“A wolf?” another asked.
My fingers twitched as I tried to gather the strength to get up and move closer to the fire. “Aye. Big. White. Brought us here.”
“Deitrus. He acts as Nothar’s guide.” A young man leaned over me, a playful grin tugging his lips as he took in my fatigue. “Perhaps you would do better in warm, dry clothes.”
“Please,” I whined. I’d have given my left thumb for such comforts.
He grinned, gesturing for the others to leave, then bent low, arms outstretched as if to lift me. But someone else beat him to it, raising me to a strong—very wet and cold—chest.
“I am Falon, head priest of this temple,” he said, his features settling into an amused grin. A mischievous glint brightened his gaze when he looked my way. “And you must be the princess. I would ask why you were wandering through a Howl with naught but your Valahant, but since Deitrus led you here, I have to assume it is Nothar’s will.”
“We were told to seek out Nothar,” I explained.
“Of course,” he said with a bow. “First, dry clothes.”
His teasing tone brought a feeble grin to my face, and he straightened, ignoring the lingering stares and watchful eyes of those still in the room.
This temple differed from Togamar’s. Where hers was soft, bright and inviting, this was austere and imposing. Its rough-hewn walls were dark stone stacked like colossal bricks, giving the impression of a smaller, more foreboding space. The priests were all dressed in white and green, and as we made our way through the lantern-lit halls, I noted they were all male.
Why did no women serve Nothar?
Another striking difference was the display of gilded weapons adorning the walls instead of art or tapestries. Vivid shields were interspersed with daggers and swords their jeweled hilts caught the sparse lantern light.
Falon led us to a modest chamber with roaring flames in its hearth. Though compact, it exuded warmth and coziness. The fire’s amber glow painted shadowson the uneven walls, casting a comforting ambiance over the room furnished simply with a small table and four chairs.
I smirked at the ax that hung over the mantle.
Clearly, Nothar loved weapons.
The priest excused himself to find a robe that might fit me, and I shed my wet cloak. I draped it on a hook near the hearth, then held out my aching hands. Sainte did the same, only, with a long screech, slid another chair along the stone floor, then stepped back, allowing me to sink into it and pry off my boots.
“Why are there no priestesses?” I asked, grimacing as a glob of wet slush dripped out of my sock as I peeled them off.
Sainte sighed, easing into his seat with a groan. He took a moment, resting his elbow on his knee to prop up his head. His damp hair fell over his forehead, and he gripped it tight before smoothing it back.
Guilt tainted my thoughts. He braved that Howl because of me.
With shoulders sagged, he glanced my way before facing the fire. “Nothar does not choose women.”
“I thought people chose which gods to serve.”
“They may, but the god or goddess decide who serves in their temple.”
Nothar had to be swallowing his pride then, to be backing me instead of my brother.
“These priests have to complete an initiation by combat,” he added. “They must defeat a seasoned priest, and train with weaponry daily.”
He rolled his head to look at me, and my heart did a little flip when a lock of hair fell loose and dangled against his brow.
“So a girl wouldn’t have a chance?”
“To defeat a man whose sole purpose is to fight and serve his god? No.”
“You’re severely underestimating women as a whole,” I huffed.
“You will find out soon enough.”
He leaned back, stretching his arms overhead. His muscles tensed and he grimaced. A blush warmed my cheeks as I studied his form beneath his wet clothes which clung to him like a second skin. I knew I couldn’t best Sainte, not because of my gender, rather his training. My skills with a dagger came from necessity, not from the rigorous discipline he endured. In a fight, he would overpower me without effort.
