Night Goddess (The Goddess Prophecies Book 1)

by Araya Evermore

  Beyond the treetops to the west, heavy clouds were gathering and there came another rumble of thunder. It was enough to make the harpy circle once more and fly away. They waited several minutes longer before heading cautiously back to the clearing. She relaxed when the raven swooped ahead across the meadow as if to say it was clear. They went silently and swiftly, though the terrain turned craggier.

  Eventually, she spotted the sea in the distance as they neared the eastern coast. They rounded a bend and a glistening white turret rose out of the trees. They rounded another bend and the whole temple was visible. She marvelled at its beauty, for though the day was dark and stormy the temple gleamed brilliant white.

  It had no angular edges, all was made of smooth flowing stone as if hewn and moulded from a single rock. There was an ancient sacredness about the place, but despite her feelings of reverence, the temple lacked something. It made her think of a beautiful shell, but the precious pearl inside was gone, or an ancient tomb of a great hero who was long forgotten, and all that remained of his legacy was cold hard crumbling stone.

  ‘The Temple of the Great Goddess,’ Freydel said. ‘Made hundreds of years ago, by the dwarves of course. Masters in stonework, to an elven design at that. A symbol, of sorts, of the peace and harmony that once existed between them.’

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ she said.

  ‘That it is,’ he agreed, and they made their way towards it.

  Priests and priestesses were busy tending the vegetable gardens and orchards surrounding the temple. They smiled as Freydel and Issa passed, though their smiles were hollow, like the temple, and their faces gaunt as if sick or overworked or both. They were robed in white, and for a moment they reminded her of the wraiths in the Shadowlands. She shivered and looked away.

  Cirosa stood unsmiling in the temple doorway as a stable boy took their horses. She was dressed in her usual pristine white robes, her beauty as cold and hard as snow-capped mountains.

  ‘Come, you are late, we must begin right away,’ she said, motioning stiffly. She swept into the temple, not waiting to see if they followed. Neither of them had time to mention the harpy and it was forgotten.

  Once inside, she was surprised to find the temple stark and empty. It was beautiful, but cold and unyielding, like the High Priestess herself. Exquisite turquoise marble floors flowed through white stone walls. Tall arched windows let in as much light as possible, and wrought iron chandeliers with thick white candles adorned the walls and ceiling.

  ‘This is a Temple of the Great Goddess,’ Cirosa said over her shoulder.

  Issa felt the cold and shivered. How could a goddess inhabit a temple and be contained within walls? The temple was a vast empty open space, and their footsteps echoed around them. Without the raven to watch over her she felt vulnerable here.

  ‘We only use this temple for the main ceremonies now,’ Cirosa’s said. ‘We have barely half the numbers we used to have. Those few that do seek to become servants to the goddess barely pass the initiation rites, and even then the magic they wield is, but a fraction of what it used to be. We believe the loss of power to be the fault of the Maphraxies leeching it out of the land, and of course the growing malaise and lack of belief in the Great Goddess amongst the weak peoples of Maioria,’ Cirosa scowled.

  Issa listened in surprise, wondering why Cirosa bothered to explain anything about the temple. For a moment she felt for the High Priestess, stuck in her lifeless temple, doing what little she could to keep it and her high standing going. But that was how she wanted it, if she was so greedy for power and the seat of the Oracle. She had no real reason to pity the woman, she could transform this place into something beautiful if she wanted to. She phased back into what Cirosa was saying.

  ‘Like most people, I don’t believe in the prophecies,’ Cirosa’s tone was caustic, and she shot Freydel a disapproving look. ‘Only the superstitious do. But given Freydel’s long research and reputation, we have agreed that nothing can be left to chance. So we began looking through the prophecies for anything worth noting. And then you turn up,’ Cirosa gave her a withering look.

  Issa listened silently, keeping her face blank as the priestess spoke, all the time wondering who it was that made up these rules.

  ‘We cannot simply assume the goddess’s mantle, no matter what aspect of her we may choose. The path of the Night Goddess can never be chosen, it is only given, and,’ Cirosa smiled crookedly, ‘a Child of the Raven cannot be weak, of which there can be three, I must add.

  ‘First, all must pass the initiation rites into the Temple. Only then may the test be undertaken before they will be accepted as chosen by the goddess. But you cannot possibly undergo our normal initiation rites in the time given. So instead the test must be harder. The goddess has, in a vision, shown me the task.’

  Freydel shifted uncomfortably beside her, and she wondered at the frown creasing his forehead. She let go a breath and clenched her fist behind her back, struggling to control her growing anger at the priestess’s assumed knowledge and authority. But what was this increasingly ominous task that the awful priestess had concocted for her? She grimaced inwardly. She should never have so readily accepted it. Still, it would be fun to see Cirosa’s face when she passed the test.

  All the mental preparation and steeling of herself for today’s events, whittled away as she began to dread what this test might involve. At the same time, her dislike of Cirosa spurred her on, and she was determined to prove the priestess wrong, that she was not some silly weak girl.

  ‘Who decided upon this test? How was it chosen?’ she asked.

  Cirosa scowled and sighed sharply. ‘As I have said, child, the goddess gave me a vision.’

  Issa frowned, detecting a half-truth.

  ‘She’s spoken to you?’ Freydel asked, clearly surprised as if the High Priestess was not given to such visions. But Cirosa just smiled secretly.

  Issa had always thought of the Great Goddess as up there somewhere, or deep down in the earth and far away, if she thought about her at all, and that she had little bearing on the lives of ordinary men and women. But she remembered the ethereal beings, the Guardians of the Portals, so they called themselves, and her strange anointing in the pool. She was different then, though. She was almost a different person, stronger and wiser, or rather a deeper purer part of herself. With a start, she realised Cirosa had asked her a question.

  ‘Are you ready to discover the manner of the testing?’ Cirosa repeated, tapping her foot and folding her arms.

  She straightened her back and took a deep breath, masking the doubt within. But on looking at that hard condescending face, her fears dissolved into determination.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied between gritted teeth. But her stomach sank at once. I could have said no. What’s the worst that could happen anyway? No test that they made up could prove or disprove anything. The goddess surely did not require tests. The chosen was chosen, simple. She was not the chosen one, but she would do this stupid “test” even if it killed her.

  What if it did kill her? She laughed inwardly at the thought. She had already faced death when she jumped from the cliff to escape the Dromoorai. She had watched her mother die, had seen the dead of Little Kammy, and the wraiths of the Shadowlands, and had almost become one of them. She had faced and escaped Keteth. No, she did not fear death, and what more could they possibly make her suffer? Her mind was a tumult of thoughts as she followed the slender figure of the High Priestess.

  They stopped in the central section of the temple where the ceiling expanded high above them and a black marble flower with a white centre decorated the floor. Cirosa whispered and with a smooth motion of her hand the floor began to move. Issa could feel the subtle magic within her words, and she watched as the black petals sunk down, each one lower than the next so that they formed a staircase spiralling down around the white stone centre into the darkness. Cirosa was pale and breathing heavily as if from exertion. It seemed the little magic she had used had cost her dear
ly.

  ‘You should not try to use magic without tuition, it’s dangerous,’ Freydel sighed, there was no malice in his voice.

  Cirosa ignored him, took a lantern from a nook in the wall, and led the way down. Freydel followed and tapped his staff on the floor, it burst into light. Issa hoped that one day she would be able to use magic with such ease as Freydel did.

  Cirosa paused. ‘Please be silent until I speak. We go to the Mother’s Chamber, a sacred place. And touch nothing,’ she added over her shoulder.

  Nodding silently they followed her until the only light came from the staff and lantern. Issa was comforted by the darkness of the sacred place as she counted the forty-eight steps down. It felt as if they had descended a long way before the spiralling stairs stopped and levelled out into a straight corridor. The air was cold but fresh and not stale, the walls were slick and grey and solid.

  They walked for a long time until they finally emerged from the tunnel into a large warm chamber. A place very different when compared to the cold empty temple above, for it was dark and natural, the walls jagged and unhewn.

  Narrow doorways were covered with richly coloured drapes hinting at other corridors or rooms. Plush red tapestries adorned the walls, depicting ceremonies conducted by priests and priestesses dressed in white. Thick rugs in various colours covered the floors upon which heavy sitting cushions were arranged in a circle. Incense burned in the corner, giving a subtle headiness to the air. Issa breathed deeply, feeling somewhat detached, but contented as if she had finally arrived home after a long journey.

  They stood silently, patiently waiting for Cirosa to direct them further. She glanced at Freydel, but he stared at a candle, lost in his own thoughts. A curtain stirred and a small pale girl entered the room, smiling shyly at the visitors. To Issa she looked very strange, skin so white it was almost translucent, her pale eyes were huge and her uncombed hair was so fair it was almost white. She was skinny and had muddy knees and a grass stained grey robe.

  For a moment she thought she knew the girl, recognised the feel of her presence, and then the feeling was gone as if the girl had hidden somehow. Issa sensed magic about her, albeit a wild type of magic. She fancied the girl was a little feral and would turn and flee at any moment. She found herself smiling at her. The girl’s smile faded when she looked at Cirosa, and she curtsied before turning back to stare unabashedly at Issa. Cirosa did not introduce her.

  ‘Bring Freydel some spiced wine, then come with us. Quickly now, Arla,’ Cirosa snapped her fingers. The girl nodded and disappeared back through the door she had entered, returning moments later with a copper tray carrying wine and salted hazelnuts.

  ‘Freydel, you cannot accompany us any further, so please make yourself comfortable here,’ Cirosa said and motioned to Issa, ‘Come.’ She led the way through a door into another dark corridor. Issa had to bend over slightly to avoid the low ceiling. Arla followed them silently. She could feel the girl’s eyes on her back all the way.

  After a long time, a faint light came from ahead and the air grew warmer. They reached the tunnel’s end and stepped out into a moss and ivy-strewn garden. As she came into the light, calm detachment settled upon her. This place felt very sacred, like the sacred mound though not as intense.

  They stood on a small, secluded plateau surrounded by tall cliffs. A hidden garden that could fit at most twenty people, she fathomed. A slim opening to the right revealed the sea and a white sandy beach far below. Tendrils of mist clung to everything and the air was cool and still.

  Ivy covered the cliffs and a willow tree stood opposite the tunnel opening. Its dangling branches were covered with green leaves, and from the thickness of its trunk, she knew it was old. It looked like the willow tree beside the cleansing pool in the sacred mound.

  ‘How strange,’ she murmured, ‘a willow tree up here. Surely they prefer riverbanks.’

  ‘The willow symbolises strength to overcome sorrow, and it’s linked to water and the moon - all symbols of the Night Goddess,’ Arla’s childish voice was filled with wisdom. ‘We don’t know who planted it here, perhaps it was the wind, but there’s an underground stream beneath it and it’s protected by the cliffs.’

  ‘Do be quiet, Arla,’ Cirosa scolded. Issa smiled in surprise at the girl’s knowledge.

  To the left of the willow tree, cut out of a natural jutting of the cliff, was a perfectly round stone bowl carved with leaves and ivy. Real ivy clung to it as if in mimicry. How could it be? It was the same stone bowl and ivy she saw in the sacred mound. She walked over to it. The ivy, both real and carved, and the smooth stone bowl were exactly the same. Water, dark and still, already filled it, and this time her reflection stared back at her.

  ‘What is it?’ Cirosa asked sharply, unable to contain her curiosity.

  ‘I’ve seen this before,’ she said.

  ‘Impossible. No one, but the girl and I and initiates may come here, and never without me. Let’s begin,’ Cirosa said dismissively, and stood the other side of the stone bowl.

  Something caught Issa’s attention and she looked up the cliff. The raven had perched upon a rocky outcrop, stark black against the grey stone. No one else appeared to notice him. She sighed in relief.

  At the High Priestess’s beckoning, Arla came to stand before the bowl, standing on tiptoes to see into it. Cirosa chewed on her lip as she watched the girl. Arla’s eyes became distant and she spoke, beholding some image in the water that no one else could see.

  ‘She is close to us now.’

  Issa jumped for Arla’s voice was no longer a child’s, but a woman’s, rich and echoing around them. The air was still, loaded with latent power. Arla took a small wooden cup from her pocket and filled it. With unblinking eyes and an unsteady child’s hand she passed the cup to Issa.

  ‘You must enter the World of the Spirit and accept what visions She brings to you, or does not bring. You will see the path you have already chosen,’ the child said in that same rich voice.

  Issa brought the cup to her lips and paused. What if Cirosa has poisoned it? A hundred doubts and fears flashed through her mind. She closed her eyes and drank the liquid. Cool water, as pure and refreshing as that which she had drunk in the sacred mound, slipped down her throat. As before she was overcome with thirst and refilled the cup.

  A voice spoke softly. ‘Only Her waters can slake your thirst, only Her gifts can satisfy your needs,’ but she didn’t know if the voice was in her head or Arla’s.

  She could feel the others around her more strongly than before; the soft white light of Arla, the erratic amber light of Cirosa, the dark light of the watcher raven above. To her, the raven’s presence was most apparent, and she had a strong desire to join with his mind, to fly with him.

  Feathers brushed her face, but when she opened her eyes nothing was there, the raven was still perched on the crag watching her. The mist was thickening and it grew darker as if evening was coming though it was only midday. Cirosa had her back to her, but Arla was still staring at her with those unnerving large eyes.

  She swayed, feeling disembodied, and the ground lurched beneath her. Had she drunk too much? She blinked, trying to stop the spinning, and noticed that the ivy had parted to reveal a dark entrance within the rock.

  ‘Look, there is a doorway…’ she began, but trailed off for the others had gone and she was alone, except for the watchful eyes of the raven above.

  She stepped into the pitch black onto nothing. She did not fall but floated on emptiness. Her robes billowed around her. She was a wraith floating in the darkness.

  Chapter 32

  Karshur's Dagger

  ISSY?’ A voice she knew well called to her in the darkness.

  ‘Ma?’ Issa strained to see in the growing light and caught a glimpse of fair hair and her mother’s smile. Tears filled her eyes even as warmth and happiness filled her heart. The world materialised and she stood upon a sandy beach before an ocean. Her mother stood some distance away at the water’s edge with her
back to her.

  ‘Ma?’ she called again, but her mother did not move or speak.

  She started towards the water’s edge and stopped. Her pulse began to race as a moon larger than the sun rose upon the horizon with unnatural speed. It was blue, and cast everything in a blue light, just like the moon she had seen rise on Edarna’s island, only this one was covered in dark blotches that marred its surface, and its light held no power.

  She ran forwards, but as she neared, her mother began to wade into the water. With each step, the still water became choppy until large waves were crashing around her, but she did not stop.

  ‘Ma wait, please,’ she pleaded, and came to a stop at the waters edge, feeling a terrible sense of foreboding and danger coming from the ocean.

  Wings brushed her cheek and a raven landed, blocking her path. Now her mother stood waist-high in the waves, and she turned to wave at Issa, smiling and beckoning, and seemingly oblivious of the swell.

  Issa ran past the raven, ignoring him and all her senses that screamed at her not to follow. She gasped as the icy cold water engulfed her. Only her mother’s head was visible as she bobbed amongst the waves. A huge wave covered her head and she was gone.

  ‘Ma!’ she screamed.

  The white mass of Keteth moved towards her just beneath the water’s surface. She was aware of the raven’s cawing but was frozen in fear. Intense longing battled against the loathing within her, then a wave crashed over her head, dragging her into darkness.

  Issa stood on the banks of a river, its water lapped at her feet, and it was stained red with the blood of the dead and dying strewn along its banks. She stepped back in horror. They were all soldiers, young and old, male and female, and of many races. All wore armour, and the same bloodied and torn tabard: a golden shield on a red background. Dead bodies and hacked limbs bumped against each other as they floated down the river, whilst those still alive clung to or crawled up the banks.