Pass the gateway. Walk in the fields.
Each step was taken with care as her bare feet touched the paved path. Roses were growing on either side of her, beautiful blooms of yellow and pink.
Don’t think of the flowers! The gate! Concentrate on the gateway.
Anotherstep.
Birds flew above her and she glanced up to see their flight. They were eagles, flying together, banking and gliding on the thermal currents. Such grace. The priestess returned her gaze to the roses beneath the gate. Mindful of the thorns, she plucked a bloom and held it to her nose; she stared around the garden, seeing the old man who cared for the plants; he pushed himself wearily to his feet and approached her.
‘That one is almost dead,’ he told her. ‘Take a bloom that
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is still to open. Then, if you put it in water it will fill your room with perfume.’
‘Thank you, Naza,’ she said, as he cut two blooms and placed them in her hand. She walked back up the path to the temple, pausing in the doorway.
Then, as she remembered, Derae closed her eyes and a single tear forced its way through closed lids, spilling to her cheek. There was no escape through the gateway. . . just as there was no escape from the window of her room. She could lean out and enjoy the sunshine, or see the distant mountains, but as soon as she attempted to climb from the room she would find herself sitting at her bed, her thoughts confused.
It had been this way for three years, three lonely, soul-aching years.
She recalled the first day when she had opened her eyes and seen the old woman sitting by her bed. ‘How do you feel, child?’ the woman asked.
‘I am well,’ she had answered. ‘Who are you?’
‘I am Tamis. I am here to teach you.’
Derae had sat up, remembering the ship and her hands being bound behind her, men picking her up and throwing her over the side . . . the sudden shock of the cold water, the terrible struggle to be free of her bonds as she sank beneath the waves. But then there was nothing – save a strange memory of floating high in the night sky towards a bright light.
‘What will you teach me?’
‘The mysteries,’ answered the woman, touching her brow. And she had slept again.
She had discovered the spell of the gateway on her third day, as she walked in the garden alone. Approaching it to look at the runes carved in the old stone, she had found herself back in the white-columned temple.
Twice more she tried, then Tamis had seen her. ‘You cannot leave, my dear. You are the priestess now; you are the heir to Cassandra.’
‘I don’t understand – not any of this,’ said Derae.
‘You were the victim. The legend says that any girl who
successfully survives the sacrifice, and reaches the temple, becomes the priestess until the next victim is similarly successful. You knew that.’
‘Yes, but. . . they bound my hands. I do not remember coming here.’
‘But you are here,’ Tamis pointed out. ‘And therefore I will instruct you.’
Day by day the old woman had tried to teach Derae the mysteries, but the girl seemed incapable of understanding. She could not free the chains of her soul and soar her spirit into the sky, nor could she close her eyes and enter the Healing Trance. Simple tasks like holding a dead rose and willing it to become once more a fresh, budding bloom were beyond her.
At the end of the first year Tamis took her to a small study at the rear of the temple. ‘I have thought much about your lack of talent,’ said the old woman, ‘and I have researched the origins of the legend. You surrendered a gift a long time ago: you allowed a man to violate you. This has caused your powers to be buried deep. In order to bring them forth, you must now be prepared to give another gift.’
‘I do not want to be a priestess,’ protested Derae. ‘I do not have these gifts. Just let me go!’