Priestess Awakened

  Priestess Awakened

  Lidiya Foxglove

  Copyright © 2018 by Lidiya Foxglove

  Cover art © 2018 by Cora Graphics

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Beauty and the Goblin King Preview

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  About the Author

  Chapter One

  You know, I used to like our town’s little Strawberry Festival once. But as Mom struggled to button up my old pink dress, I scowled at myself in the mirror. I had shimmering blue eyeshadow on, and the crazy outfit which was the height of fashion in the capital. It’s hard to be too upset when you’re shimmering. But I was upset anyway.

  “I think I’ll have to alter this next year,” Mom said.

  “Mom! Gods. You don’t have to rub it in that I’ve put on a few pounds.”

  “You look terrific, sweetie, you’re just not sixteen anymore. You’ve filled out into a woman.” She patted my hip, which was exposed due to some small, vaguely sexy cut-outs on the costume, and ran a comb through my hair so she could put on the headdress.

  Seriously, if I moved an inch, the entire costume was going to burst at the seams. I had gotten curvier (and, okay, baked a lot of “I’m-having-a-bad-day-pastry”) since my days in the dance troupe. But the town of Istim wanted to see me in this dress, which cost four hundred gildens. They wanted to see the whole package, because I was the hometown heroine. They would want to see me to stuff my wrinkled old body into this when I was a hundred, I’m sure.

  “Ew,” I said, disturbed at the image.

  “Ew?” Mom asked, jerking on my hair.

  “I was just thinking how I am never going to live this down,” I said. “I’m going to be a Strawberry Girl until I’m a Strawberry Crone.”

  “It’s the circle of life,” Mom said. “You’re going to have a long hard life if you’re already tired of it, Phoebe. Is it so terrible that everyone’s proud of you? Gosh, when you were a little girl, you couldn’t get enough attention if we tried. This town doesn’t have anything else to get excited about.”

  “I am well aware,” I muttered. I could faintly hear Percival Mintz playing his violin in the distance. He wrote his own songs, new ones every year. The result was that everyone had to sit patiently through several very long, sad tunes that no one knew at all.

  By the time he was done, I was all dressed, from the jeweled headdress to the boots. It was pure stage costume paired with capital fashion. No one in Istim had anything like it. My audience would be wearing simple homespun dresses, tunics, and cloaks with perhaps a little ribbon or fur for luxury. This dress was short, with a big collar that fanned out with a gold ornament for a clasp, a half-cape, long draping sleeves that emphasized all my movements, bare knees, heeled boots, and the jeweled tiara on my head. Most of it was dyed a bright pink, with white and red accents. It was a lot of outfit. Everyone loved it. Including me, actually.

  I just missed all the excitement that went with it. The festival just reminded me that this was my life now. I was twenty-one and my best days were already over. At some point I would have to suck it up and marry a town boy or apprentice in some useful trade like midwifery or goat breeding.

  I passed Percival, leaving the stage as I came up. “They can’t wait,” he assured me. “And you look great.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You feeling okay?”

  “Of course I’m feeling okay. I love that this is the only thing of importance I’ll ever do for the rest of my life,” I snapped.

  He looked—understandably—like, Whoa, where did that come from? It was a good thing I’d lost Mom somewhere back there.

  “But most people never do anything important!” he said. “You’re the luckiest person in Istim! I mean, you’ve seen the whole kingdom and most of us never even leave the gates!”

  “Yeah. Exactly…,” I said, letting my mind briefly wander over all the things I’d seen. The towers of the Temple of Stones. The beautifully painted ‘Frosting Castle’ of Rungenold. The markets and shops in the capital with all the goods fresh off the ships from around the world. The warriors of Gaermon, which was now under siege, according to the paper. I wanted to cry when I read that. I’d seen the Black Army marching down streets. I’d seen monsters attacking our caravan…

  Percival was looking at me like I was crazy. No one in town was going to offer me any sympathy, because no one in town had seen any of these things, except Mr. Argrave, the former soldier who had quietly settled here at the same time I returned. And he was—of course—a weird hermit who pretty much stuck to his shack in the north corner of town until he needed groceries. He bought our garden produce from me sometimes. He had an intense, unsettling gaze under his hood. It wasn’t like I would go pay him a visit to reminisce on our travels.

  “Well.” Percival laughed uncomfortably. “You’d probably better go before they run backstage and drag you out.”

  “Yeah.”

  I walked out to a cheering crowd of three hundred people or so. That was most of the population of Istim. It was obvious why I meant something to them. They were just farmers and shopkeepers, struggling to eke out a living in this small town so close to the Cavern’s Gate, hemmed in by the tall stone walls that kept out the monsters. Even from the stage, the walls loomed around me, although the effect was lessened slightly by the town being built on a hillside.

  When I walked out, I couldn’t help but get swept up in the energy that reminded me of that year when I had traveled the world. Every year, girls of the realm competed to join one of the four singing and dancing troupes that toured the land in armored caravans. You had to be at least sixteen but no older than twenty to compete. Girls dreamed of the day the troupes came to their town, because recruiters came with them. The state sponsored the troupes and made sure they came to every tiny town at least once every four years. They were the most excitement a town was going to get.

  It didn’t used to be like this, I knew. A century or two ago, during the Era of Elders, our world was very different. The gate to the realm of the monsters, in the northern caverns, was protected by the priestess and her four guardians. They prevented monsters from crossing through the gate. It was safe to travel between towns just riding a horse. You didn’t need guards armed to the teeth and armored carriages, and so towns could keep their gates open during the day and all sorts of performers and festivals traveled the world. More goods were available, too, and they were cheaper.

  Back then, girls hoped to be chosen as the priestess, not a performer. But priestesses only came along every thirty years or so, and their fate was written in the stars, not chosen by a capital-appointed committee.

  The old days sounded amazing to me, but even the most withered crone in the village couldn’t remember it at this point. I had never known anything but a world full of monsters, so when I was chosen for the Strawberry Girls, I felt like the luckiest girl in the world.

  I didn’t think about the fact
that new girls were selected every year, and what happens to the old ones then? Well, you just go home, back to your boring old life in whatever boring old town you came from, and for the rest of your life, you’re known as A Girl Who Got to Do Something, Once.

  In my case, I came home to a little cottage with a vegetable garden, some chickens and milking goats. Our growing season was short, this far north. We ate a lot of cabbage and root vegetables. One of the big events of the year in Istim was a rock-tossing competition.

  And I got to rehash my old routine, but without all the other girls I used to perform with or the costume designers and hairdressers and makeup artists who used to help me look the part, or the magic that amplified our voices, or the professional musicians who played so beautifully.

  Plus, a lot of my old friends, who were definitely jealous, made fun of the music, but I’m sorry—it was awesome. The Strawberry Girls were the most ridiculous of the dance troupes so I got to sing a lot of songs about candy, rainbows, hair ribbons, and first love, and I thought that was a lot better than the sad songs the Moonlight Girls were known for.

  I jumped out onto stage and the pathetic excuse for a band we had around here kicked off with a rousing number, Carriage Ride.

  Coach and four white horses

  Golden hair and polished boots

  He’s the boy I’m dreaming of

  Take me on a carriage ride

  Behind the doors we’ll share our dreams

  Carriage ride, ooh, let me inside

  Tucked away while the world flies by

  Carriage ride, ooh, my heart can’t hide

  I mean, I guess I understood why the old people complained about it, considering that bards used to sing poems that were a hundred memorized lines and told an entire story about past heroes, but you couldn’t dance to that. These days, even the bards wrote snappier songs. When you were listening to a song like “April Hearts” or “Taffy Girl” you couldn’t think about monsters or worry over a failed crop. You were just happy. I could see the whole town swaying to the music, mouthing with the words, and just having a good time.

  “Carriage ride—” I was still killing it with the chorus when I heard a commotion in the distance.

  A monster, flying erratically, swept over the crowd.

  I’d heard that some monsters could fly. We’d never seen one, though. No monster had ever breached the walls. Scuffling turned to screaming and the crowd started parting in panicked waves, clearing the way for the monster to land near the stage.

  Oh, thanks a lot, neighbors, I thought as they opened a path for it to land on ragged wings. It moved with terrifying speed, its clawed little hands scrabbling on the edge of the wooden stage.

  I glanced around for anything I could use to defend myself. The stage was empty. A heavy curtain was behind me, and I scrambled to find the spot where it parted before trying to lift it and duck under it instead. I heard my mother screaming my name.

  “Haaah!” I turned as I heard a man yell and saw the flash of steel. A blade cleaved the monster into two, and it let out a squawk just before it was obliterated. The two halves of its body, covered in shining silver-black scales, now just looked like a disgusting lump that was bleeding everywhere. The monster’s face was turned toward the sky, its mouth hanging open. It looked sort of like a large lizard, a long pointed snout, sharp teeth, and bat-like wings. Its eyes, on the other hand, were a disconcertingly sharp amber color.

  The townspeople were totally losing it, screaming and running around.

  My savior was none other than Mr. Argrave. I guess that made sense, since he used to be a soldier. But I didn’t know him at all. No one really did, but he claimed to have been sent here to monitor activity near the Cavern’s Gate. Istim was one of the last towns before you got to the dead zone around the gate. All the mountain towns had been abandoned, given up to the onslaught of monsters. The passes were heavily guarded by two forts, but monsters still slipped through all the time. Usually, our high walls were enough protection.

  Mr. Argrave hopped up on to the stage and grabbed my hand. “C’mon.”

  “C’mon where?”

  “We need to talk.”

  “But I don’t even know you!”

  “Yes,” he said, giving me a withering look. “That’s why we need to talk. Your mother is aware that this day would come. Now it’s time I told you the situation.”

  “The—what? What situation?” I followed him as he dragged me behind the curtain. Mom was already rushing toward us.

  “Mom, what do you know that I don’t?” I cried.

  “I’m sorry, Phoebe. I just wanted you to have a normal life as long as you could.”

  I was really panicking now. I didn’t really want a normal life, but if my abnormal life was going to begin with a monster ambushing me on stage, then…feeding chickens and growing cabbages in Istim sounded better after all.

  “You are the next Priestess of the Gate,” Mr. Argrave said. “And your powers are starting to stir. You’re ready.”

  Mom looked anxious but she didn’t say anything, which was alarming on its own. I got my talkative nature from her.

  “But—there hasn’t been a priestess for a hundred something years,” I said.

  “One hundred and eight,” he corrected. I was supposed to know that. Memorizing numbers and dates was never my forte during my sporadic attendance in the village school. “Oh, there have been priestesses in the past hundred and eight years,” he continued. “Plenty of them. They’ve all been killed by the Black Army.”

  “Craaap,” I said, which was really an insufficient response. “Craaaaaaaap. I know where this is going. You’re going to tell me that the Black Army will be looking for me now.”

  “Exactly.”

  “I was…hoping you were going to reassure me,” I said faintly. “I need to sit down.”

  “This is no time to sit down,” he said. “We need to get moving.”

  “To where? We can’t leave town! The monsters—and—and the Black Army is everywhere! Does this mean they can sense me now? Did they send that monster after me?”

  “No,” he said. “Two different things entirely. The Black Army can’t sense you. They are always looking for the next priestess, but as far as I know, they don’t have any special magic for tracking us.”

  “Us?” Double crap. “You’re one of my guardians, aren’t you?”

  “Fate has decided,” he said. “I am your first guardian. You can call me Sir Forrest, now that we’re about to be intimately acquainted, like it or not.”

  I swallowed. I didn’t really know what this meant. “You’re a knight?”

  “I didn’t want to draw much attention here,” he said. “But yes.”

  I had never noticed him before, besides as a stranger and a weirdo. He was a little over six feet tall, with his sword at his waist. The sword had a really intricate hilt with a pommel that looked like the head one of the monsters. Its tiny eyes were jeweled.

  But enough about the sword. Now that I was getting a good look at ‘Sir Forrest’, it didn’t escape my notice that despite a somewhat rough appearance—the dark hair in some slightly brutish and unkempt warrior’s style, the stubble, the scuffed up boots and moth-eaten gray cloak—he had gorgeous brown eyes and a fine build. I mean, his personality could have used some polishing, but supposing this whole thing didn’t kill me, this might not be so bad.

  “It’s not the Black Army you have to worry about—yet. Monster activity outside the gates has increased in the past few months, as I’m sure you know. It was only a matter of time. I’ve been waiting for you to be ready. This world needs a priestess. We have to try and locate your other three guardians and confirm you at the Temple of Stones, then complete the sealing ritual at the gate, and if we can do that…no more monsters. This was a clear sign that it’s time for you to come under my protection and take your place in history.”

  “Take my place in history? You know what history is full of? People who died.”
<
br />   Ignoring me, he rummaged in the pocket of his jacket and took out a small, dogeared book. “This explains your duties.”

  “Oh, no, don’t give her that yet—” Mom began, sounding almost panicked as I opened the book…to a stylized line drawing of a girl, naked but adorned in jewelry, being claimed by a man. He was supporting her around her back with his arms, while another man was holding her hands out over her head and suckling her breast. The men were both very tall and beautifully rendered, and my cheeks flashed hot. The caption said:

  The Priestess and Two Guardians Performing a Trine (See—Appendix B)

  I sputtered something incoherent. Mom took the book out of my hands. “Let’s talk this over at the house.”

  “We don’t have time,” Sir Forrest said. “We should get on the road now while we have hours of daylight left.”

  “We have to go back to the house,” I said. “I need clothes, obviously. And Wretch.”

  “Wretch?”

  “My flying cat?” I glared at him. He had to be playing dumb. It was hard to miss Wretch. Flying cats were very rare to begin with. She usually flew around my head everywhere I went. But she would be a distraction during my performance, so I had locked her in the house.

  “We can’t take a cat with us,” he said.

  “Why shouldn’t I take her? She can hunt her own food.”

  “It’s too conspicuous.”

  “I’m not going anywhere without her.” I crossed my arms. I might be in some level of denial about what was going on, that he was saying I had to leave my home and head into danger, but this was not a point I was willing to negotiate.

  “Wretch is really a well behaved cat,” Mom said, looking uncomfortable. “She might even bring you some dinner to share.” My stomach twisted. It was weird to see Mom attempting to implore a complete stranger to let me keep my cat. It drove home that I was going into an unknown situation.