Kerasea
I don the heavy gold necklace of the High Priestess in the rose light of early dawn. I sigh, exhaustion causing pain between my shoulder blades. Walking in Mirial’s memories was less restful than staying awake—not that I had a choice in the matter. Death invaded my mind.
In Mirial’s remembrance, I felt both trapped and free, myself and her. It was unlike any dream I’ve had before—more like the vision I saw in the library’s fresco.
Whatever it was, it was undeniably a result of mingling my blood with hers. I’m just not sure why it didn’t happen before.
I shiver. I have to hope that the shared memory was the only repercussion from summoning godless death a second time.
Not that it was a small price to pay.
The truth about my adoption sits heavier on my chest than the necklace. I knew I was never the only liar in the temple—I just didn’t know the extent of my father’s half-truths. By walking in Mirial’s memory, I felt her unrequited love for my father, her initial disdain for me, and how desperately she wanted to murder the woman who saved me.
And that part—the whole existence of that woman, I was never told. My father went to his pyre keeping her murder a secret.
I’ll never know that woman’s name or her story. I’ll also never know why she spared me and secreted me away. I have my life thanks to someone I can’t even honor.
I thought I would finally hear my given name—to at least know that much about my past—but with one motion, my father silenced the truth. I was unsurprised. He was exceptionally good at that.
Around four years ago, my father finally admitted that I was adopted—mostly because I’d already figured it out. Of course, his tale was far different than the memory I walked in. My father spoke of being awoken on the Crimson Night by a baby arriving at the temple. He focused on how I was chosen by the god of truth and how I stepped right into the eternal flame. He neglected, however, to mention that they had considered killing me or that he ordered the murder of my nurse to keep my identity concealed. But those were minor details.
I curl my hands in fists. My story was nothing more than an inconvenient truth. The life of a single commoner rarely matters to the powerful.
But it matters to me.
And now the life of one commoner is going to change the Senate. Mirial wasn’t noble—she was the daughter of a merchant, like many of the priests in Pryor. But through the temple, her life mattered. I will be able to seek justice for her.
If Torren allows it.
I glance at the wall that separates us, wondering if he has made up his mind, then I finish readying myself for the conclave. The wide gold bangles cover my wrists and bandage, and I style my hair in a simple braid.
I’ve just tied the end of my hair when there’s a sharp, shooting pain in my left arm. I draw a noisy breath and turn the bangle, thinking it caught on my wound, but the pain is much deeper than a pinch. I breathe through my clenched teeth, as it feels like someone is shoving a blade in between the bones of my wrist. Then I remove the bangle. There’s no blade, but there is fresh blood on the white bandage I just changed.
What is this?
As I stare, my blood is stirring, rushing mostly to my left wrist, but why? I’m nowhere near a dead body. Yet the magic in me is swirling, ready and begging for release. Death is calling me, but that doesn’t make sense—I call death, not the other way around. Did I open a channel last night in the divining room?
The thought is horrifying, but then I wince, lurching forward as the pain intensifies. I cradle my wrist to my abdomen as the agony becomes so intense that my vision turns white. Another burst of pain makes me stumble, my wrist pulled toward the door.
I look down at my arm and furrow my brow, forgetting the pain in favor of confusion. When I move in the direction of the door, the pain lessens. In any other direction, including staying still, it returns with a vengeance.
It takes only a moment for me to accept that I’m being led somewhere. Somewhere out of this chamber.
When I open the door, the pain subsides. But I stop to try to lock it and the sharp, stabbing feeling returns twofold.
Stairs. I need to get to the stairs.
I walk a step, then break into a run, propelled by an invisible force and by the pain in my arm.
I reach the stairway. When I start climbing, the pain lessens to a dull ache. But what does death want from me? Is this a connection to Mirial? Is she making me seek out Senator Medea?
No. I pass the fifth floor, headed for the tower. Death propels me upward. I have to continue, but why? There is no corpse up there anymore. There’s no one except for…Zel.
Zel is up there.
No.
No, no, no. I sprint up the stairs of my own volition. My lungs burn, the pain now solely in my chest, not my wrist.
