Chapter 3

A palpable stench assaulted Elara’s senses, a noxious blend of decay and filth. The pungent tang of rotting food mingled with the rank aroma of spoiled garbage, its sickly sweetness clinging to her nostrils and forcing her to wake, gagging. Decomposing organic matter gave way to a sharper, more pungent smell – the unmistakable stink of putrefying meat and fish. The sour, acrid odor of urine added another layer to the cacophony, a reminder that this was a place where nature fought a constant battle against decay and filth. It was a smell that spoke of neglect, disarray, and the unyielding passage of time.

Elara groaned, and forced her eyes open, afraid to see what foul place she had been thrown into now.

“Goddess, help me,” she pleaded softly as she spotted the barest hint of moonlight edging its way into the filthy alleyway she awoke in. Garbage was obvious in the large metal bins pushed against one wall. Dirty rainwater, she hoped it was water, puddled the rough street, and she heard strange sounds from the distant opening. A few lights shown through the mouth of the narrow passage.

She took hold of herself, realizing she was still naked except for the silver anklets with their tiny jewels and moonstones. She reached out with her mind, seeking the cool comforting connection to the powers her goddess had granted. The barest trickle of power would clothe her. It was one of the first lessons an acolyte learned, weaving the moon beams into clothes.

For the first time since learning the weave, her goddess’ power eluded her. The loss of her connection hit her as hard as the wizard’s fist had. She struggled to sit up and hugged her knees to her tightly. Where was her patron? Why had the connection been lost? How?

Alone. She could sense none of her sisters in the order. She could not feel Mother Nightbloom, the only woman she had granted the appellation of mother. Elara had always had someone of the order on the periphery of her awareness. Even in the dungeon of obsidian, she could feel a tenuous connection to the women of the temple in the Enchanted Forest. Of course, there it had been nearly overwhelmed by the emotions of the other prisoners. Now, it was simply absent. The magnitude of her loss sent a shiver through her soul, and she felt unbidden tears touch her face.

Alone. Not only were her friends and sisters gone, but her goddess was also as well. The usual sense of comfort and reassurance was absent.

She sucked in a deep breath of the putrid air, wishing for some hint of home, only to remind herself of the many lessons from her training.

“Have pity for others, but it has no place in your actions,” Mother Nightbloom had instructed. “Do not waste time pitying your circumstances, do something about them!”