Free Web NovelChapter 369: Chapter 369
After the third knock, a lock clicked. Ragnar stepped backwards just as the door was gently pulled open but it was only opened halfway, in a manner that kept the room firmly out of view. A woman dressed in black from head to toe filled the narrow opening, her presence both austere and overwhelming.
The station of the temple attendants was marked by the colors of their garments. Brown was worn by new initiates. Red was worn by those who led prayers and served as intermediaries between the temple and the masses, and blue by those entrusted with the care of the building itself, maintaining the halls and tending to the altars. Black was reserved for those who attended directly to the head priest, while white outer garments were worn only by the head priestess herself, creating an unmistakable distinction between her and all others. The same hierarchy was observed in every temple throughout the kingdom.
The woman’s gaze moved from Ragnar to Circe and then back again. She gave a shallow bow, acknowledging that she knew precisely who stood before her, though she was under no obligation to do so. The gesture was made purely out of respect.
During the reign of Marzen’s son, the temple had been elevated to stand alongside the crown. Since then, the temple and the servants of the gods held power and influence equal to that of the king.
If ever a monarch were to be removed from power, all it required was the stamped approval of seven head priests across the kingdom, and the deed would be done.
"May we speak with the head priestess?" Ragnar asked, reaching back to clasp Circe’s hand.
The attendant’s eyes flickered briefly to their joined hands, but she said nothing. After a moment, she stepped aside, granting them entry.
Ragnar and Circe exchanged a glance before following her. Though these were still visiting hours, when the head priestess should have been in isolation, they soon discovered that this was not the case.
The attendant led them into a small chamber. There, seated behind a carved wooden desk, was the woman they had come to see. She wore flowing white robes that pooled softly around her chair, and a single, long beaded necklace hung down the front of her garment, the beads catching what little light filtered into the room.
As they stopped before her, Ragnar bowed deeply without hesitation. Circe followed his lead, unsure of the proper protocol but unwilling to risk offense. When she lifted her head again, the first thing she noticed was the distant, unfocused look in the priestess’s cloudy eyes. It was a pale, washed-out color that reminded her disturbingly of how Irah’s eyes had looked that day in the forest as she drew her very last breath.
Was the head priestess blind? Circe wondered silently.
"Head priestess, you have visitors. His Highness, Prince Ragnar, and his wife, the Princess of Westeria," the attendant announced, confirming Circe’s suspicion.
"Thank you for bringing them. You may leave us now," the head priestess said calmly.
The attendant bowed low before withdrawing, the door closing behind her with a soft click.
"The goddess told me that I would be approached by two inquisitive minds," the head priestess said as soon as they were alone. "She never told me that death would be standing before me."
The words alone seemed to drain the warmth from the room. Though there were two people before her, her attention was unmistakably fixed on only one.
Circe had to remind herself that the woman could not see, yet that knowledge did nothing to stop the involuntary shiver that ran through her. It felt as though the priestess’s unseeing gaze was raking over every inch of her, cataloguing every flaw, every secret she kept close to her chest.
Beside her, Ragnar stiffened, but he did not speak.
"Your power is manifesting so quickly that soon it will be impossible to hide what you are. But do not fret, I am not your enemy," the priestess continued. "You came here with questions, and the goddess Eloen has asked that I answer them as best I can."
Though the vampires no longer dwelled in the faelands or followed their laws, they still worshipped the old gods, just as the rest of the fae did. Yet the gods were not always kind to those who served them, especially to the head priests. When the vows were taken to ordain a new head priest, the gods demanded a sacrifice, taking something precious from the chosen candidate.
And they were seldom merciful in what they claimed. fɾeeweɓnѳveɭ.com
If a candidate loved to sing, the gods stripped away their voice. If they cherished beauty, it might be taken from them. For the woman seated before them, the gods had taken her sight.
Circe remembered Ragnar describing the priestess as a scholar. But what was a scholar without the ability to see and read?
"Step closer," the priestess said suddenly.
Her voice had changed completely. It no longer sounded as it had moments before. This new voice was feminine, aged, and sonorous, resonating with a weight that did not seem entirely human, as though something vast now spoke through her.
The shift sent a bolt of fear racing through Circe, as if the goddess herself had just entered the room.
The head priests were often referred to as vessels of the gods, and in that moment Circe began to understand why.
"Tell me... who is your mother in this lifetime?"
Circe’s brows immediately drew together in a deep frown. She did not understand the question at all, yet something within her compelled her to answer.
"My mother is Thalora Valdris, former queen of Westeria," Circe said, the words leaving her mouth before she could think to question them.
The woman hummed softly in response, the sound low and thoughtful, as though she were confirming something she had long suspected.
"It seems you have a pattern of choosing the strongest line to be born into," she murmured. "It is the same in each lifetime."
Circe could only stare at her, narrowing her eyes in confusion. "I—I don’t understand."
