Page 3 of Insolence (Eisha’s Hidden Codices #1)

Itissa

T he temple complex is nestled into craggy sandstone, where it looks like a scoop was taken out of the mountainside. The grounds are mostly surrounded by Mount Bliss’s upper reaches.

The summit towers over us like a behemoth, as if Bhàtair himself stands guard, stone muscles bunching in the thin air. The southwestern quarter opens to a sheer drop, allowing limited daylight into our enclave and access by a winding footpath.

Howling wind batters me, and I sway on my feet. The bright afternoon light isn’t helping my headache, but the yearning for sunshine is what drove me up here to begin with.

At least, that’s what I told myself when I was finished with lunch.

I’m standing as close to the edge of the rooftop terrace as I dare. A waist-high railing of wrought iron openwork is the only thing separating me from a swift death.

Impossibly far below, a quaint village is nothing but a jumble of crimson roofs huddled around the base of a waterfall. The village straddles the Kinvarrea River, plumes of swirling mist occasionally obscuring everything.

Is that where I’m from? I can’t help but wonder. Did I leave my family behind in one of those houses?

Agony burrows behind my eye sockets before I can halt the attempt at recollection.

Oh, gods help me. Nausea rises, acid biting the back of my tongue. Lightheadedness takes hold, and I grip the railing, praying for it to pass quickly.

When I peek down again, my legs go wobbly before the realization hits.

Homesick . I am homesick.

It took far too long to put my finger on the driving melancholy that had me contemplating more than merely peeking over the edge.

“How can I be homesick when I don’t know where home even is?” I ask the empty roof.

Gods , I can’t stand the endless litany anymore. The never-ending ticker tape of questions nobody will answer. It’s been the same shit parading around my mutilated mind for three days now.

On top of everything else, there’s something lurking just under my skin. It shifts behind my ribs, gnawing at the edges of my consciousness, restless and vicious and terrifying .

“Tiss?”

“What are you doing?” Voices overlap behind me, cutting through the biting wind and jerking my muscles. “You aren’t supposed to be up here.”

I whirl around to find two young girls shivering with no cloaks on, one of whom I recognize. Both wear the plain black dresses, stockings, and shoes of temple handmaidens.

“Getting some fresh air. I didn’t mean to break rules.”

“No matter. Just don’t let the sisters catch you up here,” says Brigit, whom I met two days ago. She turns toward the vestibule. “Come inside. Lady Elodie’s been waiting. She wishes to speak with you.”

The taller and older of the two, she looks to be around sixteen. She’s pretty, with ivory skin, blue eyes, and a mass of red hair. Her younger counterpart is petite, delicate, and certainly no older than ten.

“Who is Lady Elodie?”

“Second High Priestess to the temple,” chirps the younger one.

Interesting . I trail them to the rooftop vestibule. “And what’s your name?”

“I’m Imogen.” She skips to catch up with Brigit.

A wall of warmth hits once inside, my frozen fingers tingling from the sudden temperature shift. The door bangs shut. After the shrieking wind, the silence rings.

A filthy skylight barely lets in light, forcing my eyes to adjust in the dimness. “Why does a priestess want to meet with me?”

“Not sure,” comes Brigit’s voice. “Honestly, her summoning you before the lottery is highly irregular.”

My escorts are descending the narrow, winding staircase when my surroundings come back into focus.

I hurry after them. “What lottery?”

“The sisters didn’t tell you?” Imogen’s russet eyes flick over me. Her skin is a warm, dark brown, and her black ringlets are gathered in a ribbon at her nape.

“The sisters are overwhelmed with preparations at the moment,” says Brigit. “And Tiss was the last to arrive.”

“Right. I forgot.” Imogen’s face scrunches in concentration.

“Are you new too?” I ask as we near the bottom.

“Uh-huh!” She flashes a wide grin, revealing the gap where she’s recently lost an upper molar. Her short legs stretch to reach each riser.

“ Finally .” A familiar croak rings across the landing, accompanied by jingling.

Brigit and Imogen stiffen, their heads snapping up as Sister Ailen approaches.

“Took the better part of an hour to find her, didn’t it?” The old woman shuffles to a halt in front of us, the brass keyring at her hip chiming with every step. “Does she know the priestess is expecting her?”

“I do,” I say. “But this wasn’t on my schedule today. Is this... normal?”

“It wasn’t on your schedule because we didn’t know she’d require an audience,” sniffs Sister Ailen, her beady, dark eyes narrowing.

She leans on a wooden cane topped with a brass grip.

“And no, it isn’t normal, as you say. But she wishes it.

So Brigit and Imogen will deliver you directly, even though your hair is atrocious and it looks like you slept in your dress.

As she carries a high rank at the temple, you will give her the utmost respect.

” Finished with me, Ailen faces the other two.

“No dawdling. She’s been waiting long enough. ”

“Yes, Sister,” the handmaidens chorus.

“Hopefully she forgives her disheveled appearance.” Shooting me a last, reproachful glare, the lines around Ailen’s puckered mouth deepen before she turns to leave.

“Don’t pay her any mind,” says Brigit, once the sister is out of earshot. “This way.” She takes off down the walkway.

“This is actually a good day,” whispers Imogen. She shoots me a dubious look before scurrying after Brigit.

Our residence is a four-story cube, from which two other buildings branch off. One is the refectory. I haven’t been in the other one yet.

Open-air walkways surround the atrium, barriers of wrought iron scrollwork hemming in the open sides. The fountain’s song drifts up from the ground floor, mingling with the finches’ endless chatter. Overhead, an iron and glass dome lets in winter sunshine.

“Am I in some sort of trouble?”

“I really wouldn’t know,” says Brigit.

Concern marring her face, Imogen hangs back to wait for me. “You haven’t done anything wrong, have you?”

“I don’t think so.” But yesterday flashes before my eyes—the blood on Rosalie’s mouth and Kerrigan hitting her. The fact that I wasn’t supposed to see that, according to the hostile greenhouse woman I annoyed immediately afterward.

“When did you arrive at the temple, sweetheart?” I ask, glancing at Imogen and needing a change of topic.

“Imogen is new to being a handmaiden,” clarifies Brigit from several paces in front of us. “She’s beginning her formal training, and there’s much to learn. But we didn’t come here voluntarily like you did.”

Voluntarily . The word rankles me at this point. “You didn’t?”

“Nope! We’re orphans, given up by our families,” says Imogen, matter-of-factly.

“I see.” Her directness catches me off guard. “Don’t you miss having a family?”

“Our parents gave us to the temple as babies,” says Brigit, her words brisk. “We’ve grown up here.”

“Brigit’s my family,” nods Imogen, her legs working like pistons. “Well, her and the other handmaidens.”

“The temple is the only home we’ve known.” The finality in Brigit’s tone indicates the topic is now closed.

Hoping my question wasn’t rude, I count the closed doors we pass. Bedrooms line the atrium’s perimeter on all four floors. This building is far too big for the thirty or so other women I’ve seen milling about.

Brigit turns a corner, and Imogen trots to catch up.

“When do you think they’ll make the announcement?” She reaches for the older girl’s hand.

“Any day now.”

“What announcement?”

“The lottery .” Brigit tosses the word over her shoulder as if to say , Keep up with the conversation already.

“Right. And that is…?”

“The lottery decides who becomes betrothed and who will be an acolyte to the temple.”

The pounding in my head becomes small, white-hot explosions. I close my eyes. “Individually, I know what those words mean. Together, they make no sense.”

Imogen’s bright giggle reaches me.

“The sisters will explain more the day of,” says Brigit. “Or perhaps Lady Elodie will be kind enough to elaborate. Our job was to get you here.”

My retinue turns down a shadowy hallway that extends toward one corner of the building and ends in a set of imposing wooden doors.

Anxiety coils a tight knot in my chest. I pause to take a steadying breath. Heart pounding, I start down the dim hallway in the handmaidens’ wake.

Together, they heft one of the doors open. “At your request, High Priestess,” says Brigit. “Apologies for your wait. It took a while to track her down.”

My fingers worry at a loose thread on my cloak. Forcing my hands to stillness, I step across the threshold and into the room’s enveloping warmth.

“It’s no matter,” says the priestess I’ve been delivered to with such urgency, her voice low and slightly familiar. “Thank you for fetching her on such short notice.”

My eyes glued to the fire popping in a polished copper bowl, I feel like a high-priority parcel. Heat surges into my cheeks.

Oh, no. Am I a blusher?

Terrific…

Brigit brushes my arm before steering Imogen away. “We’ll be just outside the door.”

“Nice to meet you!” Imogen gives a little wave, her other hand cradled in Brigit’s.

I echo the sentiment, watching them leave. The heavy door swings shut. Turning, I reluctantly lift my gaze.

For shit’s sake. “You,” I say and glance around, wondering if this is someone’s idea of a joke.

The same gorgeous woman from the gods-be-damned greenhouse stands in the center of her apparent receiving room. And here I am, red-faced and looking like I slept in my clothes.

“Yes. Me.” Those magnetic hazel eyes assess me coolly. In combination with her medium bronze skin, full lips, and raven-black braid, she’s more magnificent and slightly less hostile than I remember.