Page 49 of The Cerulean Sister
The two men approach us expectantly and stop just before the invisible line of discomfort. I close my eyes and wait until they have stilled themselves.
"Chancellor Reed, Lord General, grant me permission into your minds’ eyes."
Before I even hear them say the words aloud, I fall into whatever space they have opened for me. I sink so deep, my eyes strain and roll to the back of my head.
Calliape is in the dark space, far off to the side, as if I am not holding her hand right next to me, all sensations from our physical surroundings fading away. Random, anxious images pass by, and I can tell they are Chancellor Reed trying to block things from me, as if he thinks I couldn't slither in deeper, but I gave them my word.
Lord General's mind is steady and more welcoming than I imagined. When I glance out into his corner of space I am inhabiting between the four of us, it looks like steady dark-blue waters. I do not dare get any closer and see what is under that swaying surface.
"Calliape, I am ready,"I say, and my voice sends a ripple of panic from her and one of the men.
She begins by sending me memories of Selene in the Estate, images of her walking and praying in no order. Like she is proving who and what she was before she left the priestesses. The images are more literal and less emotional, a symptom of them not belonging to Calliape, a memory within a memory.
I do my best to watch the images and then cast them out into the space where the men are tethered to me. It feels like throwing a long rope until they relax and draw closer, getting used to me inside their heads.
Soon, I am sending images to them as if I am glancing at illustrations in a book and then pointing at it, instructing them to pay attention. If they have any responses or reactions, there is no indication. I purposefully keep our interaction one-sided to keep the images moving faster.
Calliape squeezes my physical hand and draws me closer into her mind's eye, like we are approaching something.
Her focus sharpens. She's trying to keep herself out, knowing her emotions could influence.
She folds the distance of the memory while I am inside her mind somehow, bringing me across the space I inhabit.
Now I am in the mind's eye of another—Selene's memories as they are being replayed. I look out of Selene’s eyes from inside her body, controlling her head and where I look in the memory.
Calliape's, Selene's, and my own gift blend into one experience, replaying across time and the space between.
The minds’ eyes of the others are now far back in the distance, like they are standing beside me silently in a dark room, trying to observe.
Through Selene's eyes, I am standing in a chamber that looks faintly of an Estate temple, the walls and candles so familiar it hurts. The windows are open, with long white-fabric curtains swaying to let the breeze in as women relax and talk to one another in soft, whispering murmurs. Some of them are heavily pregnant, a clear indication we are standing in the Temple of Divine Mothers.
As soon as I make the connection, the memory jumps to a darker room, candles the only illumination in the small, crowded space.
The body I inhabit crouches behind a privacy screen in the corner and presses a hand to a racing heartbeat.
There is a woman on the other side of the room that I can see through the lattice holes in the design of my hiding spot. Women dressed in elder and high priestess robes gather around her like they are preparing for an event that will require them all.
When two of them part, I can see the woman dressed in white with no veil lying flat on a bed. Her sweat sticks to her as she breathes and cries out in pain.
The memory jumps again as the sound of a newborn fills the space, and the women smile and thank First Mother for another daughter.
They carefully wash her with moon water, and others admire the newborn as she is wrapped in linen and nestled into an elder's arms, who then exits the room comforting the infant with such tenderness she could be mistaken for the mother.
Just as I wonder if the memories will jump again, an elder priestess begins to set the altar in the room for a ritual. The moon water used to cleanse the baby is placed under a statue of First Mother.
Some of the women wipe the brow of the mother who just delivered, telling her how well she did and thanking her for a daughter.
But then the sweet words turn into a prayer I have never heard, the words almost running together in a long, keening chant.
When the mother notices, her brow furrows, but before she can summon enough strength, her legs are pinned open.
I can't move from my hiding space, can't make a sound or they will hear me.
I want to stop them, to help this woman, but I can't move so I watch. I watch as they chant. I watch as a thin piece of metal, like a giant sewing needle, is withdrawn from the altar and brought toward the woman they are holding.
I watch as the elder priestesses ensure that the daughter born will be divine because of a second mother’s sacrifice.
The last thing I see is the metal rod being . . . lined up.
