so it was safe: Her heart wasn't going to be broken at the end.
Plus… well, her lack of memory made it safe for him, too, didn't it. Kind of like that night he and
Wrath had gotten shit-faced and V had talked about his mother.
The less people knew about him, the better.
Except damn, why the hell did the thought of cleaning out Jane's mind make his chest hurt?
God, she was going so soon.
Chapter Twenty-five
On the Other Side, Cormia stepped out of the Primale's temple and waited as the Directrix shut
the enormous gold doors. The temple was on top of a raised knoll, a gilded crown on the head of
a small hill, and from here the whole of the Chosen's compound was visible: the white buildings
and the temples, the amphitheater, the covered walkways. The stretches between landmarks were
carpeted with cropped white grass that never grew, never changed, and as always, the vista
offered little in the way of horizon, just a diffused blurring of the distant white forest boundary.
The only color to the composition was the pale blue of the sky, and even that faded at the edges.
«Thus ends your lesson,» the Directrix said as she divested her neck of her graceful chain of keys
and locked the doors. «In accordance with tradition you shall present yourself for the first of the
cleansing rituals when we come for you. Until then you shall ponder the grace you have been
given and the service you will provide for the benefit of us all.»
The words were spoken in the same hard tone the Directrix had used to describe what the
Primale would do to Cormia's body. Over and over again. Anytime he wished.
The Directrix's eyes held a calculating light as she put her necklace back on, a chiming sound
rising up as the keys settled between her breasts. «Fare thee well, sister.»
As the Directrix walked down off the hill, her white robe was indistinguishable from both
ground and buildings, another splash of white differentiated solely because it was in motion.
Cormia put her hands to her face. The Directrix had told her-no, vowed to her-that what
would transpire beneath the Primale would be painful, and Cormia believed it. The graphic
details had been shocking, and she feared there was no way she could get through the mating
ceremony without breaking down-to the disgrace of the whole of the Chosen. As the
representative of them all, Cormia had to perform as expected and with dignity, or she would
tarnish the venerable tradition she was in service to, contaminating it in its entirety.
She glanced over her shoulder at the temple and put her hand on her lower belly. She was fertile,
as all Chosen were at all times on this side. She could beget a young of the Primale from her very
first time with him.
Dear Virgin in the Fade, why had she been chosen?
When she turned back around, the Directrix was down at the bottom of the hill, so small in
comparison to the towering buildings, so tremendous in practicality. More than anyone or
anything else, she defined the landscape: The Scribe Virgin was whom they all served, but it was
the Directrix who ran their lives. At least until the Primale arrived.
The Directrix did not want that male in her world, Cormia thought.
And that was why Cormia had been the one nominated to the Scribe Virgin for choosing. Of all
the females who might have been picked and would have been thrilled, she was the least
welcoming, the least accommodating. A passive-aggressive declaration against the change in
supremacy.
Cormia started down the knoll, the white grass texture without temperature under her bare feet.
Nothing save food and drink possessed heat or coldness.
For a moment she thought of escaping. Better to be gone from all she knew than to endure the
picture the Directrix had painted. Except she had no knowledge of how to get to the far side. She
knew you had to pass through into the Scribe Virgin's private space, but what then? And what if
she were caught by Her Holiness?
Unthinkable. More frightening than being with the Primale.
Deep in her private, sinful thoughts, Cormia ambled without purpose through the landscape she'd
known all her life. It was so easy to be lost here in the compound, because everything looked the
same and felt the same and smelled the same. With no contrast, reality's edges were too smooth
to grab onto for purchase, either mentally or physically. You were never grounded. You were air.
As she passed by the Treasury, she stopped on its regal steps and thought of the gems inside, the
only true color she'd ever seen. Beyond the locked doors there
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