Chapter 1

Marcyn worked at her tincture, grinding the herbs and salt into a powder, and adding wine until it was a thick paste. She rubbed it between her fingers, feeling for any lingering grit and putting it under the weight of her pestle again. Isolde came beside her with a mortar and pestle in her own hands. She began to pluck and place random herbs in her mortar. Her fluttering, white hands were shaking.

“They are coming today,” she whispered. Marcyn stopped grinding and stiffened.

“Already?” she breathed. Isolde nodded, starting to grind up her own concoction.

“Some new men, some old. They are all about to be sent to the back to the front.” Isolde ground and ground, making her paste of nothing, “I don’t know what they will do. There are hardly any Sow girls left.”

Marcyn swallowed. Her hands were sweating, and she could barely grip her pestle. “But we are safe, right?”

Isolde took a deep breath and nodded. “I am sure we are,” she said, but her voice was shaky as though she were trying to convince herself.

The Priestesses were among the most prized virgins, their purity was believed to fuel their healing and prayer. Only in desperate times would the men have their pick of them. Marcyn lifted her eyes and scanned the room. It was heavy with silence; all the women had their cowls pulled up and their heads down. No one wanted any attention drawn to themselves should the Selectress make it all the way to the upper echelons of the tower today.

The door at the back of the tincture room creaked open.

Marcyn did not see the solemn face of the Selectress when she peered over her shoulder, but the harsh and sinking face of an aging man. He carried a heavy cane in his hand though he did not appear to need it for walking, and he thumped it on the ground as he stepped into the center of the round room. Marcyn and the other women looked away as soon as his chilly eyes fell on them. The Selectress followed behind the man, a timid expression on her usually harsh face.

“Turn women,” the man said, his tone low and stony, “remove your cowls and present your faces.”

They did as he commanded. The Selectress came up beside him. “Please, Ulric,” she said and though her voice was hushed it was the only sound in the silent room. No one even breathed. “They are precious,” the Selectress insisted, “the Sow girls are—”

“Harlots,” he said, “I cannot understand how you even present them as virgins.”

The man began to walk around the room, eyes narrowed on all of them. He stopped before Elain, a red-haired woman and one of the older among them. She backed away until her hips were right against the counter and she bumped the jars of herbs and minerals and rattled the bottles of liquid.

“This one,” he said. She whimpered as he took her by the arm and lead her to the center of the room where the Selectress stood helplessly.

He selected another girl. Where Elain was tall, willowy and fair this girl, Ariana was short, round in the backside and chestnut haired with dark brown skin. She did not cower as Elain did but strode to the Selectress’s side with her chin high.

“No more,” the Selectress said, “Please. We need them here.”

The man pursed his lips and scanned the room. “One more,” he said. The Selectress breathed a sigh caught in a net of relief and distress.

Marcyn held her breath as he strode for her. She could not look him in his sinking, gray face and stared timidly, almost petulantly at the floor. Even with her head bowed she could feel his eyes on her. He reached out, but to her horror grabbed Isolde. She gasped as he wrapped his hand around her arm and pulled her toward him. He examined her closely, his face nearly touching her own.

“You,” he said and there was a grin that split his sober face that made Marcyn’s skin crawl, “you will do.”

“Selectress please,” Isolde begged, but the woman was helpless.

“Do not winge, girl,” the man said, “you have been selected for a greater purpose.” He pushed her back toward the Selectress who put her arm protectively around her.

“That is enough, Ulric,” she said. He scanned the rest of them, each one cowering back as far as they could. He narrowed his eyes and nodded slowly.

“For now,” he agreed.

Marcyn looked at Isolde whose face was bright red and already streaked with tears. She wanted to run out to her, take her by the arms and stop the man from leading her away, but she was frozen with fear and shock. She had believed herself safe here in the temple, in the high tower where the prized Priestesses were kept. It was to escape the warbands that ravaged the countryside she’d come here in the first place. Her chastity was supposed to protect them and now it was putting them in jeopardy. If the war truly raged on as they were told it was only a matter of time before this man returned.

The Selectress and Ulric lead the three young women out of the tower and the rest of the priestesses went solemnly back to work. It was a tense, heavy silence that pressed around them before it was broken by the sound of heavy footsteps echoing up the winding tower staircase.

“No,” a man’s voice roared, “I will not wait until the next selection.”

“Watch yourself, Alren,” a male voice echoed. It was the man with the gray, sinking face.

“I have nearly died enough times for your god Ulric! I want my prize.”

“You cannot,” the Selectress scolded, her voice making a hard line.

“It is my right,” the man growled, trampling right over that line. The door flung open again. Startled, the Priestesses whirled to see him. He was towering and broad, his shoulders almost too wide for the doorframe with a barrel chest to match. He had dark hair that hung down well past his shoulders and was tied at the nape of his neck with a crude, leather cord. His impressive jaw was dark with stubble surrounding a mouth that twisted into a smirk as he beheld them all staring at him.

The Selectress and the sinking man, Ulric, pushed against each other to enter the room after him. He was already striding around the room. No one dared turn their back on him.

“Remove your cowls,” he said, his tone was deep and commanding. Marcyn felt her heart pounding so loud in her chest she thought it would burst. No one moved. He stopped before Marcyn and leaned menacingly over her. “I said remove your cowls.”

“Do as he says,” the Selectress commanded, her own tone shaken. Marcyn drew down her hood and revealed her face to him. She expected him to keep moving, look around and survey the other woman who’d revealed their faces, but he stayed put. He stared at her, took in her lush black hair, fair skin dusted with cool, brown freckles and sweet eyes, just caught between blue and gray. As he stared at her she couldn’t help staring back. Despite his swarthy complexion and dark hair his brown eyes were pale, almost hazel. Her breath caught and she didn’t dare to try and look away.

“This one,” he said, his eyes never leaving her. He put a hand under her chin and though his hands were calloused she was shocked to find the touch so gentle. He lifted her face, holding her chin with the slightest pressure of his forefinger and thumb. “What is your name?” he said, just loud enough for her to hear.

“Marcyn,” she breathed. He nodded.

“Marcyn,” he repeated, “I am Alren. You will be my bride.”

The wedding was a joint ceremony. The women huddled together across from the men. They were all broad with earned muscle, but the similarities ended there. The man Elain had been given to was old, she must have been his second or third bride. Marcyn didn’t want to think about what happened to the first. He had a yellow, toothy grin that Elain withered under.

Beside him was Ariana’s husband. He was tall, the thinnest among them though still corded with muscle. He had a brutal scar over one of his green eyes, but other than that his expression was surprisingly kind, even timid. He must have been the youngest of the four of them, if only by a hair. Ariana didn’t look pleased by any stretch, but at least she wasn’t turning green like Elain.

It was Isolde’s husband that made Marcyn shiver. He was middle-aged, but it was not impossible she was his first bride. He was beautiful, maybe even more beautiful than Alren, but no amount of comeliness could make up for the cold cruelty in his ice-blue eyes. He was looking at Isolde like she was a meal. Marcyn thought on the gentle way Alren had gripped her chin and for the first time considered herself lucky.

The whole affair was quick and dirty, a few words were spoken by a High Priest, cups of wine were passed between the men and their new wives. They weren’t even permitted new clothing to celebrate the affair and the men carried off their women in the same drab, gray robes they’d found them in.

At the end of it all Isolde and Marcyn had a parting moment. She could see fear brimming in her friend’s eyes and it cracked her heart. Again, she felt a strange and unfamiliar sense of luckiness.

“I will miss you,” Marcyn said because it was all she could think to say. Isolde nodded, taking her hands.

“We will see each other again,” she whispered, looking past her at where the men waited expectantly, “after the war.”

The war had been raging since before their birth. Marcyn had no hopes that its life would come to an end before theirs did, but she nodded anyway. After a brief embrace they went their separate ways and Marcyn felt tears pricking at her eyes as she turned back to her husband.

Alren didn’t say anything of her tears, but he watched her intently as she joined him by his massive warhorse. He produced a scrap of fabric from his pocket, holding it out to her awkwardly. She looked at the fabric and then his stony face. His expression had been still since that morning when he came roaring into the Priestesses’ tower. Even during the ceremony his mask of calm hadn’t slipped as they whispered their vows. Marcyn wasn’t sure how to feel about his impassiveness. She still preferred it over a look like Isolde’s husband had given her.

“Is there more?” he asked her. She was startled at his voice. It was as stoic as his face, deep and rumbling like a storm. She’d been too caught up in all that had happened to take stock of such little details. There was a vague sense of excitement in the back corners of her mind at the prospect of discovering more about him.

“More?” she asked. She tried not to sound as timid as she felt.

“Goodbyes,” he said, glancing around the little courtyard the Selectress and Ulric had set up for their marriage alter. She didn’t even spare everyone else a look. If saying goodbye to everyone would pain her as much as saying goodbye to Isolde she couldn’t do it.

“No,” she said, studying her shoes. He nodded and grabbed her hard by the waist. She gasped, her eyes going wide. She must have looked like a fish gasping on a pier as he lifted her swiftly and sat her atop his horse. Her heart thumped. She wasn’t sure what she’d thought he was going to do, but she gripped the saddle to ground herself. What a wife she was going to make if the barest touch had her so flustered.

The saddle jostled as he climbed up behind her. The mass of him behind her was like sitting against a wall. He wrapped his broad arms around her and took hold of the reigns. He wore leather bracers at his wrists, but she noticed a tangled map of scars peeking out from beneath them. Marcyn wondered if his whole body was sketched with them and supposed, with no small wash of panic, she was soon to find out.

As they left the courtyard outside the temple Marcyn couldn’t help but look over her shoulder at it one last time. The Priestesses’ work tower looked like a jagged finger reaching up to touch the sky. She would never climb those endless stairs again, never make offerings in the wide, echoing chamber of the sanctuary, never hold a sinner’s hand and pray for them. As they filed out of the front gates she thought maybe, just faintly, she could hear a hymnal rising from the open windows. The sound kissed her ears goodbye and wished her well.

When they arrived at the war camp Marcyn was chilled to the bone. It was early spring, and midday had been warm, but as the sun descended the world began to freeze. A light rain started falling barely an hour into their journey. It shook her to learn the warfront was less than a day’s journey from their secluded temple. She didn’t want to consider what might become of the sacred place if the enemy were to break through her countrymen’s lines. That fear paired with the chill in the air had Marcyn’s teeth rattling despite the impressive heat from Alren’s body wrapped around her own.

Alren lead his horse to a tent near the center of the camp. It was not as grand as the General’s tent in the dead middle of the camp, but it was bigger than the standard infantry. He must be of some rank, Marcyn realized with sudden clarity. No wonder he’d been allowed to stomp into the temple and demand a wife.