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EVERY DAUGHTER KNEW that the Temple of Sisters was a living creature carved of stone and moonlight. The tales were passed from mother to daughter or from sister to sister in breathless whispers that fluttered around hearths like ghost moths late at night.
Rea had heard the stories, too. After nine years of living in the temple, she was convinced that was all they were—stories. But tonight as she scrubbed the stone floor outside the dining hall, doubt wormed its way into her heart.
A strange melody echoed through the corridor. At first, she ignored it, suspecting another pupil had come to taunt her. Being assigned a hearth task was a humiliating punishment for a daughter who aspired to become a priestess, but it was better than being whipped. The sisters had shown mercy tonight. Sister Rashal had anyway, encouraging the high priestess toward a lighter penalty after Rea had arrived late for class.
Rea was still healing from the lashing she’d received the day before. As she toiled over the stone passage, her robe dragged against the bow of her back, drawing salt into the lacerations until her flesh itched and stung.
When the music swelled, and the floor trembled beneath her, Rea stopped scrubbing and sat back on her heels. The hanging sconces that lined the corridor rattled, threatening to blink out. Their pale light flicked across Rea’s face as panic hastened her breath, and she searched for the source of the disturbance.
Was the temple coming undone? Were the peaks it had been built upon turning over in their sleep? Or perhaps the mountains are dancing, she thought as the music grew sharper and assaulted her ears.
She couldn’t place the instrument. It reminded her of the noise Lady Cora’s chalice made when she tapped her silver rings against the thick glass and traced her finger around the rim. Only louder. Much, much louder. Though it was the quaking of the structure’s foundation that Rea found most concerning.
She wondered why none of the sisters had come to collect her. Surely, they were vacating the temple. As Rea stood and prepared to flee the passage, a section of wall tucked in beside one of the pillars that lined the entrance to the dining room slid free.
Thick, silver light spilled across the stone floor, devouring the halos cast by the hanging sconces. The trembling subsided, but the melody was louder now, the chimes shaping into words, forming an alluring invitation.
“Rea. Reee-aaa. Daughter of Lyra. Come take what is yours.”
Rea’s heart sank at hearing her mother’s name. No one spoke of Lyra. Not since the War of Two Princes. It was forbidden. Still, the thought of her mother filled Rea with equal parts hope and dread.
“Come take what is yours,” the song begged again. “Claim your birthright.”
Rea’s first nine years had been spent in various homes on the flatlands, being passed from mother to mother like an unwanted goat that had stopped producing milk. Her mother had died giving birth. She’d been a priestess of the temple, but beyond that, Rea knew very little about Lyra. Only that she had caused their people, the Moon’s Chosen, much suffering, and her daughter—Rea—was a shameful reminder of that pain.
Whatever possessions Lyra had owned were long gone, distributed amongst those she had burdened with the most sorrow. Rea had nothing. No heirlooms or inheritance to speak of. No home in the flatlands that bore a family sigil.
Her hands shook as she dried them on her robe, but she crept forward, toward the silver light, leaving her brush and bucket in a puddle on the stone floor.
The hidden room was tiny, though not so small that Rea didn’t understand the impossibility of its placement. Its circular wall cut a path through what should have been part of the dining room. She could picture the heavy wooden table and benches that filled that corner. It was fresh in her mind, dinner having only passed a few hours earlier.
She angled her head beyond the entrance, searching for the source of the music.
Through a hole in the ceiling, moonlight spilled into an invisible vessel, forming a cylinder that cut through the center of the room. It shimmered in time with Rea’s breath, rippling like water. Inside the silvery basin of light hung an old staff, suspended in midair. The tip was gnarled and twisted. Where it straightened, a black handprint wrapped around the curve of the wood. The sight of it was gruesome, and it formed a lump at the back of Rea’s throat. She swallowed and stepped into the room.
“Reee-aaa.” The metallic song echoed against the rounded wall, tickling her ears and inducing a shiver that rattled her core. “Daughter of Lyra. Take what is yours.”
Rea stared at the staff and the handprint burned into its grain. It was much too large to have been left by a woman—at least any woman Rea knew. How could this thing have belonged to her mother?
Still, its presence, and the appearance of the secret room, were unsettling. That it—whatever it was—had chosen to reveal itself to Rea of all daughters, and now, just days before the Moon Calling, was most curious of all. Rea had an awful feeling that the sisters would not be pleased to learn of it. That thought alone kept her from reaching out to touch the staff or the basin of moonlight it floated in.
“Reee-aaa,” The gnarled wood shuddered as Rea backed away and exited through the opening in the wall.
Her eyes remained on the staff, tracing the handprint, memorizing each knot and whirl. If it had indeed belonged to her mother, Rea wanted to at least preserve it in her mind. For she could never touch it. Not if she had any hope of joining the Sisters of the Moon.
“Rea!” the staff sang louder, ripping a gasp from Rea’s throat and weakening her knees. Her foot slipped on the wet stones, but before she could brace for impact, she was airborne.
The light from the sconces blurred. Then Rea’s temple connected with the rim of her bucket. Her hands smacked the floor, and cold water rushed between her fingers before soaking the front of her robe.
Everything hurt. Rea’s eyes stung instantly with tears, but she blinked them away as a beastly woman appeared at the mouth of the passage.
Lady Tawndra’s jowls sagged, though the skin at her temples was taut from her hair being pulled back into a severe braid. She grasped her hips, and a callous frown twisted her mouth.
Rea shot a glance over her shoulder, back toward the stretch of wall tucked behind the dining room pillar. But the staff and the opening to the secret room were gone.
“I-I fell. I’m s-sorry,” Rea stammered as she pushed herself up from the floor. Her head throbbed, but she reached for her brush, desperately scouring the drenched stones.
“You should have been done hours ago,” Lady Tawndra said. “And now your careless din has interrupted the priestesses’ nightly prayer.”
“I-I’m sorry,” Rea repeated, her voice pinching until it was a whisper. “I’m almost finished. It won’t happen again.”
“No. It will not.” Lady Tawndra clicked her tongue in a familiar reprimand that made Rea’s skin quiver and sent a thrill of panic up her spine.
Sister Rashal had retired for the evening, leaving the priestess to oversee Rea’s penance. So, Rea had done her best not to draw attention to herself as she carried out her punishment.
Of all the Moon’s Chosen, Lady Tawndra struck the most fear into the daughters’ hearts—and the most fire into their flesh. The priestess took delight in the task as though it were her true Calling, and she treated Rea as though the girl’s back were her greatest masterpiece.
Rea knew she carried the burden on behalf of her late mother. It should have soured her soul against the woman, but there was no hatred in Rea’s heart for the one who had brought her into this world.
Instead, she wanted to follow in Lyra’s footsteps and become a priestess, too. She longed to call down the Moon and channel its light and wisdom. It was in her blood—blood that, from the cold smirk lighting Lady Tawndra’s face, would soon puddle on the stone floor like the water and lye from Rea’s bucket.