Chapter 18

  Servant Ties

  The priestess’ eyebrows furrowed in her sleep, her fists closed around the light covers draped over her small frame. Occasionally her head fidgeted from one side to the other, her pursed lips parting just enough to whimper an incoherent phrase, while her hair lay in sweaty strands across her face. Perspiration beaded on her forehead, and Owen gritted his teeth; this was all clearly far beyond anything he was qualified to deal with.

  “Priestess!” he hissed insistently, still trying to wake her discreetly.

  It was quite dark inside the priestess’ quarters still, but the sky outside the high window was developing the silvery highlights of pre-dawn. Owen had the distinct impression that the high priestess was not someone whose commands should be tested, and she had specifically told them to be ready at daybreak. Not only that, but they were supposed to be at the temple gates when the sun rose. They were already running low on time.

  Seriously? Owen grimaced. I didn’t think waking her up in the morning would be part of the gig … do I have to make her breakfast, too?

  “Priestess!” he whispered again, as close as he dared to her ear. The last thing he wanted was for any passing initiates to hear him inside her chambers. He had no way of knowing what was appropriate and what wasn’t at this point.

  This isn’t bloody working, he stressed to himself, wondering how long it would take them to make ready and get to the gates. We’re cooked. Do I have to literally shake her awake? What if that doesn’t work?! Far out, just have a go, mate!

  Gritting his teeth fiercely, Owen finally reached out and took the priestess by her delicate shoulders, shaking her gently at first, but then more firmly when she only mumbled louder. Again and again, he shook her firmly, but not hard enough to rattle her skull. Her eyes remained closed, her face set in a concerned frown.

  What is this? wondered Owen finally, realising this was more than just a deep sleep. Is this what her mother did? Is it supposed to be so hard to wake her up? What do I do? God, please show me …

  The priestess’ eyes fluttered open, and she stared with a startled horror up into Owen’s face, his hands still on her shoulders. He released her as if he had been burned and stood well back from the bed as she slowly sat up, blinking slowly in a way that emphasised her long eyelashes.

  “I’m sorry, Priestess,” said Owen quickly. “But we must leave soon and you were not waking …”

  “Where … wh-what … how?” the priestess managed, her thoughts clearly in a jumble.

  Of course, thought Owen, last thing she knew she was in that pool.

  “I know a lot happened,” he said, “but I think our first priority should be to meet the high priestess.”

  “What is … the … pry … pryo …”

  Damn it, she isn’t fluent, of course. I knew that. Instead, Owen pointed out the window. “The sun will rise soon. We must meet the high priestess.”

  The priestess stared out the window uncomprehendingly, still evidently shaken by whatever dream Owen had awoken from. Her eyes flickered back to meet his, and Owen felt, with some relief, that she was beginning to show signs of understanding where she was.

  “What happened?” she whispered.

  “I don’t …” Owen snapped his mouth shut, mentally berating himself for forgetting to await the order to speak.

  “When … when we are alone,” said the priestess in her broken English, “you may speak. Wait for command if others are near.” She looked away, her cheeks going a dull pink that coloured her otherwise pale complexion.

  Owen nodded, doing his best to move on from what was clearly a sensitive topic for her. “Very well,” Owen said. “The woman said she was your mother. She had me bring you here, and we talked a little. Then she put me to sleep. When I woke up, it was almost dawn, and you were not awake.” He frowned. “It looked like you were having a bad dream.”

  “A dream?” wondered the priestess, seeming to ponder if that definition fit. “Perhaps.” She continued to study Owen as if seeing him for the first time. “Did you try to wake me?”

  “I did,” Owen said flatly. “Did I do the wrong thing, Priestess?”

  “No,” the priestess answered softly, looking at her hands. Then she looked up at him again, a subtle pout evident on her face. “Will you call me ‘Priestess’ forever?”

  “You said it would do,” Owen said carefully. “If you want to be called something different, just say the word.”

  The priestess looked away, clicking her tongue softly in a subtle vexation.

  “Yu je atsu wa … shu nibya noei ya,” she muttered petulantly under her breath.

  Great, now she’s sulking about something, thought Owen, and wondered again why he had agreed to remain invested in her. I guess I felt bad for her mum.

  “You may call me …” The priestess paused, as if she had not given any more thought to her current sentence than that. She fretted and kneaded aimlessly at her sheets for a moment.

  “Priestess, this can wait,” Owen finally persisted, still unsure of just how far he could push whatever it was they had. “We need to get ready to leave!”

  “Please call me Nidair when we are alone!” the girl finally exclaimed, squeezing her eyes shut as if that would ward off some embarrassment.

  “What does that …,” Owen began to say, before he realised she was still talking, albeit now in a barely perceptible murmur.

  “It is … it is my name,” she said, her eyes empty, as if she had nothing left to cling to. As if everything had been taken from her.

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  Or worse, Owen realised grimly, remembering how much she stood out from everyone else here. Did she throw everything away in exchange for this place? Is she finally realising what she has done?

  “I am honoured,” Owen said, managing gravitas and a distinct lack of the haste he felt was necessary. “I will do what you ask.”

  “Fine,” Nidair said, almost snapping in her self-conscious angst.

  At last, she moved to get out of bed. Unfortunately, at the same moment that Owen remembered, she found out that the bedsheets were her only clothing. The dull pink in her cheeks boiled over in a deep red flush as she scrabbled hastily to pull the sheets up to her neck while Owen spun about to face the other direction so fast that he caught his hip painfully on the room’s hardwood desk.

  Composure of a steaming kettle

  AI-rendering of original characters and narrative by T. Sharp

  “H-h-how is th-this?!” Nidair wailed quietly, with all the composure of a steaming kettle.

  Owen winced at the wall and opted for the truth. “Well … we were in the pool. I had already got out and dressed when your mother arrived. You were still in the pool. She wrapped you up in some linens and I … I carried you here. Then she covered you properly and we talked, and she put me to sleep. I never saw anything …”

  “Until now!” Nidair accused, mortification still rampant on her face. She groaned her emotional agony and shame into her knees. “Do not turn. I must get dressed.”

  “Wasn’t gonna,” Owen muttered.

  The temple gate that the High Priestess had been talking about turned out to not be the main entrance, which was used by everyday worshipers and those coming to make their requests of their apparently just god. Instead, the temple gate was a service entry that allowed servants to exit and enter the temple grounds without coming into sight of the wealthy and influential patrons that enjoyed being seen at the main entrance and in the temple court.

  Because of this, they arrived at their allotted meeting place in good time, and were even able to help themselves to a brief breakfast on their way through the kitchens. Owen would never have dared if he was alone, but Nidair clearly understood what her position entitled her to, and took bread and cheese for them both as well as a waterskin.

  “Aoshi … ah … the high priestess will have provisions made ready. She may expect you to carry something.” Nidair seemed to have the decency to look slightly apologetic about that, but even then her expression was guarded.

  So Owen only nodded acknowledgment and carried on.

  They left the kitchens and descended a level to the laundry, shrouded in steam, the air stinging the nostrils with the burn of the chemicals used to clean the many different fabrics. Owen noticed that the most common items were crimson bedsheets and the same loose, white gown worn by Nidair … and everyone else who served at the temple, it seemed like.

  No humans here, Owen realised immediately. So their own people can be servants. But they’re branded … is that a loyalty thing to the temple? Or are they closer to slaves too?

  They left the hustle and bustle of the laundry behind them and began descending through a broad tunnel clad in stone but also supported by sturdy, hardwood beams. The temperature dropped noticeably – especially after the suffocating heat of the laundry – and Owen almost wished for long sleeves.

  Their way was only lit by Nidair’s ... magic, for lack of a better word. Owen couldn’t help but shake his head slowly in wonder at the small orb of pure light that danced slowly in the palm of Nidair’s hand. It didn’t flicker like flame, or pierce forward into the darkness like the high beams of a truck … it was like a little concentration of illumination’s essence.

  It’s just light … nothing more and nothing less. No fuel, no chemical reaction … just light. That doesn’t seem like the sort of thing this place would teach you.

  “How does that work?” he asked without thinking.

  Nidair let out a squeak of surprise, although she seemed more startled that he had addressed her than anything else. She gave a vexed little huff before answering.

  “My mother … ah … my … mother’s sister. She taught me this charm. I grew up in her home.” A sad little smile played on her lips for a moment as she looked down into the light. “Both she and Mother are … great charmers. But different kinds.”

  Owen wondered what that meant for a beat before noticing sunlight bouncing off a bend in the tunnel ahead. Nidair saw it at the same time and immediately extinguished her light, her shoulders hunching self-consciously.

  “It is not … proper … to use the discipline of The Fallen here,” she murmured.

  Owen thought it bordered on ludicrous how suddenly the previously smug and self-assured priestess had begun to behave bashful and humble, as if she were ashamed of something.

  Was what her mother did really that life-changing? What did she even technically do?

  “Please,” the girl … Nidair … went on. She briefly made eye contact in the near-darkness before quickly looking away again. “Please do not speak of it to anyone.”

  Owen nodded, mystified.

  They left the cool, gloomy, tunnel and stepped out onto the side of a bluff. There, before their eyes, the sun peered over the distant mountains, almost as if it had been waiting for their arrival. Owen shook his head in silent amazement as he took his best look so far at the land surrounding the Temple City.

  The land fell away from where they stood, descending in a steep slope covered in lush grass and small white flowers. Shrubs and great outcrops of speckled stone sprung up out of the grass here and there, with a few especially large trees. Turning to look behind him, Owen could see that they stood at the base of the temple – presumably, its rear. A path that looked to have been screened with crushed marble meandered down the hill in a continuous grade, often retained by large slabs of the speckled stone. It made for an easy-to-see path, and Owen saw that it snaked its way down the hill in languid zig-zags before slipping through a gate wide enough to allow the passage of most freight wagons.

  “You worried me, dear child,” purred the high priestess, easing around the corner of the temple.

  Nidair flinched, her eyes searching for something that she either didn’t see or didn’t react further to. It did not escape Owen’s notice that there was none of yesterday’s fawning and adoration on Nidair’s face now. She seemed afraid.

  If I noticed it, I know the high priestess noticed it …

  “Good morning,” Nidair managed to say somewhat normally. “I am sorry … yesterday’s rigours tired me and I overslept …”

  “There is nothing to apologise for, dear one,” the high priestess smiled tenderly. “You have done as I asked. Now …” And she yanked the blonde girl forwards. Her hands were unbound, but there was circlet around her neck to which was attached a length of chain. It sparkled with white gold-like charm, but was no less a chain made for binding. “Let us go. The rest of our party awaits us at the Eastern Gate. I long to lay eyes on Kivaan again.”

  “As do I,” Nidair smiled with conflict. She seemed to be both telling the truth and playing along at once.

  “We shall make good ground,” laughed the high priestess, like chimes in the wind. “After all, we do not need to keep our movements a secret. He, however, departed like a thief in the night, and no sign of his passing was ever found. As expected of an agent of his skill.”

  “And what of …,” began Nidair, before suddenly silencing herself.

  “What of who?” asked the high priestess with a simmering kindness.

  Owen gritted his teeth and looked out over the city.

  “Oh,” murmured Nidair softly, “it is nothing. I forgot myself for a moment. None of that matters.”

  Yu je atsu wa shu nibya noei ya : Lit.: hope I do feel like villain not; Effectively: I don’t want to feel like a villain