Priestess

* * *

She loved this hall, and she didn't understand why the other cleaners tried to avoid it at all costs. They said the statue of the Mistress frightened them. They say it burns them with its icy coldness. Foolish tales. No, she'd seen it for herself, the way the tourists, brought in about once a week, shuddered and grinned and pretended not to care... She'd always felt good with her Mistress. Quiet. Quiet. Peaceful. She came with her buckets and rags, scrubbed the floor first, cleaned the windows and windowsills, and swept the dust from the few candlesticks. She talked about her simple affairs.

It was a good place to think. You could tell your mistress about the past day, complaining about the stupid red-faced boss or the small salary. To dream aloud about a recently seen skirt or to cry, indignant at the indifference of handsome Taraki in the delivery department. The statue didn't react to the words of the orphan who miraculously got a job at the museum, but the girl could have sworn she heard everything. And helping. She prompts. The thoughts that the boss really is a fool, but soon he would be fired and her salary will be raised, that there are many skirts, and she will buy the same or better with the next paycheck, Taraki, though he was handsome, but to have a man with a rotten gut is not worth it. It always made her feel better after those conversations, and she didn't even want to leave.

Sometimes she would stay up until midnight, on the pretext that the statue needed to be cleaned of the dirt, and listen to the guides' stories. What she liked best were the short lectures of Maitre Roch. The professor never chased her away, squirming shyly in a corner of the room, just smiling and describing the history of the only exhibit - the statue - a little differently each time.

"...created by the famous Seisan Soldovets, this is the only image of the Dark Mother carved with the consent of the Mistress. She personally, albeit briefly, posed for the sculptor. Legend has it that when the statue was finished, Seisan realized he could not have created anything more perfect and sacrificed himself, stabbing himself with a dagger in front of his creation. The Mistress accepted the sacrifice, and the statue has been one of her avatar incarnations ever since, though she herself, of course, rarely leaves the Castle of the Council."

"Notice this hall! It fully corresponds to the decoration of the Temple of Darkness, in which the statue stood for about three thousand years. Specially trained priestesses danced ritual dances in front of it every day, washed its feet with warm milk, and anointed its lips with their blood. However, as we remember from history, the Temple was destroyed, and for more than two thousand years the ingenious work of art was spent in obscurity. Until eighteen years ago, a Master of our city donated one of the receptacles of his Mistress's spirit to the museum. Unfortunately, we do not know what considerations guided him..."

The sculptor who created the statue of the Dark Mother was a genius indeed. The teenage girl seated on the disproportionately large throne seemed alive at times, just frozen in thought. A simple dress, a hood covering the upper half of her face, bare feet touching the foot with the tips of her fingers, a bouquet of asphodels in her lap, thin arms... No symbolism is appropriate for a Queen of the Undead. And yet, sometimes the people who entered the hall would kneel down, whispering prayers they had learned as children with lips that were suddenly frozen.

This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

The janitor standing in the corner looked at them with understanding.

She was just finishing wiping the ceiling when the door faintly creaked open. She didn't pay attention to the sound at first - it wasn't that important. The room was lit by torches "to give a complete authenticity to the surroundings," so the soot had to be wiped off every day, climbing on a stepladder and, twisting, diligently fiddling with the rag. But she could not ignore the voice of the man who had entered.

"You probably don't remember me, do you?" The face of the young man, frozen in front of the statue, twitched strangely. "Of course, why would you remember the youngest chick in the nest you destroyed? You thought there were no more of us? Us, who know the truth. That your warriors have killed them all? All of them? Well, you were wrong, you know. We are reborn."

Suddenly, in an instant, he was beside the girl and yanked her down the stairs. The next moment she was face down at the statue's feet, unable to scream. Someone's held her tightly by her hair, and a voice above her ear whispered frantically:

"Look what you have come to! Hundreds of virgins have sacrificed, served, and adorned you! Priestesses danced before you every day, giving part of their strength! And now what? What? Your incarnation is being dusted off by a mortal girl who doesn't know the simplest rituals! Why?!"

She was pulled upward with force, icy fingers touching her neck.

"Is that fair? Are they equal to us?"

A sharp claw touched her throat.

"Our race could rule these lowlifes, but you force us to live by their laws."

A smooth, quick dash. The blood spurts forward, flooding the snow-white marble with a red wave.

"I can't destroy you. So be it. I'll content myself with one of the receptacles of the spirit since I can do no more. But know this - the day will come..."

The man suddenly stopped himself, cautiously taking a few steps back. The girl was still hanging in his arms, staining the floorboards with her blood. Her attempts to free herself, to call for help, were to no avail; she could only convulse helplessly. Consciousness faded. And with a last effort, already falling into the purple darkness, she discerned two things.

The blood soaking into the stone of the statue.

The corners of stone lips lifted in a dry grin.

Night excursions were still popular, and Professor Rocha still charmed the tourists. He told her much more, though, and taught her something different than he did to the mortal students.

She remained a mere cleaner, unwilling to leave her Mistress's retreat. She could have had a much higher position in the entourage of the Master of the City, as Her servant, but why? It is much more pleasant to stay close to Her, catching the echoes of the great mind that is deeply asleep, listening to the whisper of the voice that tells about the ancient mysteries. Does a Priestess need anything else?

So she came here every night. She scrubbed the floors, wiped the candlesticks, tried to do ritual dances, and, cursing through her teeth, wiped the soot from the ceiling. She brushed the dust off the statue, lowering her eyes, not daring to look into the darkness beneath the hood.

She washed the statue's feet with warm milk and smeared the lips with her own blood.

* * *