Linarra managed to choke down the first gobbet of greasy, under cooked meat without gagging. She chewed slowly, until the meat was dry dust in her mouth. Like swallowing sawdust, the meat stuck in her throat, making her eyes water. She didn't utter a complaint and kept her gaze straight ahead, right on Veshier. Anger and spite were better than the sweetest wine and helped wash the disgusting food down.
"The Mother is a goddess of peace, of love and understanding," High Priestess Liriel said, her voice a song. "But that does not mean She is without wrath or judgment," she said pointedly. "This dish, rare meat, dripping with blood, represents Merahd, First Aspect of the Mother. He is Her blade, Her Guardian, the first Guardian. It is Merahd who will carry out the judgment of the Mother. It is why the meat is without spice or salt, for She does not relish the blood spilled in Her name." Though Linarra was sure Liriel had recited this hundreds, if not thousands of times, it didn't sound rehearsed or dry. The High Priestess said it with reverence and gravitas.
She wanted to ask if she had to eat all of it, she wasn't sure, but she didn't. She'd not been instructed on how to act or what to say or not say. Inaction, she decided, was far better than making a mistake.
Veshier sat stone-still, shoulders tight, jaw clenched. She hoped it gave him a headache. They'd never even spoken. She'd heard plenty about him from acolytes and servants. Everyone talked about him all of the time. Before he'd been assigned as her Guardian, all the other acolytes wanted him as theirs. Other than being handsome and coming from a noble family, Linarra didn't get what the big deal was.
Guardians were highly trained in combat. Linarra saw no need for Guardians. There hadn't been a war in a hundred years. She doubted there were roving bands of brigands or monsters on the Path of Ishahn. There'd been no attacks on Initiates that she'd ever heard of. She really would rather go alone than go with a man who looked at her like she were something nasty on the bottom of his boot.
Before she could scoop another wad of disgusting meat into her mouth, a monk, teeth stained black as was custom, leered at her and snatched her plate away and replaced it with another. This one, was far more pleasant.
Little green shoots and sprouts littered the plate along with bright yellow flower petals. Linarra appreciated the simple beauty and a little smile tugged at the corners of her lips. The plates themselves were lovely, white porcelain ringed with gold. She noticed, though, that there chips on the edges. In fact, the closer she looked at all the finery, she noticed how old and worn it was. It stole her smile, and she wasn't sure why.
"The Mother is the creator of all things. Uhshul, her Second Aspect, represents the creative and feminine energy inherit in the Mother herself and the earth. These young green represent her fertility and abundance and the promise of new beginnings." Liriel once again said it all with reverence that warmed Linarra.
The shoots were easy to eat, along with the petals. A little bitter, but nothing horrible and it took the taste of the bland meat out of her mouth. Veshier remained unchanged and it tempted her to kick him under the table. Nudge him with her foot. Anything to make his expression change.
As soon as the feast ended, the bonding ceremony would take place. Linarra looked around, wanting to see at least one friendly face. High Priestess Liriel was gentle and kind in tone, but it seemed impersonal and Linarra was sure it was. Which was fine. She knew she wasn't special. She knew many of the acolytes, but doubted any of them liked her much. Which was partly her fault, she realized. Linarra kept to herself, she didn't linger after studies and classes. Once afternoon prayer and blessing was done, she went back to austere room and shut the door. There weren't any friendly faces because she'd not made any friends. So, she reasoned with herself, as the monk from before served her another plate, there was no excuse to feel sorry for herself.
"This is the dish for Ysimul, Aspect of Chance. The Mother has graced us all with free will," Liriel said, cutting a rather sharp glance at Linarra. Though the expression was fleeting, a shadow crossing her beautiful face, Linarra caught it. There wasn't time to question it, and even if there were, she doubted she'd have the courage.
"Yes. Free will. The Mother and destiny will throw things in our path. Provide us with obstacles, all by chance. But it is up to us, ultimately, how we grow from these hardships. This dish is rabbit, fleet and temporary tinged with bitter herbs. Fortune and chance are fickle."
Oh, well, Linarra didn't like the sound of that at all. Already the smell of the cooked hare stung her nose, making her eyes water. Acrid and pungent, the hare wasn't something she wanted in her mouth at all.
Taking a deep breath, she ate as quickly as she could, not caring if her manners were sloppy. She just wanted it over with, and it was indeed as bad as she feared. Already, her stomach flip and flopped in distress. Her mouth would have filled with saliva if the bitterness of the hare hadn't sucked all the spit out of her mouth.
Unable to stop herself, she gasped, choked. No one said anything or regarded her with judgment. The feast was supposed to be trying. Eyes streaming with tears, she found her goblet of water and downed it. She'd not be able to take another single bite. Her clothes felt damp suddenly. Soaked with sweat, Linarra wanted to ask for another glass of water, but she kept her head down and kept quiet.
T
he rest of the feast went by in a haze of nausea and dizziness. The faded colors of the dining hall blurred together. She got sick only once on a dish of congealed blood jelly. She couldn't even remember which aspect of the Nine it was supposed to represent.
Monks took her by the arms and helped her to a wash room off the kitchen. They took cool, damp rags and blotted them between her breasts and on the back of her neck. They let her wash her mouth out with water and crushed mint leaves. She appreciated it, though was unable to articulate her thanks. Instead, Linarra leaned her head against the cold stone of the wall and tried to ride out the cramping and protesting of her guts.
The bonding ceremony was next and Linarra felt it wasn't helping her stomach at all. Nervousness jittered under her skin, making muscles twitch, making her feel alive with electric energy that had no place to go. She was -not- looking forward to it at all, no. She knew most Priestesses spoke fondly of their ceremonies. It was where they had begun a deeper understanding of their partners.
Their lovers.
It was expected of her and Veshier. It was assumed they would be lovers.
But they wouldn't. She could tell that he hated her, disliked her at best. She didn't want to hear his raw, unfiltered hatred along a bond they were forced to share. Couldn't they just agree that he'd protect her? She was fine with that. He'd promise. She'd promise. It didn't need to be this irreversible thing. It didn't need to be forever. She didn't want the veil of his thoughts laid bare to her.
A cup of steaming tea was pressed into her hands, the smell sweet, almost as sweet as honeyed wine. It made her head spin, just the floral aroma of it. Linarra thought it a courtesy, to take the foulness from her tongue. She drank it, gulped it down, even as it scorched her mouth. Looking over the rim of the mug, two monks, leaned in and whispering to each other, eyed her and snickered as though she'd just done something foolish.
A cold finger of dread poked between her ribs. Had she done something wrong? Looking down at her mug, wondering if she'd forgotten some special part to the ritual, she noticed her tongue was numb. Unable to stop it, the mug slipped from her tingling fingers as the room spun. It shattered on the floor and the monks descended on her, their mouths agape, teeth blackened. To her, they looked like vultures, their voluminous robes billowing about their thin bodies.
She tried to protest and shake them off, but something had been in the tea. Dimly, Linarra was aware they had her by the arms and were dragging her out of the room into the chamber beyond.
"I can't," she gasped, trying to see straight.
They didn't answer her, or if they did, she couldn't hear the reply over the ringing in her ears. She tried to put her feet flat on the floor, but her legs wouldn't cooperate and everything was moving too fast as it was.
The chamber beyond the dining hall was dimly lit by flickering candles. Ominous, long shadows danced on the walls. For a moment, Linarra forgot she didn't want this. She forgot that it would be unpleasant to be flooded with the thoughts of someone who hated her. She lost herself in the ceremony of it, how sinister it all seemed.
An altar stood under a towering statue of the Mother. Her benevolent, yet blank face stared forward, her comforting arms open to receive. The altar itself held candles and incense censors swirling pale gray smoke to play in the candles meager light. She didn't see High Priestess Liriel, but she did see Veshier.
Except it wasn't Veshier. It was a man, shorter than the pale haired Guardian. No strip of cloth covered his blind eyes. His eyes were the only thing she could focus on. They glowed red and orange in the dim light of the chamber, like the dying embers in a hearth. His auburn hair fell to his shoulders.
Linarra struggled anew, trying desperately to wrench free of the monks' grasp. They snickered, tittered laughter. Their mocking, leering faces swam in and out of her field of vision.
"He shouldn't be here," she told them, though she doubted her words came out right. Her tongue felt too big for her mouth and still numb. Spittle slicked her chin and she began to cry.
"There's a man...there. He shouldn't..." she babbled. "Please."
But when she looked back, Veshier stood there, scowling darkly, but there. It was a relief, even if it was short-lived.
"She drank too much of the tea," he rumbled as the monks hauled her to stand before the altar. She couldn't stand without them holding her up by the arms. Their grips a little too tight. There'd be bruises later.
"They didn't tell me...what was in it," she said, voice wobbling.
He grunted a reply and roughly took a hold of her, shooing the monks away. "I have her," he said. "Be gone."
Linarra teetered between humiliated and angry. She didn't understand why everyone was handling her so roughly. Why he hated her so. It made her tired, or perhaps it was the tea.
"What was in the tea?" she asked thickly, her mouth and tongue still not cooperating.
Veshier took several beats before answering. "An herb that dulls pain and will aid in the bonding."
Ah, she thought. She'd never been told any of this. The Bonding Ceremony was often spoken about by acolytes, something they looked forward to, gossiped about, but never the specifics. That was secret.
"Where's the High Priestess?" Linarra wondered, trying and failing to stand on her own.
Heaving a sigh, he hefted her into his arms. She startled, but didn't protest. Linarra couldn't stand, and he'd really hurt her if he kept yanking on her arm. With more gentleness than she thought him capable, Veshier laid her on the altar.
"It will only be us. We're to ask the Mother to join us. And she will do so. From this day forth, our lives are intertwined until death."
"Oh," Linarra said, looking up through bleary eyes at the statue of the Mother. "I thought I saw another man here," she told him. "He had eyes made of fire."
"A hallucination, nothing more," Veshier said coolly.
"Of course," she said. "So...do we ask now? You don't have to, you know. We can just say we did. And you can walk the Path with me. I won't tell anyone."
The room held its breath. There wasn't a bond, and she could -feel- his disappointment and disgust.
"Why would you suggest such a thing?" he asked, his voice a low growl. It felt like a shout.
Linarra wished the Mother would bend down and gather her into Her arms like she was a baby. Shield her from this and everything else. She'd stopped praying a long time ago. The Mother didn't answer prayers, at least, not hers.
"Because you hate me," she said, hoping he couldn't hear the tears in her voice.
"Hate is not the word I would use," he said, tone a little less acid. "But no, I do not like you, Linarra. You're weak. Unsuitable for this. You should never have been allowed into the Temple. It's only through the High Priestess's mercy...," he trailed off.
It hurt. She knew he was right. She didn't belong. Her parents had sent her as a child because they didn't know what to do with her. Maybe Veshier had heard the story and that was why he said those things. They were fair things. She couldn't and wouldn't argue.
"I didn't choose this. Not any of it," she said, bitter.
"Of course not," he snapped. "And that makes you weak, doesn't it? No personal responsibility."
She scoffed. "I heard you, you know," she sneered. "Fucking. You could have kept it down. Who was it? Some acolyte? A maid?"
Linarra didn't know what possessed her to say that. Had she been in her right mind, she most certainly would not have. But the question hung in the air between them, stinking up the entire chamber.
"That," he gritted, "Doesn't concern you. Let's get this over with."
"Fine," she agreed, cold, angry.
The prayer came out of her with little thought. It was the exact opposite of what she wanted to pray for. She wanted a way out of this. She wanted to be a thousand miles away.
Linarra thought of the man she'd hallucinated with his fiery gaze. "Mother, I wish to be bound to Veshier as his Priestess, and he my Guardian." That was her prayer. She couldn't muster any other words. It was hard enough to get those out.
She thought she heard Veshier praying to, but his voice was hushed and low. Linarra had expected the ceremony to be more dramatic, to be more of a ceremony. How would it happen, she wondered. Would she just know suddenly?
Her questions were answered. At first, it was small. It wasn't his voice in her head, but rather how he felt. Just a hint of it, just the flavor of the person. He'd been nervous, she knew suddenly, about the ritual. The tea had given him a headache, she could feel it gnawing at her own temples. The woman he'd been bedding, her face popped into Linarra's head. An acolyte she couldn't remember the name of. A girl with bright red hair and pretty green eyes. A beautiful girl.
Still laying on the altar, the room pitching and spinning around her, Linarra turned her head, cheek on the cold stone, to look at Veshier. In the candlelight he looked so beautiful, she thought. His golden hair was loose, spilling down his back, his angular face less sour now, though very serious.
His brows drew down sharply over his blindfold. He knew she'd thought him beautiful. Of course he did. She expected disgust to be her answer, but it wasn't. Curiosity and mistrust, but not hate or repugnance like she'd thought.
Veshier moved to stand closer to the altar. He leaned over her, his long hair tickling her face. Without thinking, Linarra reached up to touch it. It looked so soft. And it was. It made her smile a little.
"Are you...still unwell?" he asked, voice soft and not tinged with any of its earlier reproach.
She meant to answer, but his fingers brushed her cheek. No one had ever, that she could recall, touched her with such tenderness. She looked up at him wide-eyed, terrified it was all a cruel joke, but the bond was there now, and she could feel it. He felt concern. Worry. He couldn't help it. It was his duty.
"I'm all right," she told him finally as he pulled his fingers away and stood straighter, frowning again, brow furrowed.
Would it always be like this? Did the bond change how he felt about her forever?
"Don't lie to me," he said, again sour. "I can tell you feel sick. It was the Feast, wasn't it?"
Linarra sat up, clutching at her dizzy head. Her stomach lurched predictably. "Yes," she said. "If it's symbolic, I don't know why we have to -eat- it."
Through their bond she felt his disapproval. "You shouldn't question things so," he chided.
"Hmph. Why not? Why shouldn't we question things?"
"Because it's doctrine. Dictated by the Mother."
She rolled her eyes because he couldn't see it which felt mean. "It doesn't matter if I do anyway. No one listens to me." She felt as though she were whining and wished she wouldn't.
Irritation sizzled along the bond. Her question was answered, however. No, the tenderness wouldn't last. And while it was expected that the two of them become lovers, she felt no attraction from him. Linarra wanted to ask about it, but she could predict his response and didn't have the fortitude to hear or feel it.
"We leave tomorrow," she said, shifting uncomfortably on the altar.
"At dawn," he confirmed stiffly. He paused for a long while and then sighed again. "Until tomorrow. Good night, Initiate." Without another word, he left her sitting there, spinning out from the emotions from the bond they now shared and the drugged tea.
The farther away he went, the less she felt him, but even when she was sure he was long gone, probably back to his room, she could still feel him, just a ghost's whisper in her head.