Page 34 of Insolence (Eisha’s Hidden Codices #1)

Itissa

O n the fifth day of Stormdrift, Lady Maida opens the day’s lesson with the following question: “Can any of you tell me what a changeling is?”

Perplexed, Sadrie, Cordelia, and I look at each other.

“Flip to the first page of your purple workbook,” says Elodie from her spot at the front side wall. Arms crossed, she leans against it while we read in silence.

It is whispered among the workmen and commonfolk that Eisha, in her caprice, is given to snatching the humanity from certain children in the night.

In place of their humanity, the goddess sees fit to bestow upon these babes strange, inexplicable powers in trade.

They lie dormant until the first day of the eighteenth year, whereafter those who possess them may influence and control that most confounding stuff we have come to know as life-force.

Preternaturally cursed or gifted, those of such ilk are called ‘changelings,’ and they are beheld with fear and suspicion.

This great temple has been erected to shelter these changelings so that they should have a home in this dark world.

~ Sister Agressyna, The Temple of Eisha, as recorded in this Blessed Year of Aodh, 61 a.a.

“Does this mean we’re changelings?” asks Sadrie.

“That’s right,” says Maida. “Now, do any of you know why we wear so much jewelry?”

“Because it’s pretty?” Sadrie pipes up again. A glance in her direction confirms she’s teasing.

I wish I had the energy to laugh. If Ghisele were here, she’d no doubt be rolling her eyes.

“Good try, but no.” Maida pauses for more impulsive answers.

When none come, she says, “It’s not just jewelry.

They are tools called tokens . The metal they’re fashioned from is called Signet Silver.

That is, silver that’s been alchemically enhanced, or ‘Altered,’ to intensify the abilities you’re already inclined toward as acolytes.

Or, as Sister Agressyna put it, the ‘inexplicable powers’ Eisha ‘bestowed’ upon you. ”

Excitement ripples between us.

“You’ll have the opportunity to earn tokens of your own with satisfactory exam scores. Your first exam will take place in exactly one week—and yes,” Maida regards us sternly, “today’s lecture will most certainly be on it.”

I drag my notepad out of my satchel.

“Once you start wearing tokens, you may notice strange effects. Then again, some of you might already be receiving subtle signs that your First Sight is awakening.” Her gray eyes flick to Cordelia.

My friend is bent over her desk, labeling her notes in her tidy penmanship.

“Cordelia?” calls Maida. “Could you please inform your classmates what I’m referring to when I say First Sight?”

“The ability to detect the auras of those around you.”

“Well done,” says Maida. “If you all would kindly flip to page nineteen and take a moment to peruse.”

The top of the page provides a definition:

First Sight: The ability to see auras, i.e., the visual detection of life-force that extends beyond the body’s confines. Although some acolytes can detect auras with no assistance, most will require the help of Altered items and/or instruction in particular meditations.

I fish out my fountain pen and begin taking notes as Maida draws on her beloved blackboard, rendering the outline of a person.

While she scribbles away, she leads a metaphysical, almost mystical-leaning conversation about our relationship to the exchange of energy all around us.

Sunlight, flowing water, blowing wind, crackling fire, and electricity (where applicable).

Rain and thunder and lightning. The growing of plants and the nourishment they provide.

The nourishment gleaned from consuming other living beings.

Our connections with one another. Love and affection, in all its varied forms. The subtle, inherent sharing of certain energies between all living creatures, which is what we commonly view as consciousness.

Finally, our connection to and dependence upon the gods and goddesses—some of us more than others, depending on the person.

All of this merges and mutates into something greater. Something sacred . It becomes life-force in all of us—literally, a person’s very essence.

“Life-force is rooted to our souls,” says the First High Priestess. “It’s what makes us who we are. It can be depleted and even drained entirely. In the same way we need our hearts to pump blood or our lungs to capture oxygen, we cannot survive without life-force.”

I write as quickly as I can, straining to wrap my sleep-deprived mind around the information.

“That accumulated life-force extends outside of the body, physically manifesting as a person’s aura.” Maida sets her chalk down and turns to her counterpart.

Elodie pushes off of the wall. “Nine times out of ten, auras will be visually detectable, appearing as outlines around the head. Sometimes the whole body. Every so often, you’ll come across someone whose aura is undetectable for whatever reason. It’s not anybody’s defect.”

My eyes follow her as she begins her circuit around the room. Sweat prickles my scalp, an insistent need searing between my thighs. I squirm, tugging at the collar of my shirt.

“Auras manifest with emotional states and may appear shimmering, glowing, or hazy, but the visual ones are always colorful,” she continues. “Their appearance often intensifies during moments of great emotional impact.”

The Second High Priestess goes on about auras and their qualities. It seems we can even strengthen our own to defend ourselves on a super-physiological level.

After our break, she delves into reading them.

“There’s a subtlety to it. They’re usually only apparent to the average acolyte after she acquires a few pieces of jewelry. Naturally, exceptions occur.”

I can’t help glancing at Cordelia, diligently taking notes.

Elodie starts in on the different colors that may manifest, and my fingers cramp trying to keep up: green indicates joy, yellow is excitement, and anger is red.

Oh, gods… An uncomfortable realization hits for the first time, filling me with dismay.

I’m counting the pieces of jewelry the Second High Priestess has on—and it is a lot —and marinating in the notion that, in addition to my degenerate, wanton pheromones, my aura has likely been broadcasting my emotional state this whole time.

As mortifying as that is, I do my best to refocus, scribbling away with all my might and ignoring the insistent need pulsing between my legs.

Purple signals shame, brown disgust, and black is fear, alarm, or hatred. A luminous iridescent white indicates a state of ecstatic euphoria or even love.

Like black and white, blue is another tricky one, indicating self-satisfaction, contentedness, or sorrow.

“Simple clues such as body language and tone of voice will help with deciphering,” murmurs Elodie from closer behind me than I anticipated.

Whereas she’s avoided me in her pacing thus far, she now walks right past me.

“The degree to which auras will be visible, and their intensity, varies from person to person.”

Delectable shivers dance down my spine at her low tone. The beast inside of me rumbles, and I want to crawl out of my skin.

How screwed am I? Gods, the mere sound of her voice is turning me on.

She moves toward the blackboard with a subtle sway of her hips that snags the air in my lungs.

The lecture moves on, another hour passes, and the muscles in my hand protest. I focus on the pain, shoving my simmering arousal down as far as it will go.

Before dismissing us for the day, Elodie cautions, “Going forward, we’ll continue delving into more esoteric topics.

You’ll find the prioress and sisters won’t acknowledge certain concepts introduced in the coming weeks.

Likewise, the general public isn’t receptive to many of the things we’ll discuss.

“It will be prudent to keep discussion of these topics limited to the occupants of this room.”

T he next day, Maida is smiling widely as we file into the annex. She picks up her chalk and turns to write on the blackboard. When she steps aside, one question glares back at us:

What is magic?

Sadrie and I glance at each other.

“So, what is magic?” asks Maida.

“Eisha’s gift,” answers Cordelia.

“It’s a gift from the goddess; that’s true.

More specifically and in simple terms, it’s the ability to manipulate life-force.

To transfer it from or to a living being.

” Maida pauses, letting the information sink in.

“This ability is innate. In other words, you’re either born with Eisha’s gift or not.

Those who are born with it are called mages. Moreover, only women are born mages.”

She clasps her hands in front of her, passing her gaze over each of us. “As acolytes to the Temple of Eisha, this is what you ladies are known to be in the outside world.”

For once, Cordelia seems as perplexed as me and Sadrie.

“So men don’t have any magical ability?” asks Sadrie. “ Ever ?”

“That’s correct,” says Maida. “Over the coming months, you will learn about the Four Practices of Magic: Mediation, Alchemy, Conjuration, and Divination. You will receive specialized training to perform Mediation and Divination.

“Ultimately, these abilities elevate a high priestess beyond the status of your untrained, garden-variety mage. Now that we’ve discussed First Sight, do any of you care to take a stab at today’s topic?”

“ Second Sight?” I venture.

“Ah!” With a smile, Maida lifts her chin. “You’re up.”

Taking her cue, Elodie directs another question our way: “Do any of you know what Divination is?” Her voice comes an octave or two lower than usual.

Or is that just my imagination?

“It’s the Practice of seeking knowledge of future events through various methods.”

“Very good, Cordelia,” Elodie praises, and I bite my lip, for some reason wishing her words were directed at me. “If the practicing mage wishes to divine successfully, two things must be true.”

Maida turns to write on the board as Elodie continues lecturing, standing still for once with one arm slung casually across the lectern.

She’s dressed in trousers and a simple button-down today.

Like the day before the lottery, I’m almost certain her chest is bound.

Her hair is wound into a tight knot on the back of her head.

“Number one: the mage must tap into her own life-force. And number two: she must be in possession of her Second Sight.”

“So, what is Second Sight?” asks Sadrie.

“A gift from Eisha.” A thin grin lifts the corners of Elodie’s mouth.

Catching on to the circular logic, I clear my throat. “You’re saying it’s a particular type of magic that Eisha grants to mages.”

“More like ‘awakens’ within them when she sees fit. But that’s correct, Tiss.” When her agate eyes come to rest on me, something tightens low in my abdomen.

Her sleeves are rolled to just below the elbow. I can’t stop my gaze from trailing down the bronze skin of her forearm to her graceful hand. Her long fingers. By the time she glances away, I’m awash in the same raging inferno that plagues too many of my hours.

“We’re not sure if there’s a way to induce it ourselves,” she continues. “What we do know is most every mage will experience an awakening of Second Sight at some point in her lifetime. Typically in her twenties, but every mage is different.”

We are directed to turn to page twenty-three in our purple workbooks.

Second Sight: A latent ability; once awakened, it’s the miracle whereby a mage experiences sensory-immersive visions when Eisha sends an omen. A mage must have awakened Second Sight in order to carry out the Practice of Divination to a successful degree.

The priestesses launch into the most well-known methods—practices called scrying and lithomancy and cartomancy , and more. The terms and techniques jumble in my head.

Elodie takes up her pacing, her usually precise steps closer to rambling strides today. “When your Second Sight awakens, you’ll each have one method you’ll favor over the others. When the goddess sends omens, they will arrive thus.”

Apparently, Divination training begins after passing our Prelation exams.

Sadrie’s bursting with excitement when we’re excused for mid-morning break.

“So that’s oneiromancy for me!” she chimes, stretching her arms above her head. They drop when she meets my baffled look. “Divination through dreams. Weren’t you paying attention?”

“I’m feeling a bit run down today,” I say. “But if you’re referring to your omen before the lottery, then that’d make it scrying for Cordelia, right?” I name the technique requiring the use of mirrors or other reflective surfaces.

“That’s right,” nods Cordelia.

“Sorry you’re feeling run down,” says Sadrie. “Is there anything I can do?”

Get me the hell out of here? Fuck my brains out? I force a smile. “I don’t think so. Thank you, though.”

Cordelia tilts her head. “Hasn’t the goddess come to you at all, Tiss?”

“Not that I recall.”

“ Really ?” The way Sadrie’s eyebrows scrunch together leaves me feeling self-conscious.

“Maybe it’s still yet to happen. Or Eisha might appear to some of us but not others,” offers Cordelia.

“Maybe,” I say. “Or perhaps you’ve both been touched by the goddess and are destined to become high priestesses. And I am destined to go home .”

Sadrie goes quiet at that, her posture deflated, and I wish I hadn’t blurted it out.

When we return to class, it’s a battle to stay focused.

The longer the lecture goes on, the longer I try and fail not to watch Elodie roam the room. The more the lines between reality and my racing, fervent thoughts seem to blur.

No amount of squirming offers relief from the invasive thoughts of skin against skin or soft lips skimming my body—tender and slow at first. Then hard.

Similar to waking from a dead sleep to find myself upright, drenched, and inflicting some sort of harm on myself, I have the reality-shattering impression of vertigo.

Something in my brain snaps apart. The air shimmers and sways around me.

Elodie continues lecturing. Cordelia and Sadrie continue taking notes as if this is any other Aodhsday.

Feverish warmth ferments inside of me, overcoming my ability to ignore it. Perspiration clamors up my back and under my arms, and I have to unfasten the top button of my shirt. The next time I look down, the world halts for a moment.

I blink at the outlandish words running unevenly across my notepad, feeling haunted. Feeling like an imposter in my own skin.

You belong to me and me alone. The part of you that lives inside this moment of pleasure will always be mine.

Air hisses through my teeth. Blood rises to the surface of my skin, further singeing me on top of the fire in my veins and the broiler between my legs.

Rushing to scratch out the words, my pen nib nearly rips the paper.