, Osiris’s broken heart never recovered.
The nurse, of course, seizes on his hesitation and obvious kindness.
“Please. This child is only a baby—bright and innocent. I have nursed her from her first breath. She is not evil. She is not corrupted by them. Look at her.”
I scowl at the drooling thing, although she is, admittedly, beautiful, with ebony hair and large emerald eyes.
One glance and Osiris is charmed. But my counsel was wise. We should eliminate both of them. The last heir of the king can only bring ruin to the temple and the Faith.
Yet, encouraged by our silence, the nurse places the child down. The baby is able to walk in that jerky, uncoordinated way of toddlers.
“We cannot intervene in the political matters of Pryor,” I say.
Osiris finally takes his teal eyes off the baby and sighs. “We will not be given the option to remain neutral. Verhardt has already asked the temple to support the Council, and I have agreed.” Then he looks at the nurse with a frown. “I’m sorry. We cannot give sanctuary to you or to her.”
Just as he finishes speaking, the woman begins to blubber, her chin wobbling, but I raise my head. This is the right decision. It is the only choice to safeguard him and the temple during this tumultuous time.
My thoughts and the nurse’s whines are cut off by a sudden crash. The statue of the god of truth sits with a bronze brazier in the right hand. Normally. The brazier containing the eternal flame just fell, clanging onto the marble floor.
My mouth falls open. That brazier is not unstable in the least, and it was untouched, high above our heads in the hand of the god.
The three of us stare, awestruck, as the chief guard of the temple comes running into the Inner Hall. He looks at us and hesitates with his hand on his sword. His brow is so furrowed that his scar puckers. With a flick of his wrist, Osiris sends him back to his position.
“The god,” Osiris says, dropping to his knees.
I sign my respect with my fingers to my mouth as I quickly kneel. The peasant woman also cowers before the divine.
There is no clearer sign from a deity. I have never once seen that brazier so much as tip, even in an earthquake. The god of truth has spoken in favor of this little child. Why, I have no idea, but it is not my place to question the divine.
She is god-chosen.
