by M. J. Scott
Stop being paranoid.
“Anyway, that’s what I saw. And Lieutenant Mackenzie brought me back here as soon as he could, once we knew.”
“Let us hope it was soon enough,” the Domina said.
What did that mean? Sophie’s stomach turned a little, a greasy roll and slide that made her wish she wasn’t in the swaying carriage. Fortunately, the Domina didn’t ask her any more questions in the short time it took them to reach the temple.
The Red Guard escorted them to the temple door but stopped there. The Ais-Seann rites of a royal witch were not for men, even though other rites of the goddess and the weekly worship were.
Sophie blinked as the door clicked shut behind her. The temple was dim after the bright sunshine outside, and she couldn’t see immediately. But as she breathed in the familiar scent of sage and salt grass and spices in the temple incense and the unique smell of the temple fires, she felt herself relax. This was familiar. This was routine and ritual and safety.
Less familiar was the humming beneath her feet, the sudden rush of the same enticing sensation she’d felt in the ley line. She couldn’t see the ley lines there—they ran beneath the temple—but she could feel them, rivers of possibility running through the earth below. The temple sat where the three major ley lines that passed through Kingswell converged. But no one had ever explained to her exactly what a convergence of ley lines felt like.
She wondered how any royal witch ever sat still through a temple service. The power made her skin itch and tingle, and she suddenly wanted to run or dance. Simply move for the satisfaction of muscle and bone moving and blood pumping and air flowing through her lungs.
And she felt a sudden piercing throb of longing for Cameron.
She clamped down on all of it. She could only imagine the Domina’s face if she suddenly ran down the aisle toward the altar. And she trembled to imagine what the same face would look like if she had any inkling of what Sophie felt toward Cameron Mackenzie. Or what she’d done with him.
Her eyes began to clear, and she followed the Domina down the central aisle to the altar, where the earth fire burned eternal—the flames from the saltwater-soaked logs flickering orange and green and blue.
This much was familiar, and she pricked her finger on the blade that the Domina offered and squeezed a drop of blood onto one of the small bundles of salt grass piled in the offering basket. Sophie tossed the offering into the fire as she recited the prayer for protection she’d been saying since she was old enough to speak. The flame flared brighter, and the grass disintegrated into flaring ash. She bowed to the fire and dipped her finger in the salt water in the silver dish at the base of the altar, for once not minding the tiny sting of salt in the knife prick.
When she straightened, the Domina’s expression was almost approving, and the sick feeling in Sophie’s stomach eased. Sometimes the salt grass didn’t catch immediately or was sucked up out of the flames and out of the temple via the vent in the roof immediately above the altar. The latter was counted as an omen of ill luck and the former only slightly less so. So it seemed, at least for now, the goddess hadn’t turned her back on Sophie.
They left the main temple, the Domina’s fast walk looking like a glide, her brown skirts skimming along the marble floor. She led Sophie out past the second altar with the statue of the goddess and through a carved wooden door that Sophie hadn’t even been aware existed.
She put a hand up to her hair, nervous. Wondering if it looked any redder yet. It was too early, of course, but she couldn’t help the thought.
“This way,” the Domina said, and led her through another door and a cool, sunlit hall ending in another door. The Domina produced a key, and the door creaked open. A cloud of steam wafted through the opening, the scent of it salty and green, like standing by the ocean in a field of herbs.
“The salt baths,” the Domina said, ushering Sophie in. “Undress. I’ll find a devout to attend you.”
She turned and pulled the door shut as she left, leaving Sophie alone.
The room wasn’t as hot as the steam suggested. The bath, a massive, sunken square pool lined with green marble, shimmered darkly in the light from the lamps hanging above. No windows in this room. No chance for anyone to spy on the witches bathing here. Earth-lights glowed dimly at each of its four corners. Steam rose in wisps above the water, and the marble shone wetly.
Sophie untied her boots and eased off her stockings awkwardly. A shock ran through her when her bare feet touched the marble, the humming power from the ley lines even stronger still. She curled her hands into a ball, fought the urge to strip all her clothes off and lie on the marble, to get closer to that power.
She was reaching for the button at the neck of her gray dress when the door creaked open behind her again. Turning, she saw a temple devout wearing green-and-white robes, red hair loose over her shoulders. The shade was still more auburn than true red like the Domina’s and Eloisa’s. A newer witch then. The devout had something white draped over her arm, and she nodded politely at Sophie. “Milady.”
Sophie curtsied.
The devout helped Sophie out of her clothes, unbound her hair, and sent her into the pool.
Sophie had been schooled in this part of the ritual. She submerged herself fully, letting the hot, salty water wash over her. It felt so sinfully good against muscles still aching from the travel of the last three days that she was tempted to lie back and float and let the heat soak the weariness from her bones entirely.
But doubtless the efficient devout would just wade in and drag her out if she took too long, so she surfaced, sluiced the water from her face, and then moved through the chest-deep water to repeat the process at each of the four corners of the pool. In each place, she silently recited a plea to the goddess to preserve her power and her life.
The whole thing took barely a few minutes, and then she was climbing up the slick marble stairs to exit the pool. Normally, there would have been several devouts attending her and, Sophie presumed, the whole thing might have been a little more leisurely.
But if there was no power to spare for the earth-lights in the palace due to the need to tend to the injured, then, doubtless, there were few devouts to attend to the ritual of a minor royal witch.
Sophie was glad of it, actually. She wanted to get back to the palace. Back to Eloisa.
Back to Cameron?
No. There was no “back to Cameron.” He had delivered her home and washed his hands of her. She was a royal witch. She would be married to whomever the king—no, whomever Eloisa—decided she should be married to.
All thoughts of Cameron needed to be ignored. Forgotten. Burned and sent to dissolve to ash and float away like the bundle of salt grass in the temple.
Oblivious to these thoughts, the devout patted Sophie dry with a linen towel and then rubbed her down briskly with scented oil. The smell of cedar and salt grass mingled with something headier. Sophie breathed it in, trying to bring her mind back to the ritual.
A comb was coaxed through her hair, leaving it still dripping but at least pulled back from her face, the wet length of it falling halfway down her back. More oil was smoothed through it, the smell even stronger, making Sophie vaguely sleepy as the scent curled around her, filling her nose and her senses. The devout retrieved the robe from the hook and helped Sophie into it.
The robe, little more than a long cotton shift, stuck in places to her oiled skin, outlining her breasts and legs in a way that would be considered indecent back at the palace. But there was no one in the temple other than women to see her, so she made no effort to twitch the fabric away as she followed the devout out of the room and through another series of turns and corridors until they came to the small chapel of the goddess at the far end of the complex.
Rectangular in shape, the chapel’s walls were pure white and the floor was marble so dark a green as to be nearly black. Inside, the Domina stood waiting before an altar where another small fire burned. Sophie’s feet tingled even more
strongly as she approached, the sensation making her catch her breath. Two devouts stood on either side of the Domina, each holding a silver platter covered with white linen. Both of them watched Sophie, eyes curious despite their grave expressions.
Waiting to see if she was truly a royal witch?
Heat suddenly swept over her skin, chasing the chill caused by walking in damp clothing through stone halls away. Sophie made herself focus on the Domina, made herself keep walking though the tingling and the heat and the odd smell of the oil were combining to make her head spin a little.
The Domina held a small globe of pale green stone in her hands. An unlit earth-light. The ritual of dedication was fairly simple. Sophie had to approach the Domina, use her power to light the earth-light to prove that she had manifested—though why that part was necessary when the Domina had been able to tell just by looking at her was unclear—and then the Domina would perform the actual dedication. Which was the part that no one spoke of.
But it couldn’t be too terrible. After all, all the royal witches before her had survived it. Still, nerves bloomed anew in her stomach as she took one last step and halted in front of the Domina. The anxiety, combined with the faint dizziness, made Sophie feel ill. She swallowed and waited, head bowed as she had been taught.
“Sophia Elizabeth Constance Kendall. You are a child of the royal line. Do you come here today to be anointed to the goddess? To pledge your power to serve her and the kingdom for all your days?”
For the briefest of moments, as the dizzying sensation in her head increased, she wondered if anybody had ever answered no to that question. Then sanity prevailed and she said, “Yes.”
“Then show your power to the goddess.”
Sophie placed her right hand on the earth-light, every lesson Captain Turner had ever given her tumbling through her head and slipping away. Then she remembered. She felt the humming beneath her feet. That was the ley line. She was supposed to draw power from around her, send it into the globe, then send the excess back to the earth. The way she had with Cameron. Though she had no idea how she’d drawn the power then. Still, all she could do was try.
Focusing on the buzzing on her skin, she closed her eyes, tried to draw the sensation deeper within her. One breath, then another as the feelings intensified until she thought the humming might shake her apart. Then she opened her eyes and let go.
The earth-light flared into white brilliance, dazzling her, and then cracked into pieces with a noise like a hammer blow.
The Domina’s eyebrows flew upward, but she merely nodded as Sophie stared at the two halves of the globe now lying in the Domina’s hands, biting her lip, wondering what exactly she’d done. Earth-lights did break sometimes. Perhaps it was not that unusual.
The Domina passed the broken globe to the devout standing behind Sophie. The devout stationed to the Domina’s right stepped forward, holding the silver platter higher so the Domina could remove the cloth.
“Kneel,” the Domina said.
Sophie sank to the floor obediently. The marble was hard and cold against her knees, the sensation chasing away the dizziness for a moment before it surged again even stronger. She presented her hands, palms up as she had been taught.
A sharp sting as the Domina pricked her finger again, this time the blood falling into a small vial of black liquid. Sophie held still, not knowing what was coming next. She tried to count the heartbeats as they pulsed in her ears, tried to slow her breath with each beat as the Domina shook the vial and then replaced it on the tray. The second devout came forward. Her platter, it was revealed, held a silver bowl full of water. The Domina tipped half of it over Sophie’s hands.
A droplet splashed upward, landed on her lip. Her tongue darted out. Salt. As expected. The water dripped off her hands and pooled in front of her, some of it dampening her knees and the cotton robe even more.
Soft linen brushed her hands, patting them dry as the Domina recited a string of words in the elder-tongue used for the most solemn temple rituals. Sophie knew a little of it, but she was too focused on staying still, on not letting the dizziness and the power pulsing through her send her swooning beneath the Domina’s feet to pay too close attention.
She caught “Seagh-acha” a time or two, which was the name of the goddess and “brau-na-li” which was something like “blood’s truth.” Or an oath. Or maybe both.
The Domina retrieved the vial of liquid, holding a quill made from a brilliant white feather in her right hand. With swift strokes, she dipped the quill and traced the sigil of the goddess, the four swift lines of the bisected triangle, on each of Sophie’s palms. The liquid stung a little but wasn’t truly painful. More like a distillation of the humming sensation, so that each of the lines seemed to vibrate hotly against her skin.
The black lines seemed very dark against her skin, the faint acidic smell of the liquid mingling oddly with the smell of the oil on her body and the salt smoke of the goddess fire.
The quill and vial went back on the silver tray. To Sophie’s surprise, the devouts left the chapel, leaving her alone with the Domina. Sophie waited, trying to ignore the sensations rippling through her and stay still. The seconds seemed to stretch into forever as she waited. Then, finally, the Domina placed her hands over Sophie’s, palm to palm, skin cool for a moment before it warmed.
Another string of liquid elder-tongue about blood and the goddess and oaths, ending in Sophie’s name in a questioning tone and a pause that Sophie took to be for her. “Yes,” she repeated, and the Domina looked satisfied.
The older woman closed her eyes, and there was a rushing flare of power that made Sophie cry out as it burned through her. Her eyes closed against the feeling of heat and light and other that tolled through her like a bell ringing lightning. But almost as swiftly as it had risen, the feeling died. Sophie’s eyes flew open.
The Domina took a deep gasping breath and opened hers, too. She looked down at Sophie and then raised her hands, starting to speak as she lifted them, “Blessed, are—” She stopped midsentence, face frozen as she stared down at Sophie’s palms. The two sigils were still there, black and strong against her skin.
Sophie’s gut went cold as the Domina’s face turned thunderous. She didn’t know what was wrong, but it was clear something was.
The Domina gripped Sophie’s wrists as she stared down. “Milady Sophia,” she said in a voice like ice. “What did you do?”
CHAPTER EIGHT
“D-do?” Sophie stammered. “What do you mean?”
The Domina tapped her right hand, the movement almost a slap. “The sigils are still there. If the goddess accepts you, they vanish.”
Accepts you? Sophie didn’t even know what that meant. She’d assumed the ritual was just that. Ritual. A recognition of her status after she’d proved her power. But apparently there was something deeper at work. She stared at the marks on her palms. “I haven’t done anything.”
“Lying isn’t going to help,” the Domina snapped. Then she stepped back. “Get up. We need to return to the palace.”
The Domina practically dragged Sophie back through the palace to Eloisa’s apartments. Sophie had the distinct impression that she would have liked to literally drag her. But either she had a little too much decorum for that, or she had no desire for Sophie’s failing to become public knowledge, so she merely marched through the halls after ordering Sophie to follow her in a voice that brooked no argument.
Sophie did so, having little desire for getting any deeper into trouble. And, fortunately, it seemed the disarray at the palace in the wake of the attack was enough to limit the time that anybody they passed had to be curious about the Domina’s rapid pace. At one of the many corridor junctions, she caught a glimpse of a broad back and a dark head in a brilliant red coat. Cameron. Or so she thought. But there was no time to be sure before the Domina moved on, and there was nothing he could do to help her. Indeed, involving him at this point was the one thing she could think of that was near certain to make the
situation worse.
“Leave us,” the Domina snapped as they walked into the queen-to-be’s bedchamber. “All of you,” she added as startled glances from both the devouts and the ladies-in-waiting questioned who she was talking to.
Black- and brown-clad women scurried from the room obediently. No one, it seemed, was willing to take on the Domina to demand to be left with Eloisa. Further proof that the Domina was holding the power currently. Which was a state of affairs that Sophie would have worried about if the sense of dread about what exactly was going to happen to her hadn’t been too strong to let worries about anything else in.
Eloisa, whose swollen face had also registered surprise at their abrupt return, tried to sit up straighter against the pile of pillows at her back, her movements tentative. Sophie wasn’t sure if her expression was a wince or a frown. She wanted to help Eloisa but didn’t want to risk the Domina’s wrath.
“What happened?” Eloisa said. “Did something disrupt the ritual?”
The Domina shook her head. “No. No disruption.” She beckoned at Sophie. “Come here, girl.”
Her heart pounded so hard she thought her bones must be vibrating, but she obeyed and joined the Domina bedside.
“Show her,” the Domina said, voice like a whip crack. “Show your hands.”
Sophie fought the urge to wipe her palms, suddenly damp, down her skirts. It wasn’t likely to remove the offending marks.
She was a royal witch—probably. She would damn well act like one.
She offered her hands to Eloisa, palms up.
Eloisa’s one visible brow lifted, the movement followed by what was definitely a wince. Her green eye focused on Sophie and then on the Domina. “Are you telling me that she didn’t manifest?”
