Page 25 of Insolence (Eisha’s Hidden Codices #1)

Itissa

T he mist is descending and thickening into a swirling fog that engulfs the temple complex.

The Five become no more than hazy figures on their fancy little dais.

Behind us, the Entrance Arch is a misty mass of black iron.

The Temple Guardsmen are barely visible on either side, cheeks red with the cold.

“When your name is called,” says Ailen, “approach and spin the drum. Your sphere will roll out here, underneath.” Her gnarled fingers brush the black velvet draped over a long chute.

“This is the most important part.” Her eyebrows arch into the fair skin of her deeply lined forehead.

“If you’re wearing gloves, please remove one before reaching into the holding channel. You may then approach the patriarchs.”

Oh, gods. That’s right. We’re supposed to “present” our spheres to them. There’s curtsying involved.

Having said her piece, Ailen regards Deirdre. “Your reverence?”

The prioress takes center stage again, her fingers lightly grazing the birdcage as she passes. She chuckles fondly, regarding the finches inside their wrought iron prison.

Her expression turns solemn when she faces us again. “Please keep in mind the goddess makes no mistakes. Whatever color each of you draws is what she, in her infinite wisdom, has ordained.”

Through the mist, the Five are riveted on her—on us. I feel sick, briefly fearing I’m going to vomit. I’m glad there’s nothing but tea in my stomach.

“Let us now proceed,” says Mother Deirdre.

One at a time, she calls our names. Women walk up the aisle toward the tree, and the silver crank is turned until the telltale thunk signals a sphere has dropped into the holding channel.

Murmurs ripple through the crowd as the first initiate reaches into the dark holding channel.

The first initiate brandishes her sphere.

“It is black!” Deirdre announces, as if we can’t already see it.

The initiate circles the tree. Through billowing fog, I watch her curtsy and present the black sphere to the Jedrek man. He must take it from her because it’s no longer in her possession when she returns to her bench.

Bile sours the back of my tongue. The part of me not preoccupied with the Screamer is fixated on drawing a black sphere. Although Sadrie and Cordelia have both assured me otherwise, they were the ones who received so-called omens . Not me.

Like most women here, I suspect, I do not want to become betrothed to Eisha’s service. I hate the idea of becoming a sister. Somehow, I know I’ll draw a black sphere. It’s the same intuition with which I’m certain I didn’t offer myself willingly to this temple.

“ Pssst !” Sadrie’s hiss jerks my muscles. She inclines her head in the direction of the aisle.

Cordelia strides toward the drum with breathtaking confidence. Sadrie laces her fingers through mine, squeezing to the point of pain. Neither of us breathes as our friend turns the crank.

Thunk.

My free hand goes to my mouth. I strip off my glove with my teeth and promptly chew my thumbnail.

Cordelia removes her own glove, reaching into the channel. The sphere emerges a moment later. Even from here, the contrast is stark between her dark brown skin and the white flashing between her fingers.

The prioress’s face lights up. “Blessed Eisha, we have our first acolyte!”

An enormous sigh collapses out of me.

Sadrie squeals, glomming onto my arm and practically bouncing in her seat. “I told you so,” she hisses.

The patriarchs exchange approving glances, several talking quietly among themselves as Cordelia approaches.

When she’s finished paying homage, Cordelia returns. Her coral lips curve into a grin as she passes Ailen, intending to rejoin us on the bench.

“Over here, dear.” Maida beckons her. “Stand next to us.”

Her eyes sparkling like smokey quartz, Cordelia positions herself between the two priestesses who whisper congratulations. Even Ghisele gives her a nod that borders on respectful.

I cross one leg over the other, foot bobbing nervously, and gnaw my thumbnail. My relief for Cordelia is replaced with ever-growing dread as I watch the next initiates draw their spheres.

Black. Black. Black. Black. Black.

“Sadrielle?” Mother Deirdre calls. “It’s your turn.”

My friend perks up. I give her hand a quick squeeze as she rises from the bench. Unable to watch, my gaze shifts to the Second High Priestess.

Her hair is loose and hanging forward over one shoulder in an inky cascade. The hem of her black skirt is visible in flashes, skimming the tops of her heeled boots through her cloak’s opening. Consumed in the ceremony, she’s altogether ignoring me.

Nothing new there. In the vast ocean of low-simmering panic, shock, and uncertainty I’m now floundering in, her disregard is almost comforting in its familiarity. Whatever anger I felt toward her yesterday has dissolved into distant memory.

I swear, this week has been the longest year of my life. Probably .

Sadrie’s sphere drops into the channel. I close my eyes, the whole mountaintop seeming to freeze in time

“Another acolyte! Praise be to Eisha!” gushes Deirdre.

Oh, thank the gods. I sigh, going boneless on the bench.

Excitement ripples through the crowd as a glowing Sadrie practically bounces to the dais, dropping into a dramatic curtsy in front of the Five. Beaming, she returns from her pilgrimage and giddily takes her place by Cordelia.

I’m happy for my friends, of course I am.

But also in partial disbelief. Despite their assurances, concern for my own fate constricts my lungs.

We glance at each other as each new sphere is dredged up—all of them black as pitch.

I have yet to see the Screamer in attendance, and I fear the worst for her.

The handmaidens huddle together in front of the Archive, looking on with fascination through the fog.

Imogen bounces at the knees, her glossy ringlets springing against her shoulders.

She waves when she sees me, grinning wide, and I wonder if it’s her first time seeing the lottery in person.

Brigit stands behind her, a far more serious look fastened to her face.

Another initiate draws another black sphere. The number of us still waiting dwindles. Feeling especially alone, it’s a battle to keep from tearing my thumbnail clean off with my teeth. What am I going to do with no Sadrie, no Cordelia, and no Elodie?

Finally, I’m the only one left.

“Itissa,” says Mother Deirdre, turning her gaze on me. “I believe it’s down to you.” The kindness of her tone belies her cold eyes.

Sadrie gives me an encouraging nod.

Rising from the bench, I feel dizzy and weak-kneed and frightened. The trudge down the aisle seems inordinately long. The silver crank is so cold it stings my bare hand. My thumbnail is ragged and smarting at the quick.

The drum spins, the last remaining sphere tumbling around inside. Finally, it finds its way to the channel with a heart-pounding thunk.

Not daring to breathe, I slip my hand inside.

The metal sphere is smooth and ice-cold beneath my fingers. Squeezing it in my fist, I offer up a silent prayer to whatever deity may deign to listen and draw it out.

It’s the size of a small plum and surprisingly heavy. A long moment passes while I stare, trying to make sense of what I’m holding. Disbelieving what’s right under my nose.

There’s no way.

Deirdre’s clear voice rings out: “Praise to Eisha, we have a third acolyte!”

With her pronouncement, I finally acknowledge the white sphere resting in the palm of my hand is not some dubious machination of my mind. I lock eyes with Sadrie, a shit-eating grin on my face.

That’s when the sound of shattering glass fills the courtyard. Everyone's attention is on the Five, the newly designated betrothed girls shifting on the benches and craning their necks to see.

Clan Madoc’s man is on his feet. His wineglass reduced to shards on the dais, wine soaks his boots. Through wisps of fog, his face is ruddy, his eyes unapologetically anchored to mine.

The next thing I’m aware of is the screech of wrought iron paired with the frenzied cries of dozens of birds. A flurry of flapping wings explodes to one side of me, the finches bursting free from their ornate prison and nearly knocking me over.

I shriek in surprise—along with everyone else. My arms fly up to protect my head. Leaping away from the avian ambush, I narrowly avoid tumbling into the front row.

Elodie, Maida, and Deirdre are all talking at once. Pandemonium reigns in the courtyard as questions and raucous laughter erupt from the crowd. Several of the Five are on their feet now, talking back and forth, as baffled as the rest of us.

Meanwhile, dozens of mountain finches climb into the winter sky. Urgent in their newfound freedom, their red and black plumage flashes through the haze.

The collective shock gradually wears off as sisters manage to calm everyone down.

“Our sincerest apologies, ladies.” The prioress addresses us.

“So much excitement for one day! You’ve all probably deduced that happened a bit sooner than we expected.

” Her benevolent focus shifts to me. That too-warm smile creeps across her face, making me itch all over. “Itissa, you’re all right, yes?”

“I think so.”

I am beckoned to stand with my friends in front of the Waymark, where Maida takes my sphere and congratulates me. Ghisele mutters under her breath when I pass. Sadrie grabs my hand and squeezes, so excited she’s practically vibrating.

Cordelia says, “Didn’t I tell you?” And she did, so I really can’t fault her smug little smile.

The ceremony ends with a series of prayers and offerings of thanks to the goddess. Deirdre announces a celebration in our residence tonight, where we will apparently “revel in the benevolent joy of Eisha’s will.”

Shocked, strangely happy, and a little confused, I risk a glance at Elodie. She looks stiffly ahead, still hellbent on ignoring me. When the ceremony is over, she cuts through the swarming crowd, heading back toward the residence without a word or a backward glance.