Once Was: Book One of the Asylum Trilogy

by Miya Kressin

  The moon drifted behind a cloud, leaving me to find my way up the stairs in darkness. With the trees blocking the Grotto and its balefire’s glow behind me, and the temple with its braziers still far ahead of me, I was left to the dim starlight and my horror as my only companions on this journey.

  Reaching the gardens, I tried to climb to my feet but kept catching on briars. My mind raced, panic filling me. Briars never grew here before; this had been a land of soft passage and gentle plants. Unfastening the clasp upon my cloak, I threw the familiar and worn gray-green wool behind me, letting it land amid the thorns. It could no longer safeguard my spirit, much like my hair and tattoos, nor could it guard my body; its usefulness had been expended.

  Fumbling to find the stairs across the garden, I could feel blood welling up in burning scratches as my fingers landed on the polished marble. My hide boots would protect my legs from the sharp vines, and the rest of my skin would heal quickly enough to be forgotten soon after the injury was given. Tentative steps became a race as the warm glow of the fire light in the guarding braziers softened the darkness. Running, climbing, taking two steps at a time where I could, my body throbbed with the urgency of the call. The want for me was increasing.

  My foot caught on the top of the stairs, sending me sprawling across the pink marble. Something had tripped me. Struggling forward, I felt something—no someone—ahead of me. Reaching to my belt pouch, I struck one of the remaining matches.

  I wish I hadn’t.

  The face of the Divine Consort, the priests of Aya’s equivalent of our Oracle, stared blankly back at me. He had been—I cannot say what had happened to him—only that the men in the grotto must have been better off. A look of horror and pain had been etched onto his death mask in permanent marking of what injustice had been perpetrated against him. In his hands, he clung to the small hammer he wore about his neck. The cord was snapped. I grabbed the pendant and tucked it into my pouch, not wanting it to be lost.

  Whispering a prayer that Aya Wayland welcomed His son into the eternal forge, I left Stevanis behind. There was nothing I could do for him now. Coated in the Consort’s blood from landing upon his still-cooling corpse, I reached the gates of the temple.

  Chapter Thirteen

  So much pain. The balance has been ruptured. The Holy Ones’ brother has spread his disease to our sacred lands. Bas and Aya, save us! Do not turn a blind eye upon Your children! This we solemnly pray.

  Grimoire of the Goddess, Forty-Seventh Oracle of Bas

  Where gold and bronze gates once stood as a decorative barrier to the opulent marble floors beyond, blackened flakes over iron smoldered from fires set beneath them and stared back at me from crooked hinges. Glass baubles nestled among the embers glowed like miniature, melted suns. My chest squeezed tight as memories of the first time I had seen the gate played behind my tear-coated eyelids.

  *

  “This, little dreamer, is Bas’ great temple of Sheelin. Here is where you will study and worship. If Kira was right about you, you will also live here in the small dormitory for others of your abilities. Most live in the dormitory beside the Abbey. That’s up to the Oneira, though. She chooses whom she will train. Best be on your better behavior. None of that screeching like you set loose on Malleuk and Stevanis for saying you were too young.” Both boys were barely into their teens yet looked down on me because I was the age of their little sisters.

  Recina’s warning was forgotten as I touched the magical gate. It was a beautiful work of fancy and imagination. Winged creatures bloomed in the curving metal and danced across ivy and climbing rose vines that glinted in an unnatural gold. Here and there, a flower bloomed into an iridescent glass ball the size of my fist.

  It was unlike anything I had ever seen before.

  Long, ebony curls shone as she bent down to my level. “These are the gates to Bas’ palace, as made by the first priest of the Wayland Smith to set foot upon Sheelin.” As I reached out to run one finger along a sea-foam shaded, clear orb, Recina slapped my hand away. “Touch the metal all ye want, girl, but do not leave prints upon the glass. If you smudge the glass, you’ll spend hours cleaning every gate in the temple. If you break one, you’ll spend weeks as an apprentice in the smithy as penance for the High Priest replacing the glass bubble.”

  *

  I broke only one of those damned bubbles in all my years there, and that was intentional. The Oracle had given me a task—one I disagreed with at first—and in a fit of temper, I had slammed through the gates. The gates’ recoil against the marble wall shattered one of the large glass pieces. Even now, the remembered sound of the tinkling glass lessened my fear of what has occurred.

  I never was one to take my fate lying down. Now, I am certain, would not be the time to begin such a tradition. Nay, I would learn, and after, I would fight. Bas’ priestesses will pick up the sword once more and fight for our freedom. Liand’s armies would fall if it took the last breath within my body to bring such a goal to fruition.

  The metal’s heat threatened to scorch my skin, and the one spot where I was forced to brush against the gate to slip through, charred gold-plating flaked off as it burned me. Pain was a small price to pay for the lives that had been lost. Regardless of what ill-will Liand may have planted here in the fallen priests’ hearts, they were still my brethren.

  Liand would pay.

  Yes, Priestess. Come. Feel. Learn. The island’s voice was an echo in my heart and mind. After you learn, you must go forth and teach. I cannot hold back the tides much longer. Hurry! It was not the first time I had heard Sheelin’s secret voice, but never before had she spoken in such an urgent manner.

  The white and pink fountain rose up unblemished by the bloodshed outside. Backlit by three sconces, it was a lighthouse of sanity amid chaos. Years of training instilled a sense of calm within me as I stepped to the water’s edge.

  My boots fell away beneath my fingers as I unlaced them with no care. Even in fear, the temple rules must be followed; my Goddess would strike me dead for defiling Her temple, no matter my reason. Blood swirled away from me in the slowly cycling water. My hands, face, then feet were cleaned on the surface, though I could feel the stain of death seeping through my pores. I would never wash the priest’s blood from my soul.

  As clean as I could make myself, I presented myself to the statue of Bas in the main hall. The creamy gray stone rose up over my head, humbling me as I knelt and pressed my forehead to the space between Her paws. “Great Lady,” I whispered. Rising and pressing a kiss to the polished pink sapphire inset into Her nose, I reached without looking for the incense sticks a novice would have left on the table. Finding one, I centered myself, shutting out the world for a moment.

  There—a flame inside me, fueled by the fire of my temper. Come, I beckoned. Heat singed my fingers where I touched the rose-scented stick, willing it to catch flame so that the smoke would rise up to Bas and call Her divine sight to the children who need Her guidance.

  With a soft hiss of pain, I shook out my fingers after placing the incense within the holder. “Goddess, Lady of Light and the Shadows Within, guide my steps so that I might walk in Your service.” Cleansing smoke stilled my mind, focusing me on the task set before me. I must answer the calling.

  Cold marble chilled my feet with each step behind the statue. Polished flooring was smooth as glass from countless priestesses wearing a path from the common room to the class room, private quarters for the Oracle and Her handmaidens, and to the smaller temple room.

  Here, the sconces were extinguished, leaving my memories to guide my steps. On my fifth turn, I avoided the crack from the tree roots pushing up the ground. As I passed the first of the elder’s private rooms, I turned down the half-hidden hallway to those of the training dream-walkers. The oak boards forming each egress were identical; it was the energetical signatures and wards that proclaimed the owner. Experience told one which entries would burn you for so much as touching them or those that would open to a friend’s presence
without a knock. Mine, however, was overlaid with so many spells that I doubted even Cade, whom the Gods saw as my bonded mate, could bypass the ward without being fatally burned.

  Layer upon layer of my precautions fell away under my touch, a spider’s intricate web of promised death to those I’ve barred entry to and a sweet promise of pain for those simply unwelcome. The ticking away of a clock fell through my memories as each spell recognized me as the proper occupant. Not so much as a remembered warning traced through the echoes; my door remained locked with my magics—no one had entered since my last presence. With a hum of approval, the wood opened in a grand sweep of admittance, then closed behind me in a silent offer of privacy.

  A charmed window allowed fresh air to circulate but denied harsh weather or birds their entry. Moonlight filtered in and concentrated upon the lamp’s candle wick, forming a warm glow to welcome me. The room’s simplicity reminded me of mine at home; I had never been one for decorations. Other than a bed, desk, and a small basket for the assortment of collections I made during my years on Sheelin, it was empty. No wardrobe covered the wall; my two changes of robes were dust-covered upon my bed, and the rose and star emblazoned circlet with its matching bracelet of my position as the next Oneira still glittered upon the navy velvet pillow on the window ledge.

  A simple change of bracelet had changed my path. I went from being an apprentice dream-interpreter and full-time healer to a wandering healer in my avoidance of this piece of worked metal. The Roseen of my memories claimed that she was heeding the demands of Bas. It is human nature to paint ourselves in flattering shades when we pen our own history.

  I ran away from my duties. Sesha, the grand Oracle, our Great Mother, the speaker for Bas, had chosen me to be her successor. I shirked those duties, claiming Bas wanted me to see more of Her people before taking on the mantle of duty. My selfish pride was damaged in Sesha’s choice. I wanted to be High Priestess, not Oracle. I wanted to lead our people in rituals, not sit in a temple and wait for Bas to speak. What fool would want to experience nightmare after nightmare like those I grew up with? So, I ran. I ran from city to city, speaking the ways of the old religion, fighting back Liand’s poison with the only magic I truly had. I spread hope.

  I helped rebuild temples, healed the sick, divined dreams, and closed my mind to Bas except when healing others. If She could not give me my own dreams, I could not be guilted into returning. Now, knowing what fate I had left my fellow priests and priestesses to, guilt tried to cripple me. Guilt, however, would not see us through the mess. Guilt did not change things, nor was this my fault. Whatever had happened very likely would have occurred with my presence. Had I been here earlier, I may have been lost within the magic’s thrall in the grove with the High Priestess.

  The black robe I chose to wear ghosted down my arms and legs in simplistic swirls. The white was embroidered, a painful lesson in patience, whereas the black was plain except for a moon and paw print stitched across the bodice. It was far from elegant, but it suited the purpose. I could not go further in wet and stained clothing. Here, more than anywhere in the world, I needed to look the part of a priestess. On Sheelin, the political games among the sisters vying for a position with the handmaidens could drive many a woman to cloister herself away in the abbey.

  Had my sister not killed herself, she would have been offered a place in the abbey where they work at providing the island’s inhabitants with their needs. Tending the gardens, spinning, weaving, cleaning . . . All such tasks were done by the nuns save the metalworking; that belonged in the hands of Aya’s priests. Had Sava been alive, she would have been a comfort, one I might have stayed on Sheelin for.

  I crept down the back hall to the temple room where soft echoes of voices in prayer could be heard. The last of the chambers, Sesha’s private room, glowed with an amber light. A furtive glance showed no one inside, and I breathed a sigh of relief. A private chastisement would be far worse than one in public.

  Keening wails joined the sung prayer. The echoes rang out like a funerary cry among the burial mounds. Twice before had I heard such a sound, one was at the death of the prior High Priestess when she succumbed to pneumonia, and the other was from my own lips the day my bond with Fion snapped.

  The soul-cry hastened my steps until I ran the length of remaining hallway, then brought me to my knees at the entrance to the temple room. None may enter Sesha’s presence on foot; as Goddess-voice she deserves our respect, even that grudgingly given.

  Upon her white cushion sat the Oracle, draped in black robes. Across her lap was the source of their wails. A priestess of the healing school was nude, her face locked in a visage of painful torment. Dried blood stained her thighs and ran down a slice from her neck to bruised breasts. She had been desecrated.

  I crawled to her on knees and hands, head bent in supplication. Sesha’s once-gray hair was now snow white and shortly curled about her face. Silver edged spectacles sat upon her nose, and the patient smile she bore for so many years had etched deep lines around her mouth.

  “Rise, Child, and claim your seat.” She did not mean around the room with the other women. It was time for me to grow up.

  My eyelashes remained pressed upon my cheeks, eyes closed while I regained my feet and stepped behind Sesha to the pale purple cushion for her successor. Not until I sat did I open my eyes, and I saw pain. The carnage outside was printed across their faces, invisible blood splattered over foreheads and cheeks in the fashion of war paint.

  The priestesses had gone to war.

  A war they lost, Daughter. Bas’ voice was a sweet blessing in my skull before settling into my bones like an elder’s wintery aches.

  “Sister Roseen has returned at the right time, my children. All hope is not lost.” The Oracle turned to the side, her wrinkled flesh undulating with the motion. “Cloreen, take Lenai to the burial ground. We cannot take her to the city now. Everyone else, go wash yourselves. Judgment has been rendered by Bas. Offer up prayers in private, then you may return for our penance.” She clapped her hands sharply twice and barked, “Go!”

  I knew I was not included in the dismissal, else I would not have been granted my seat. I waited. Cries outside continued, chants lingering in the halls like wayward ghosts, and my mind wandered with them as I awaited both knowledge and punishment.

  “You have come at the right time, my daughter. Sheelin has been reclaimed by the Goddess,” she told me. Sesha’s voice held a reverent tone of limitless wisdom. I knew if I waited, she would tell me everything. “Four, Roseen. Four of your sisters have been slain. Two when Asha called, then two again this early morn before the sun shook off its slumber.”

  My eyes closed, teeth quivering in my body’s confusion of if I wanted to bite down until my jaw creaked or let my jaw fall open in shock, and I cried. Warm tears crested my cheeks before falling into my lap, splashing upon my fingers. “Why?” was my only question.

  Turning upon her cushion to face me, Sesha held out a handkerchief. “Stevanis went to trade knowledge with the Madani smith. He was captured by guards bearing the crimson sash; they held Stevanis for more than two moons. We were so thankful when the Consort returned to us that we ignored any oddness about him, more than happy to claim it was due to the torturous ordeal he sustained. Few have survived a stay in Lorilindo.”

  I had, something I would not share with her ever. Those memories were for Bas and myself alone. She had granted me that gift, not sharing it with other oneira, as a reward for my sacrifice. The sisters I had saved did not know I was there when Liand cast them out onto the wilds. Not even Cade would hear the whole of my stay. “The townsfolk live in fear of being sent to Liand’s capital city,” I acknowledged.

  “Stevanis was changed, obviously. Others were subjugated to his will. Liand poisoned the Divine Escort and sent him back as bait. With beautiful words, he wove his way into the hearts of three priests, including the High Priest. They, in turn, desecrated the temple. They,” she paused to regain control of her voice,
“They defiled their bodies, Roseen.”

  I knew what the blood meant and shuddered. Each woman is an incarnation of Bas. Fertility and carnal enjoyment should be of her own decision and will, not something stolen by force.

  Holding out her hands in prayer, I gave in to Sesha’s request and let her hold them, knowing full well what would happen. I sank into her memories, seeing through Sesha’s eyes and hearing her thoughts.

  *

  “No, Stevanis—you mustn’t!” I watched from behind a tree; Asha’s white waves stood out around her face as the wind whipped with her anger. My mate’s hands rested upon her shoulders, his intent glittering like blood rubies upon her.

  “I’ve had two of them, Witch.” I closed my eyes to think of him doing that to my daughters. They were not mine in blood, but in heart and spirit I was their mother. “If they hadn’t fought me, perhaps the Sun Lord would have honored them with a position in Lorilindo beside me when I return. When you’re all dead, Lord Liand has offered me a place in his church. My bride shall become the Abbess of any women who turn their faces upon the righteous path.” He wounded my pride by not coming to me to be his bride, yet I knew my position as his mate was only by the gods’ decree that the Oracle and Escort be wed as Bas and Aya are.

  He spat in Asha’s face even as he shoved her to the ground. “Don’t you get it, Asha? They’re dead! Aya, Bas . . . They don’t care about us; They never have. They’re dead. The Sun Lord is here, and He rewards those who turn to His light.” His sword—a ceremonial knife made by the first priest—was covered in blood as he stepped back, smug satisfaction covering his face as he watched the priestess fade.