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eight

Dove

L ast night, after leaving the springs, I made my way back to the darkness of my bedroom, slightly put out from my one-sided conversation with Cardinal. Last turn was a full moon, which means this turn the fairy’s breath is in full bloom, and tonight—

The last thing I want to think about is tonight.

Pushing it from my mind, I continue with my tasks. This morning, I awoke to my usual routine of taking in the dirty laundry, dispersing clean washing, tending to my garden, preparing the dining room for breakfast, tidying the priestess’s quarters and sweeping and scrubbing the floors.

The list is truly endless. I am not the only servant here, but sometimes, it seems that way. Especially with Bridget—the untitled leader of my torment—looming, just waiting for any small misstep.

Wren also makes it her mission to make up for the lack of chatter in my life by being a constant pain in my arse and giving me her most helpful advice.

“ You missed a spot,” the sweet but sarcastic voice filters through.

“I’m getting there,” I harshly sizzle at the ground. The voice of my heart is starting to get on my last nerve, and she knows it. Wind-chiming laughter springs to life.

Just as I am about to whisper, “ Get lost, ” to the annoyance in my head, the air around me stills. Or maybe that’s just me holding my breath at the voices suddenly travelling down the long corridor.

“High Priestess Cardinal, I really think it’s imperative that any celebrations be moved away from the town proper with everything going on.” Oriole and the high priestess make their way down the hall that I’m fervently scrubbing.

Down on my hands and knees, I keep my scrubbing hand still, breathing in eucalyptus bubbles quietly to avoid detection. Closing my eyes, I wish for the invisibility barrier that sometimes overcomes people in my presence to take hold.

Unfortunately, it does not stick.

“Dove.” Cardinal stops inches from my soapy hands.

Leaning back on my heels, I look up at the robed body to find crystal blue spheres squinting expectantly back at me. I nod my head towards the floor in a show of respect.

From my downward view, I can see Oriole’s feet shuffling under her pink robes. As Cardinals right-hand priestess, I always find her quite frazzled—not what I would expect from a high-ranking priestess. Could that be why she chose Kestrel to wed Castor instead?

“I will require you to prepare my remedy for the moon ritual tonight,” the fluid words breeze from her.

Closing my eyes to the sound of her voice, my body gives a slight sway as I grip the sponge roughly in my hand, suds and water trickling down my skirts.

A wave of ice washes through my throbbing veins.

There it is. The summons I try to avoid each full moon. The one I can never truly avoid.

My neck tenses and an involuntary movement overcomes my whole head, bouncing it twice up and down.

Without another word, Cardinal’s red velvet rob swishes against my wet floor, and she continues on her way. At her retreating form, my heart decides to enter every orifice of my being, leaving my vision hazy.

Staying in my bowed spot, I think of only one thing that will calm the rage crashing and swelling in the depths of my soul.

A melody I have studied fiercely and now consume like air—the Goddess’s song.

Over the rotations, her song has become somewhat of a mantra, the strange words revolving on a loop in the recesses of my mind until I found time to practise each evening before sleep overcame me.

Singing her song is the only thing I look forward to in my movements anymore, excited to have something just for me, a purpose to my existence. And I, a mere servant, cracked the code of an ancient language. Though, to be honest, it is very similar to the language we speak currently.

On the third round of the chorus in my mind, my body jolts to life, and I scrub and scrub and scrub until my fingers are raw from the constant friction with the stone below.

These floors will be the death of me. These floors or the lady commanding me to her quarters this evening, that is.

I see that clearly now.

Each month, I hope for a reprieve. That she will choose someone else. In the beginning, I was confused, then honoured by the opportunity to please the high priestess and, in turn, the Goddess until my mind grew weary and complacent. A familiar darkness found me, and I descended into onyx crystals.

Even Wren retreats, running from the welling tides within. I cannot blame her. If I could run, I would go with her.

After my little visit from Cardinal and finishing up my turns chores, I find myself in the bathhouse.

I am here for two reasons. One, to cleanse my body for tonight’s ritual. And two, to collect the much-favoured goo the glow-worms leave behind.

The priestesses see the substance as an elixir of youth. It is not uncommon for servants to be down here collecting the slimy, clear goo while the priestesses bathe. It’s also not uncommon to see priestesses slathering the stuff all over their bodies as they soak in the healing waters.

Personally, I do not see the appeal of putting worm excrement on my face. The priestesses all look the same to me, but they all swear by it, saying it has even reversed the signs of ageing.

My mother once told me it is a privilege to witness lines grow on your face. It represents your journey, wisdom, love and care. That I understand. That makes sense. I don’t quite understand everything the priestesses do, but it doesn’t stop the way my thoughts run when I remember what sits prominently on my neck—the scar that renders me not quite enough in the eyes of this world.

For that reason (and many others), I barely take the time to look in the mirror. The person looking back at me is not someone I recognise anymore, or someone I like.

After completing my goals, I make my way back to the greenhouse to add the next ingredient to the ritual remedy Cardinal requires.

Earlier, I picked the four fairy’s breath flowers, placing them in a small wooden box on my potting table waiting for my return.

Getting out a mortar and pestle, I grind the violet flower down so it makes a thin paste. I then add this paste to the worm goo. The things I do. The thought slips through my mind, an internal eye roll to the Goddess.

There is one more ingredient, though. One more thing that makes the vicious dragon guarding the dark cave in my chest open his eyes and puff his smoke.He has been sleeping, but when I truly need him he makes himself known. A comforting presence in a disheartening world .

Argus is the keeper of all my secrets. A dragon of the old stories, soot black with the clearest eyes. I trust him to keep me safe from parts of myself that no longer serve me, all those lethal hard truths and devastating obstacles hidden away. Maybe it isn’t healthy for me to deal with my daemons by locking them behind others, but just add it to the list of oddly specific ways I’m coping.

Life’s greatest question, what does it all mean? If I knew maybe I wouldn’t need the extra help.

With my fairy’s breath remedy in hand, I make my way to my final destination for the night: High Priestess Cardinal’s chambers.

As I stand at the doors to her quarters, tracing my namesake into the smoothed wood, I ask Argus to step up one more time and find space to carry the new burden that is brewing behind the door in front of me.

My hands tremble as I grasp the door handle firmly and push.

I am met with a cloying smell of patchouli, turning my insides into ash—a bare tundra, barely accessible.

Argus is alert and unruffled in his guard duty as the once rhythmic beat of my heart petters slowly out. Eight rotations of this. How much can one person take? Each time, I come back more of a husk of myself than before.

Yet, I still crave the scraps Cardinal throws my way.

I keep my head down. My damp hair from my long-forgotten bath chills my blouse.

Thankfully, I managed to rustle up some clean clothing in the middle of my duties. I know the expectations of tonight’s ritual, and I am not here to relive the consequences of messing up. Not tonight. After last night’s misadventures, I find no need to seek physical destruction as well.

My heart bleeds enough for both body and soul.

The room is barely lit except for a soft glow that emanates from the door towards the side of the room—Cardinal’s sleeping quarters.

She often splits her rhythm between the castle and the temple. However, she’s been preferring the temple somewhat of late, leaving gossip to spread like wildfire about the king taking another lover. Whispers on the wind have often expressed the king’s appetite for pretty things.

I tread quietly towards the door, hearing the crackling of an open fireplace. My body naturally cowers at the prospect.

Before moving inside, I whisper a quick prayer. The first thing I spot is Cardinal’s brown, fluffy wolf rug in front of the lapping flames, a long-ago relic of our illustrious past.

Without instruction, careful to avoid the dancing fire, I move to the centre of the rug, kneeling, head slightly bent, placing the small bowl of worm goo and fairy’s breath in front of me. I turn my hands to face upward on my knees as a sign of respect and devotion to the one Goddess, and I wait.

From my position, my eyes dart around in expectation.

I find the large four-poster bed draped in different shades of red cloth, white taper candles on two low wooden bedside tables. Gold filigree is interwoven in mahogany bedposts, creating a climbing vine. Birds of every colour and shape line the walls in flight, and a lone desk sits underneath a large bay window.

That’s where I find Cardinal, engrossed in writing, her hair cascading down her back and her body draped in a white silk robe. A picture of elegance.

My body freezes as I bend my head further down and continue my waiting game.

A quill falling and robe swishing are the only indications she is done. On silent feet, I hear her move towards me.

I tense every muscle of my body and release in a pattern of grounding—a trick I learnt from one of the older, nice priestesses when my floating mind sent me into a fainting spell after a particularly hard sun turn.

Coming within view, pale, wrinkled hands place a fine, pointed silver dagger in front of the bowl at my knees.

Feeling like a leaf swept within a harsh breeze, not even the warmth of the fire behind me can heat my back at the scene.

“It’s time to serve your Goddess, my child.” Those velvety sounds mince through my ears as I release a harsh breath and pick up the dagger, placing it on my left wrist over the small ceramic bowl.

The last ingredient .

My mind spins, my strength dissipating, so I lean on Argus, his wings outstretched, beckoning me towards a home—a home full of warmth, safety and protection.

At last, everything goes blissfully black.