Chapter 3: The High Priest

꧁࿐ DECREASH࿐꧂

The high priest's chamber ought to have been drenched in the sacred fragrance of myrrh.

It was meant to be a place of pure devotion, where the only perfume was the holy smoke of incense rising from silver censers.

Yet that scent had long since been suppressed by the musky, faint sweetness of crushed lavender oil and the unmistakable remnants of forbidden indulgence shared with one of the castle's serving maids.

Upon the great four-poster bed in Priest Tailbone’s chamber was the castle maid.

Laid on her side, with one leg drawn up lazily, the other extended, and her body arranged with the unselfconscious ease of someone who had long since abandoned modesty.

She basked in the quiet aftermath, allowing herself to recover from the intensity of the passionate moment that had just unfolded.

Her breasts rose and fell with the slow rhythm of recovered breath, and her nipples were still flushed a deeper rose, and there was evidence of teeth marks on them.

Her eyes, the color of moss after a rain, were half-lidded, fixed on the bunch of grapes she held in one hand.

The fruit was deep purple, almost black, and a few of them were bruised, their juice staining her fingers.

She plucked a single grapefruit from the branch, then rolled the small fruit between her thumb and forefinger, feeling the taut, cool skin, before bringing it to her lips.

Her mouth, still swollen and sensitive from the priest's kisses, parted to receive it. When she bit into the fruit, the sweet flavor exploded across her tongue, flooding her senses with juice.

The movement of her arm caused the blanket to shift, revealing more of her pale skin and the curve of her hip.

It was this sight that greeted Lady Azuhra as she entered without announcement, her mere presence turning the chamber deathly still.

“The heavens have mercy," she breathed, instinctively averting her gaze from the sight.

The maid let out a startled gasp when her eyes found the queen dowager.

In a frantic scramble, she threw the blanket aside and tumbled from the bed, her bare feet slapping against the cold floor.

Clothes lay scattered where they had been carelessly discarded, and she snatched them up one after another with trembling hands.

She scarcely knew where to look, torn between the garments at her feet and the unexpected visitor standing in the doorway.

"Forgive me, my lady," she stammered, bowing her head as she hurried to fasten the last clasp of her dress. Her cheeks burned red with humiliation, and she dared not raise her eyes.

"Steady yourself," Priest Tailbone remarked, his voice a low drawl, when he saw how frightened the maid was.

He remained where he was, seated at the edge of his bed, his dark eyes casually drifting to the doorway where the queen dowager stood, one brow arching as she took in the sight of the silver cup filled with wine, resting loosely in his hand.

The maid clutched the rest of her belongings tightly against her chest as though they could shield her from the mortifying moment before dashing across the room and exiting through the doorway.

The room was quiet for a brief moment.

And Tailbone's knuckles whitened against the stem of his cup before he lowered it below the tabletop.

"Your Grace, what a pleasant surprise." He offered a weak smile, not hiding his sins anymore; she had seen everything.

"So it is true," Azuhra whispered, stepping inside. She pressed a handkerchief to her nose and dropped her onyx gaze, closing the door firmly behind her.

"The whispers from the temples have been justified. You are not the saint you pose yourself to be."

He let out a heavy sigh, dragging his thumb across the corner of his mouth to wipe away a stray bead of wine.

"No one is a saint, Lady Azuhra. Not even you."

He rose to his feet, smoothing the creases from his robe before turning to face her fully.

"You preach that women are the greatest temptation, and they cloud divine judgment," she said, her gaze settling once more upon the cup of wine in his hand.

"You also preach that wine belongs in the hands of drunkards who stagger through the streets. Yet here you stand, indulging in the very vices you condemn.”

The priest turned away, a weary, cynical smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"I am a flawed man," he replied. "Long before, I was a holy one. I merely preach what the people wish to hear."

"You are a member of the High Council," she corrected, her voice edged with utter disdain.

"The people kneel because they believe your hands are clean. You are the keeper of the Holy Book from which the Crown's laws are drawn, and among its sacred decrees is one that forbids a priest from taking a woman to his bed."

Silence settled between them, taut as a drawn bowstring. He lifted a hand to the back of his head, absently scratching at his greying hair before clearing his throat, as though searching for words that refused to come.

"So I am to starve every desire of the flesh," he asked, "merely to preserve the illusion of holiness?"

It was a tempting argument to entertain, but Lady Azuhra was too discerning to take the bait.

"If the gods truly intended me to leave without wine and to know the warmth of a woman's embrace, they ought to have spared me the burden of having a chip on my shoulder." He continued, a dry laugh escaping him.

"That is enough," Azuhra said coldly, turning her face away as though the sight of him had become unbearable. "Spare me your excuses."

She drew a slow breath before fixing him with a hard stare.

"I did not come to hear your confessions. I came to speak of Queen Ryalyn's passing.”

“Such a matter would have been better discussed in the courtroom. A single summons would have had me hurrying to your side.”

The old priest answered without looking at her. He dragged his weary feet across the room toward the waiting jug of wine and poured. The red liquid swirled lazily within the cup as he raised it toward his lips.

"Her sudden ascent to glory has given birth to whispers throughout the castle," she continued. "And, regrettably, my name seems to rest upon every tongue that speaks of the matter."

The priest paused mid-motion.

For a long moment, he stared into the wine as though searching its depths for an answer. At last, he lowered the cup and met her eyes.

"Queen Ryalyn once sought my counsel often," he said quietly. "Years ago... she walked into this very chamber and found me much as you have today."

His gaze drifted to the unmade bed behind him.

"With a maid."

The admission hung heavily between them as he swallowed hard, shame creasing his weathered face.

Azuhra crossed the chamber with graceful strides, and without asking permission, she slipped the silver cup from his grasp. The old priest made no attempt to stop her.

"You dishonor her memory," she said, her voice low. "The kingdom has barely begun to mourn, yet you seek comfort in wine.”

The old priest's fingers remained suspended in the air where the silver cup had once been before slowly curling into his palm.

"Deny yourself wine for even a single day," she whispered, her gaze lingering on the deep ruby liquid before setting the cup firmly upon the table. "Mourn the queen who trusted you.”

He offered a slow, serpentine smile, the glow of the hearth fire casting restless shadows across his eyes.

"Would you not like to know why she sought my counsel?"

At his words, she scoffed, dismissing him with a wave of her hand.

"Ryalyn made the grave mistake of believing you possessed any wisdom worth offering," she replied, her voice turning as cold as steel.

"Whatever passed between the two of you is of no consequence to me. I have no desire to hear it.”

She met his gaze without flinching, and his expression shifted, gaze dropping.

"The cleansing rite..." he mumbled, eager to abandon the subject. "I do not know if I possess the strength."

“You do," she promised, her fingers gently nudging the cup aside with a soft, definitive clink, sliding it farther away from his reach.

"The nobles have assembled. The mourning bells have fallen silent, and the kingdom awaits the final rites. Until the Cleansing of Ascension is performed, there will always be those who claim Queen Ryalyn's spirit wanders between this world and the next."

For a moment, the old priest said nothing, and then he lifted his tired eyes to hers.

“My ever-loyal chaplain has taken up the duty of cleaning her corpse, having it wrapped and ready for the tedious journey to Canna," he explained, but soon caught the flicker of surprise that crossed her face.

It only lasted for a moment, but it had been there.

"The king did not make it known to you?" he asked, clasping his hand behind his back. "He has ordered that Queen Ryalyn's body be returned to Canna, her ancestral kingdom.”

"That is a vile thing to do." She breathed.

"Is it?" Tailbone replied calmly. "Many would call it an act of respect. It serves a clear purpose, respecting their customs and ensuring her burial is overseen by her own people. She will be properly mourned by those who truly cherished her.”

With that, she gave a thoughtful nod, but the priest's gaze remained fixed upon her, studying every subtle shift in her expression. His eyes narrowed ever so slightly.

"For someone who took such satisfaction in Queen Ryalyn's swift passing," he said at last, "you certainly display a remarkable measure of concern."

Azuhra turned to face him; her onyx eyes, once hard as polished stone, had darkened into something far colder.

"A priest exists to stand between the Crown and its people," she said evenly, her voice lowering.

As she spoke, she lifted a hand and tucked a stray lock of raven-black hair behind her ear, revealing the slender gold earring that swayed gently against her neck.

"You have fulfilled that duty well, Priest Tailbone, and the Crown has seen fit to reward your years of service."

Taking a step forward, she narrowed her eyes, as though attempting to see right through him.

"But make no mistake," she continued, her voice descending into a dangerous hush.

"The day you presume to question me again will be the day your head hangs upon a spike, decorating the castle walls, while the rest of your body is returned to the dust from which the gods first fashioned man."

The threat struck harder than any raised voice could have. The color drained from Tailbone's face, his shoulders lowering beneath its weight. Without hesitation, he bowed deeply, pressing a hand against his chest in submission.

"You have made yourself perfectly clear, Your Grace."

She offered no reply in return. Instead, she turned away with effortless grace, the hem of her purple gown sweeping across the floor as she began to take her leave.

Her stride did not break until she reached the door. There, her hand came to rest upon the iron handle, though she made no attempt to open it.

For a long moment, she stood in silence, her back turned toward the priest.

"See that Queen Ryalyn's body is sent to Canna without delay," she said at last, her gaze growing distant.

"Only then shall I find peace, knowing she is no longer within these walls.”

With that, she took her leave, the final click of her heels echoing into the distance.

Left alone, he reached blindly for the cup of wine she had left behind. Then, in silence, he made his way toward the window, his long clerical priestly cloak trailing across the floor.

As he raised the cup to his lips, a bitter smile touched his face, and the dark truth settled in his mind.

“The devil passes judgment on who is a saint. What a small, beautifully twisted world.”