Martin saw an opening. “Speaking of looks. Have any new novices come in lately? One ten, one six, with a dog?”
Cere wrinkled his nose. “Dogs aren’t allowed on the premises, though one of the Chosen keeps a cat.”
“So, no new novices?”
“None.” Cere rested his hands on the bench, fingers a breath away from Martin’s. “They won’t seek new novices until after the Choosing.” Giving Martin a coy smile, Cere gazed up from underneath his lashes. “It’s a holy day. The public is allowed to attend. Please say you’ll come.” He yanked on Martin’s tunic. “This becomes you. It would be perfect.”
The Choosing, already? Time had slipped past quickly. “I haven’t thought about it, really.” Though Cere occasionally mentioned the event.
“What if I’m like Aramon and stay a novice forever and never advance to Chosen?” Cere scrunched his face.
“He’s not been here forever. He’s only twenty-seven winters, you said.” Still, Aramon became the fodder of whispers and a cautionary tale of what happened if the Lady claimed you but didn’t call you into her special service. Martin sat through enough litanies from Cere to know.
“Yes, and anyone else not Chosen by age thirty usually goes home. He’ll have to stay here because he has nowhere to go.”
What would Martin’s life have been like if he’d been taken to the temple at a young age like Cere? To never hunt. Never learn about runes and magic.
Never see Peter.
“Please say you’ll come,” Cere implored again, eyes pleading.
Martin risked much simply by being on temple grounds; entering the building during a religious event when most of the Lady’s followers would be in attendance was a whole new level of danger. Still, one look at Cere’s hopeful gaze made Martin give in. “I will if I can.”
The humor left Cere’s face. “I have something to tell you.”
“What?” Perhaps a liking for another novice.
Cere bit his lip, gripping the bench he sat on with both hands. “You must promise not the tell anyone.”
Martin laughed. “Who would I tell?”
Cere nodded. “I heard there were cellars beneath the temple and went to look.”
“And what did you find?”
“A woman, lying on a table. She looked… she looked dead.”
“What did she look like?”
“Blonde hair, lots of jewels. It was a strange thing. One moment she seemed young, the next old.”
The countess? Had Cere volunteered the information Martin sought?
“What happens to worshippers? Do they continue to come back?” Martin prodded.
Cere tipped his head to the side. “Not that I recall. They come for a time, then we see them less.” He beamed. “Always more to take their place.”
Martin bet. “Do you know what happened to her?”
“No. I heard someone coming so I hid. They were gone when I came back out, and so was she.”
Interesting. “Were they novices?”
“Chosen, I think.” Cere spoke in hushed tones. “Oh, Martin, what if I’m not picked for Chosen? I couldn’t bear to go back to my father’s house. My family is so proud of me. To know I’d failed…”
Though the mere thought of serving the Lady made Martin’s flesh crawl, he patted Cere’s hand. “You’ll be picked. I’m sure of it.”
Cere’s full lips curved into a smile. “Yeah, you’re right. I’ll be looking for you. You’d better come.” He rose from the bench. “I must be going. Take care, my friend.”
