The West Wind (The Four Winds Book 2) by Alexandria Warwick

Author:Alexandria Warwick [Warwick, Alexandria]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: FIC009090, FIC010000
Publisher: Andromeda Press
Published: 2023-05-17T16:00:00+00:00

Part 2

the faithless

Chapter 23

It is morning. Green, golden, warm. The church shutters lie open, welcoming the Holy Day, pools of light curled sleepily upon the stone floor. As the sweet, silvery tone of a bell fills the nave, bright as a shimmer on glass, the Daughters of Thornbrook congregate, our chant rising to catch the wave, the voices of one hundred strong.

The build gathers, soaring into the ceiling rafters, sinking with new weight. I let my voice carry from where I stand in the back pew, joining the choir. My lungs contract around the air until the sound begins to hollow, folding onto itself, smaller, smaller, gone.

Standing at the base of the sanctuary, the altar at her back, our Abbess on High spreads her arms wide, palms lifted toward the heavens. The chasuble drapes her shoulders in shining gold. “Blessed are we to be welcomed into His Kingdom. In power and in glory.”

We respond as one. “Amen.”

A shared sigh unfurls throughout the congregation. Together, we begin to file out.

Following Mass, I return to the dormitory to change, donning my gray dress in place of my white alb. Then I hurry downstairs, crossing the sunny grounds at a clipped pace.

As I step into the forge, its hot, close air reeking of char, the tightness in my chest unravels. Here lies familiarity and comfort, the quiet of solitude, every piece of this workshop touched by my hand, whether tool or table or coal or blade. It is the only place in Carterhaugh where I can breathe freely.

With the tithe a mere week away, every moment counts. Mother Mabel has requested five additional iron daggers for the event, bringing the final count to twenty-six. For the Orchid King, she’d told me, as a gesture of goodwill. I’d held my tongue.

Slipping on my weighted apron and toolbelt, I tend the fire and shape the metal without complaint. Time spins out. Sweat pours from my face, the skin reddened, pinched from the heat. My back twinges as I drive the hammer down, the impact shuddering up my arm, into my shoulder joint. The cowhide apron chafes the front of my thighs, and heat blankets me like dampest cotton.

New thoughts begin to intrude from those far, dark corners. They appear as flashes of light and darkness: the gleam of a metal sword, the curve of straight white teeth. My heart thunders sickeningly. I swiftly block them out.

I’m beginning to shape the bevels into the knife when a shadow falls across my worktable. I startle so hard I almost drop the hammer on my boot.

Harper, her coal hair clasped in an elaborate updo, stands in the doorway backlit by the sun. A warm halo softens her shoulders in buttery light.

“I don’t know how you can stand to work in these conditions,” she remarks, waltzing in as though she has every right to. Her nose wrinkles. “I’m melting already.”

As usual, Harper’s commentary is unwanted. “Is there something I can do for you?” My attention returns to the blade’s fiery tip, my tongs clamping the tang to hold it steady against the anvil.

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