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  DAUGHTER OF THE WAR

  SACRED REALMS BOOK ONE

  Angela Roquet

  Copyright © 2018 by Angela Roquet

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  All rights reserved. No part of this book shall be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission of the publisher. Although every precaution has been taken in the preparation of this book, the publisher and author assume no responsibility for errors or omissions. Neither is any liability assumed for damages resulting from the use of the information contained herein.

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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  www.angelaroquet.com

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  Cover Art by Savana Ellison of Blue Sky Design

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  Edited by Chelle Olson of Literally Addicted to Detail

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Also by Angela Roquet

  Dedication

  DAUGHTER OF THE WAR

  The Singing Staff

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  The House of Sand and Wisdom

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  SISTER OF THE REALM

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Also by Angela Roquet

  SACRED REALMS

  Daughter of the War

  Sister of the Realm (2019)

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  BLOOD VICE

  Blood Vice (read for FREE)

  Blood and Thunder

  Blood in the Water

  Blood Dolls

  Thicker Than Blood

  Blood, Sweat, and Tears

  Flesh and Blood (2019)

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  LANA HARVEY, REAPERS INC.

  Graveyard Shift (read for FREE)

  Pocket Full of Posies

  For the Birds

  Psychopomp

  Death Wish

  Ghost Market

  Hellfire and Brimstone

  Limbo City Lights (short story collection)

  The Illustrated Guide to Limbo City

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  SPERO HEIGHTS

  Blood Moon

  Death at First Sight

  The Midnight District

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  OTHER TITLES

  Crazy Ex-Ghoulfriend

  Backwoods Armageddon

  Dedication

  For Chelle Olson, my sweet, amazing, patient editor, who I appreciate and adore so very much. Thank you for all that you do.

  DAUGHTER OF THE WAR

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  The Singing Staff

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  Chapter One

  EVERY DAUGHTER KNEW that the Temple of Sisters was a living creature carved of stone and moonlight. The tales were passed from mother to daughter or from sister to sister in breathless whispers that fluttered around hearths like ghost moths late at night.

  Rea had heard the stories, too. After nine years of living in the temple, she was convinced that was all they were—stories. But tonight as she scrubbed the stone floor outside the dining hall, doubt wormed its way into her heart.

  A strange melody echoed through the corridor. At first, she ignored it, suspecting another pupil had come to taunt her. Being assigned a hearth task was a humiliating punishment for a daughter who aspired to become a priestess, but it was better than being whipped. The sisters had shown mercy tonight. Sister Rashal had anyway, encouraging the high priestess toward a lighter penalty after Rea had arrived late for class.

  Rea was still healing from the lashing she’d received the day before. As she toiled over the stone passage, her robe dragged against the bow of her back, drawing salt into the lacerations until her flesh itched and stung.

  When the music swelled, and the floor trembled beneath her, Rea stopped scrubbing and sat back on her heels. The hanging sconces that lined the corridor rattled, threatening to blink out. Their pale light flicked across Rea’s face as panic hastened her breath, and she searched for the source of the disturbance.

  Was the temple coming undone? Were the peaks it had been built upon turning over in their sleep? Or perhaps the mountains are dancing, she thought as the music grew sharper and assaulted her ears.

  She couldn’t place the instrument. It reminded her of the noise Lady Cora’s chalice made when she tapped her silver rings against the thick glass and traced her finger around the rim. Only louder. Much, much louder. Though it was the quaking of the structure’s foundation that Rea found most concerning.

  She wondered why none of the sisters had come to collect her. Surely, they were vacating the temple. As Rea stood and prepared to flee the passage, a section of wall tucked in beside one of the pillars that lined the entrance to the dining room slid free.

  Thick, silver light spilled across the stone floor, devouring the halos cast by the hanging sconces. The trembling subsided, but the melody was louder now, the chimes shaping into words, forming an alluring invitation.

  “Rea. Reee-aaa. Daughter of Lyra. Come take what is yours.”

  Rea’s heart sank at hearing her mother’s name. No one spoke of Lyra. Not since the War of Two Princes. It was forbidden. Still, the thought of her mother filled Rea with equal parts hope and dread.

  “Come take what is yours,” the song begged again. “Claim your birthright.”

  Rea’s first nine years had been spent in various homes on the flatlands, being passed from mother to mother like an unwanted goat that had stopped producing milk. Her mother had died giving birth. She’d been a priestess of the temple, but beyond that, Rea knew very little about Lyra. Only that she had caused their people, the Moon’s Chosen, much suffering, and her daughter—Rea—was a shameful reminder of that pain.

  Whatever possessions Lyra had owned were long gone, distributed amongst those she had burdened with the most sorrow. Rea had nothing. No heirlooms or inheritance to speak of. No home in the flatlands that bore a family sigil.

  Her hands shook as she dried them on her robe, but she crept forward, toward the silver light, leaving her brush and bucket in a puddle on the stone floor.

  The hidden room was tiny, though not so small that Rea didn’t understand the impossibility of its placement. Its circular wall cut a path through what should have been part of the dining room. She could picture the heavy wooden table and benches that filled that corner. It was fresh in her mind, dinner having only passed a few hours earlier.

  She angled her head beyond the entrance, searching for the source of the music.

  Through a hole in the ceiling, moonlight spilled into an invisible vessel, forming a cylinder that cut through the center of the room. It shimmered in time with Rea’s breath, rippling like water. Inside the silvery basin of light hung an old staff, suspended in midair. The tip was gnarled and twisted. Where it straightened, a black handprint wrapped around the curve of the wood. The sight of it was gruesome, and it formed a lump at the back of Rea’s throat. She swallowed and stepped into the room.

  “Reee-aaa.” The metallic song echoed against the rounded wall, tickling her ears and inducing a shiver that rattled her core. “Daughter of Lyra. Take what is yours.”

  Rea stared at the staff and the handprint burned into its grain. It was much too large to have been left by a woman—at least any woman Rea knew. How cou
ld this thing have belonged to her mother?

  Still, its presence, and the appearance of the secret room, were unsettling. That it—whatever it was—had chosen to reveal itself to Rea of all daughters, and now, just days before the Moon Calling, was most curious of all. Rea had an awful feeling that the sisters would not be pleased to learn of it. That thought alone kept her from reaching out to touch the staff or the basin of moonlight it floated in.

  “Reee-aaa,” The gnarled wood shuddered as Rea backed away and exited through the opening in the wall.

  Her eyes remained on the staff, tracing the handprint, memorizing each knot and whirl. If it had indeed belonged to her mother, Rea wanted to at least preserve it in her mind. For she could never touch it. Not if she had any hope of joining the Sisters of the Moon.

  “Rea!” the staff sang louder, ripping a gasp from Rea’s throat and weakening her knees. Her foot slipped on the wet stones, but before she could brace for impact, she was airborne.

  The light from the sconces blurred. Then Rea’s temple connected with the rim of her bucket. Her hands smacked the floor, and cold water rushed between her fingers before soaking the front of her robe.

  Everything hurt. Rea’s eyes stung instantly with tears, but she blinked them away as a beastly woman appeared at the mouth of the passage.

  Lady Tawndra’s jowls sagged, though the skin at her temples was taut from her hair being pulled back into a severe braid. She grasped her hips, and a callous frown twisted her mouth.

  Rea shot a glance over her shoulder, back toward the stretch of wall tucked behind the dining room pillar. But the staff and the opening to the secret room were gone.

  “I-I fell. I’m s-sorry,” Rea stammered as she pushed herself up from the floor. Her head throbbed, but she reached for her brush, desperately scouring the drenched stones.

  “You should have been done hours ago,” Lady Tawndra said. “And now your careless din has interrupted the priestesses’ nightly prayer.”

  “I-I’m sorry,” Rea repeated, her voice pinching until it was a whisper. “I’m almost finished. It won’t happen again.”

  “No. It will not.” Lady Tawndra clicked her tongue in a familiar reprimand that made Rea’s skin quiver and sent a thrill of panic up her spine.

  Sister Rashal had retired for the evening, leaving the priestess to oversee Rea’s penance. So, Rea had done her best not to draw attention to herself as she carried out her punishment.

  Of all the Moon’s Chosen, Lady Tawndra struck the most fear into the daughters’ hearts—and the most fire into their flesh. The priestess took delight in the task as though it were her true Calling, and she treated Rea as though the girl’s back were her greatest masterpiece.

  Rea knew she carried the burden on behalf of her late mother. It should have soured her soul against the woman, but there was no hatred in Rea’s heart for the one who had brought her into this world.

  Instead, she wanted to follow in Lyra’s footsteps and become a priestess, too. She longed to call down the Moon and channel its light and wisdom. It was in her blood—blood that, from the cold smirk lighting Lady Tawndra’s face, would soon puddle on the stone floor like the water and lye from Rea’s bucket.

  Chapter Two

  “BLESS ME, MOTHER MOON, with pure intentions—” Lady Tawndra’s leather whip snapped across Rea’s back, and she paused to take a shuddering breath. “That I might honor your name with a true tongue and clean heart. Let your light fill my spirit with sacred obedience—” The whip found a raw wound this time, and Rea was reduced to sobs.

  “I do this for your sake, child.” Lady Tawndra clicked her tongue. “So you will be a worthy vessel for the duty the Moon bestows upon you.”

  Rea’s hands fisted in the bunched material of her robe. The top half had been peeled down to her waist to expose her tender backside. She trained her eyes on the floor, narrowing her focus to the creases between stones as she struggled to catch her breath. Her cries would only rouse the other priestesses, though none who would take pity on her.

  The dormitory for the Sisters of the Quill was too far away, and even if Sister Rashal were able to hear Rea, there was little she could do in protest. The merciful sister had already risked enough by begging leniency from the high priestess. Rea could expect no more of her.

  Lady Tawndra’s robes hissed as she paced back and forth. The sound was a distraction, but one Rea had become familiar with. She listened carefully for the creak of the whip’s handle and then gritted her teeth, enduring the next blow with a muffled moan.

  “Bless me, Mother Moon, with pure intentions,” she began anew as soon as her voice returned.

  Lady Tawndra exhaled an annoyed sigh. She seemed to prefer the lashings where she broke her subjects, turning them into blubbering, begging fools that she then took pleasure in shaming for their weaknesses. Her words held extra bite for Rea.

  Lyra’s daughter was a pariah among the Moon’s Chosen. Her hair grew a defiant shade of gold, in stark contrast to the midnight tresses of their people. Some of the older sisters had strands of gray woven through their locks, and the high priestess’s hair was pure white. But no one else shared Rea’s coloring.

  Her skin, too, was problematic. It only required a few moments in the sun to take on a bronze glow. The rest of the Moon’s Chosen were as pale as the Mother when she hung full and proud in the night sky.

  But Rea knew that she was one of them. She had to be. Otherwise, they would have sent her away, down the mountainside to burden them no more. According to the mysterious stories whispered in the dark, the temple itself would have rejected her.

  Rea thought of the secret room, of the singing staff, and knew the temple recognized her as one of its own.

  It gave Rea the strength to resist cowering before Lady Tawndra when the priestess told her she was unfit to bear the mark of the Moon. That she should take comfort in the labor she was so frequently tasked with as it would soon fill her days once she was assigned to the Sisters of the Hearth.

  The Sisters of the Hearth were the undesirables among their people, those considered too lowly or defective for the more prestigious sects or motherhood. Each Moon Calling yielded at least one or two. They were patted on the head and told to be grateful for the task assigned to them by the benevolent Mother, who made room for all daughters at her bosom.

  What other choice did they have? Abandon the safety of the mountain? Live among the warmongering heathens that plagued the lowlands of LouMorah?

  No. The Moon’s Chosen were better than that. They would stay and live out the sacred lives the Mother had planned for them, no matter the outcome of the Calling. Just as Rea intended to do.

  Even so, each weary night as she crawled into bed, Rea closed her eyes tightly and prayed that she would be Called to train as a priestess and join the Sisters of the Moon. She had studied hard. She knew every chant by heart, as well as all the sacred names for and uses of the flora that grew on the mountainside. She had to hope the high priestess would take that into consideration when she summoned the Moon to decide the fate of the daughters present at the Calling.

  Lady Tawndra’s whip dug into Rea’s back once more, and Rea sucked in a surprised breath, but she did not cry out. A priestess was expected to be resilient, to harden her body until it was a perfect vessel to hold the Moon’s gifts. Rea tried to convince herself that all the whippings she’d received were meant to prepare her for the highest of Callings.

  Blood trickled over her shoulder, curling around her neck before it splashed onto the floor. The droplets ran into the creases between the stones and spread, forming a dark spiderweb beneath Rea.

  “Let your light fill my spirit with sacred obedience.” Rea’s breath trembled, but she took comfort in the prayer.

  Lady Tawndra stopped pacing. “Finish cleaning this up and go to bed,” the priestess demanded. Then she lumbered off down the passage, her chin held high and her robes swishing spitefully.

  Rea sniffled and pushed her arms throug
h the sleeves of her robe, carefully pulling the top up and over her shoulders. She left the back open, unable to fasten it without causing herself more pain, or more work when it came time to wash the garment. But tending to her wounds would have to wait.

  Rea reached for her brush again, dragging it through lye and bloodied water until the stones were clean.

  WHEN REA FINISHED HER task, she gathered her bucket and brush and limped through the corridor. Though her body ached from the fall that had invited Lady Tawndra’s wrath, and her back burned from the fresh lashing, Rea hurried, knowing morning would come too soon.

  The other daughters had gone to bed some time ago. Their lessons began early in the morning. Rea supposed that the high priestess assigned her punishments so late in the evening to test her endurance. She had proven herself time and time again, but as the Moon Calling drew closer, the priestesses’ demands only grew more intense.

  It is all a test, Rea told herself. The sisters would not show such attention to a daughter unless they wished to make her worthy of them.

  Where the corridor to the dining hall ended, another passage ran perpendicular. A right turn led to the priestesses’ quarters and a winding staircase that ended at the mouth of the sky basin above, where the sisters of the temple gathered to honor the Moon and perform rituals and ceremonies.

  Rea turned left, taking the path that led toward the kitchen, classrooms, and dormitories. She walked lightly, mindful of every step and breath lest she rouse more unwanted attention. The hanging sconces dimmed, the oil in their dishes waning as the night grew longer. Before the sun rose, a Sister of the Hearth would replenish them. Then she would slip back into the shadowy depths of the temple.

  The Sisters of the Hearth worked at all hours, tending to chores when they were least likely to inconvenience the other sisters. They mostly kept to the bathing cavern during the day, or the kitchen, preparing temple meals. Rea had noticed more of them in recent years as she carried out the hearth chores assigned to her for all manner of reasons—if she anointed herself with too much or too little hallowed ash, or if she stumbled over a word mid-chant.