Vassal by Sterling D'Este (reading books for 7 year olds .txt) 📗

“Alright then,” she said and managed not to slam the door behind her. The acolyte wisely didn’t ask questions, but turned to lead the way—not to a private chamber, as Delyth had expected, but to the great hall in which the High Priestess had made the address before.

The room was emptier than Delyth had ever seen it: on the far end, just before the dais, the High Priestess stood along with her Chief Swordbearer, leader of the warrior-priests, and her Chief Mender, leader of the healers. Between them and the door, halfway down the long room, was a rough, wooden table flanked by five heavily armed warrior priests. In the center of the table lay the sword of Enyo.

The table was notched and the guards ruffled as though they had just come from fighting. It didn’t make any sense—warriors didn’t draw steel in the temple, but the wary manner in which they watched her approach told another story.

Delyth halted several feet away and slightly to the left of the rough table, as though uncertain of her right to approach it. She was close enough to see that the High Priestess and her seconds had been in the midst of some heated discussion, but they broke off before she could glean the nature of what they were saying. If anything, seeing them argue only made her more apprehensive. They had never presented anything less than a united front before.

The Swordbearer spoke first. “Delyth, welcome,” he said, genuine warmth in his dark oval eyes. Rhys was a man the halfbreed both liked and trusted because he cared for little but courage and ability. Others might consider this abysmally single-minded, but it meant that he had always accepted Delyth, either for her courage or for some of the other obstacles they shared due to circumstances of birth. Because of him, a few of the other warriors accepted her as well.

“You’ll be wondering why you’ve been summoned.” By contrast, the High Priestess was as unreadable as ever. “Approach the table, and we will explain.”

Delyth obeyed the High Priestess, pulling her wings tight against her back in the only visible sign of her discomfort. The warriors around the table tensed as she drew near, for all that she made no aggressive movements and kept her hands clasped before her. She was unarmed, and though these people served the same leaders that she did, their wide stances and narrowed eyes were setting her teeth on edge. The very air within the hall balanced on a blade tip.

“I’m sure you know of the visions granted to the late Seer Cerys,” Anwen started. “Her glimpses of the future to come were shared among the temple as a symbol of hope. There was, however, another—”

“I can not sanction this!” Chief Mender, Emhyr, cut her off. “Not the mongrel. It— This will be a slaughter. Is she even a priestess of the temple? She—”

“Emhyr!” Anwen exclaimed, her voice like ice, but he only paused a moment.

“Cursed Realms, she’s not even human.”

The last word struck Delyth like a physical blow, and only some instinct of self-preservation kept her from reacting. This was one of the leaders of her faith, someone she would die for.

“Anwen, if I may,” Rhys was saying. “Delyth is a priestess of the temple and has been for seven years.” He turned back towards Delyth. “How many years have you served in total?”

She swallowed, but her voice didn’t falter. “Twenty-five, Chief Swordbearer.” Her entire life.

The High Priestess nodded sharply. “Emhyr, either hold your tongue or leave. Now, as I was saying: Cerys was given a third vision only days before her death. A warrior of this temple will wield Calamity in service to Enyo’s vassal. Your Chief believes you worthy, but first, you must show that you can master the sword.”

Delyth understood with sudden, terrible clarity: this was a test, one that those chosen before her had not passed.

How many had failed already? Was she here as some last effort?

Rhys spoke again, interrupting her thoughts. “Take the blade,” he said, and the other warriors drew their weapons.

Delyth swallowed again, her heartbeat accelerating with the rush of adrenaline through her veins. Was she going to have to fight them? To prove herself through battle?

She looked down at the blade, such a brutal instrument. It was a bastard sword, black from tip to the rough jewel at its pommel, a thick blood channel carved down its center. But despite the menace etched in its appearance, something about the weapon called to Delyth. Made her eager to touch it, to wield it.

She could almost taste rust, smell the blood already consumed by Calamity.

And Swordbearer Rhys had commanded her to take it.

With trembling fingers, Delyth reached out to grip the wire-wrapped hilt, to lift it, dark and heavy, from the table. Every muscle in her body tensed with the contact, a tight embrace. No weapon had ever felt so right in her grip, no other weapon so gleefully deadly.

The sword was hunger.

It was laughable how easy, how glorious it would be to slaughter the five men guarding her. Delyth could see herself dance among them, carving limbs from their bodies in a shower of crimson, plunging Calamity in and out of their still-beating hearts until the channel at its center overflowed with blood. She would bathe in it, tear into their throats until it dripped from her gums.

It was Calamity, and so she would be.

But still, Delyth did not stir. The warriors had made no move to engage her, and these were people she knew, people she had fought with when the village was under attack. She did not want to kill them.

Though if she did, they would never again insult her or grimace out of her way. No one would mistreat her again. It’d almost be a sort of freedom.

A wild sort of abandon. Diving off a cliff.

Delyth took a huge, shuddering gasp of air, and then another.

She was not a monster. These people could not make her into