by A. S. Etaski
I had blinked in disbelief. “They never get a cait when they want a bua for a Consort?”
“It seems so,” she’d said. “Or they abort as soon as they know it’s female, but that would be a lot of breeding and birthing happening completely out of sight within their fortress.”
I had shuddered. “What about us?”
“Us?”
“Are there any pregnant Red Sisters on that floor now whom I might see, Elder?”
She had shaken her head. “No, fortunately, there are not. It’s been some centuries since we’ve lost one of ours to the Sanctuary. Don’t ask whether there are any children of ours there now. They wouldn’t ever be certain if their Mother had been a Red Sister.”
I focused down the third-floor hall, decorated in tones both rich and somber, toward noise which I hadn’t heard much of in my lifetime. Clusters of Davrin children together. Perhaps a score, and possibly the single largest group of them that I’d ever been aware of in one place for any length of time.
What would such an upbringing be like? No single Matron to look to for decisions; many Priestesses of all ranks; far too many siblings—whether of blood or not, they were of similar age—and little knowledge of the city and plantations outside. It would alienate them, and now it made more sense to me that Auslan had called himself an outsider to any House, refraining from interacting much with House Itlaun except as he was expected to perform.
The rest of the time, he just watched and listened. And reported to Wilsira.
Lelinahdara paused in her smooth stride. “Is there a problem, Sister?”
There was a layer of chill in her voice.
I shook my head, replying honestly. “I’ve never heard so many children in one place, Priestess.”
She nodded. “A necessity. We are very protective of them, Sirana, don’t become too curious. We are only passing through.”
I bowed my head, and yet, with all the secret passages I knew were here somewhere, had Tarra truly needed to take me to this floor at all? I wondered.
“Not to worry, Priestess. My function doesn’t involve children.”
Ironic, that. Given how often that function involved fucking.
“Good of you to say, Sister. Come.”
We went up another well-decorated, spiral stairwell. As Tarra gently touched a smooth, polished stone on the wall five steps from the top, I felt an odd feeling in the pit of my stomach, as if I’d just taken a trip through a jump circle and all color vanished ahead of me as the door slid open.
What in the Eights?
Wary, I stepped out of the exit. I was surprised to see this floor was dominated by whites, grays, and dark shades not quite black. I stood out in stark contrast in my red uniform. Most tapestries contained scenes of which I was not sure what my eyes were supposed to see. The feeling was mystifying to me. Patterns somehow nonexistent in a form of art which came into being only through rigid order and progression.
Tarra allowed me to pause so I could look closely at one of them. I saw abstract, interpreted magic and energy flow, as if I was seeing with my Dark Sight, but also smears of red and orange. Somehow, I understood that they were violent images, though the menace in them was often blurred with blackness and forced boundaries which seemed unnatural and temporary. Casting voice or magic into a void, perhaps. Not unlike Qivni Calling Darkness to force utter blindness around me as I sensed her threat nearby.
Then I understood. The Abyss.
“We’re on the floor holding the Sathoet?” I asked.
Tarra folded her bejeweled hands before her. “Indeed.”
“Only a floor apart from full-blood children? I thought Sathoet were hostile toward them.”
“They are hostile.”
“And the Abyssal floor is near the top of the Sanctuary, isn’t it?”
“Twelfth level, yes. We skipped a few just now.” Tarra’s smile was small and smug. “I’m glad to see Varessa gave you something with which to work. I grew worried.”
A soft chuckle, then she turned around to lead me farther down the chaotic slings of white and black.
There was not as much object art on this floor; mostly banners and tapestries, plenty to look at but less to shatter or destroy. I could smell a strong scent up here, of larger bodies with greater heat putting off a greater volume of musk. It was not overwhelming, but it did not have the undertones of soap and perfume, or the general fastidious cleanliness by other floors. The halls twisted for a while until I was sure we’d walked to the far side of the Sanctuary, and next I was led to a thick, double-wide iron door inscribed with runes and magical carvings.
“Was our last recruit tested here recently?” I asked.
Lelinahdara was silent, her hand pausing before it touched the next panel. She glanced at me. “This exact place? No. Kennitha’s Fourth Daughter faced the Sathoet in an arena on another floor. She would have had an unfair advantage here.”
“Unfair?” I repeated skeptically.
“Yes. The Sathoet magic is restricted inside this room.”
That didn’t sound well for Jael. She had refused to talk about it.
“Is this where the Priestess Sons have their Reverie?” I asked.
“They don’t experience Reverie, Sirana, but they do rest. This is where they are kept if one’s Mother does not want him with her at any given time.”
I frowned. “Why are we here? I thought you were taking me to see Wilsira.”
“I am.” Tarra shrugged. “She likes this place.”
Shit.
My Elder had guessed this one to be the least-likely meeting place. What had changed that she’d be wrong?
My guide rested her palm on the inscribed panel and murmured a chant which did not sound arcane. Something heavy clunked deep inside the doorway and it ground the floor far more than any of our typical sliding doors did. Slowly, only one side opened just wide enough for us to walk through single-file. The Priestess went in first with me following. It closed automatically after my boot heel just passed the threshold.
I coughed, making the first noise in this quiet, ominous place. There were a lot of scents in here. They clogged my throat all at once.
There was light as well, but it was of odd quality. No candles, and the wall lanterns soldered and bolted to the stone glowed with a heatless, unsettlingly pale glow. Overall it was dim, casting many shadows, and I would have preferred either brighter light or none at all. This half-way illumination was a similar trick upon the eyes as in the Cloister’s hallways, yet because of the smell and the wide, open space, it felt far more dangerous to leave the wall and walk forward.
Now I heard shifting bodies and quiet hisses, at least one happy giggle, but I saw none of them as shadows bulged and flowed unpredictably around creatures capable of masking their presence. I shut my eyes against the useless light and stood listening to those menacing sounds, letting the subtle air move across my face, feeling their living energy. In a few moments, I could confidently place five of them in the room.
One was right over my head, on the high ceiling.
I would not have been prepared without D’Shea’s counsel, but she had pressed on me the importance of setting boundaries early on. Had reminded me that I’d already done it once, I could do it again.
Tarra barely had time to raise her hand, a protest on her lips, as I withdrew my crossbow pistol and shot straight up over my head. I moved to the side, pushing the Priestess ahead of me deeper into the room, as the blunt head of the specialized bolt struck the ceiling near the skulking Sathoet.
The packet of sneeze powder burst on impact and the dust sprinkled down slowly to where I’d been standing. Even though my nose and lungs itched, Tarra and I were out of the direct effect. I had to confess in a smile how amusing it was to listen to a Sathoet go into a sneezing fit for a solid half a tick.
“Braqth Keep You,” I said to him toward the end of it, a broad grin on my face. “You might want to get off the
ceiling, Stripe. I have more, and I revel in target practice.”
Lelinahdara saw that I had done nothing to injure the creature and relaxed. Her eyes watched some movement I couldn’t see, though I could hear the scratching of claws along the stone. The Sathoet headed toward one of the outer walls, away from me. Sure enough, soon he was climbing down, grumbling low in his chest.
“Well,” my escort spoke softly, as if she was still deciding whether to be impressed or not. “Interesting.”
Whatever proud, revealing entrance Wilsira may have been planning, the mood had been spoiled for it. The elder Priestess simply walked out of the shadows at this point, elegant and poised in her shimmering gown—like amethyst blended with emerald this time, instead of with garnet.
Wilsira’s impassive face was framed by the same headpiece of a stylized, black spider, her white hair with gold streaks loose and flowing down her back. Her silver belt of many tiny chains looped and draped around each other to perfection at the curve of her waist, cradling her left hip in ornate, shining metal against a dark sash.
Lelinahdara bowed, as did I.
“Tarra,” she said to acknowledge, though in the name was a quiet rebuke, possibly for not bowing fast enough. For the moment, Wilsira ignored me.
The younger Priestess straightened, her smile still present; she did not look afraid. “Priestess Wilsira, I’ve brought to you Red Sister Sirana, courtesy of the Red Sister Prime. She sends her regards and requests a confirmation message in return.”
Wilsira nodded. “Grant it to her. You are dismissed.”
Tarra did not bow again but nodded, turning to leave. She met my eyes, and I thought I saw an eye twitch—not a wink at all, but the intensity of her gaze suggested an interest in following up later.
The Sathoet in the room were quiet and tense as the Priestess opened the door and let herself out. When it thumped back into place, the sound echoed loudly. Some of the hisses translated as the rushed exhalations of a greedy, delighted sycophant.
“Hherrr, too…?” I heard one whisper.
“We get hherrr nnow?” rumbled another.
Wilsira waved a slow, patient gesture, and the excited whispers quieted. She was waiting on me.
I bowed again without taking my eyes off her. “Queen’s Grace, Priestess.”
The Priestess nodded once, her voice mature and low. “Bless the Davrin, Red Sister. I am Wilsira Tachnathon, Priestess Daughter of Braqth, but you shall call me the Conceiver.”
“Indeed, I shall,” I said. “The Conceiver is a unique station, created specifically for you by our Queen over three centuries ago.”
Because ‘High Priestess’ was already taken.
Her mouth twitched at my lack of subtlety in being coached. “The title has many layers. I bear it proudly. What is your House name, Sirana?”
There seemed no possibility she didn’t know, yet that was not why I shook my head.
“I am of no House, Conceiver.”
“No longer,” she corrected. “But once, you were.”
“I was, yes. Apologies. You asked of the present, Conceiver. I answered you.”
“So I did, and so did you.” The Priestess smiled, pretending to be playful in the tilt of her ear. “It seems I shall have to be precise how I word my questions to you, won’t I?”
She lied, as I saw it a greater chance that any political mage worded all her questions precisely.
“You will have many questions for me, then, Conceiver?” I asked.
She chuckled. “Of course, or I’d not have asked for you to come here.”
“Now that I am, Conceiver, would you grace me to know why?”
Her yellowed brows lifted together. “You have the gall to claim ignorance?”
“I am aware of a connection to my trials, Conceiver. That is all. It would be pure arrogance to claim anything except ignorance where the knowledge of a Priestess lies.”
This pleased her ego, at least, as she hummed softly with pleasure. Her gaze traveled slowly about the chamber, seeming to summon another round of eager shuffling and sniffing in her wake. I did not make the mistake of looking away, since I couldn’t make out the shadows anyway.
Eventually, her attention returned to me.
“Would you rather be elsewhere, young one?” she asked me. “I believe I heard you are not fond of those who are Called to clerical ambitions at the Sanctuary. Something about a… familial strain?”
The Sathoet around me cackled in the dark.
I frowned with mild confusion. “Jilrina is dead, Conceiver, her memory is irrelevant. I serve as the Sisterhood bids me now, to serve Sivaraus.”
Wilsira grunted skeptically, lifting her chin as she peered at me with maroon eyes which had taken on an odd, purplish mist in the pale blue light. “I have never been impressed by the Sisterhood insisting they no longer have families but for each other, child. It is a false shield they hide behind; a gap between them and Braqth, intended to suppress or mute the Davrin passions which would better serve the Spider Queen and our Valsharess. It is almost impossible to erase the first century of upbringing, and, for certain, one can never erase shared blood.”
I bowed. “Thank you for your divine view, Conceiver.”
She stared at me as I straightened or perhaps at my expression. “If you would dare to laugh at a Priestess, Sirana, do so.”
I swallowed. “You first, Conceiver.”
“I find nothing amusing about you.”
I smiled at her, as there was nothing left to do when she didn’t get the jest. “A pity, Conceiver, and genuinely dismaying. Would you have been Lead Qivni’s tutor once?”
I’d done it; I had surprised the Priestess, and she had given me a tell in her face. The moment after, I regretted the probable mistake. Wilsira had stepped back from our debate, but not in retreat. She was reevaluating.
Then she did smile. Like the Drider Keeper might in discovering a new bua in her Pit.
I cleared my throat. “Yes, that’s it. I’m delighted to have entertained, Conceiver.”
“I was thinking of something else, Sister, but I believe I shall be. Soon.”
Wilsira had been standing three paces away but now took one step closer to me. The maroon of her eyes became darker in the odd light.
“I was not present when my son tested you,” she said, choosing to speak plainly. “But I now believe the story I’ve been told has some weight. What did you think of him, Sirana?”
“I do not know him, Conceiver. Just the one engagement during my trials, many cycles ago.”
“Just one. But memorable.”
I nodded an affirmative, contemplating if she may have answered a lingering question for me: Had she set up my run-in with Kerse at the Worship Ball?
Perhaps not. Or perhaps I couldn’t read her in all things.
“Well, then, Red Sister? What was your impression?”
She’s ‘in lust’ with her own son, D’Shea had said.
“He is a smart bua, Priestess. And well-endowed.”
Wilsira’s smile was less strained this time, but it was wry. “Yes, he is. And it was consensual, as I’ve been told? You willingly accepted him. You climaxed on him.”
“Yes, Priestess. Or, rather, with him on me. He pressed me on my back.”
Kerse’s Mother enjoyed that image better.
“Given the circumstances,” I added, “it was better to play with him than endure him.”
Her finely wrinkled mouth tightened. “Any animal can ‘play,’ Sirana. How did that suggest he is ‘smart’ to you?”
I shrugged. “Given how little I knew about Sathoet before, I was impressed that he could talk, and bargain.”
Wilsira’s mouth tightened further. “Yes. He certainly knows your name.”
Damn it to Abyss.
“I never told him, Conceiver,” I said. “I assume he overheard it from my superiors. Did you hear my name from your son, then?”
Wilsira nodded, narrowing her eyes slightly. “Shortly after he was returned to me.”
Odd. D’Shea had said they liked to “know the faces” of our recruits. Did they regularly fail to ask the names? Especially considering Wilsira’s stance on denying any family at all.
“I trust you were not mystified by my name for long, Conceiver?”
“I found it in the archives quickly enough.” She smiled slowly, eyes never leaving mine. “I paid a visit to House Thalluen. A cait’s Mother can provide many insights into a child who sets herself apart.”
Swallowing a slight panic, knowing it did the living House no favors, I maintained eye contact, keeping my smile light. “Indeed? I set myself apart chatting with a Sathoet while Jilrina languished in mournful obscurity, Conceiver? Had she but known. Although, she didn’t like buas at all, no matter how divine, so it would have been pretending. Like everything else she did in her pointless life.”
One of Wilsira’s bejeweled hands closed into a loose fist, and the Priestess took the remaining two steps necessary to close the distance between us. I could smell her clearly now, separate from the clinging morass of the whole. Not as many floral or soapy scents as I might’ve expected. She smelled of incense, powdered fungus and herbs, and sweat.
Like Jilrina when she was high and horny.
My heart sped up behind the sapphire pendant beneath my armor.
Don’t panic, Sirana.
I didn’t move from my spot and let the heat of our bodies blend in the space between us. Wilsira and I were of similar height, I realized; neither one of us needed to look up to the other. The Priestess only seemed larger in her presence and full gown.
“You flip between being direct and indirect,” she commented. Her breath smelled of a recent, potent tea. “Your method is not focused. I would rethink it.”
My brows lifted. “I have followed your guide, Conceiver. Which do you want? I am still bewildered why I have been called to stand here.”
“Hmph,” she smirked. “You shall see.”
She walked past me, her purple silk barely brushing both my leathers and the floor, distracting me. When I looked up, one of the Sathoet had dissolved silently from the shadows and leaped straight at me.
