Page 65 of Beyond the Shadowed Earth
“We do not eat on holy nights, so that we can listen to our goddess.”
“And does your goddess speak?”
“Perhaps she will, and perhaps she will not. Either way we will listen.”
Eda’s fingers twitched to the knife at her hip. “How did you know about Lumen’s blade? I had only just finished reading about it in the temple.”
“Our goddess appeared to me in Ita, told me to forge that knife and sew the sheath and belt, that you would have need of it. It’s the only reason I was allowed to take my vows and make the journey to Tal-Arohnd, even though I have not yet reached my twentieth year.”
“You’re a bladesmith?”
The priestess smiled. “We have many skills on Ita. We do not just make silk.”
Eda’s face warmed. “What’s your name?”
“Ahdairon. We are all Ahdairon—we give up our names when we take our vows, and assume instead the name of our goddess.”
“Doesn’t that bother you?”
“I serve the gods, and they speak to me. That is worth more than a name, don’t you think?”
Eda was about to retort that no, she didn’t think that, when the younger monks rose to clear the tables while the rest of the company settled onto the floor facing the fireplace where the priestesses waited. The youngest priestess bowed to Eda and went to join them. With one voice, the priestesses began to sing in their ancient tongue, an eerie, awful melody that made Eda’s skin crawl. Firelight shone orange in their black hair and danced in the fine weaves of their silk gowns. Eda wanted to run, far, far away. The music sank into her. Ate her.
Torane was suddenly at Eda’s elbow, his face drawn and sad. “They sing of the felling of the Tree, of the day when Tuer slew a man and brought death and time into the world.”
Eda’s chest tightened. “The day when all mankind wept for the folly of a god.”
Torane looked at her sharply. “Death would have come, with or without Tuer’s anger.”
“Would it? Don’t you think the world would look wholly different now, without Tuer in it?”
“Dear one.” Torane’s voice was gentle, but held a note of deepest sorrow. “Do not blaspheme the gods. Do not offend them.”
“They’ve offendedme,” she said fiercely. She clenched the hilt of the priestess’s blade, itching to wrap her fingers around Lumen’s knife. “Haven’t they offended you as well? You’ve served them all these years, and yet they had no thought to keep your mother alive long enough to see you one last time.”
Torane’s face closed. “Take care, little one. The gods will require much of you in the end, I think.” He left her, and Eda hated herself. Torane did not deserve her anger. Lady Rinar did not deserve her scorn.
The priestesses sang on, their voices reaching a high, keening pitch that echoed shrilly in the stone hall. Eda resisted the urge to clap her hands over her ears. The youngest priestess locked eyes with her, and the words she had spoken to Eda in the temple echoed in her mind:You are not to be theqirta.You are to fightwith us against the coming darkness.
A sudden chill permeated the room, and the air in front of Eda grew crackly, bright, sparks of silver splintering out from her like threads of gossamer web. The world seemed to pull, to stretch, and the splinters joined together to form a massive crack. Behind it teemed shadow, power, rage.
And then the spirits burst through in a rush of dark wings, a dozen, no more. Eda caught a glimpse of empty white eyes, of noseless faces and gaping mouths filled with jagged, broken teeth, of bleached bone swords set with black jewels.
The spirits hurtled toward the crowd, swords swinging, teeth gnashing. Heads and arms tumbled to the floor; Eda’s vision was a spray of red. She stared at a Haldan woman whose headless body stayed upright for one heartbeat, two, before falling in an awful, mangled heap beside several others.
The monks drew swords from beneath their robes and launched themselves at the winged spirits.
The villagers and people from the caravan stampeded to the door, screaming and shoving each other.
The priestesses lifted their hands, their song morphing into a single, monotone note. Wind rushed into the hall, harsh and cold and stinging like scorpions.
Eda just stood there, staring at the dead bodies littering the floor, at the widening pool of blood that crept toward her feet.
And then she blinked and one of the spirits stood before her, a spirit she knew.
He was even clearer now than he’d been on the ship: his wings rippled with dark feathers, his sword was made of bone and was set with a flashing white jewel. Flames licked round his brow, his fiery crown unable to consume him.
In one swift movement, he pulled her tight against his body and wrapped his wings around her. Clawed fingers cut through the white gown and into her skin. His breath was scorching hot in her ear: “Do not fear, little Empress. I will not let them harm you. You are to be queen, when the spirits are free. It’s why I made you. Why I called you.”
