David Dalglish - Dawn of Swords

“Oh, it’s nothing special,” he said. “Just rags I’ve owned for years.”

Rachida tilted her head forward to whisper.

“It is not your clothing, Patrick, but your poise. You are carrying yourself like a man of honor, a man of strength. Like I said-dashing.”

“Oh. Well, thank you.”

“You’re very welcome. However, you best not shrink from praise next time, or I will clobber you.”

Patrick chortled loudly. “Yes, Mother .”

Rachida laughed as well, and grabbed hold of his arm.

“You make me laugh. I like that. An important quality for a man to have…and a rare one.”

“Well, I’m a rare specimen.”

“That you are, indeed.”

They drew nearer to the temple, and now Patrick could see that there were armored men standing just inside the open gates, carefully checking over any who entered. They wore a combination of chainmail and platemail, all of which seemed finely crafted-though in reality that was nothing but a guess, for Patrick had only seen a suit of armor a very few times in his life. He recalled Corton Ender telling him how all the weapons and armor in Haven had come from raiding shipments that had been sent down the Rigon, headed for someplace called Omnmount. Again Patrick felt that same lingering sense of unease, as the need for such protective measures was completely alien to him. That these peoples’ lives were at stake because of the structure they were now approaching made it all even harder to understand. But even if he couldn’t understand, the danger was certainly real. The bridge that crossed into the eastern realm of Neldar was within sight of the place where he stood.

“So this is what all the fuss is about, eh?” he asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

“It is,” Rachida replied.

They entered the gates, and a pair of women walked toward them. Their gazes turned to Patrick, and their expressions momentarily soured. One whispered in the other’s ear, and they both steered wide of him, giggling and pointing. The lightness Patrick felt at being by Rachida’s side quickly vanished.

“Pay no attention to them,” Rachida whispered. “They aren’t important.”

The guards at the gate, thankfully, were all business, patting Patrick down in search of weapons they wouldn’t find. The only weapon he had was Winterbone, and he’d left the greatsword with Corton at the practice fields. When the search was over, Rachida took him by the arm and led him through the circular path inside the wall. The path was wide, almost fifty feet, and it circled the center structure of the temple, a tower of red brick that rose like an erection but was hidden by the high walls. The temple inside was an imposing monument, with many doors lining its curved stone foundation. On multiple occasions Patrick saw a door open and a couple skulk out, looking sweaty and relaxed, eyes half-lidded. The place was teeming with people from all walks of life-young and old, men and women, unattractive and striking. Unlike in the village surrounding the Gemcroft estate, however, there was no apprehension in the air, no fear of a god’s wrath. In fact, the air tingled with a current of excited energy racing across time and space, connecting one person to another and locking them together even if their bodies never touched.

“What is this place?” asked Patrick, feeling anxious and awed.

“It is a place of worship and intimacy. It is here that we celebrate the forms we have been given.”

“And this was Deacon’s idea?”

“It was.”

“What was his inspiration?”

She shrugged. “I’m not entirely sure, actually. You will have to ask him.”

“I’ll do that.”

The temple was much larger than he’d expected, and it took them almost fifteen minutes to walk halfway across the spherical path. There Patrick saw the entrance to the temple proper, a tall rectangle bordered by thick stone and topped with the image of a dove flying into a waiting pair of hands.

“We only find peace with each other,” Rachida said. “That is the meaning of the symbol.”

“Interesting,” said Patrick.

She stopped him just outside the entryway, pulling him aside so that others could go through unimpeded. She looked at him gravely, those luminous green eyes so seductively framed by her dark hair. She seemed like a legendary creature who wished to lure him into harm’s way. Patrick grinned at the thought, knowing that no matter where she led him, he would follow willingly.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“This is a holy place to us, but sometimes people lose control. The prayer service is…stimulating, you could say. I want to make sure you are ready for it.”

“I’ll be fine,” he replied, wishing he were as confident as he sounded. “Trust me.”

Rachida nodded. “Very well.”

Her fingers slid down his arm until they found his hand, which she took in hers. She stepped through the portal and led him down a long, cramped passage that opened up into a tall, circular room. That was when Patrick noticed that the temple had no ceiling, only a hole above that allowed the light of the heavens to shine down on those inside. Given that it was past noon and the sun had taken root lower on the horizon, the torches on the walls were blazing.

In the center of the room was a round stone rostrum, the sole furnishing. There were no seats at all, simply cushions stacked by the door, a couple of which Rachida snatched up, handing him one. The place was packed, and Rachida led the way as they wedged through the cramped maze of worshippers until she found an open space a few short feet from the base of the rostrum. Claiming it, she threw down her cushion. Patrick followed her lead. When they sat, Rachida leaned into him, her satin-covered breast pressing into the side of his arm. He thought his head might explode from the contact.

It took quite awhile for the crowd inside the temple to situate themselves. There was a living buzz in the air, a palpable charge that made all the tiny hairs on Patrick’s arms stand on end. Rachida leaned in, propping her chin on his shoulder.

“Just remember,” she told him, “feel the energy. Feed off it, but do not act. Priestess Aprodia directs the service and provides the inspiration, but she is not to be touched, no matter how close she comes to you.”

Feeling lost, Patrick said, “As you wish.”

The deafening layer of murmurs ceased, and all fell quiet. Patrick watched as a set of double doors swung inward. Out slunk a nude woman, her flesh bronzed, her hair straight and black, her eyes as pale as spent coals. She had the body of an earth goddess, with wide hips and abundant breasts, between which was a strangely alluring tattoo of a bird with wings spread. The woman-Priestess Aprodia, he assumed-was indeed a splendid creation, and were it not for the woman sitting beside him, he might have thought her the most exquisite in all the land.

The priestess climbed atop the rostrum and stood there, motionless, for what felt like an incredibly long time. Her head then suddenly snapped to the side, lashing her hair about, and her body began moving in wild gyrations. Sweat slicked her flesh, making it shine, as she whipped this way and that, reaching her arms to the sky and then drawing them in like she was holding all of creation against her abdomen, sliding her legs apart until they formed a straight line, rocking back and forth, cupping her breasts with her hands, lifting them, separating them, lolling her head around in circles, panting, moaning, yelping like a wolf in heat.

Aprodia leaned forward, pulling herself across the floor, then slid her legs out from beneath her. She rolled onto her back and lifted her legs high in the air; then, with her hands gripping her ankles, she spread them wide. Patrick, sitting eye level with the platform, stared directly into her womanhood, eyes bulging in disbelief. It was certainly the strangest form of worship he’d ever seen. He had no notion how to react.