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5
There’s a huge knot in my throat and I clamp Avalla’s hand in mine. I’m trying not to panic.
Sacrificed.
To a god.
Me and all these women in this room are going to die if we’re not chosen to serve the prelate. I’m guessing we’re not going to be “serving” like a waitress but more like serving in bed.
So it’s either that or death. Shit is hitting the fan.
Choices, choices.
I look around the room, at the crowd of women. Their merriment seems to have a hard edge to it, and I realize some of the laughter is forced. In the corner, there’s a girl weeping though she’s doing her best to conceal it. Another one’s staring at the fountain so intently I’d swear she wants to drown herself in it.
“We have to get out of here,” I whisper to Avalla. “I need to get home.”
Her eyes go wide. “We ca
“I’ll eat my stupid skirt if the gods actually know what’s going on here.” I squeeze her hand again. “And that’s the only thing I have to wear. Come on. Do you want to die here?”
“No.” Her voice is so small I can barely hear it.
“Then let’s think. Do you know this temple? Is there a way out of here?”
She shakes her head, her movements jerky with fear. “My master brought me here last night. I am a stranger to this place, as you are.” The look on her face becomes bleak. She looks ready to cry. “Do you think I will be a cleaver bride, then?”
“Of course not. You’re awesome.” I give her a faint smile and wipe her cheek when a tear slides down it. “It’s going to be okay. We’ll think of something. When’s this ceremony?”
“Tonight. At sundown. The hour of storms.”
That means nothing to me other than we don’t have much time. An afternoon isn’t going to be enough. But I squeeze her hand. “We’ll figure something out.”
I might have overstated my abilities to figure something out.
There’s no exit and the crowded room is heavily guarded. Best I can do? Try to help Avalla become slave numero uno, because she wants it so badly. She keeps talking about the prelate and how she’d love to serve him, so I want her to win.
Unfortunately for her, the only coaching I can come up with is to tell her to bite her lip and bat her lashes. I’m worse than a pageant coach. It’s clear that there are a lot of experienced women in this room and some great beauties, so Avalla’s got earnestness and that’s about it.
I don’t even have that. I’m all right looking, but I’m definitely no Helen of Troy. I think I passed her by the fountain. Spoiler—she’s blonde.
Since I can’t escape, I decide I’m going to go down fighting. That means I need a weapon. I look around for one all day, and eventually find a chink of broken tile in a corner that has a hard edge and clutch it tightly in my hand. It’s about the size of my finger, but it’ll have to do.
I can always peck someone to death like the world’s angriest blonde chicken.
Because I’m not going to smile all the way to my funeral pyre. I did not end up on some strange podunk Game of Thrones ripoff world just to be part of the Million Blonde Funeral March.
I am getting the fuck out of this place, one way or another.
As the sun goes down, a familiar thrumming drumbeat begins. Goosebumps prick my bare arms and Avalla clutches my hand nervously. I grit my teeth, because it’s the same drumbeat I heard back in the apartment. It’s all tied to this somehow.
“You’ll do great,” I promise her as more guards file into the room. “Big smile. Fluttery lashes. Thrust your chest out. Smize.”
It must be time. The women are lined up, and one of the guards swoops up and down the row, rearranging us by height, and my grip tightens on Avalla’s hand. She’s shorter than me. I hate that we’re going to get separated, because it was nice to have someone to talk to for a change. Someone that didn’t call me “tart” or try to feel my tits.
I’ve felt so alone and friendless in this strange place. It was nice to have a buddy.
“You. This way,” the guard says, indicating that Avalla should follow him. She looks at me nervously and I give her an encouraging two thumbs up.
She moves forward in the line, sandwiched between two very busty and older-looking women. Really, that’s a win for her, because she’s going to look youthful and nubile and all those great, creepy things that a sex slave is supposed to be. I’m sandwiched between two beauties, but I don’t care because I don’t plan on being “picked.”
Of course, I haven’t figured out plan B yet, but I’m hoping something will come to me.
The drum beats continue, and then the line of women marches forward, heads bent. I mimic them automatically, though I’m peeking around as we walk down the long, dark corridors. There’s a scent of rain in the air, and I can hear thunder. It messes up the steady rhythm of the drums, which is more than a little jarring. There also seem to be even more people in this building than before. Not all of them are wearing the long red robes, but the number of soldiers seems to be greater, as does the number of civilians dressed in simple tunics. It’s like everyone’s turning out for a party.
I can just bet what the entertainment’s going to be.
The line of blondes winds through the crowded corridor, and then we’re led into a very large, smoky chamber. The drummers wait at the edges of the room, staring ahead, tapping out their rhythm.
The crowd is packed in here, and the humidity is making more than one sweat. There’s a faint body odor stink in the room, but no one’s leaving. If anything, more people are crowding in. The entire room is wall to wall people except for the back wall, which is a massive feast table laden with foods of every kind. Up ahead at the front of the room, I catch a glimpse of a large stone throne up on a dais. It’s empty, as if we’re waiting for the guest of honor.
Behind the dais is a ba
Suddenly, everything goes silent.
There’s an ominous rumble of thunder, but the drums are quiet, the people are quiet, everything in the temple is quiet. A man strolls forward and the crowd—already packed to the gills—tries to part for him. People squeeze against one another to give him room to pass. He moves forward, heading to the row of blondes, and I get a good look at him.
He’s not old. He’s ta
The prelate moves in the mix of people, then raises his hands into the air.
Everyone drops to their knees, bowing their heads.
Well, shit. I clench my bit of broken tile tightly and kneel like all the others, bending my head. Instead of praying, though, I look for exits.
If I’m going to make a break for it, it needs to be soon.
“Rise,” the prelate says. “Rise and let us celebrate the Lord of Storms, Aron of the Cleaver, Butcher God of Battle in his chosen hour, the hour of storms. Today is the day we celebrate the Anticipation.”
Blah blah Anticipation. No one looks excited about anything except the food. There are looks of boredom on everyone’s faces. I guess no one’s “anticipating” all that much.
Ha.
The red-robed man raises his arms into the air again, like a preacher without a pulpit. “Every year upon this day, we celebrate in the hopes that the gods will send an Aspect, as it is told in the sacred scrolls. This temple is dedicated to Aron of the Cleaver, our Lord of Storms, the butcher of battle, but we welcome any of the twelve gods if they should honor us with their presence.”
He turns and bows to the empty throne which remains, you guessed it, empty.
There’s a bit of polite clapping. Everyone still looks bored.
The prelate turns back to the crowd once more. “In honor of this day and our Lord of Storms, we will feast in his name.”
That makes people happy. A cheer goes up.
The prelate turns toward us. “One maiden will be chosen to serve me in the Lord of Storms’s honor. The rest shall be given as cleaver brides.”
No one responds. Someone makes an impatient noise. Another man rolls his eyes.
I’m thinking the Anticipation is a big let-down every year. I bet it’s a lot like Christmas, when your parents promise that Santa Claus is on his way and then you find out he’s not real. Maybe Aron of the Cleaver is about as real as Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer and that’s why no one seems to give a crap about this particular holiday except for the food.
“I shall choose the maiden to serve me,” the prelate says, dragging my attention back to the center of the room. “Once I have picked the honored one, we will say the invocation and proceed to the feasting.”
The prelate moves to the end of the row and begins to eyeball the blonde offerings. One by one, he looks them up and down, and I’m acutely aware that most women are half-naked. Everyone wears the same skirt, but I’m the only one with it hiked up to my tits. This is so incredibly creepy, especially when he reaches out to finger one girl’s curly hair and brushes his fingers over the shoulder of the next, as if judging how smooth her skin is.
Ugh.
He continues down the row, and the room is quiet, the only sound the low murmur of the audience, as if they’re making bets on who he’ll pick. I notice that Sinon is staring at me from afar and I resist the urge to shoot him the finger. That won’t do any good.
I mean, it’d feel good, but I’m in enough trouble as it is.
I’m toward the end of the line, so it doesn’t take long for him to get to me. I slide my hands behind my back before he arrives, hiding the chunk of tile I’m holding. When he moves near, I catch a heavy whiff of herbs, as if he’s bathing in this world’s version of deodorant under those robes.
“Why do your ears have holes?”
I blink. That’s a weird question. “My ears?”
He nods. “Your ears have holes. Why?”
Oh. “They’re pierced? You wear jewelry in them.”
The prelate wrinkles his nose. “Barbaric.”
Is it? I didn’t realize the people here didn’t wear ear jewelry. What a strange thing to notice.
He flicks a hand at the front of my skirt-dress. “I should like to see your breasts. Disrobe.”