“You have been veiled,” the High Priestess said, her voice rich with ritual, “because the queen will not be chosen for her face nor for the hunger in men’s eyes.”
The air shifted. Even through the silk, I could feel the room tighten, as though the words had pulled a cord around every throat.
This was not good. My beauty was what I had. It was what men noticed first, what they wanted, what they envied … what they cursed. If that wasn’t to be weighed, then what else was there of me to measure?
“A god sees deeper. He looks past flesh and finery and weighs what lies beneath.”
Beneath.
What lay beneath my skin, my name, the dirt and flecks of blood still caught in the cracks of my knuckles? What would she find if she scraped away the surface?
“My aunt says the High Priestess looked straight into her and saw everything, every lie, every shameful thing she’d ever done,” a girl whispered to me fearfully. “Said it felt like her soul had been stripped bare.”
I pressed my palms together hard, as though pressure alone might keep the truth from spilling out of me.
Because the High Priestess had begun to move …
I watched, rigid, as she paused in front of the first woman, a willowy thing with fidgeting fingers twisted in the folds of her gown. Without a word, she lifted her arm in a fluid arc that showcased the sacred glyphs stitched into her sleeve. Her wrist flexed with quiet strength. Rings of obsidian and amber coiled around her knuckles, glinting like watchful eyes.
She extended her hand and held it above the woman’s brow. Not touching. Just hovering. The woman sucked in a breath, her veil fluttering and her shoulders locking as she waited.
The High Priestess’s expression was blank as her gaze bore into the woman’s veiled features, giving no sign of what she saw—or if she saw anything at all.
Slowly, she pressed two fingers to the center of the woman’s forehead.
The woman’s whole frame jerked, as though the touch had struck something deep and unseen.
We were all holding our breath. Dozens of veiled women stood frozen, hearts pounding behind diaphanous fabric. The priestess withdrew her hand, turned so that all could see her clearly, and gave a single, solemn nod.
Chosen.
The woman dropped to her knees, silk whispering around her in a pool of white. Her veil fluttered with each shallow, frantic breath.
The High Priestess stepped forward, skirts gliding noiselessly across the stone, and stopped in front of the next woman. Her arm rose and she once again pressed two fingers to the woman’s forehead.
The woman went rigid.
The contact lasted a breath, maybe two, and then the priestess stepped back with another blank expression and nodded once.
Once again, the woman collapsed in stunned relief, her knees striking the floor with a soft thud as a sob slipped through her shaking shoulders.
The High Priestess had already moved on.
She stopped before each woman. Always the same, the lift of her hand, the press of her fingers to a brow. Each touch exact and measured.
And then the judgment. A nod, and a woman would fall to her knees, joy breaking over her like dawn. A shake of the head, barely more than a flick, and the High Priestess’s judgment would settle over the woman like a shroud.
A few remained upright, swallowing the rejection with fragile dignity.
But one didn’t.
She stared after the priestess as though she hadn’t understood. Her hands fisted at her sides, trembling. When it sank in, her legs gave out.
“No,” she gasped. “No, please—please!”
She lunged forward, caught by attendants before she hit the floor. Her veil slipped sideways, revealing tear-streaked cheeks and wild, red-rimmed eyes.
“I can prove it,” she sobbed. “I can prove that I’m worthy. Please, don’t—”
