Chapter 22
Temple

hat night in his bed Deacon lay awake, his mind charged with thoughts of the dark priestess. It seemed the whole world was asleep but him, but far across the black water, within that terrible structure, the priestess who consumed all his thoughts was awake in her own bed.

Lying motionless, black hair unbound, Magenta gazed upward through the darkness. In her vast loneliness she was repressed and unreachable. Her entire being quivered with anguish. She was like a flower cast in darkness for too long, wilting for want of light and love of the sun. All her days were spent in concealment, forced to preserve a faith she abhorred. Like a blossom trying to bloom in deep shadow, she struggled against the life-denying principles by which they lived. Her imposed faith was a cruel form of martyrdom, devoid of truth and validity.

There was a deficiency of light in the chamber, as in all the chambers of the temple. Always she bolted her door. Strange inhuman things walked the corridors by night when all was still and lurked in the shadows by day. Sometimes she would hear them scratching and brushing against the door, applying pressure as if they sought entry. Not even within her own chamber did she feel safe; the trapped night groaned with life, the darkness seeming a thing unto itself, alive and breathing. She could feel it pressing against her as though conscious, with its own awareness—possessive, malevolent, purposeful in its intent to get inside her.

“It is a frightful thing to permit a girl to grow up without knowledge of the goddess and the sacred principles which should be infixed in her conscience, if happiness is to be secured beyond death.” Those were the words uttered by the high priestess the day Magenta’s father placed her in the maternal hands of the detestable woman. In giving her life, Magenta’s mother had lost her own. The high priestess was the only semblance of a mother she had ever known, which was an unfortunate thing.

The woman was base and cruel, concealing her black nature behind righteousness and cold-hearted charity. This life was all about endurance and suffering. Then, when she had proved herself worthy, she would be taken into the dark comforting bosom of death.

There was a strange sanctification in death. The afterlife, the high priestess felt, would belong to her. She would be a goddess, and in bringing others with her, dark glories would be hers. This was her belief, fortifying her faith immovably with immutable ritual, preserving it, hardening it against every corrosive threat, extinguishing the light of free-thinking among her priestesses and the flame of individuality as one might smother a fire.

Although they were to devote themselves to reflection and study, it was to be within the confines of the dark-orders methods, an imitation of individual thought. Their studies were intended not for enlightenment, but for solid immovable instruction. They were not to be free, but wholly under the high priestess’s dominion.

The existence of a dark priestess was cruel and utterly subservient. Yet they were told not to be afraid; fear is faithlessness.

“Sorrow and affliction afford us an opportunity for growth,” she would say with careful certainty, before inflicting some inhuman method to ensure obedience and submission to her authority and thus deepen the impression she was supreme.

In silent defiance Magenta struggled to resist the high priestess’s iron-bound will. She had no need of an institutionalized belief system to show her how she should live. She needed only to rely on her own inner knowing. She would obey only higher laws, universal laws that even the gods must obey. In her gentle heart she believed self-mastery, growth, and achievement need not only be accomplished through affliction, but through all experiences. Love, sorrow, and joy are the great educators. Love is the greatest of all, for one is always ennobled and uplifted when having truly loved or been the recipient of such a love.

Shrouded in a miserable atmosphere, Magenta did her duty and endured the rest in a quiet despair. The warm blood flowing through her was scarcely adequate to keep the ebbing cold from embittering her soul.

* * *

Magenta was heading inside the temple when she saw the wicked scurrying of one of the preternatural things that lurked in the wood. It was heading down toward the water to return home. And she knew that someone was taken. The creatures served only the high priestess.

Tall and austere candles cast a livid light over the majestically adorned walls. Drifting down the empty hall, her head inclined, her thoughts inward, Magenta found her heart was soon struck cold. To her came sounds horrible beyond conception: bellows of agony and torment. The voice was distinctly male. The cries carried up from deep within a ceremonial chamber. It was not the first time she had heard such sounds.

She rounded the corner and slowly drew toward the dark passage. Much moved by the man’s desperate, inarticulate entreaties, she gathered up her long gown and carefully descended the narrow steps. There was something of the sensation of a catacomb about those stone stairs leading down into darkness.

Magenta came to the heavy wooden door that separated her from the afflicted individual. From behind she could hear his low moans and cries. By degrees they died off. Amid the deep silence she listened for any sigh of life, praying most ardently that it was ended. Then came a cry so piercing, so desperate, Magenta started violently. Placing her hand upon the door with the intent to enter, she heard another voice along with the pitiable one that caused her to wait. It was forbidden for Magenta to be here, but she made her mind up to do that which she had never before attempted.

The door was fastened with a latch secured by an advanced charm, but its intricacies were not beyond her capability. With a gentle motion of her hand, the bolts were propelled and withdrawn. She entered secretly, concealing herself among the shadows. There were many burning candles, yet only the feeblest light broke the darkness, which was needed to commit their abominations. The air was laden heavily with the acrid vapours of poison.

Upon an ornate and austere altar lay the motionless form of a man. The glow of candle light was the only warmth upon his flesh, of which the upper half was naked. He appeared in an altered state of consciousness, trapped in dark visions. Now only the feeblest of moans would escape his lips. Occasionally he would bare his teeth as though in pain.

Besides a single scratch down the centre of his chest there were no visible signs of mortal wounds, but there was no doubt that he had been tortured by the acutest measures. The high priestess had forced entry into the deepest recess of his mind and filled it with dark images. She did not sacrifice her offerings with knives or any such weapon. It was crude to use such instruments against the flesh. Any man could easily be made to bleed. Her methods were far more internal. She weakened their resolve, enfeebled their minds, and broke their will, until the desire to live was utterly spent.

Next to his tormented form the high priestess stood, the flames casting a lurid light upon her ghastly white face. She had no colour, no sound, no heart. She bathed the lips of the unconscious sufferer with a damp cloth. “With death comes life,” came her chilling words to Magenta. From amid the shadows she watched, secretly, with a sense of dread. Never before had she witnessed a sacrifice. She knew the memory of it would not die.

For one last time the high priestess anointed his eyes with a potent herb, the juice of which entered the delicate flesh and into his blood. This excretion, laid upon sleeping eyelids, would trap a man or woman in a state of unnatural slumber, from which it would be impossible to rouse him with usual methods, leaving the slumberer vulnerable to any thoughts and suggestions. Whispering hateful fantasies into his ear, she then left him to die.

When quite certain she was alone with him, Magenta came out from her place of concealment and went to the altar. The young man lay suffering severe mental anguish, his head lolling side to side, eyes squeezed shut, trapped in some evil dream. There was something so pitifully innocent in his features, despite who he might be or where he came from. With hesitating fingers she touched his face. All her life she had been imposed to hold herself severely aloof from physical contact. Now, with a certain tender abandonment, she allowed herself this contact. He was so vulnerable, so defenseless. She tried to comfort him, stroking his brow with the utmost gentleness.

Within herself Magenta was in conflict. She was not allowed to be here, but she felt a deep sentiment of sympathy keeping her at his side. She could see how helplessly he struggled to keep hold of the thin thread of existence. Closing her eyes against the piteous sight of him, Magenta left him to his fate. There was little hope to successfully steal him away, and the consequences if she failed would be considerable.

For many hours his face haunted her. Only by a persistent ache of compassion was she finally compelled to make an attempt to help him escape. Deep in the night she returned to him. Trembling, she untied the black scarf which had been drawn so tight round his throat as to stifle his cries, but she did not release his hands from their restraints. She feared in the impaired state of his mental faculties he might become violent.

In her bed the high priestess was roused suddenly from sleep. Whispers in the dark told her of the betrayal taking place down in the ceremonial chamber.

From a small wooden chest Magenta took several vials, each containing substances derived from plants. Deeply moved by his situation, she endeavoured to awaken him by every means she could. For one instant the heavy lids were raised from the dream-laden eyes, but he then relapsed into a condition of partial unconsciousness. At length she succeeded in dispelling his stupor and attracting his attention. Kindly she smiled into his eyes. It seemed the soul had returned to them. Upon the sight of her, bent over him, he uttered a plaintive sound. Gently she hushed him, speaking softly and reassuringly, as one does with a frightened child.

In every aspect of her countenance there was a strangeness that set her apart from ordinary women. Her cheeks had a transparent fairness in which the colour never rose, and her shadowy eyes, a haunting deep blue, made her appear that which she was not, but it required only a little acquaintance with her face to see the beauty of compassion within its delicate lines.

As she unfastened his hands, he watched her, still in a daze of trying to distinguish between dreaming and reality. When he realized that the woman before him was flesh and blood, not some morbid creation of his own mind, he took hold of her, and sitting up, burst into a frightful fit of sobs and pleas, clutching her like a man drowning.

For a moment she was drowning with him. She attempted to pull apart, trying for gentleness at first, but then, with increasing force, pushing against his chest, struggling in desperate silence. He held her fast in bewilderment and terror. He thought she was going to leave him, abandon him to this waking reality of horror.

At last, his strength failing him, she broke free. He tried to follow but sagged down against the altar, bunched in a shaken heap. For a moment she would not approach him. When the paroxysm had somewhat spent itself, she kneeled down, touching him with a quiet warmth of manner that placed both him and herself at ease with one another.

“You must be quiet now,” she said. “Gather your strength, and I shall see you out.” A sound—a drawing of bolts—forced them into quicker action. “Do you have strength enough?” she whispered urgently. With some difficulty he seemed to comprehend her meaning and assented with a feeble nod. Assisting him to his feet, she draped his arm over her shoulders. He staggered with uncertain steps, leaning heavily upon her.

They made it to the safety of shadow not a moment too soon, before several servants—Draegers—entered the chamber. The eerie forms didn’t so much walk as they did glide. These women were blood-begotten but had become something else, something dark and spectral, bodiless and insubstantial. However, they could become substantial at will. Quickly they saw that the sacrifice no longer occupied the sacrificial altar.

Hidden in the shadows, quivering against one another, the two waited, silent and motionless. His body was heavily pressed to hers, and the wall at her back assisted in supporting his weight. His face hung near to hers. She could feel the warmth of his breath shudder against her cheek. The effect was strange, as if she had been near him for some time and yet had only just become aware of him.

They remained deathly still and could hear as the servants conversed; their tones expressed no emotion, but it was evident they spoke of him. Briefly his brow creased, and the gentle brown eyes lifted to hers with thankful devotion. They waited some moments before the opportunity to steal out the door undetected presented itself. They got as far as the stairs, when half way up, he slumped against the wall, excessively drained of strength. He leaned there a moment, perfectly motionless. “Please,” she said with gentle urgency. “We mustn’t linger.” Struggling, he gathered his energy and pushed away from the wall, once more depending upon her.

It was a small triumph that they reached the top of the stairs. Their pulses beat high with fear and the fragile hope of escape. With unfaltering purpose, he leaning over her as they walked, she led him down a long hall. She knew exactly where to take him.

They rounded a corner and came upon the high priestess, standing far down at the end of the passage. Their hearts sank when they saw her. She came forward with unhurried steps, as if knowing they had no place to go. She walked with sweeping majesty, her splendid form impressive in stature. Yet she seemed brittle, as if she concealed some secret pain.

Magenta glanced frantically back over her shoulder to see another escape route, but coming up through the floor and through the walls the Draegers swarmed and prevented them from making a move. The high priestess came to stand before them, very near, terrifying in her beauty. Her countenance was severe, an unwholesome white, yet her skin was smooth in spite of her age, which could not be less than fifty years. She was tall, straight, and magnificent, a passionately proud woman—a woman to be afraid of.

The young man and the priestess remained clutching one another; each feeling the need to protect the other. “Please don’t hurt her,” was all he could utter, with no strength in his body to protect the one who had risked her own life for his. Before either could make a move to prevent it, the high priestess struck out. Neither saw the sharp implement she held as she did so, but in an instant his throat was opened.

Magenta gave a gasp that ended in a stifled sob as he fell from her arms; she could not hold the dead weight. He writhed only a moment at her feet, bleeding, before he stilled. She turned startled eyes, wide and wet, toward the high priestess who took her hurtfully by the arm. She would show Magenta what it was to lose favour with her.