Insolence a dark ff roma.., p.26
Insolence: A Dark FF+ Romantasy, page 26
“Right.” Elodie sighs. “It’s an old-fashioned term used for women who love other women”—women like you and me, she doesn’t say. But it drifts in the air between us just the same. “What it means is a woman who’s abandoned her duty to the realm—her duty being to keep her true desires hidden, to marry and have children anyway—instead choosing to indulge selfish cravings. More or less rendering herself a waste of flesh.”
“Oh, hell.” I slouch in my chair. Aside from revealing that horrible phrase, the Second High Priestess basically just told me that we’re all wasted women here at the temple. Then again, that does make a strange sort of sense.
She goes on to say the reverse isn’t true at all; not all wasted women are changelings. But the correlation certainly doesn’t do us any favors.
There’s another term for us, too. “Slag” is shorter and easier to say, but it’s pejorative to the point of being a slur.
“As if women in general don’t already have it bad enough,” I finally say.
She huffs in agreement and takes a long swallow of wine. “Things are slightly better for the mages who end up here. By becoming high priestesses, we somewhat redeem ourselves in society’s eyes. We prostrate ourselves before the goddess. Pledge ourselves to her mercy. We take our vows and at least keep up outward appearances.”
“Not that half the temple isn’t secretly screwing around,” I can’t help but murmur with a sardonic snort.
“Any given year.” She raises her cup and takes another sip. “But we serve a purpose, so most folks at least pretend to tolerate us. Some natural humans even revere us, few though they are, so don’t fret too much.”
I frown, chewing my food along with the steaming heap of knowledge she just dumped in my lap. The next time I look up, Elodie is glancing around her beloved enclave, a look of contentment softening her features.
Rain drums on the glass. The gray, waterlogged world outside contrasts starkly against our cozy indoor picnic. The flowerbeds overflow with jasmine and viola and pansy, chrysanthemum and primrose.
But the enticing perfume that’s teased my nostrils since I first sat down wafts from the strangely familiar striped roses. They climb the trellises behind the table, scrabbling up the wooden window frames and clinging to the crossbeams directly overhead.
I haven’t had another episode like the first time I came in here, although the aching nostalgia that accompanies their floral-citrus fragrance is still strong. Closing my eyes, I drag in a deep breath, attempting to let the feeling wash over me.
Elodie makes a noise in her throat. “I’d love to paint you sometime.”
She’s gazing at me and looking half-stunned by her own words when I open my eyes.
“If you want,” she adds hastily. “Truth be told, I don’t have supplies. But I could get some. If you wanted.” She rakes a hand through her loose hair, wearing a look of raw, open longing that thrums down the incorporeal cord connecting us.
“Let me think about it,” I say. How does her attention incite so much heat, so much euphoria? After the heavy conversation we’ve had, it has absolutely no right to and is the furthest thing from fair.
Under the table, I press my thighs together against my throbbing core. Behave, Tiss.
“They’re called thousand-petal roses,” she says. Leaning hastily over, she yanks one of the stunning flowers from the trellis, probably thinking she’s too sly for me to notice when she rubs the tip of her nose on her shoulder.
“They’re gorgeous.” I smile, unable to stifle my slight satisfaction at the effect my pheromones have. “I love them.”
She looks at me for a long moment, and there seems to be a whole universe spinning inside of her head. “May I?” She gestures with the flower.
“Please.” My every molecule is buzzing while she leans across the table.
With the tenderest of touches, she brushes a lock of hair gently behind my ear. Her clear eyes rooted to mine, she tucks the rose there.
“Beautiful,” she intones, letting her hand linger in my hair.
My heart lunges against my sternum, something akin to delight surging within me.
“Which brings me to the Accords,” she says, remembering herself and pulling away.
“And here I thought you’d forgotten.” I bring the last of my toast to my mouth.
“Mm. A deal is a deal, and I never break my promises, Tiss.” She turns her mug in a circle, the heavy pewter scraping dully through the tablecloth. “The High Clans were the founding clans before the city-states were established, before the realm was united.”
“Right,” I say.
“They went to war over resources preceding the realm’s founding, yes. But mostly they fought over the status of changelings.”
The status of changelings? I lean forward.
“Two of those founding clans, Leofel and Keithan, elevated the changelings among them. These women were revered—mages and demuns alike. They were teachers, healers, warriors. Advisors to the chieftains. They led men into battle, taking much glory for themselves. None of that sat well with Jedrek, Madoc, and Owin, who were afraid of their power, their strength. They kept changelings suppressed in their own clans. Sort of how things are now.
“Then, during the height of the war, the existing settlements had grown. More clans and unaffiliated individuals joined the fray, each picking a side. Afraid of what they didn’t understand, most sided with Jedrek, Madoc, and Owin.
“At first, this coalition sought to suppress Leofel and Keithan. But with the mages and demuns among them strong, trained, and vicious, the latter were nearly unstoppable. Until the sweeping plague. Then the crops failed. Game became scarce. So many thousands perished that the founding clans’ chieftains were forced to come together. To forge a tentative peace.”
She pauses, her eyes roving over my face and the few remaining bites on my plate.
“The drafting of treaties went on and on, the five chieftains never voting unanimously. Until…” She watches me expectantly.
“Until the Indigo & Veridian Accords were proposed.”
“Very good.” She gives a small smile, her hazel eyes burning bright. “The Accords ultimately elevated these founding clans to governing status. Declared them noble houses. Established the city-states, the patriarchs, the drūKing, and his line of succession. Thus, uniting the realm.” She lifts her cup in a mocking sort of toast before upending its contents into her mouth.
“Well. The Accords also brought the newly ordained patriarchs into agreement that changelings must be subdued. Controlled under strict measures. And the most insidious part—this agreement would turn women’s families against them. Turn us against each other. Particularly the highborn.”
That means Keithan and Leofel’s patriarchs ultimately betrayed the changelings in their own clans. It suddenly feels like the dreary day outside is pressing down on me through the glass.
The impact wrought by these decisions sours my stomach. The sisters and Mother Deirdre probably feel so vindicated doing the bidding of these men who have us imprisoned, meanwhile keeping the poor betrothed girls drugged and helpless simply for being born.
“This is the truth nobody talks about.” The pain in Elodie’s sigh is palpable. I get the sense she’s been burdened by this unacknowledged truth for a long time. “It was the Accords that ordained the Ceremony of Induction. Dedicated the Temple of Eisha to imprisoning demuns who break Inviolable Laws while simultaneously training legions of mages to become high priestesses.
“Ideally, we’re to be sold off as seers to the high houses of the realm. Used as pawns to further the political machinations of the elite.”
Wait a minute. Something unsettling occurs to me. I’m opening my mouth to ask about what Sister Delia said before the lottery: that Eisha’s betrothed will be transferred to other temples to become sisters themselves after the Binding Ceremony.
Does that mean the sisters here are also demuns?
I don’t see why not. The prioress is clearly a powerful mage.
I’m opening my mouth to ask when the greenhouse door flies open on a rattling gust of wind. We both jump in our seats.
“Tiss! There you are.” Ghisele is standing in the doorway, rain sluicing onto the floor from her lowered umbrella. “I’ve been looking for you everywh— Oh.” She flinches, registering Elodie next to me and the feast between us. Her eyes narrow. “Didn’t know I was interrupting.”
A raging blush heats my face. I’m on my feet, my napkin drifting to the floor before she’s done talking. “What time is it? Gods, I didn’t even hear the clock tower chime,” I hear myself babble.
I quickly thank Elodie for lunch and hustle out of there.
When I hurriedly brush past Ghisele, she watches me and murmurs, “Isn’t this quaint?”
By the time I slip outside, I’ve lost the thousand-petal rose that Elodie tucked behind my ear.
Chapter 33
Itissa
Stormdrift trudges on at a glacial pace.
Cordelia and Sadrie continue keeping to themselves for the most part, which is just as well.
Shame at what happened between me and Sadrie claws up my throat; rage at her reaction scratches behind my eyes. Sometimes I daydream about shaking her, telling her that what happened was her fault and what she did was wrong.
At least fury is better than the misery that threatens to drown me from time to time. If I’m honest, part of me is suffocating with loneliness. And it’s the lonely part of me that’s weak.
That part wants to collapse at Sadrie’s feet and beg her to talk to me, to be my friend again. It wants me to crawl into her lap, weep and kiss her, and tell her how much I miss her.
I remember what Elodie said about making myself and others ill. I’m very careful to keep myself under control, being mindful of my breathing and only allowing my temper to break loose when I’m alone and in private.
In the middle of the night near the end of the month, I can’t shake the memory of plunging the letter opener into Elodie’s shoulder, the hypnotic ooze of her blood as it seeped down her shirt, and the deranged delight I felt at spilling it.
I toss and turn, trying not to think about what I might have done that day in the greenhouse or why I have no recollection of it. I can’t get the image of sigils glowing on the backs of my hands out of my mind.
“Arcane beings. Preternatural, unearthly creatures wrought of chaos and magic.”
Elodie’s words from our shared lunch force me upright in bed.
I creep to the washroom, keeping to the shadows, and splash icy water on my face. “If I’m not a creature of chaos and magic,” I ask my reflection, “what other explanation is there for the monster inside of me?”
Tears prod the backs of my eyes. I’m suddenly doubting the precious little I think I know about myself.
My intent is to go back to bed, but somehow I end up outside of Elodie’s rooms, praying a sister on patrol doesn’t catch me. I have no idea how late it is when I knock.
“Tiss?” The Second High Priestess is still fully dressed when the door swings open. “Everything all right?”
Relief floods me at not having woken him.
His long hair is loose and hanging around his shoulders, released from the tight knot he wore it in during class today. Of the events I can’t recall the day that Bibi tore open my arm, I have retained the realization that sometimes he’s a man.
Now that I’ve acknowledged it, it’s something I can’t unsee.
He invites me in and offers a tincture for sleep. Grateful, I accept. Waiting on the settee while he fetches it, I feel idiotic showing up so late and wearing only my rumpled sleeping shift and soft-soled slippers.
“Here.” Elodie returns with the medicine, sinking onto the cushion next to me. “Now. Would you like to tell me what’s bothering you?”
I swallow the bitter concoction and make a face. “It’s that obvious, huh?”
“Not the first time you’ve arrived on my threshold late at night.”
The next thing I say spills out of me in a rushed hiss: “Will you please tell me what’s wrong with me?”
He snorts. “I’m afraid I’ll need a little more specificity there, Tiss.”
“I feel like I’m losing my mind,” I whisper. “The monster inside of me has been silent for weeks now, but what if it doesn’t remain dormant?” My tone rises with my anxiety, my true concern breaking the surface: “What if the lottery results were mistaken? What if I’m really a demun?”
“Tiss—”
“Please, just help me understand.” I shake my head. “I can’t stop thinking about losing control. Stabbing you. Draining Sadrie. I feel like I’m suffocating. What if it means—”
“There aren't any mistakes during the lottery,” he says. “The process isn’t actually sortilege at all.”
I blink back my surprise. “It isn’t?”
“No.” He fixes me with that unnerving, level gaze of his. “The spheres are old. Probably as old as the temple itself. They’re made of solid gold, and all of them are identical.” He hesitates, as if considering how to word the next part. “They’re Altered with illusion magic—an illusion that changes the spheres’ outward appearance. It’s triggered by touch.”
Understanding breaks over me in a warm wave. “Which is why they wanted our gloves off.”
“That’s right. The spheres turn white when a mage touches them and black when in contact with a demun. But it has to be skin contact, or it won’t work properly.”
The relief flowing through me is indescribable.
“What color sphere did you draw, Tiss?”
“White,” I say, feeling as if I can breathe for the first time all night.
“Better?”
“Much,” I whisper. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure.” His tone is indulgent.
Listening to the hypnotic pop and hiss of the fire, I realize this is the first time in far too long that I’ve felt comfortable in my skin. Finally, “Can I ask you a question that might be… personal?”
“I can’t guarantee I’ll answer, but go ahead.”
“Sometimes you’re different. You, ah— Hmm.” I stop myself and try again: “Like today. You’re wearing trousers. When you do, you seem much more masculine. But the rest of the time you’re quite feminine…”
He rakes crooked fingers through his dark hair, looking almost amused at my flustered state. “I have a mutable soul, Tiss.”
“Mutable soul?”
“It means sometimes my gender aligns with my biological sex. Sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes I sort of flow from being a woman to a man.”
“Do you have a different name you prefer when you’re a man?”
“El, if it’s just you and me. But Elodie is always fine.”
El. I incline my head, taking in the angle of his jaw and his high cheekbones. With his hair down, his features are much softer, but I like it both ways. “Would you like to be referred to as ‘he’ instead of ‘she,’ El?”
“That’s up to you,” he shrugs. “Whatever you’re comfortable with. I’m still me. But it’s risky to make a habit of changing my pronouns whenever you notice my gender has shifted. Do me a favor and don’t go switching them in front of Sadrie or Cordelia, either.”
“Understood. I would never,” I say. “Still, I don’t want to offend, if I can help it.”
“You’re not going to offend me.” The flickering smile becomes a grin, warming me like the sun breaking through clouds. “‘She’ and Elodie are always fine, no matter what. ‘He’ is fine when I’m El, and we’re on our own. If you’re unsure, you can always ask, although you seem fairly attuned to my shifts already.”
A comfortable quiet expands between us, breathing like a living thing. Not quite ready to return to my rooms and sensing his reluctance to dismiss me, I take in the snapping fire in the copper bowl and the cedar beams spanning the ceiling. The dyed wool rug beneath our feet.
We sat close like this, on this same settee, the first day I met him.
My gaze drifts to his sculpted mouth, his lips slightly parted, and I’m suddenly dangerously close to succumbing to the memory of their softness; the firm hunger behind the kiss before it was over much too soon.
Or the vicious appetite with which that sculpted mouth devoured mine in the fissure, my own hunger swallowing me in response.
Watching me a little too carefully, he says, “I’m not trying to scare you, but you’re right to worry about your monster coming back. It will. When it does, it’ll be hungry.”
Oh, gods. “I was afraid of that.”
“Mm. Sooner or later, you’ll have to feed it again. It’s stronger than you are. It won’t give you a choice.”
My breath hitches at the abrupt, silken lilt of his tone. “What can I do?” I ask, equal parts miserable and strangely enthralled.
“There are mental and emotional wards you can put in place during,” he says. “With practice, they’ll temporarily keep the worst of the hunger in check. Keep you more in control. It’s not a perfect method. Unfortunately, there’s no such thing when dealing with forces we can’t completely comprehend. But with patience and practice, they can make a difference.” A hint of dark desire flashes in his eyes. “If you’d like, I can teach you how to put the wards up. Help you practice keeping them strong.”
Seeing as he knows exactly how my monster “feeds,” there’s very little mystery as to what he’s insinuating. “It sounds like you’re rethinking your promise never to fuck me, priestess,” I blurt, unable to suppress the slight bratty edge to my words.
“Well. I might have been a bit hasty that day, but I made no such ‘promise.’ Believe me, the omission was deliberate.” His magnetic gaze travels over me, brimming with a familiar hunger that turns the tightness in my chest to flutters. “Goddess, Tiss. I’m not trying to be rude, but the truth is, I wish with every fiber in me that I could fuck you every damn day. All day long.” His voice is a velvet rasp, the space between us choked with desire. “Is it all right to say so?”
My skin flushing, I whisper, “Blue.”
“It’s not exactly a secret I’ve had any success in keeping.” His hand lifts as if to touch me, only to stop short of my hot and throbbing cheek. I hold my breath, my heart pounding, before it drops. “I’d never get tired of it. I’d always want more.”
