Chapter 2
he last time I was in this temple, I wasn’t wearing torn rags and shoes with soles so thin a cross look could pierce them – I was dressed inT silk. It was forest green, displaying the type of magic I once possessed, and paired with a rich stole of soft wolf fur.
It is the memories of the good old days that guided me here, that summoned my feet to Etta’s temple, and now I must use them to make an offering. A gift to show her I’m worthy of the chance of a lifetime. That I have the reason, the desire, and the will to fight in the Retterheld until death or the end of the trials, whichever comes first.
Ironically, Etta asks for the one thing I’ve never lacked since that night fourteen years ago: tears.
So as I walk forward leaving sodden prints with every step, rather than trying to push down the memories that constantly seek to overwhelm me, I embrace them. Memories of my mother, before my brother Florian was taken and killed, back when her laughter came easily. When she offered her magic and knowledge freely to help and heal.
Not that she ever stopped trying to heal and help. Even when our magic was stripped and her own body turned against her, she harvested from the garden until her legs were too weak to stand. That was when I took over, following her instructions and adjusting my methods on her advice to ensure the brews were as potent as they could be. She taught me vigorously, knowing she wouldn’t be there for much longer. Knowing I would be the one who had to keep the family alive .
As for my father … we lost him, in mind if not in body, the day they killed Florian. The death of his son broke him – as it did us all – but for him
the wound was too great to overcome.
A part of me still hates him for that. For making Kay and me feel like we weren’t enough.
But for Etta, and the tears she demands, I embrace the bitter memories and the old grief.
In Father’s last years, it was near impossible to reconcile the emaciated drunk with the strong, honourable man who had raised us to succeed. The man who would mark my face with the lines of my ancestors, arm me with bows and arrows, then blindfold me and take me out into the forest to prove myself. He would hide in the shadows, a silent sentinel who watched me as I figured out the way back to the High Hold, all the while believing myself utterly alone. The first time, I remember thinking I would never make it.
That I would die there. But once I returned triumphant, the thought never so much as crossed my mind again.
The older I grew, the more fanciful my thoughts on such trips became. I imagined stumbling across one of the Torailian, the elusive warrior people who live in savagery to the west. Little naïve me thought I could defeat them – maybe even a dozen of them – although I continued to dread the idea of crossing the path of an Issen with their white garb, colourless eyes, and skin like fine lace. Not to mention the power to draw every ounce of life from the air around them. Feared by all Morathkians, the Issen were our nightmare come to life.
I’ve long since learned that the monsters are far closer to home, namely the lords and ladies of Morathka’s court who turned their backs on us and cast us aside without hesitation or remorse. Still, no matter how deadly a monster is, you need only fear it when it draws close enough to bite.
Which is why I intend to show them all how well the past years have sharpened my teeth.
The spoiled gentry, with their warmed rooms and overflowing platters of food, haven’t got a clue what real desire is. They don’t know need.
Which is why I know Etta will choose me.
As I turn the corner, the altar to the Goddess comes into view.
The great Etta. Goddess of Life. The one who gifted me powers and, with her blessing, the one who will return them to me. ‘Great Goddess…’ I kneel on the stone floor, surprised by my suddenly dry mouth .
I have rehearsed my prayer to the Goddess a thousand times, ever since the High Priestess announced two moons ago that there would be a Retterheld. Never had I dreamed that one would exist within my lifetime; if I had, I would have practised for it from the day my magic was ripped from me.
Closing my eyes, I force myself to take a long, steadying inhalation before continuing. ‘Great Goddess Etta, I am here to offer my soul and my life to you and to the Retterheld.’ I pause for a heartbeat. ‘You demand our tears in order to judge the truth in our words, but the tears I offer you are not mine alone. They are also my sister’s. My mother’s. My father’s. My brother’s…’ My voice breaks and tears burn my eyes as the words I’ve rehearsed flee me. The sheer injustice of it all cuts me anew, but I swallow hard and force myself to continue. If I can’t manage this, I have no place in the trials. ‘Let these tears be for all of those King Korvane has wrongly punished in his all-consuming rage. If you were there that night, Great Goddess, you saw the queen’s death, and you know the truth. You know my mother was not to blame. You know Prince Kyor lied.’ My hands shake and my lips twist in a snarl. My mother’s word should have been worth more than that of an eleven-year-old brat, prince though he is. I push on through my anger, the words no longer coming from a script, but from my broken soul. ‘No crime was committed and yet my sister has suffered every loss. Her home, her parents, her magic. Every day I see her brightness fading a little more, hopelessness creeping into her veins like a plague. She is a lady, in her bones and blood, and she deserves the safety and dignity offered by a life at court. A marriage. A family. A future.’ The last word comes out as a sob, and when I raise my hands to my cheeks, my fingers come away wet with salty tears. Before a single one can dry, I brush my tear-stained fingers across the stone of Etta’s altar.
My heart races even as it breaks. ‘Let me do this for you, my Goddess,’ I vow. ‘I will fight with everything I have for you and for my sister, and I will clear my mother’s name. All I ask is that you give me that chance.
Please.’ Even though only a single tear is required, I move to collect more, but before I can shake them from my fingers, a loud shriek from outside the temple sends a shiver down the length of my spine. Someone else tried to enter and failed.
I, on the other hand, have said my piece to the Goddess. I am done here .
I let the last tears fall away, and then I dip my fingers into the bowl of black charcoal next to me, colouring my skin all the way to my knuckles.
The knights and their wolves can’t touch me now.
I turn to leave, only for a thud near the rafters to stop me in my tracks.
Nerves prickle through me, though thankfully, it sounded too heavy to be a bird. The last thing I wish to see is a raven’s black eyes watching me as I leave. My father always warned us to never turn our backs on a raven. That they will whisper your secrets to Mortidem if they think you’re weak, so he knows the best way to trap you. The last thing I want is for the God of Death to think I’ve entered the Retterheld solely to make his acquaintance.
I twist my head upwards, my gaze sharp, jaw clenched, and ears listening keenly. Surely no one could have thought to enter through one of the clerestory windows? A skilled climber might have found it possible to reach the top, but it’s a fifty-foot drop from there to the cold marble of the temple floor. Yet the creak of metal echoes around me. Someone is opening the window.
I’m simultaneously impressed and racked with nerves. If this is the strength the other Rettlings are showing without using magic, then winning this gifting won’t be easy. Not that I ever thought it would be. Still, there’s no guarantee that their presence here will grant them a place in the tournament. Regardless of how impressive their entry is, their tears may yet be insufficient for Etta.
A shadow moves at the window’s edge. Even from a distance, I can see it’s a man from the broadness of his back and the strength of his limbs. As I watch him, he turns his body so that he faces the wall, all while balancing on the thin window ledge. Then … nothing. He stays there, fixed in the same position.
He’s realising he made a mistake, I think as I watch. That’s why he’s hesitating; he knows there is no safe way down. He is going to fall and meet Mortidem. Either that or stay there until morning when the priestesses arrive and rescue him. As I stand there, contemplating whether I should tell someone about his predicament, a dark shadow plummets to the floor. I cover my mouth, stifling a gasp as it smacks against the marble with an audible thud.
He’s dead. He has to be. No one could survive that fall. My chest tightens as I stand there, unable to move. This is a temple to the Goddess of Life. To have a dead body here, even one who was willing to offer his soul to her, desecrates her space. The life Etta granted my parents and my brother may have been riddled with pain and betrayal, and cut short by bitter anger, but she still gave them life. Just as she gave Kay and me life. I will not leave a body here, violating her most sacred temple in Morathka. I have to move it.
My breath skitters as I step towards the crumpled pile that was a living, breathing person only a heartbeat ago. Whoever he was, likely some lord or duke, I doubt he’d want to be buried out in the slums, so I’ll give his body to the knights so they can return him to his loved ones.
The shadows shift above me as I take another step towards the corpse, and my eyes snap up, confusion grabbing hold.
The man is still there – still alive – and now he’s moving, lowering himself down the slick rock face, one step at a time.
What. The. Fuck.
His muscles glisten with sweat, which must weaken his grip, yet his hands and feet find impossible holds that are invisible to me from this distance. I’m an excellent climber, but the way he moves bowls me over.
I momentarily tear my gaze away from him and take another step towards the mound on the floor. It’s revealed to be nothing more than a rich fur coat.
Embarrassment courses through me at the thought that I was preparing to aid a mound of cloth. Clearly this man has no need of my help, and with my offering to Etta given, I have no reason to remain in the temple. Yet I stand rooted to the ground, watching his descent. The olive skin of his back is rippled with muscles and ghosted by scars. Every single fibre is taut as he stretches and bends, reaching out with nimble fingers. Where has he come from? All men in Morathka can fight, but to climb like this? He must surely be a knighted guard or a noble from one of the other cities. Most of the others who have come from afar have already made their submissions, but like me, he is cutting it fine.
I don’t know what the Eastern Isles are like, but maybe the cliff faces there are even more jagged than those beyond our walls. Or perhaps he comes from Dorain or Rowell? I’ve heard the further north you get, the
rockier and harsher the terrain is. Coming from one of those places could surely explain such skill.
More than once, his footing slips slightly, causing my breath to stutter, but every time he manages to find his place again, and from what I can hear, not so much as a gasp leaves his lips. When he’s about six feet from the ground, he looks down, twists his body, and jumps. He lands silently, knees bent, and I watch as his shoulders drop in relief. So he was tense. That’s something, at least.
As I stand there, the fur still by my feet, I consider whether I should make him aware of my presence. Unless he saw me when he first entered through the clerestory window, he’ll have no idea I have been here all this while. Watching him.
I said my prayer aloud to the Goddess and would loathe for someone to have heard my private words. I owe him the same privacy. I prepare to clear my throat, but he turns just then, and his eyes snap to mine.
The colour alone is enough to steal my breath. Every shade of crystal blue shines within his gaze.
My pulse skips and my throat tightens as he brushes his thumb against his bottom lip, but beyond that subtle motion, neither of us moves. He is about my age – twenty-three, perhaps a couple of years older – but I was wrong in thinking he came from outside Wrohelm. Black ink marks his skin in six perfectly concentric circles that cross from his shoulder onto his chest. The six circles of our city. He is Wrohelm-born, meaning that perhaps I knew him growing up. He would not have looked like this all those years ago, of course, but I’d have remembered him.
Silence swells between us as his gaze shifts down, first to my charcoal- coated fingers, then to my body. He goes slowly, as if taking in every part of it. Of course he is. I’m wearing rags, whereas I suspect every other woman who’s made it this far has been in full fighting leathers. Or at least had shoes without holes. Then again, it’s not like he’s fully dressed either. If he were, my eyes wouldn’t keep absentmindedly drifting to that place where a thin line of hair disappears into his waistband.
His lips tip up into a smirk, and when he speaks, it’s with a velvety baritone that makes my knees weak. ‘That’s not the kind of wet I normally like my women to be, but I guess it’s a starting place.’ My gaze pings up to meet his, indignation flooding me, and it takes a split second for me to realise he’s referring to my clothes.
‘Wading through icy water was undoubtedly more enjoyable than any weak attempt at foreplay you could possibly offer,’ I shoot back. ‘If icy water is the best you’ve had, sweetheart, then you’ve been tragically undereducated. I could always help rectify that.’ A ripple of static spreads across my skin, tingling in the most inappropriate places considering I’m standing in a holy temple. Fuck.
I scramble for a retort, anything to cut him down, but those piercing eyes pin me in place. My gaze slips instead to the puddle of heavy fur still lying at my feet.
His eyes must have followed mine, because contemptuous amusement is lighting their azure depths when I look back to him. ‘You believed that to be a body,’ he says. ‘Oh, sweetheart. I don’t fall. I can stay up all night if you need me to.’ I ignore his asinine comment in favour of studying him further. There’s something achingly familiar about him. The shape of his jawline, that slight frown line crinkling the skin between his brows, and that blue shade of his eyes … it stirs something in my memory. I’ve seen that shade of blue before, but in the eyes of a woman instead. I cannot remember exactly where or when, and he speaks again before I can chase the memory further, sending my thoughts skittering away. ‘Were you going to move it?’ he questions, a curl of disdain raising his upper lip. Once again, I stay silent, causing his sneer to lift even higher. ‘Compassion is suicide in the Retterheld. You should pray to Etta that she doesn’t choose you. You won’t survive the first trial.’ And just like that, I can speak again. ‘Worry about your own prayers,’ I snap with a nod towards the altar. ‘She’s already heard mine.’ ‘Was it to die in a trial you have no hope of winning?’ He frowns, looking at my hand. Abruptly, he reaches out and grabs me by the wrist. He twists my hand over to display my palm and the angry red wound still oozing blood. I didn’t realise quite how deep the cut was. Wordlessly, he takes his finger and traces the skin just beside the wound. Static radiates from his touch. Stifling a gasp, I snatch my hand back and press my palm against my side.
Blue Eyes shakes his head at me. ‘You get wounded in the Retterheld,
you die.’ Prick.
‘You should watch how you speak to others,’ I snarl as the attraction I felt moments ago leaves, and anger rolls in.
Fucking lords. I was too young when I lived at the High Hold to realise just what arseholes they are. But I know now. ‘Making enemies before the trial has started doesn’t seem like the wisest thing to do. Unless…’ I quirk my eyebrow. ‘Unless you’re relying on me beating you to a pulp to provide the tears needed for your offering?’ His sneer shifts to an amused smirk, revealing a hint of dimples in those chiselled cheeks. Good Gods. Jerk or not, he is a beautiful specimen of a man. If he does get into the Retterheld, I’ll need to pray to Etta that he’s eliminated as quickly as possible. There’s no way I need a distraction like him.
Though since he’s such an asshole, I probably won’t feel too guilty about his death. He’s willingly signing up for all of this. And Etta knows the world could do with fewer men with egos like his. ‘I’ll leave you to your prayers,’ I say before nodding to the fur on the floor. ‘And pick up your coat. It’s bad manners to litter.’ With that, I turn on my heel and stride out, ready for the long walk back to the slums. Every step out of the temple is a strut, and I – almost – convince myself that not a single one is for his benefit.
