He pauses again, and tension swells through me. ‘Does anybody know the punishment for speaking in the Sunken Temple?’

As the hair rises on the back of my neck, I don’t doubt that every single person here knows exactly what he’s talking about. The Sunken Temple is not just a temple of Etta. It is sacred to all the Gods, and only the priestesses may converse in this sacred space.

‘We’re not in the temple itself yet,’ Zelle reassures when he realises volunteers aren’t forthcoming. Even the young woman from Dorain has ceased hushing her older companion. ‘You can bet my life I wouldn’t be speaking if we were. Now, someone tell me, what’s the punishment?’

Slowly, a shaking hand rises into the air. Coulter.

‘You have your lips bound together?’ His voice trembles.

‘Yes,’ Zelle replies. ‘For how long?’

‘One stitch and twelve moons of imprisonment for every word spoken.’ It’s a knight who answers this time, and I’m pretty sure it’s Grenda, the one Jonas told us was a serious contender.

‘Good.’ Zelle scans the crowd, nodding. ‘A stitch and a year for every word you speak. So keep your mouths shut in there. Or if you must say something, you’d better make it good, because those words may well be your last.’

I can feel the nerves ripple through the space. Coulter is physically trembling, and it’s not the kind of clenched-fist tremble you can keep to yourself. His knees are jerking up and down, and from where I’m perched, it looks like his skin has taken on a greenish hue. Llinos places her hand on his arm and whispers something comforting in his ear.

‘Any questions?’ Holden barks.

I assume the question is rhetorical, and yet one hand shoots into the air: Zara’s.

‘Why aren’t you two in the Retterheld?’ she says. ‘You’d be eligible. Did she turn down your offering?’

A collective gasp echoes at her gall, but while Holden’s face flashes with fury, Zelle offers a smile in response.

‘From my experience,’ he says, ‘one who cannot find happiness within the gifts they have already been given will struggle to be satisfied by more. Now, unless there’s a question that actually has a purpose, let’s get that blood drawn.’

A couple of hushed whispers pass between a few of the Rettlings as my mind ponders what Zelle said. By his reasoning, I’m the only one this gifting will truly benefit. Maybe I should trust his judgement after all.

As silence takes hold of the group, I twist around and carefully make my way back down the cave wall. When I reach the ground, I immediately look for the group from my carriage, wanting their moral support. Excluding Estel, that is.

After spotting Llinos in the crowd, I make a beeline for her, only to find my path blocked. Not by a Rettling, but by Commander Holden himself, the scowl still very much in place. Seeing him up close, I realise he’s not quite as short as I originally assumed; Zelle must just be exceptionally tall.

‘Of course, I should’ve known a Kultavaris wouldn’t be able to just stand and listen like everybody else.’

‘You knew my parents?’ I ask, surprised by my own forthrightness.

Holden scoffs and his features contort as though he’s swallowed something impossibly bitter. ‘To think, the Goddess chose the offspring of the bastard lord and his witch wife over, over …’

‘Over you?’ I suggest.

A snarl rattles from his lips. Animosity from the other Rettlings I expected, but from one of the people in charge of training us? That’s something I wasn’t prepared for. Jonas’s words about the only people having problems with my father being those who were jealous of his powers swim around my head. Well, I can’t say for certain, but I’m pretty sure this interaction is telling me that Holden was seriously jealous.

‘Holden.’ Zelle’s voice echoes in the cave. ‘Time to move.’

Holden bites down on his lip as he stares at me.

‘Plenty of Rettlings don’t make it out of the trials,’ he finally says, his voice almost a hiss. ‘I’ve even heard of one or two not making it through the vowing. I’ll be keeping my fingers crossed for you.’

What a delightful human, I think sarcastically as he turns on the ball of his foot and strides away.

‘What was that about?’ Jonas asks, appearing at my side.

‘Oh, nothing at all,’ I say, watching Holden march away. ‘Just another person who wants to see me dead, that’s all. Come on, we should go.’

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Chapter 20

As we enter the temple itself, an unexpected blast of light causes me to squint. When the shock and pain fade, my eyes open and gravitate upwards, to the tiers of white marble seating that stretch upwards to the pale blue sky. It’s unlike any holy sanctum I’ve been in before. There are no altars. No candles set around the edges. Instead, sand covers the ground of the perfectly circular space where only a single raised platform sits in the middle, topped by a marble font glistening with water. A line of priestesses stands behind the dais, all in their ceremonial robes with blue stones embedded in their foreheads. My heart clenches. If only Dinah were among them.

We file in and stand around the dais, and once we’re all in place, a priestess holds up a hand to signal the others. As one, the priestesses around the dais stamp their feet, and in the echoing boom, King Korvane and other courtiers appear in the lowermost marble seats.

Portation, I think as my mouth dries.

Another beat, another choral stamp, and another level of seats is filled.

The Rettlings watch agog as, stamp by stamp, the noble spectators are brought in, dressed in their finery. They, too, must have been warned about the need for silence, for despite the pageantry, no one dares to speak.

The tension grows heavy as the stands fill in eerie silence, and the weight of the assemblage’s stares crushes us.

When the stands are finally full, a single priestess steps forward. My gaze swings to her, and my vision tunnels, my veins fill with ice, and my knees struggle to keep me upright.

With Dinah unable to attend, I did not expect to recognise any of the priestesses present today. And yet I do. Mila, the one who took our powers. The knowledge is enough to set my head swirling.

‘People of Morathka,’ she begins. Her voice is resonant, yet I can barely hear her over the blood that rushes behind my ears. Desperately trying to brush off the remembered agony of having my magic stripped by this very woman, all I can do is breathe and try to ground myself in the here and now.

Her forehead stone is different from those of the other priestesses – an amethyst purple rather than pale sapphire blue. So Mila is the High Priestess now. I wonder if she profited from our stripping, if our magic bought her that purple stone?

‘We have come today to take the blood offering of the Retterheld,’ she continues. ‘Before you stand our Rettlings, those the Great Goddess Etta has chosen to compete for the greatest reward of all: the gifting. Only one here will be granted this almighty blessing. By their presence, they were judged worthy. Whether they remain worthy, we shall now see.’

What? I turn to my side. Llinos’s wide eyes reflect my own thoughts exactly. What the hell?

A surge of fear sweeps through the Rettlings, but in our enforced silence, there is no opportunity to react. No one speaks, though several sniffs echo their way to my ears. Coulter. Coulter is crying. I catch his eye and reach out to give his hand a squeeze. I want to tell him it’ll be all right – mouth the words at least – but I can’t risk a sound escaping from my lips. Not here. And so all I can do is offer a smile.

He nods and tries to reciprocate but manages only a grimace. While his shaking continues, the High Priestess calls the first name. ‘Baylis Airlan,’ she says.