I tilted my head in confusion at his request, but lifted them to his line of sight.
His eyes snagged on my wrist, still red and angry from Togamar’s touch. “Your palms.”
I obliged, wondering if he intended to read the lines like some witches did in Tilamuik. I never placed much faith in their ability to predict my future from wrinkles in my skin, but maybe the priest did.
“You did not seek favor,” he said.
I flinched, retracting my hands to my lap, a frown pulling my features. “I did, during the final rite. We both used the cloak–”
“You touched them?”
“Aye.” I sniffed, offended by his doubt. Perhaps he was too old, or his mind too brittle from the toll of his journey.
“You have not laid hands on the God Stones.”
I glanced at Sainte, but he was no help, offering a shrug as he returned to his place against the wall.
“And how do you know this?” I asked.
“If you saw them, you would understand,” he sighed, eyes fluttering shut.
His mouth pinched. Whether in pain or worry, I wasn’t sure.
“The rites are not only to prove the gods’ choice… but to strengthen the people’s faith.” He blinked at the ceiling, long and drawn out, unseeing. “They need to believe the divine will receive their prayers and answer them. The rites are as much for you as they are for the whole of the kingdom.”
“You’re saying the stones used were not the God Stones?” I asked carefully.
“Nain, the stone that answers ‘no’ is sharp, child. It is all jagged edges and vicious points. It would cut you if you but touched the surface with the tip of your finger. Yail is so cold that even holding it for a breath would burn your skin with its chill.” His eyes darted to mine as he pressed his lips together. “I would offer my oath as a Priest of Nothar that you did not touch the God Stones.”
I sat back, head spinning as his words resounded.
The gods hadn’t denied me.
They hadn’t chosen Adastrus.
This was simply another trick of his, another lie. The Wolf’s warning made sense now. My brother stole the stones and switched them out for some other form of vile magic.
Against the Priests of Togamar’s advice and Sainte’s reluctance, we braved the walk to Nothar’s temple. It was just a short distance across the lane, but the Howl descended in full force, shrouding everything in a frigid, snowy haze that limited visibility to mere arm’s length.
I refused to let a storm stand in the way of my quest for answers. Time was not on my side, and staying in the district felt safer than trekking to the castle.
Clutching onto a green scarf tied around Sainte’s waist, a precaution to prevent me from getting lost in the Howl, we plowed through the snow. Withmy head bowed against the biting wind, I placed my trust in my Valahant to guide us through the whiteout.
We trudged through the cold for what felt like an eternity before Sainte stopped and I pulled short, stumbling into his back. He turned, causing the piles of snow that clung to his shoulders fall to the ground, silent amid the howling wind.
“We’ve veered off course!”
His voice cut through the gale, and I raised my arm to shield my face from the stinging flakes, squinting to meet his gaze. Frost dusted his brows and lashes as he scanned the area above my head, searching for any landmark.
A knot of unease tightened in my gut. This was why no one ventured out of their house during a Howl.
It should have been a straightforward path, just across the lane. How had we managed to stray so far without encountering any sign of a temple?
Unless, as Togamar had cautioned, the gods were not aligned in favor of my ascension.
I was weak.
Unfit to rule.
