J.R. Ward the Black Dagger Brotherhood Novels 5-8 - J. R. Ward [124]
The words were spoken in the same hard tone the Directrix had used to describe what the Primale would do to Cormia’s body. Over and over again. Anytime he wished.
The Directrix’s eyes held a calculating light as she put her necklace back on, a chiming sound rising up as the keys settled between her breasts. “Fare thee well, sister.”
As the Directrix walked down off the hill, her white robe was indistinguishable from both ground and buildings, another splash of white differentiated solely because it was in motion.
Cormia put her hands to her face. The Directrix had told her—no, vowed to her—that what would transpire beneath the Primale would be painful, and Cormia believed it. The graphic details had been shocking, and she feared there was no way she could get through the mating ceremony without breaking down—to the disgrace of the whole of the Chosen. As the representative of them all, Cormia had to perform as expected and with dignity, or she would tarnish the venerable tradition she was in service to, contaminating it in its entirety.
She glanced over her shoulder at the temple and put her hand on her lower belly. She was fertile, as all Chosen were at all times on this side. She could beget a young of the Primale from her very first time with him.
Dear Virgin in the Fade, why had she been chosen?
When she turned back around, the Directrix was down at the bottom of the hill, so small in comparison to the towering buildings, so tremendous in practicality. More than anyone or anything else, she defined the landscape: The Scribe Virgin was whom they all served, but it was the Directrix who ran their lives. At least until the Primale arrived.
The Directrix did not want that male in her world, Cormia thought.
And that was why Cormia had been the one nominated to the Scribe Virgin for choosing. Of all the females who might have been picked and would have been thrilled, she was the least welcoming, the least accommodating. A passive-aggressive declaration against the change in supremacy.
Cormia started down the knoll, the white grass texture without temperature under her bare feet. Nothing save food and drink possessed heat or coldness.
For a moment she thought of escaping. Better to be gone from all she knew than to endure the picture the Directrix had painted. Except she had no knowledge of how to get to the far side. She knew you had to pass through into the Scribe Virgin’s private space, but what then? And what if she were caught by Her Holiness?
Unthinkable. More frightening than being with the Primale.
Deep in her private, sinful thoughts, Cormia ambled without purpose through the landscape she’d known all her life. It was so easy to be lost here in the compound, because everything looked the same and felt the same and smelled the same. With no contrast, reality’s edges were too smooth to grab onto for purchase, either mentally or physically. You were never grounded. You were air.
As she passed by the Treasury, she stopped on its regal steps and thought of the gems inside, the only true color she’d ever seen. Beyond the locked doors there were whole baskets full of precious stones, and though she had seen them only once or twice, she remembered the colors so clearly. Her eyes had been shocked by the vivid blue of the sapphires and the dense green of the emeralds and the blood strength of the rubies’ red. The aquamarines had been the color of the sky, so they had fascinated her less.
Her favorites had been the citrines, the lovely yellow citrines. She’d sneaked in a touch of those. It had been only a quick push of her hand into the basket when no one had been looking, but oh, how glorious to see the light flicker in their cheerful facets. The feel of them shifting against her palm had been a lively chatter to her hand’s great content, a fanciful, tactile rush made all the more exciting by its illicit nature.
They had warmed her, though they were in fact no warmer