Jenar and Syvaar were part of their morning rituals. Those gods did not seem to mind the color of one’s gaze.
Greatest Syvaar, I wanted to ask you to watch for me tonight. I was afraid to face your greatness at the morning prayer with my people. Now that I’m alone with your grace and knowledge, I shall say at once what lies on my heart. Greatest Syvaar, let tonight’s meeting go well. I hope I find this man just fine. Oh, greatest Syvaar; please, I beg you.
Help me have a better life.
She bowed her head before the dark entrance of a sacred room no one was ever meant to enter, then rose slowly to her feet.
The seeds had been planted, offerings laid, words spoken, and prayers whispered. She had asked for the crops to grow.
In that quiet moment, Lyssena felt content. Not joyful exactly, but full.
This was the task of the sinful: to pray and beg for forgiveness until the day the skies welcomed them. It was also the task of the sinful to ask for kindness from gods who owed them nothing.
But today was different. Today was a sacred day.
And tonight. . . tonight she would be engaged.
“Lyssena, dearest, have you prayed again?”
She turned at the sound of a soft, familiar voice. The temple leader stood in the hallway, robed in white, as leader after leader maintained the same tradition.
Lyssena lowered her gaze. It was not proper for an unmarried woman to meet the eyes of a man. She could look at her father, of course, and her brothers, but other men were forbidden. Not unless she was given permission.
“Yes,” she murmured, a small smile pulling at her lips. “I have asked the great Kalos for a good harvest.”
To lie was to sin. But she had not lied; therefore, she had not sinned. She simply hadn’t told everything. That was fine, so long as she hadn’t spoken something untrue.
The thud of leather shoes echoed off the stone walls, each step landing like a soft commandment in the hush of the temple.
A shadow stretched across the floor tiles, long and angular in the fractured afternoon light that spilled through stained-glass windows.
“A good harvest is important, isn’t it?” the leader asked.
“It is.”
“Go now. You have much to prepare for, Lyssena.”
She nodded quickly. The fine linen of her shawl brushed her neck as she rose. Her gaze remained lowered, fixed on the mosaic-patterned floors beneath her feet. She hurried toward the great temple doors, the tall, massive things carved from dark wood.
“Have a good day, Lyssena,” the temple keeper called behind her, his voice echoing in the vastness of the holy place.
“Thank you, keeper,” she murmured and opened one of the doors.
Outside, the air was warm and fragrant, and she smelled dust and wildflowers. She didn’t lift her eyes, but her feet knew the path. Once, as a child, she would trip over every stone and root. Now she walked with confidence, even with her head bowed. It was easier that way. You were less likely to fall when you crossed the same path so many times.
The sun hung high, warming the top of her covered head. Around her, the village lived and breathed.
A blacksmith’s hammer rang out, and she matched her steps to its rhythm. Somewhere down the road, a goat bleated, followed by the gentler sound of cows behind a wooden fence. Children shrieked with laughter, darting between thatched cottages.
A cart rolled past, one wheel bumping against stone. The creak of wood echoed in protest beneath the weight it carried. Near the well, two women spoke in hushed voices. Lyssena caught her name, then silence. The wind lifted the edge of her shawl, and laundry flapped like flags beside them.
“I heard he’s a knight!”
“Oh, perhaps a big dowry was paid.”
“Yes, yes. Poor Lyssena.”
“Shut it??—”
