Gazing from the window, Dart saw it was true.
Set like a jewel in the heart of the first of the Nine Lands, Chrismferry was the hub around which the world turned. The entire surrounding countryside, from shore to shore, fed the city, barging up from the coasts, carting down from the fields, flown in on the potbellied flippercrafts. The city was insatiable.
And at the center of it all stood the great castillion of the eldermost god, Chrism. Dart, resting her chin on her fingers, stared at the walled and towered fortress. A vast thousand-acre garden spread out from its southern side, shadowed by the castillion itself. Wooded, it looked more like a forest than a garden, fitting for a god of the loam.
And like Lord Chrism himself, his castillion was both noble and humble. Its walls were thick white granite, quarried locally, and unadorned. The main keep had been built on the site of the original ferry bridge that once forded the Tigre River. The structure rose up from both shores and spanned the waterway in between. The center halls were held above the river by giant, ancient pillars, all that was left of the original bridge. Even its nine towers, the Stone Graces, shared the river. Four rose from the north bank, four on the south, while the last and tallest rose above the river itself. These towers were the same white stone, simple, yet reassuring in their solidity. The only bits of decoration anywhere were the carved silver gates to the castillion, depicting the great Sundering, the moment when the kingdom of the gods had been shattered and they appeared among the lands of Myrillia.
Dart sighed, dreaming of stepping through those brilliant gates someday. Until then, there were floors to clean.
As she turned, the sharp creak of hinges startled her, loud in the stone space. Ravens stirred and squawked in complaint.
Dart hopped down from the ladder, fearful of being caught idle. She found the gloom of the rookery suddenly oppressive. The door lay cracked open, wider by a handbreadth. But no one was in sight.
“Good morrow!” she called. “Is anyone there?”
There was no answer. Slowly her straining eyes began to pierce the darkness. Shadows retreated. She saw no one. Must have been a crosswind… tugging at the door.
She turned to gather her pail and brush. As she bent away, the tower door crashed shut.
Ravens screeched. A few took wing, crossing from one perch to another. Plops of guano rained around the room.
The loss of the filtering torchlight from the hall drew the shadows toward her again, eating away the room.
“Is anyone there?” Her voice was meeker this time, her throat tight with fear. “Please…”
Footsteps answered, crossing toward her.
She fell back against the stone wall.
“There’s no need to fret, little kitten.” The voice was soft and deep. A figure appeared out of the gloom, large and broad shouldered.
Dart recognized the voice as Master Willet, a scholar of the Conclave. As he stepped into the patch of sunlight flowing from the window, she saw he wore the usual sashed black robe of the Conclave, his hood thrown back. As was customary for the mistresses and masters, his head was shaved to the scalp.
Dart stepped from the wall and curtsied with a half bend of a knee. “Master Willet.”
He waved her out of the gloom under the window and into his patch of sunlight. “Come, child. What are you doing up here all alone?”
Dart slumped forward. “Punishment, Master Willet.” She curtsied again, in case he hadn’t seen her first one.
“So I’ve been told.”
Dart felt a rush of heat to her cheek. Her humiliation knew no end.
“It seems you’ve been a slovenly pupil. Needing additional tutoring. I was sent up here for a private lesson.”
“Ser?”
He stepped closer. A hand rose swiftly to her cheek. The back of his knuckles slid along her skin.
Startled by his sudden touch, she fell back a step-but fingers snatched on to the collar of her shirt. She was yanked toward him. His other arm encircled her waist and pulled her tight against him, lifting her onto her toes.
“Master Willet!” Tears rose to her eyes, confused, terrified.
“Not a word, little kitten.” He leaned down to her ear, his voice suddenly savage. “Not now, not later, not ever.”
She struggled. Lips found her throat, pressing and hungry. She smelled garlic and spiced meats on his breath.
“No!” she cried out.
A hand struck her across the face, stinging, shocking. She tasted blood in her mouth.
“Not a sound, little kitten.” His words were both angry and strangely thick. He shoved her to the wall, pinned her between the stone and his heavy body.
She knew what he intended. Here at the school they were trained in all the humoral fluids, including the handling of a god’s seed or menses. As such, they were instructed in the private ways of men and women. It was no great mystery.
But it was a mystery forbidden to them. To serve a god, a handmaiden must be pure, untouched. Once bedded, all hope of such honor was gone. Just last year, a secret tryst between a young man and woman, both fifthfloorers, had been discovered. They had been whipped, then banished from the Conclave.
“Not a word,” he growled again, fingers at her throat. His other hand reached down between her legs, under the tied edges of her skirt. Fingers tore at her undergarments, ripping and pulling.
Tears ran down Dart’s face, burning with shame and horror. She couldn’t breathe. She stared over the master’s head as he panted and pawed. A hundred pairs of eyes stared down at her from the rafters. Silent witnesses.
And there was one other.
Pupp ran in circles at her feet, passing through her flesh, biting at her attacker, but his razored teeth found no purchase. The bit of energy he had used to scratch Laurelle must have wasted his reserves.
Dart felt just as helpless.
Below, fingers found what they had been searching for, cupping against her skin. She had been touched like this in the past only by healers testing her virginity. But now it was rougher, horrific. A scream built behind her ribs.
Then the hand moved away.
“Now for your lesson,” he groaned at her. “To show you how to please a god.”
She was forced to the floor, on her back. He straddled atop her, pulling up his robe. He wore nothing underneath.
He kneed her legs apart and shoved her skirts above her hips.
She fought against him, but this only seemed to make him grunt harder and his eyes glint more feral. She sobbed and choked and even tried to bite at him. She would lose more than her virginity here on this floor. She would lose all her hopes for herself, for her future, for the only home she knew.
But there was no stopping him. He was huge, outweighed her by ten stone. All she could do was cry and sob. Terror had taken all her strength away.
She turned her face. Pupp lay near her head. His eyes glowed with fury. Though forever silent, Dart imagined him whining, sharing her pain and terror.
Then she felt Willet shove inside her, ripping her, breaking her. Blood flowed. The scream burst from her lips, but he was ready even for this. A fistful of her own skirt was shoved into her mouth, gagging her.
“I am your god!” he moaned.
Pupp was again on his feet, diving through her body, his touch cold. He shoved down between her legs, his frigid wake ebbing some of the pain. When he reached her belly, ice flared. The momentary agony vanished, washed away. She felt nothing below her waist.
Still, Willet continued to rut into her, pounding and pushing, grunting and panting.
Dart squeezed her eyes closed, wishing herself away. But there was no escape. She could smell him, hear him, feel his lips on her neck.
Then the monster arched back from her, gasping out through clenched teeth. Dart cringed, but Master Willet’s cry of pleasure suddenly transfigured into a scream of pain. He fell back from the cradle of her thighs.