Page 107 of The Orc's Captive Bride
“The Veilborn don’t sleep much. Meditation and prayer cycles run through the night.”
“How do you know that?”
“Lasseran required us to understand the power structures in his court. The Veilborn are one of the oldest.”
Of course he did.
She squared her shoulders. “Let’s go.”
“Thea—”
“I know. It’s dangerous. We might get caught. But we’re doing it anyway.”
He made a sound that was definitely frustration this time. “You’re going to be the death of me.”
“Not if I can help it.”
They slipped through the doors into warmth and candlelight and the overwhelming scent of incense.
The main chamber was vast, the vaulted ceiling disappearing into darkness above. Hundreds of candles burning in elaborate candelabras. There were robed figures everywhere—somekneeling in prayer, others standing in contemplative silence, a few moving between chambers with the quiet efficiency of people who’d walked these paths a thousand times before.
She scanned the crowd, looking for anyone she recognized, and found a young acolyte she’d seen in the library several times. He’d brought her tea once, and smiled shyly when she’d thanked him.
She moved closer, Khorrek shadowed her like a dangerous ghost.
The acolyte finished whatever prayer he was murmuring and opened his eyes. As soon as he saw her, his expression shifted. Surprise. Confusion. A flicker of something that might have been fear.
She raised a finger to her lips. Please don’t raise the alarm.
He hesitated, glancing at Khorrek and then back to her. She joined him at the altar, her voice barely above a whisper.
“I need to see Master Vorlag. It’s urgent. More important than you can possibly imagine.”
The boy’s throat worked. “Dr. Monroe, it’s very early. Master Vorlag is in meditation?—”
“I know. And I’m sorry, but this can’t wait. Please. If he’s ever valued my research, if the Veilborn care at all about truth…” She let the words trail off and let him see the desperation in her eyes.
It wasn’t hard. She felt desperate.
The acolyte looked between them again, then nodded.
“This way. Quickly. And stay quiet.”
He led them through a side door away from the main prayer hall and down a spiral staircase that seemed to descend forever into the bedrock beneath the temple.
The air grew cooler. Damper. The incense smell faded, replaced by something earthier. Older. They were going deep into the heart of whatever power the Veilborn actually wielded.
The thought should have been more frightening. Instead, it felt right, like coming to the correct conclusion at the end of a particularly difficult translation.
The staircase ended in a long corridor with simple wooden doors on either side. Meditation chambers where the senior priests retreat from the world.
The acolyte stopped at one of the doors and knocked softly, three taps in a rhythm that was probably significant.
“Master Vorlag? I’m sorry to disturb you, but?—”
“Enter.”
The voice was muffled by the door but unmistakable. Calm. Unsurprised.
