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“‘Which sat at the foot of the Skotis Mountains—’”
“It’s actually pronounced Skotos,” I interrupted, unwilling to let this go.
Her veiled head shot toward me as the red-dressed Priestess stiffened where she sat across from Penellaphe. She turned to give me a once-over. Her brown hair was pulled back so sharply from her hawkish features it was a wonder the strands of hair hadn’t snapped.
Priestess Analia’s dark brown stare turned dismissive. “And how would you know?”
“My family originates from the farmlands not too far from Pompay, before the area was destroyed and became the Wastelands we know today,” I said, which technically wasn’t a lie. My family originated from that general vicinity. “My family and others from that area have always pronounced the mountain range as the Maiden first said. The language and accent of those from the Far East can be difficult…for some to master. The Maiden, however, appears to not fall into that group.”
Penellaphe sucked her lower lip between her teeth and dipped her chin as if she sought to hide a smile.
The Priestess did not have a similar reaction. Her bony shoulders beneath the crimson gown went stiff. “I did not realize I asked for your thoughts.”
“My apologies.” I bowed my head. Just a few more days, I reminded myself. That’s all.
Priestess Analia nodded. “Apology—”
“I just didn’t want the Maiden to sound uneducated,” I continued, enjoying the flush of anger creeping into the Priestess’s cheeks, “if any discussion were to arise about the Skotos Mountains, but I will remain quiet from here on out.” I looked at Penellaphe. Her mouth formed a perfect oval now. “Please, continue, Maiden. You have such a lovely reading voice that even I find myself enthralled with the history of Solis.”
Her grip slowly loosened around the tome. “‘Which sat at the foot of the Skotos Mountains, the gods had finally chosen a side.’”
That was bullshit.
“‘Nyktos, the King of the gods, and his son Theon, the God of War, appeared before Jalara and his army,’” Penellaphe continued with yet another lie. Theon was not Nyktos’s son. “‘Having grown distrustful of the Atlantian people and their unnatural thirst for blood and power, they sought to aid in ending the cruelty and oppression that had reaped these lands under the rule of Atlantia. Jalara Solis and his army were brave, but Nyktos, in his wisdom, saw that they could not defeat the Atlantians, who had risen to godlike strength through the bloodletting of innocents—’”
“They killed hundreds of thousands over the time of their reign,” the Priestess elaborated yet again, this time sounding damn near orgasmic. “Bloodletting is a gentle description of what they actually did. They bit people.”
I would like to bite her right about now.
“Drank their blood and became drunk with power—with strength and near immortality,” she continued. “And those they didn’t kill became the pestilence we now know as the Craven. That is who our beloved King and Queen bravely took a stance against and were prepared to die to overthrow.”
Penellaphe nodded.
“Continue,” the Priestess ordered.
“‘Unwilling to see the failure of Jalara of the Vodina Isles, Nyktos gave the gods’ first Blessing, sharing with Jalara and his army the blood of the gods,’” Penellaphe read, giving a faint shudder. “‘Emboldened with the strength and power, Jalara of the Vodina Isles and his army were able to defeat the Atlantians during the Battle of Broken Bones, therefore ending the reign of the corrupt and wretched kingdom.’”
Was this really what they were teaching people in Solis? My gods, it was all a load of crap. There was no Blessing given by the gods. They were already asleep. Nor did the counterfeit King defeat the Atlantian armies. Atlantia had retreated for the sake of the people—to end the war destroying the lives and futures of Atlantians and mortals alike.
Penellaphe started to turn a page, and, man, I couldn’t wait to hear what was next.
“Why?” Priestess Analia demanded.
She looked over at her. “Why, what?”
“Why did you just shudder when you read the part about the Blessing?”
“I…” She trailed off, her fingers tightening around the edges of the book once more.
“You seemed disturbed,” the Priestess said. “What is it about the Blessing that would affect you so?”
“I’m not disturbed. The Blessing is an honor—”
“But you shuddered,” the Priestess pressed. “Unless you find the act of the Blessing pleasurable, am I not to assume that it disturbs you?”
What in the fuck kind of question was that? I didn’t like the Priestess’s tone nor the way she pitched forward toward Penellaphe.
The lower half of Penellaphe’s face turned red. “It’s just that…the Blessing seems to be similar to how the Atlantians became so powerful. They drank the blood of the innocent, and the Ascended drink the blood of the gods—”
“How dare you compare the Ascension to what the Atlantians have done?” Priestess Analia grasped Penellaphe’s chin. My hand slid off the hilt of my sword. “It is not the same thing. Perhaps you’ve grown fond of the cane, and you purposely strive to disappoint not only me but also the Duke.”
