Page 6 of Insolence (Eisha’s Hidden Codices #1)
Vibrant red finches with black wingtips and tail feathers flit around, hopping from branch to branch.
“Tiss!” Sadrie waves me over. “This is Cordelia,” she smiles, motioning to a pretty young woman standing at her side.
She extends her hand. “Pleased to meet you.” Her inky, blue-black hair has been pulled back from her face and sculpted into a halo of coils. She has luminous brown-gray eyes and deep brown skin that glows with cool undertones.
Cordelia says she’s twenty-eight and was among the first to arrive at the temple. Like Sadrie, she came with a large group of women she no longer remembers.
When the clock tower strikes ten, we hustle to one of the backless benches forming a half-circle around the tree. No sooner am I settled than I spot her across the courtyard.
Elodie’s hood is up, her unbound hair a raven-dark waterfall spilling over one shoulder. Her movements are purposeful and driven, her heavy cloak swinging around her black, heeled boots as she approaches.
“Is that her?” Sadrie nudges me with her knee.
I stiffen and nod.
“Gods, she’s pretty , isn’t she?” she hisses, causing my head to whip around.
An older woman follows a short distance behind the Second High Priestess. Her hood is dropped to reveal brown hair streaked with gray. As they both arrive at the tree, it’s difficult to ignore my stomach twisting in knots and the anxious clenching of my heart.
“Good morning, ladies,” calls the older of the two. “My name is Lady Maida, First High Priestess to the Temple of Eisha.”
“Lady Elodie.” She scans the crowd, lowering her hood and passing her gaze right over me. “Second High Priestess.”
Color rising to my cheeks, I can’t fathom what took hold of me yesterday. The way my focus narrowed and the room blurred around us was almost otherworldly. The memory of her lips touching mine sends a delicious tremor down my spine.
Maida launches into our first orientation lesson.
“Given the ritual’s tendency to leave random gaps in common knowledge, these classes are designed to get everyone on the same page.
We’ll spend the next few days briefing you all on the history of the realm and this temple’s function.
We’ll let you know what to expect from the upcoming Ceremony of Induction. ”
Murmurs break out, rippling through the small crowd.
Lady Maida motions toward the massive tree.
“We call her Rianorix the Waymark, or simply, the Waymark. So-called because she was here long before this temple was built, marking where the devout could make offerings to Eisha on their journey to the summit of this blessed mountain.” By the smile lines creasing her ivory skin and the distinguished crow's feet at the corners of her gray eyes, she's likely in her fifties.
“The Waymark is a yew tree,” says Elodie. “It’s sacred to Eisha. Like the goddess, the yew embodies destruction and regeneration.” Her voice drops, lending grave seriousness to her next words: “Please be cautious around it. Almost every part of it is poisonous enough to sicken or even kill.”
I’m only half-listening as she goes on about the various toxic parts of the tree—basically all the parts—as well as the Pointed-tip Mountain Finch. The little red and black birds are one of the few species that will eat the yew berries that haven’t yet formed but will soon.
We’re told how high priestesses have been raising the finches inside the Residential Quarters since time immemorial. They’ll be released to the wild on the day of the ceremony.
The longer class goes on, the more difficult it is to ignore the tugging sensation threatening to wrench me off the bench and directly into the ever aloof Elodie.
It was nothing at the lesson’s start, just a vague twinge between my navel and diaphragm. By the time we’re released for lunch, it’s as if a taut wire stretches between us, every breath ratcheting it tighter.
M y friends and I part ways after our meal to attend to our newly assigned chore duties.
Cordelia heads to the temple’s small apiary. Sadrie toward laundry duty. I cross the refectory to the aux kitchen and descend the winding staircase.
A wall of thick heat clobbers me before I reach the series of connected chambers beneath the long dining hall.
I’m scarcely across the threshold when someone says, “Oh, good. Another new girl to nanny.”
A woman around my age is standing at a rough-hewn prep table chopping vegetables. Her jade green eyes rove over me in a way that leaves me feeling deficient.
“Hard to believe winter’s passing so quickly.” She rolls her eyes and drops her knife, flouncing toward a butcher block-topped island housing numerous drawers. I watch her, stricken mute.
What in the world?
“That’s Ghisele,” says a young handmaiden, no older than thirteen. She stands from the stool where she’s been plucking chickens and wipes her hands on her apron.
Ghisele rips open one of the drawers with a bang , startling us. Her auburn hair is thick, glossy, and gathered at the nape. Her nose wrinkles; the freckles dusting the bridge of it perfectly complement her peaches-and-cream complexion.
“I’ve had about enough of your attitude for one day,” barks a middle-aged woman from the blazing hearth on the far wall. “You’ll show this kitchen some respect, or gods help me.”
“That’s Cook,” hisses the handmaiden. “Don’t get on her bad side.”
Ghisele mutters something incoherent, hefting a bag of potatoes from the drawer.
Cook snaps again: “You want to come over here and repeat that?”
The redhead merely slams the drawer before lugging the bag to the line of sink basins along one wall.
“I’ll try to remember that,” I whisper back.
More initiates occupy a far prep table, kneading dough with handmaidens. Sleeves rolled up, flour coats their arms to the elbow. Distracted by Cook and Ghisele, one of them knocks a ceramic crock off the table.
It takes several eggs with it as it tumbles.
Crock and eggs shatter to surprised shrieks and giggles. An older handmaiden with chestnut curls lunges halfway across the table, barely catching more eggs before they, too, can roll to their doom.
Ghisele slaps on a spigot. “I can’t concentrate with all of this havoc. ”
“How much concentration does it take to scrub potatoes?” I mumble.
A woman who might be the undercook, based on her outfit, is already moving toward the mess armed with a damp dish towel
“Let’s just say she probably didn’t have a whole lot of domestic experience. You know, before all this,” whispers the handmaiden next to me, her deep brown eyes glinting. She tucks a lock of ebony hair behind her ear, her complexion a rich medium olive. “I’m Kiera, by the way.”
She shows me to a wall-mounted blackboard where assignments are listed by name. “Oh! Looks like you’re in the gardens today.”