Page 64 of A Pact of Blood

I ask one of the pages to bring a pot of boiled water and sprinkle the leaves of my best calming brew into a teacup. AsI sip the steeped liquid, the bittersweet warmth trickles through my nerves like a balm.

After several days of being shut up in a confined space with my husband for nearly every waking hour, simply existing on my own feels like a miracle.

The air in the room is a bit stuffy, but a pleasant breeze drifts through the open window. I open the others partway to encourage more airflow before returning to my trunks to confirm that all my most important possessions are in order.

We’re only going to be here for a matter of days, but I may need my full brewing apparatus. And there’s one particular concoction, cooled into a solid tablet that I slip into the pouch at my hip, that I’ll want before this afternoon’s confirmation rite.

My gaze lingers on the offering bowl tucked away in one corner of the trunk. The urge itches at me to lay out some tidbit for whatever daimon might still be roaming through Dariu for whatever luck their good will can bring me.

But I’m trying to keep my husband as happy with me as possible. I already know the Darium nobles look down on the practice of appealing to the spirit creatures that flit through our world.

I have to keep making my own luck.

I’m just closing the trunk lid when something rattles against one of the window frames. As I hesitate, the sound is followed by another brisk tap.

I ease over to the window and peek outside.

Beyond the pear tree branches, a familiar figure stands in the grounds below, dressed in an emerald-green shirt that sets off his dark skin and black hair to impressive effect.

Lorenzo has positioned himself in profile, his face turned to the side as if he’s paying no attention to the palace at all, but he’s clearly watching for my arrival. When I step closer tothe window to bring myself into view, his fingers twist at his side in a series of swift gestures.

We’re here if you need us. Lower floor, around the corner. Bastien two over, me five, Raul nine.

His hand relaxes, and he ambles off as if to explore the gardens. An ache forms at the base of my throat.

Even when we’re forced to keep our distance, he wants me to know I can count on them.

In line with the priorities of its neighboring temple, the city of Ubetta looks like a haven of growth and abundance. As our procession weaves through the wide streets, we pass building after building constructed partly out of living plants: wooden walls merged with blooming trees, roofs of woven vine still sprouting leaves.

On every corner, a tree bearing one sort of fruit or another shades the street, although most of their current yield looks unripe.

At a couple, children clamber through the branches checking the bounty while their parents examine the lower boughs. Hope lights in their pinched faces when one of the kids tosses down a ruddy apple.

From their scruffy clothes and skinny bodies, I’m guessing they rely on the public trees to supplement their meals. How do they fare when the growing season is over?

They pause to wave to the imperial carriage, not letting their hunger distract them from the awe of seeing their ruler in person. Marclinus grins and waves back.

Does he even notice that their lives must be far from plentiful?

The closer we get to the Temple of Fruitful Fields, themore locals swarm the streets. Cheers rise up while those farther back bob on their toes for a better view.

Beyond the city’s edge, stark rocky mountains rise in the distance to the east. But the landscape around the temple is all verdant fields true to its name.

Like much of the city, the temple itself stands as part of four towering oaks with windows tucked into the corners of branches, rustling leaves sheltering the roof. The walls built between the grand trees echo Prospira’s promise of abundance with carvings of flowers and food, bounding rabbits and milk-heavy cows.

As the cleric of the temple leads Marclinus and I around the living structure, murmurs flow through the air after us. An even larger crowd of locals continues to gather around us to watch the confirmation rite.

Most have drawn close around the ceremonial site behind the temple. Like the setting for the Esterean rite, this one takes place in a wide hollow so those watching have a clear view as they peer down at us.

But Prospira isn’t interested in mazes. The godlen of fertility and harvest watches over a swath of dark-leafed plants that blanket the bottom of the hollow, their viny stems winding around each other. I can’t make out a speck of the earth beneath them.

I still don’t know exactly how the rite is going to work, but as the cleric motions to an ornate altar set up at the far edge of the hollow, I pop my concocted tablet into my mouth. An acrid flavor seeps over my tongue as I chew a few times and swallow.

The ingredients I combined should dampen any pain I experience in the next couple of hours. The effect won’t be immediate, but I didn’t want to risk ingesting it too early. I have to wait for Marclinus to go first, after all.

The cleric lifts his arms toward the gathered people. “Many ages ago when the gods walked our lands, Prospira traveled through this region. The people of Ubetta went out of their way to offer her good food and comforts even though many had little to spare. As her thanks to us, she saw this temple founded and blessed us with our most sacred plant. Now our emperor and empress will both follow in her path.”

He sweeps his hand to indicate the mass of vegetation beneath us and hands Marclinus a gold-rimmed basket. “Goldglobe requires great care and worship to grow well, but when it produces fruit, every one contains all the nourishment a grown man requires for a week. You will walk through the goldglobe field, nourishing it in turn with the waters of your body as you expect to nourish all Dariu’s people during your rule. When you have collected ten of the melons, you will present them in Prospira’s honor on her altar above.”

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