“Every day?” I asked as she slowed. “Quite the religious man.”
“Some say he started as a reprieve,” she leaned in, her voice a near-whisper, “to escape the late queen.”
A dry chuckle escaped. The king needed an excuse to slip away? From a woman? More likely, he’d silence her with a glare if she spoke out of turn.
Or banish her.
I cleared my throat, eyes drifting over the smaller temples. “So, which god does Tallon worship?”
“The prince? He doesn’t.”
My gaze narrowed. “Yet his father prays daily?”
“He doesn’t take after the king,” Fyrn said, tugging me further from the warrior’s temple. “He stayed close to the late queen, hardly left her side. She doted on him, raised him while King Kallias fought the war.”
I glanced back over my shoulder, and Greaves caught my eye before dipping his chin. So Tallon took after his mother—a truth that explained much about his strained bond with Kallias. Would he ever mirror his father?
I could only hope.
“Men worship Elohios,” Fyrn continued, steering me toward the statue depicting the woman. “If women follow religion, they seek Veridis, the Mother of All Living.”
“And what of the others?” I asked, peering down the path to the temples fading into the distance.
She took my hand, guiding me closer to the temple’s entryway. “Vallor, Inneki, Cersi—the rest are lesser gods who serve the Mother and Father.”
When we reached the entrance, I marveled at the beauty etched into the statue’s face—her eyes bright with a fierce, playful wisdom. Though chiseled from rock, her gaze brimmed with life, and her lips held a sly, inviting smile. Wind seemed to press against her, tugging at her carved gown—one thin enough to leave little to the imagination. Every fold of fabric and strand of hair so meticulous that it stirred awe in me.
“I’d like to know the artist,” I said, dipping into a low bow before the statue, trying to mirror their reverence. If the Radaan worshiped these gods, I could at least be cordial.
“The one who carved Veridis?” Fyrn sank into a curtsy beside me. “I’m sure it’s in the records somewhere. You favor art then?”
As we approached the main doors, the guards behind us eased their pace. For a moment, I wondered if this was the single place—besides my rooms—where I might escape them.
“I do. Paintings tell entire stories. Statues like that one hold worlds. Tomes capture emotions.” I paused, catching her amused smile. “I plan to devour every piece of art Radaan offers.”
She tilted her head, an eyebrow raised with interest. “Then I’ll show you the best of them,” she said, adding a wink before guiding me inside.
Fyrn flung the door open, and my breath caught. The interior stretched out before me, soft and welcoming. The last temple I’d seen, or glimpsed, had been cold and rigid. This one, by contrast, felt warm, inviting.
Two priestesses paused, their gazes lingering on us as I took in the room. Pink, a blush as delicate as rose petals, colored the walls, laced with gilded veins. Flowers, not cut but alive, hung from the ceiling, their vines trailing down to pots suspended along the walls, their fragrance sweet and intoxicating.
At the room’s head, twin doorways, draped in sheer white tapestries, led beyond. At their center, the altar seized my focus, commanding my attention.
An undeniable pull tugged me closer. Fyrn moved ahead, eager to introduce us to the priestesses, but I stood frozen, captivated. A statue depicting a woman heavy with child, sat cross-legged, cradling a delicate seedling in her hands. Its gilded roots stretched downward, woven into the marble, which was shot through with gold veins—an artistry I’d never encountered.
Though there were many things I’d never seen before.
The woman atop the altar mirrored the same alluring, mischievous beauty of the figure beckoning at the temple’s entrance. The craftsmanship was identical—every strand of her hair brushing against her face, almost concealing her soft grin.
“Would she like a fur?”
My gaze flickered between Fyrn and the older woman. Middle-aged, with smile lines around her warm brown eyes, she stood with quiet authority. The younger priestess, still a girl, peered from behind her.
I softened my expression with a small shake of my head. “In Draconia, we worship no gods. Beyond the might of the dragons, we live and breathe by the sweat of our brow.”
“Veridis watches over all, even those of another faith,” the older priestess replied, dipping her chin. “I am Vama. Should you require assistance, do not hesitate to ask.” She stepped back, ushering the young girl away through a nearby doorway.
“The dragons are mighty in their own right,” Fyrn said, her eyes scanning the room.
