Chapter 21

Chapter

Twenty-One

I pace the bars of my cell, not able to sleep in the wooden chair in the middle of the room any longer. My bones ache from the discomfort of curling into it each night, but it's the only relief from the cold floor. There is a heap of straw in the corner, but I have seen insects crawling out of the nest-like bed, so I try to keep moving and lift my gown off the ground.

The water trickling down from the walls is drinkable, and I have been instructed by the guards who patrol the walkway between cells to use it to bathe as well. It's crude, but I have read of much worse conditions for prisoners.

Every day, I am brought an extravagant meal, the size enough for two people. The plates are full of fancy fruit, fresh meat, and warm bread. It's unnerving. The food is meant for a party, for the emperor. The quality does not fit the setting, and even the guards look confused when they pass it to me. The only possible reason is Lord Hollis wants to play some sort of sick game with me to make sure I am keeping up my strength, taunting me with such luxuries.

I have tried to use the bread rolls to count how many times I have slept, an attempt to keep track of days in this cell, but I woke to scattered crumbs from them being torn to bits by mice.

Lord Hollis comes frequently, but at random. He brings guards with giant torches that illuminate my cell and remind me how awful the room truly is. Each time, he straps me to the chair with his unseen restraints and makes sure to neutralize my powers again. If he stays away for too long, I can almost feel them seeping back to me like the natural spring water in the walls.

He has been left to do whatever he wants down here in the dark, and I wonder how far and how long this will go on.

The last session of questioning seemed longer than any other. I can tell he is trying new tactics and soon he may resort to other measures.

Today, Crixa comes too, along with a scribe.

Lord Hollis neutralizes my gifts and asks a few questions that seem more timid with Crixa in the room. I am restrained to my chair, but I notice that the scribe does not start their work until Crixa readies herself to speak.

She raises her hand out to a guard and is given a goblet. She dips her fingertips into it and takes a deep breath, readying herself to pray over me. A time ago, it would feel sacred and beautiful, but now it seems frightening.

"First Mother, before me stands a postulant of the order of your priestesshood. She has been found worthy by her priestess sisters to devote her life to you, to serve and uphold the temple."

I watch her swipe the liquid down her face—moon water. I have heard this prayer before; every priestess has. She said these words the day I took my vows in the Estate temple before my priestess sisters and First Mother. The words held so much weight, boundless hope and promise then. Now, each one feels stiff, unnatural.

I have no reaction to her performing my vow renewal in this terrible place. But it is meant to be done in a place of honor, even when retaken. Not a damp cell amongst prisoners. She is completing the duties of the highest priestess, following the rules that cannot be broken, but she is making sure to dishonor me as much as she can in the process.

"Divine child, repeat after me." Crixa gazes at me through her heavy lids. "Blessed second mother, I thank you for your sacrifice. Hear me, I denounce you, committing myself to the true mother. She who birthed the world, the moon, and the space between. First Mother, hear me."

I repeat the sticky words.

"First Mother, I give my mind to you in service of your temple. I give my body to you in service of the priestess order. I give my spirit to you in everlasting hope that in death, I will lie with you in slumber." She dips her fingertips back into the moon water and traces them down my face.

I am meant to prostrate before an altar while repeating this portion, bowing before the giant statue of First Mother in the temple, not tied to a chair. I swallow hard, not having spoken a formal prayer to First Mother directly since I left Cosima.

"I will uphold your stones, your temple, and the priestess order, forged to protect the worlds against those who wish harm. If any should fall to the side of the wicked, I will fight against them, and they will perish in your name." She looks at me like I am a child who has deceived their mother, one who has done something so horrible, forgiveness would not be granted if it were not for that bond. Crixa's line between love and hate is too thin to see where one ends and the other begins.

I repeat her words.

She continues, "You renew your vow to the temple and to First Mother before the highest priestess of your order. State your name under First Mother's loving embrace."

"I renew my vows to the temple, to First Mother, and to my highest priestess." I feel sick when I look up at her. This is harder than I thought it would be. I can ignore the temple, avoid walking past it on Viathan, forget to pray to First Mother. But recommitting myself under false pretenses that I will truly live my life as I did before seems wrong.

Crixa waits for me, holding out the goblet that would normally be a brass bowl of moon water for me to dip my fingers in and finish my vows.

The restraint on my wrist gives way, and I dip my fingers into the cool liquid to recite the final words. "Blessed is the embrace of First Mother, the temple, and the highest. Blessed devotion to me, Priestess Ferren of Cosima."

I hear the strike across my hand and my own gasp before I feel it.

A long, stinging cut appears across the skin. I want to pull it back, hold it to my chest, and apply pressure until the nip subsides, but it is frozen there. The restraints now keep it perfectly still, a statue with fingertips kissing into the cup Crixa holds.

"Again, state your name," Crixa demands, spinning my attention to her.

"Blessed." I clear my throat, trying to refocus. "Blessed devotion to me,

Priestess Ferren of?—"

Another strike across my knuckles cuts my words off.

"Again," she commands.

"Blessed is the embrace of First Mother," I repeat, thinking maybe I should restate the entire passage.

I am met with another blistering strike. I can feel myself bleeding into the cup.

"Your name, divine child, say it."

"Priestess Ferren."

This time, Crixa takes my hand out of the water and gives Lord Hollis a curt nod in permission. My hand is left in the same position I held it in when I first reached down into the rim.

He holds a thin piece of rigid leather up and brings it down twice.

I bite down on my lip and scream, hoping if I do not make as much noise, it will stop.

Crixa pours out the water at my feet, giving up on the ritual. She flicks her hand to her scribe, and then I hear a tearing of pages like she has instructed the entire incident to be removed from their records.

The pattern continues for days, Lord Hollis interrogating me alone while taking my gifts, followed by Crixa and her scribe coming to have me start my vows.

But she is never satisfied. The deranged version of a sacred ritual continues until I have lost count, the fresh and healed marks on my arms and hands the only indication of time passing.

Every day, I pace the front bars of my cell, trying to calm my trembling body after each session of Lord Hollis's harassment. I have translated books of what happens to prisoners who are being questioned, ones that will not break, but I am willing to. I just have to figure out what it is they want.

In those texts, the people who had the prisoners detained knew that it was only a matter of time and in the right conditions, their minds would start to deteriorate and they would have their answers. I have to stay focused, stay sharp and not let the confusing mind games being played on me seep into my bones and rot my insides.

The whispers I sometimes hear down here are not real. I know they are just echoing noises off the stone. I know the creature in the warded cell across from me cannot escape, even if I feel its eyes on me when I pace to the one end of my own cell.

I glance over at the glowing bars. I don't want to see it again, but some piece of me wants confirmation of what I truly saw.

"Priestess Ferren." A whisper from the other end of the hall makes me jump.

I look back at the glowing cell, wondering if this creature is throwing its voice or if I am finally losing my mind.

"Priestess Ferren?" The voice is masculine and almost searching, like the person cannot find my exact location.

"Hello?" I whisper, matching the tone, and walk over to the far end of my cell.

There is movement where the last bar meets the outside wall. The torches in the hall illuminate the stone in a ghostly dance, catching the movement again.

Someone is there, standing just outside, waiting for me to come over.

The figure is tall and in a dark, hooded cloak, standing perfectly still with their back pressed against my cell.

"Who is there?" I slowly approach, my arms wrapped around my body.

The person turns, their hood obscuring their face. "Priestess Ferren, are you alright?"

The voice is clear and familiar. I search the blacked-out area where shadow and fabric hide the man.

I know that voice.

". . . Commander Wesley?"

He turns to the side slightly, letting more light between us. White teeth are exposed in a grin when he nods. I can make out a shadow of scruff, only able to see from the top of his lips down and just a hint of his strong jaw. I do not know his face, and if he did not speak, I would never know this was truly him.

"Are you injured?" he probes, the familiar voice crisper without speaking through the metal of a helmet.

"No. What are you doing here?"

Why has he risked entering the Estate clearly not in Viathan armor?

"I've been sent by the 99th Commander," he informs me closer to the bars. "I don't like seeing you like this, Priestess Ferren."

"99 sent you?"

Calliape and August must have panicked when they saw Lord Hollis and knew that I wouldn't be able to use any of my gifts. This is not the plan. I told them to wait, not to reach out to 99.

Calliape could not come herself, knowing she would be recognized by the wards. Commander Wesley without his Viathan armor looks like any other man in a cloak, moving easily around the Estate. It's clever but not the plan.

"It was not easy to find you, took days. I almost didn't check down here." He glances over at the creature's cell. "This is a setup similar to the capital's prison. I can help you escape?—"

"No," I say, confused. "No, I am not leaving."

"You cannot stay here."

I hold onto the bars with both hands and lean in. "I have to."

He shakes his head, the rim of the cloak swaying a little, disapproving in a way I have seen from him before when he knows I can refuse his guidance.

"I am close. I can feel it. All this?" I wave my hand around the space in the cell behind me. "It's just part of their punishment. It's nothing. I am being fed banquet food for Mother's sake."

"You do not sound well, Priestess." His voice makes me worry that I have not held onto my mind as strongly as I thought.

"If I go now . . . This is my only chance. There will be no others."

"What will I tell the 99th Commander?" He sighs. "My orders were to extract you if there was present danger."

"Tell him I am making progress. Remind him I have until the last days of the conjunction. I will reach out to Calliape if I can, or I will meet them at the safe house . . . like we planned."

Commander Wesley looks over his shoulder like he hears someone coming, then leans in closer. "He won't like it."

"Tell him this is part of the ritual. I won't be down here for much longer," I say, not knowing if it's the truth.

I have no idea how long they will keep me here. Crixa said I will have a chance of forgiveness but has made no mention of the atonement that was promised. She could easily take back her word and perhaps assume she would have no one to answer to. As if 99 wouldn't burst through the side of the Estate if he knew she wasn't going to go through with what their messages assured me.

"Priestess Ferren, it was an honor to serve as your guard, but I'm not sure you ever needed me."

"Commander Wesley, I appreciate the rescue, but I must dismiss you now."

I see another flash of his smile and even the indent of a dimple on one of his sharp cheeks as he turns to leave.

"Wait! You said days? How long have I been down here? How dark is Cosima?"

"August's ship touched down nearly sixteen days ago."

Panic surges through me, but my chance to reply is cut short by the sound of a patrolling guard.

Commander Wesley walks calmly in the opposite direction, toward the glowing cell and into the shadows.

I am fed three more enormous meals by the time Lord Hollis comes to my cell again. His face is pinched in frustration as his guards hold me to the chair for him to cowardly restrain me from afar.

Anything I can confess, I have. I am a lost priestess. I was tempted by other worlds. I simply lost my way.

Sixteen days of this torment.

But that is not good enough and it's affecting him, his patience running out, but so is mine.

He has me bound tighter, his guards so close behind me with their torches I can feel the heat on my hair and worry it will singe.

One of his scaly fingertips traces over my knuckles as he drains my gifts again. "I wish I could have seen what your little green lights did. I tasted it once before and savor it now, but I wish I could have witnessed you wield it yourself at its peak."

I'd love nothing more than to unleash my light on this pathetic little man. I'm wondering now if he is prolonging this process just to hold some control over me.

He suddenly stands upright when Crixa enters my cell, more guards and the scribe behind her.

"She is ready," he says and bows his head.

Crixa crosses the dark cell and begins reciting the same words she always does with little emotion. She says them quickly, swiping the moon water across her face and waiting for me to repeat after her each time.

I know them by heart now, but I wait, body tensing as each verse gets us closer to the end.

She places my hand in the water, and I recite my portion as I have every time, as I did the first day I professed my vows. As I finish, I look up at her and am met with such disgust that I forget for a moment what comes next.

"Lord Hollis," she calls, pouring out the moon water on the floor. "With all your might."

I cry out before the blow lands on my hand, the force enough to break a bone. This time, I positioned my hand in the cup so that my fingernails would not take the brunt of the strike.

He winds up over his shoulder and hits the top of my hand twice in hard succession, but the third time he misses and hits the top of my wrist, cutting into the softer flesh.

"Enough," Crixa says as she slowly exits.

Lord Hollis squats, but I try not to look at him as I pant to catch my breath, some of them coming out as whines at the new lashes and the old, reopened ones.

He traces his fingers across the tops of my hand like he did before, the motion sickeningly tender, like he is remembering our moment right before Crixa entered, when he could touch me without consequence and drain me.

I remember that moment too, what he said and how he described my gift.

Little green lights.

He only saw a flash of it when he took it from me in the temple, but he didn't see what came forth in the grand hall.

Little, my light is not.

It was likely described to him by the emperor or Crixa as something insignificant, as she does not want herself or the temple to seem weak, covering up what I did. Even blaming the destruction on the Viathans who helped me.

Admitting the truth that I blew her across that room and cut down her guards like it was nothing would be an embarrassment.

And now I know what she wants from me.

What my whole life has been about.

Ascension.

Crixa has me hidden in this cell until I confess that I have ascended so that no other lesser priestess can gain what I have: manifested gifts without ascension.

I am a threat to the control that hangs in the balance, one held up by the thing we are all promised if we are good, devoted and we blindly listen to our highest.

It does not matter that it is not true, that I do not believe it, or even if they do. It doesn't matter that I have not had an ascension ritual or celebration, only that I am willing to say that I have acquired my ability through traditional means.

"Wait, highest priestess, I beg you," I call with winded breath. "Ascension . . . I will confess to it."

Her footsteps halt, the exaggerated click of them returning, drawing my head to the side to meet her.

"Tell me why you lied. To undermine the temple?" she asks.

"I was so . . . angry."

"Angry?"

"At First Mother. I had to prove my devotion at great lengths while others simply prayed. I risked my life to be found worthy and my gifts were so small." The confession comes to me naturally because it's not a full lie. The resentment almost ate me alive when I did exactly what I was told and was still not good enough.

"First Mother does not make mistakes. A stronger priestess would not have been tested as you have. Your faults are many, and when your faith is tested . . . you routinely fail her. She knows this," Crixa says.

"Forgive me. I beg forgiveness from First Mother and my highest."

The closest thing to hurt crosses her face for a brief moment. I hate myself for feeling anything at the sight of it . . . but I do. I don't know why part of me still feels like crying when she is disappointed in me; it scares me to know I have any empathy left for her at all.

"Your chance for forgiveness was written into our laws by your priestess sisters before you. I will do my duties as the Highest Priestess of Cosima, as I hold my vows at the utmost of importance. Even if the taking back of a fallen priestess is not what I want, it is for the betterment of the order, its future. You see, I am not without flaws, my dear. But I overcome them. I do not let my feelings of opposition cloud my judgment, my vow."

I can't meet her eyes again and risk seeing something that reminds me I loved this woman like a mother once.

Remember, she hurt you, used you. She is a master manipulator and anything you feel is the effect of that.

She grabs my chin, making me look up into her powdery blue eyes. "You renew your vow to the temple and to First Mother before the highest priestess of your order. State your name under First Mother's loving embrace." She says the verse curt and monotone.

I can't help the stinging in my eyes, the moisture leaking from my nose from holding everything in.

She wants me to lie, even as I come to her under false pretenses of wanting forgiveness, a ruse of devotion. The opposite of who I had to pretend to be for her before. Yet even now, she wants me to lie further, to muck up, to complicate and twist me to her wishes.

I have wanted to say these words all my life.

What I have now is enough, I promise myself.

My throat is so tight as I swallow. If I have ever come close to true blasphemy, then this may be it.

"Blessed is the embrace of First Mother, the temple, and the . . . highest priestess. Blessed devotion to me . . . High Priestess—" I gasp, almost choking on my words. "High Priestess Ferren of Cosima."