I try to make gold flow from my palms, but it’s listless and heavy, dense jelly that’s caked against my skin, unable to drip. Unable to move.
Queen Isolte looks over her shoulder at me and says, “Pain is a pyramid, my lady. It stacks up, builds its layers. You think you can endure, think you can continue to climb its height, but you’re wrong. I can guarantee that you will not want that pain to pile up so much that you reach the pinnacle, because you will not survive that sharp peak. Of that I can promise you.”
Inside, I seethe. Amidst bruised bones and crushed organs, my anger broils.
I get dragged out of the small room and into a narrow corridor. Instead of windows, there are skylights gracing the sandy ceiling, casting pillars of light every few feet.
The men haul me up a short stack of wide steps, and then we’re in a wide domed room filled with archways, all of them open to the outside. I can see palm trees surrounding us, their thick fronds swaying with a shaded breeze that blows through. A layer of sand covers the white-tiled floor, but a bright yellow sun is painted in the center, its rays pristine and surrounded by a cerulean sky, just like the sails from the ship I rode when I fled Derfort Harbor.
We pass by it, heading to an archway to the left. I’m taken across sunbaked stones, the front of my ankles screaming from being bent back as they continue to drag me. The dense collection of palms are joined by cactus and olive trees, and the air erupts with the scent of oranges as we pass by citrus trees weighed down with heavy fruit ripe for picking.
Down the short outdoor path, the men bring me into another part of this sprawling building. After traveling down one more narrow corridor, I’m finally dumped into a dark room, my legs buckling as soon as I’m dropped.
Bracing my shaky hands beneath me, I push myself up into a sitting position, my eyes sharpening to adjust to the dim lighting. The room is shaped like a circle and completely without windows, the only light feeding in from the archway and a fire burning in a pot at the back of the room. The tile is the color of rust, the walls and ceiling matching it, and despite the stuffy heat, a chill goes down my spine, because this room has a wooden table with iron shackles chained to it. Part of the wall is covered in hanging whips too, and there are more sinister things that I can’t quite see because there’s a wall of women blocking my sight.
They’re all gathered together like some morbid choir about to break out into song. They’re dressed the same as the queen, except where her robes are pure white, theirs have strips of gray sewn into them. Some have a lot, the strips going all the way down to the hems, while others only have a single one around their waists. Just like Queen Isolte, their hair is covered in white wimples too, their hands swallowed by funneled sleeves.
“You can go,” the queen tells the men, and I watch as they walk away. I have a feeling that I’d rather stay with them.
When I look back at Queen Isolte, the expression on her face tells me that I’m probably right. Turning to the women, she says, “Ladies of the Gathering of Temperance, it’s time to perform a Cleansing.”
CHAPTER 61
AUREN
I’ve learned that the strips on their robes represent the amount of sins the Temperance Matrons still have left to expel from their souls.
For a pious bunch, they’re talkative, jabbering at me about their righteous order, about how so many of them sinned until they were brought in and shown the light. They tell me how blessed I am to be here and how it’s a calling from the Divine, that my mortal soul is in danger and only they can help me.
They think very highly of themselves.
“We are joyful to have you here,” one of them says. “To perform the Cleansing is a favor of the gods, and they deem us to be worthy of the task. It is a gift that helps our own internal purification too.”
When they start closing in on me, I scramble back on my heels and hands until my back hits the wall. “Don’t touch me.”
The one nearest me widens her blue eyes. “Oh, my lady, we are not allowed to sully our skin in such a way,” she says, a pitying look of misguided tenderness over her face. “The sleeves of our robes will keep us pure. Our skin will not touch.”
I blink at her, and that split-second distraction is all they need to grab hold and drag me to the other end of the room. Although they’re manhandling me, the woman was right—their bare hands don’t touch me.
I don’t know if I should feel insulted or not.
My body still feels like I’ve been crushed from the inside out, but I try to fight them anyway, try to kick out of their grasps. But it’s like a baby bird trying to deter a hawk, and I accomplish nothing but making myself dizzy with echoes of pain.