Chapter 24: A Blessed Night with Priestesses
The Pain Monastery disappeared into the wet woods behind them.
Lucky carried them until the ground became too soft. Liana and Toren rode behind Dorian by turns, changing places when one of them needed rest. Toren held him with confidence now, arms firm around Dorian’s waist. When the path grew rough and pressed them closer, he breathed in the scent of Dorian’s hair as he always did.
Shameless about it now.
More surprisingly, Liana had stopped treating physical contact as a legal offence and held on when the machine lurched. Dorian noticed both improvements and smiled to himself. It was perhaps unwise, but difficult to resist.
It was only the next day that Dorian recognised the stretch of woodland he had seen through the raven’s eyes.
He stopped and packed the machine into the storage capsule.
“Walking,” he said.
Liana looked ahead. “Of course.”
It was not a path so much as mud. Wet roots and rotting leaves already clung to their skin.
Liana went first, carrying the bow one of the monks had given her at the monastery. It was well-made, properly strung, and wrong. Her Solbloom Bow had been left behind in the cannibals’ settlement, and this one sat oddly in her hand. She would get used to it. That did not make it less irritating.
Dorian walked behind her. Toren followed, quiet, listening to the forest.
After half an hour, Dorian raised a hand.
They stopped.
He stepped off the path towards a hollow. The stone frame was worn, but beneath it the cracked reflective surface still held a dull shine.
“A mirror?” Toren asked.
“Yes,” Dorian said, checking the holographic map. “And before anyone becomes hopeful, no.”
Liana’s mouth tightened. “No?”
“I know this one. It connects to a small world. Quite cute, by my standards. It probably only has three ways to kill you before breakfast.”
He did not open it.
They moved on.
The trace of reflective energy came again later, thin and broken. The river carried it to them, along with wet reeds, stirred mud, and insects.
By late afternoon, the river had widened and slowed, splitting into channels through reed beds and willow roots. The air was thick with silt, crushed green stems, and water plants left too long in the sun.
Then Auralis Crossing appeared ahead, standing over the channels on carved stilts, curved bridges, reed-walks, and ferry ropes.
Lanterns hung from bridges before sunset, each one giving off a thin herbal scent to keep insects away. Ribbons fluttered from posts. Children carried baskets of petals towards the banks. Painted boats crowded the crossings. Somewhere ahead, drums sounded from the river steps.
River Loteri moved everywhere in long blue and green tunics. Their light-coloured hair hung loose down their backs or was braided with shells, glass beads, and river charms. Blue and green eyes followed the travellers with curiosity.
People carried porcelain bowls of herb-scented water scattered with petals. They asked permission first, then flicked a few blessed drops over the hands, shoulders, and hair of those who passed by.
“Nal ven, sha’ri,” one woman murmured, touching two wet fingers to the rim of her bowl.
Dorian recognised it at once. Mireal used the same blessing in Haven.
“Flow well. Be carried safely,” he translated without meaning to say it out loud.
Toren looked at him with interest. Dorian ignored that with practised elegance.
Liana watched the crowd suspiciously. A habit. Sensible of her, really.
A few drops cooled Dorian’s cheek and slipped beneath his collar. River mint and crushed flowers lingered on his skin.
“The Night of Reeds,” Toren said. “A River Loteri celebration. Birth, death, fertility, safe passage. They gather when the reeds are high and the current turns warm.”
Dorian studied the city.
Reflections were everywhere. Water, glass, wet stone, polished charms, the bright curve of bowls lifted in passing hands. The traces had not vanished. They had become worse. Messier. Harder to separate from the city.
Liana noticed his silence. “Still there?”
“Yes.”
“Good?”
“Useful,” Dorian said.
The river had brought them here. That meant they were probably going the right way.
Finding a room in Auralis Crossing turned out to be a journey. Every inn was full.
By the time they reached The Blue Heron Rest, evening had settled properly. They passed the inn’s boat shed first, dark and narrow, crouched over the channel. Along the bridges, half the city appeared to be celebrating.
The innkeeper had one room left.
After dinner, they discovered that the room had only one bed.
Liana looked at it. Then she looked at Dorian.
“No.”
Dorian’s smile appeared with disgraceful patience. “I had not offered anything.”
Toren stood near the door, tired enough to look almost peaceful. His gaze moved once from Dorian to Liana.
Dorian did not question it. Toren would stay with Liana. She had only just recovered enough to travel, and also, Toren belonged at her side.
Liana folded her arms. “You can sleep in the boat shed.”
Dorian glanced towards the window, where boats knocked softly against the posts below. “How generous.”
Liana ignored it. “Sleep. No trouble.”
Dorian gave her a small bow. “I shall make a polite effort.”
Liana sighed.
Dorian followed the innkeeper’s boy to the boat shed. The boy unlocked it, lit a few wall lamps, and pointed to a barrel with a ladle.
“For washing,” he said, then vanished.
Dorian shut the door and undressed. The shed was warm with lamplight and damp from the river below. He washed naked, ladling cool water over his throat, chest, shoulders, hips, and hair. Mud and sweat ran down his skin and darkened the boards.
Clean and dripping, he put out the lamps and moved to the reed mats. They seemed comfortable. Annoyingly. But that did not help him sleep.
After a while, he pulled on his trousers and shirt, left the buttons undone, and stepped onto the narrow platform outside. Auralis Crossing glowed around him. Lanterns hung from bridges and balconies, reflected in the black water. Music travelled over the surface in pieces: drums, singing, laughter, the low murmur of prayers.
Dorian sat on the edge and lowered his feet into the water.
A wide, flat boat drifted towards him. Priests and priestesses sat around a bronze basin filled with petals and dark water. It slowed before the shed and stopped.
A young priest looked up and asked in the River dialect, “Traveller. Will you join the current?”
Dorian replied in Common tongue, “I was told not to get into trouble.”
The boy laughed and answered in Common too. “Then come for blessing.”
Liana had told Dorian to sleep. But the river had now sent him a boat full of priests, brew, and possible theology. Refusing would have been rude.
He stepped aboard.
They gave him warm ceremonial brew in a small cup. It tasted of honey, river herbs, and something sharp. He drank and watched the ritual move around him: names whispered into water, wet fingers touched to brow, throat, heart.
When the final song ended, two priestesses came to sit on either side of him.
The younger priestess touched his bare chest first, two wet fingers cool over his heart.
“Nal ven,” she whispered.
The older one smiled. “Be carried safely.”
The boat turned. The young priestess murmured to him in Common tongue, “Where are you from, traveller?”
Dorian caught the scent of river mint in her pale hair. The cut of her tunic opened just enough to show the pale fullness of her breasts. The brew had softened the edges of his vision and calmed his thoughts.
“Steamhollow.”
The older priestess brushed her shoulder lightly against Dorian’s, warm through the thin linen. Her lashes lowered above green eyes; the line of her throat bare above the river-blue tunic.
“And what do Steamhollow folk prefer to do at this time of night?”
“That depends on the offer,” Dorian replied.
“Would the traveller accept two offers at the same time?” Both priestesses moved closer to him.
“A traveller would be honoured.” Dorian smiled. Loteri directness amused him every time.
The three of them returned to the shed once the boat brought them back to the inn.
Nobody aboard made any comment on that.
Moonlight slipped through warped slats of the boat shed, falling across old rope, stacked oars, and hanging nets. The air smelt of river damp and water-soaked wood.
The younger priestess drew the older woman close. Slow at first. Familiar. The older priestess answered with quiet tenderness, one hand sliding over the younger woman’s waist, fingertips lingering at the curve of her hip.
Dorian watched from the wall, silent for once. Light caught in their ribbons and hands.
Only then did they reach for him.
Warm hands drew him between them. Their mouths found his in turn, deep, unhurried kisses tasting faintly of herbs and sweet brew. The drink still lingered in him. The current knocked softly against the stilts below.
Clothes loosened beneath wandering hands. Tunics, trousers, and his shirt pooled onto the reed mats. Pale skin, red hair, old scars, lean muscles. Sweat began to gather where bodies pressed too close and stayed there.
The younger priestess drew Dorian down between her thighs, smiling when his mouth found her. He moved against her, listening as her laughter softened into breath. Her warm thighs tightened against his cheeks; her fingers slipping through his hair with less grace than before. Beside them, the older priestess kissed the younger woman’s breasts, slow and attentive, while the younger woman answered with a hand between her thighs.
The younger priestess arched with a low, trembling sound, fingers tightening briefly in Dorian’s hair before her body relaxed into the mats. Then she eased Dorian onto his back and slid down his body. She kissed her way over his scarred skin before settling between his thighs. Her mouth was warm, deliberate.
The older priestess shifted above him with the same calm confidence she had brought to the ritual boat. Her red braid fell on Dorian’s chest as she lowered herself over his mouth, one hand braced against the reed mat, the other sliding into his hair.
Dorian made a low sound against her.
The younger priestess laughed softly, then took him deeper, and the sound broke in his throat.
Then she climbed astride him.
She sank onto him with a slow exhale, eyes briefly closing at the feel of him inside her. Her hips moved slowly. Pale hair spilled down her back, then clung damply to her shoulders.
The older priestess stayed over his mouth, watching him through lowered lashes while his hands closed over her thighs. She tasted faintly of salt, festival herbs, and arousal. Above him, her breath changed first, then her posture, then the careful control of her fingers in his hair.
Once she moved away to compose herself, Dorian gripped the younger woman’s waist and thrust up into her faster, meeting her with less patience now. Her breath broke. Her body shook, then collapsed against his chest before she rolled to his side.
The older priestess took him next, slender body moving with controlled grace, red braid dragging lightly across his skin and leaving a damp line where sweat had gathered. The younger woman knelt beside them, flushed and smiling now, pressing soft kisses to Dorian’s lips and shoulder while his fingers found her again.
Their breathing filled the little shed alongside the distant sound of water beneath the stilts.
By the time Dorian’s thoughts went useless, the two priestesses knelt together beside his hips. Their mouths and hands worked with certainty until he came hard, breath catching, fingers digging into the reeds. The women laughed quietly, watching his release shine faintly metallic in the moonlight.
“The Night of Reeds brought us a Mirrorwalker,” the younger priestess murmured.
“A blessed night,” said the older one.
Afterwards, they collapsed together on the reed mats, warm and spent. Beneath the shed, the river moved on.
By morning, the boat shed had acquired an atmosphere Liana did not care to name.
She stopped in the doorway. Toren froze beside her.
Dorian lay on the reed mat beneath the priestess’s blue tunic. One priestess slept curled beside him. The other had an arm resting across his chest beneath the cloth.
Then the younger priestess stirred, sat up, and took her tunic back.
Dorian did not move.
The tunic slid away, leaving him bare in the morning light filtering through the slats in the walls. Pale scarred skin. Muscular limbs. And a very obvious morning glory.
Liana looked unimpressed. She reminded herself to keep a better eye on him next time.
Toren’s gaze passed over Dorian with quiet familiarity. Dorian was beautiful, ridiculous, and entirely himself. Toren had accepted all three as facts.
The younger priestess smiled at them. “Will you go deeper into the River Lands?”
“Yes,” Liana said.
The older one sat up, reached for a corded amulet of blue glass and reed-fibre, and slipped it over Dorian’s head. The glass was still warm from her skin. Something inside it clicked softly, though nothing moved.
“Then he may need this.”
Dorian opened one eye.
“Am I being blessed or inventoried?”
The priestesses laughed, dressed, kissed him farewell, and left as if mornings often began this way.
In Auralis Crossing, they probably did.