Aisha lay awake in the women’s dormitory, shivering against the cold seeping through the walls and windows. Under normal circumstances, the room’s use as sleeping quarters was confined to warmer months, with high ceilings and windows to catch the mountain breezes. The winter sleeping quarters now served as a barracks for the temple guards and lower orders of the priests of the Locust. The women had done their best to cover the windows to keep the wind out of the room, but Aisha felt colder than she ever had in her sheltered life. In the palace, she would be spending the night under goose down blankets in a room with a roaring fire, or even snuggled next to her mother listening to stories of their ancestors and the trials of the Goddess.
But here, she was alone in a room full of strangers who knew her not as Princess Irinya, but as Aisha, the young librarian who smelled of ink and parchments and kept to herself.
Perhaps the cold would be a little better if she was snuggled next to Nasreen under their woolen blankets. But Nasreen was not there. The procuress told her to pray for Nasreen's safe return.
Aisha prayed.
Just as the holy council of grandmothers had when word of the destruction of the Narim came to the city. Just as her mother had done. No answer or deliverance came from the Lady. If the Lady did not answer the holy women’s prayers to save Her own people, why would She grant the life of one temple prostitute?
Aisha prayed anyway.
Nasreen did not return.
The Goddess in the story contained in the scroll was not the all-powerful being Queen Mila spoke of on cold winter nights in front of the fire. That being rose into the heavens and defeated death. The Lady in the scroll gave birth to children created in Her womb with the seed of Her husband, a man who She was unable to convince to stay by Her side. She gave her own feathers to save Her children, but those children were never to be restored to human form again. Only the youngest child survived, not as an immortal divine being, but as human. A mortal orphan abandoned by her divine Mother and raised by strangers while her father wallowed in guilt next to a river of tears.
Could the Lady save us? Can She hear us cry for help?
Aisha crept from her bed to Nasreen's pallet, pulling her blanket with her. She wrapped herself in both blankets, Nasreen's scent comforting her against the cold.
What if she is already dead? Would I know? I didn't know when my own mother died. I didn't know the moment my father was killed. Not knowing is worse.
Deep sobs wracked her small frame under the covers. How could she survive without Nasreen? She had no one left but her friend. The Holy Mother hated her. The procuress only spoke to her because of Nasreen. Her work in the library kept her isolated from the other women, most of whom stayed far away from the strange small girl who smelled of vinegar and urine. Even Manah had deserted her for the relative safety of the countryside. Without Nasreen, she was completely alone.
She was already powerless.
Maybe the Lady was, too.
Aisha cried herself to sleep, repeating one prayer until oblivion and exhaustion took her.
Bring her back.
Bring her back.
Bring her back.
Nasreen pulled her hand away from Takri's grasp under the table, wiping her hands on the silk of her robes. Lilua reminded her so much of little Aisha. Fearful and timid, but with a strength of will running underneath. If she made it back to the temple, she would do whatever it took to make sure Aisha never became the shell of herself that the little Narim girl had become. Lilua’s song, so full of grief and longing, was not something that could be ignored. If the Narim girl was allowed to become who she truly was, she would be unstoppable.
But now, she sat docile on Mahleck's lap, scars hidden behind shimmering black hair and purple silk. He would ensure she never became anything more than his pet and plaything. Feeding from her. Never allowing her to fully become what she could be. He was the Locust King, consuming all that came before him, and leaving nothing but rock and dirt in his wake.
Takri's hand tried to find Nasreen's again under the table, but she pulled away once more. He would find no pleasure with her ever again, much less tonight, after she had seen how he was so eager to lick the boots of the same monster who kept his younger cousin as a pet.
"I believe it is time for the ladies to take their leave of us," said Mahleck. "Lilua's delicate constitution must be depleted after her performance this evening. And if it pleases you, Lord Prince, I think Nasreen should be sent back to the brothel where she belongs. Don't you agree?"
Takri nodded his assent. He had watched Nasreen enter the room hours ago strong and confident as a lioness, beautiful in her silks and jewelry. Now, she looked defeated. Humiliated. Humbled. Although she was unveiled, her face was now a mask hiding her true self from him. He thought back to their time together in the brothel. Their holy joining of bodies and selves inside that small room, words of love spoken, the passion he knew she felt towards him, and that he felt towards her.
It was more than just being his first. And now, she was being taken from him by the monster. To shield her from the strigoi-viu, he would forego the sacred love and passion they both felt. It was better if she was alive than dead.
He must keep his distance. And she must be sent away from him.
"Baraz, fetch the eunuchs," said Mahleck before turning to address his wife. "Lilua, I will not be in need of your company tonight. I am sure you will understand if my bed will be otherwise occupied."
Lilua silently nodded and rose to greet Floryan and Luka as they entered the room. Both women covered themselves with their veils, Lilua's fingers weaving another message to her cousin as she bowed before the men.
Be careful. His touch is death.