And then hope pierced through her, lighting up her soul like a sunburst.
The tether had not broken. Perhaps Sera was still alive.
“Sera!” she cried. The leaves on the willow rustled and the tether kept winking. “SERA!” she screamed, sure that if she called out loudly enough, her friend would hear her.
She shouted until she was hoarse and the sunburst of hope had burned itself into ashes. Sera was not out there. She was dead.
It was the first time Leela had thought the word. Dead. It was so awfully, brutally final. She sat in the crook of the willow, pressing her face against its rough bark, and cried for her friend with no shame and no comfort.
At last, she roused herself. It wouldn’t do to linger too long. Her mothers trusted her and would likely not seek her out, but it would only take one of them passing her room to notice she was not in it. She wandered back along the banks of the Estuary, ignoring the Western Bridge this time, though it was the more direct route home. Instead she crossed at Faesa’s Bridge, the very one she and Sera had run across on the day of the choosing ceremony. It was risky, taking her past the temple, but the hedge should provide her cover and besides, the High Priestess was sequestered. She was nearly to Dendra’s Bridge on the opposite side of the island, which would take her straight home, when she heard voices.
Afraid to be caught out of doors when she was meant to be praying, Leela dropped to the ground and froze.
“. . . worked before.” It was the High Priestess; Leela would know her voice anywhere. “No reason to think . . .” The rest of what she said was muffled.
“Things were different then, you said.” Leela recognized the voice of the oldest acolyte, Acolyte Klymthe. “There was an agreement.”
“It was more than that.” The High Priestess sounded sad. “And I was stronger then.”
“I could have—” Acolyte Klymthe began, but the High Priestess cut her off.
“No,” she said sharply. “You could not.” Leela felt her head spinning. She did not fully understand what they were talking about, and yet something about this conversation set the hairs on the back of her neck prickling. There was a rustle of movement, and when the High Priestess spoke again, her voice was gentle. “It is not so easy as that, my dear Klymthe. You do not get to choose.”
“Yes, High Priestess.” Acolyte Klymthe sounded resigned. “The novices have kept everyone inside.”
“Good.”
“Will we make another sacrifice?”
“Not yet,” the High Priestess said. Acolyte Klymthe said something Leela couldn’t hear, and the High Priestess replied, “No. Believe me. They would not understand. And another ceremony would look suspicious. Mother Sun does not make mistakes.”
“But this was not the work of Mother—”
“I know,” the High Priestess snapped. Leela felt as if she had grown roots as deep as the hedge, pinning her in place. She could not move even if she wanted to.
“Let us call the City to the temple,” the High Priestess said. “We must keep them calm.” What she said next was too low for Leela to hear.
“Of course, High Priestess.”
There was a shuffling of feet and then silence fell. Leela could hear her heart beating in her own ears. If what she had just overheard was true, then Mother Sun had not chosen Sera to be sacrificed after all.
The High Priestess had.
Leela did not realize how long she stayed behind the hedge, her mind reeling, until the bell began to toll, calling the City to the temple as the High Priestess had instructed. She shot up and started running, arriving home to panicked mothers.
“Where have you been?”
“You told us you were praying in your room!”
“Leela, you cannot disappear like that. We were out of our minds with worry.”
“I am sorry, Mothers,” Leela said, her eyes downcast, her pulse racing. Something in her resisted the urge to tell them what she’d heard, a warning to keep this information to herself, and she held her tongue. Her orange mother tsked and handed Leela her prayer robe.
“You are just as bad as Se—” But she cut herself off before saying Sera’s name. Leela’s heart spasmed in pain. Her purple mother shot her orange mother a stern look.
“We know this is especially difficult for you,” her green mother said gently, smoothing back Leela’s hair. “But it is a hard time for us all. The City needs every Cerulean to be united in faith. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Mother.”
She leaned in and whispered in Leela’s ear. “And I could not bear to lose you, my darling. My heart would not survive it.”
She kissed the top of her head and released her. Leela slipped her robe on and followed her mothers out the door to join the throng of Cerulean headed to the temple.
They knelt on their cushions in their usual family spot. Sera’s three mothers were in their place near the Altar of the Lost, but they looked incomplete without Sera in their midst. Sera’s orange mother was stoic in her grief—her face was a hard mask, her shoulders rigid. Her green mother’s eyes were red and watery and she seemed to wilt, like the weight of her prayer robe was too much to bear. But Sera’s purple mother was empty, her face blank and expressionless, as if the soul that resided inside her had vanished over that dais with her daughter.
“Hood up,” Leela’s orange mother whispered, as the High Priestess made her way to the pulpit. She spread her arms wide, her warm, confident smile fixed in place.
Who are you, really? Leela thought as she raised her hood and the High Priestess began to speak.
“I have prayed long and hard, my children, and in the end, the answer has come to me, though I fear this time it brings me little comfort. Mother Sun has spoken. Sera Lighthaven was unworthy.”
There were gasps and murmurs of shock, and Leela felt as if her battered heart could not bear another blow. Unworthy? Unworthy?
The High Priestess seemed so sincerely distraught, Leela did not have to look around the temple to know the Cerulean would believe her. They always did. She herself always had. And besides, this was easy to believe, easier than thinking Sera was special or pious or noble or any of the things they had been saying about her.
“She was not true enough to aid this City in its quest for a new home,” the High Priestess said, and some of the novices were nodding in agreement. “But take heart, my children! For Mother Sun, in her infinite wisdom, has forgiven us all for the sins of only one—there shall be another ceremony when she has chosen a pure and deserving Cerulean. Put your minds and hearts to rest, for our City is in her hands.”
The relief at her words was palpable—the Cerulean smiled at each other, orange mothers uttering prayers of thanks.
“We thank you, Mother Sun,” the High Priestess continued, raising her hands, the moonstone on her circlet glowing against her forehead, “for the gifts you bring us, for your light and warmth, for your healing power. We beg you to receive us into your heart as we receive you into ours, to guide us on our journeys and protect our City from harm. This we pray.”
For the first time in her entire life, Leela did not join in when the congregation repeated, “This we pray.”
24