My place in Ablee’s story began at the side of a boisterous assassin named Zeph. I was a girl of 16 years, and I knew that I was out of my depth. It's only appropriate that things began with a blunder, a taste of many more to come. I was plummeting to my death.
Zeph and I had spent the day ascending a mountain path. The village of Row lay ahead of us, a small settlement nestled in the valley between the Long Fang Peaks. An imposing keep, Zeph's and my destination, loomed above it; those sleek twin summits curved around it like the maw of a monumental viper.
The pine-scented mountain air was thin, and the trail behind us was long, winding, and sharply inclined. I had stolen a glance over my shoulder to see how far we'd come. The sheer drop behind me was dizzying; vertigo slammed the side of my head like one of the sacks of potatoes I'd peeled daily back at the temple.
Trying to reorient myself, I twisted my body. The chestnut leather pack I was muling, full of Zeph's belongings, pulled my feet from the ground. The thing must have weighed ten stone, looking like it was specially crafted for a traveling strongman. I watched in horror as the path's ledge pulled away beneath me.
Why couldn't I have fallen hours ago? It seemed the gods wanted to watch me toil one last time before thrusting this moronic end upon me.
Zeph's irked expression caught my eye. Was she disappointed in me, or the fact she'd have to find a way to fish up the pack? Why did I care? Why was I wasting my final thoughts on this?
I felt the grip of her strong, yet soft, hands around my ankle before my mind registered she'd moved. Her heels planted in front of her, and she wrenched her chest to the side, wheeling me through the air and back onto the gravel path.
"Is that how you plan to survive the evening, Rhody?" she asked with a wry smile. It seemed watching me flail was the night's entertainment.
Great job, idiot, I admonished myself. This was sure to make the worst kind of lasting impression.
My face was red as the pouch that hung from the silver chain around my neck. It contained my Royal Tarot Deck, the only reason I was worthy of the honor of traveling beside her. The locks of my inky-blue hair clung to the sides of my sweat-drenched, cherry-red face. I must have looked like the flag of a defeated nation.
Zeph, Miss Cool and Collected, stood in stark contrast. Her appearance was immaculate. Maintaining it, lugging her wardrobe, clothes-iron, makeup kit, and ammunition, had somehow become my divinely appointed duty.
She was so many of the things I aspired to be: brave, driven, charismatic, and self-assured. Climbing the mountain, I'd kept my eyes glued to her. She paraded up it in supreme confidence. Dressed in all black, a flat-brimmed hat crowned her tall frame, her blonde hair flowing in wild disarray beneath it. The designer outfit she wore was glaringly expensive. Its blouse sported a plunging, collared neckline and billowing unbuttoned sleeves. A long cape draped across her back rippled in her wake, and It'd taken me five attempts to put an acceptable pleat into the pants that hugged the athletic curve of her hips.
The features of her face were, naturally, as sharp as her ensemble. Her dramatic makeup would have been more at home in a stage production than on a hunt, but somehow, she made it work in this environment.
I trailed behind her in my drab, gray woolen robes, adjusting the leather straps that dug into my shoulders. The chain around my neck swung back and forth beneath my hunched form as I trudged onward.
As we drew upon the town, I dwelled upon my mistake. This wasn't the only first impression I'd screwed up; the last had been disastrous, costing me years…
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The King of Wands Temple buzzed with life the day I first laid eyes on a Royal Tarot Deck, the springtime Festival of Budding Branches. I was nine years old and rail-thin, selling pastries in the courtyard of the King of Wands Temple.
Its spires pierced the sky, their intricate carvings gleaming in the sunlight. Tattered pink banners, once a rich crimson, rippled in the cool breeze; the King’s golden emblem foiled upon them, a staff wreathed in flames, had largely leafed away.
My patched dress hung loosely, and my tangled hair concealed wide, dirt-smudged eyes. I was barefoot, calloused toes gripping the stone as I leaned forward, peeking at the scene before me. Our temple's Acolyte had returned from his travels, his pack full of exotic artifacts, gifts from the peoples he'd visited. He stood at the courtyard's center, an excited crowd surrounding him. His deck gleamed like treasure on a cloth-topped bench. As he revealed each card, it caught the sun's light in a flash.
The crowd was gripped as he performed readings for those lucky enough to draw his attention. His calm voice belied secrets as though he recited from the gods’ own manuscript. My breath caught—awed, envious, yearning.
From that day forward, my dreams were steeped in the allure of fate’s mysteries. Every moment I wasn’t working—scrubbing the temple floors or hauling water for the priests—I spent in the temple's back alley, reading the faces of the other kids, watching for the twitch of an eyelid or the telltale quirk of the mouth. I wagered and bluffed, mastering another deck of cards. Five-card draw became my second language. With it, I worked toward affording a third, a used deck of ordinary tarot cards from a second-hand store. One I could use to practice, to someday earn the real thing, a Royal deck.
I knew what I could read from others and, by extension, they from me. My next step was to mask those parts of myself. I lied to everyone: the priests, our caretakers, shopkeeps, and urchin-weary travelers. I wasn't trying to steal, just misdirect them, get something past them.
Pretty soon I could dead-pan, keep a smile from my lips while spinning a yarn. I realized, though, that I'd subtracted too much; something was needed in its place, a toss of the eyes, an illusory sharp breath when I wanted to "hide" something, a thumb picking at the dingy fabric of my skirt.
Word of my antics had spread; one of the other children, unable to contain their anger over a lost silver penny, had alerted the clergy. I'd expected a sharp reprimand and a caning, but what I got was an invitation to a table of robed holy men glugging red wine. I left with an empty coin pouch, a suitable punishment in their eyes, but I didn't mind. That evening was an investment, a price paid to listen to them speak of cards and numbers, of probability.
The concept of fate had been drilled into me over years of sermons; I knew some things were just bound to happen, but I hadn't understood why.
In my back alley arena, playing other orphans for eights-pence, I was a champion. Most of those kids hardly knew what the numbers on the cards represented or what the word "probability" meant. However, the game started to feel less like sport and more like predation. The other orphans no longer wanted to play with me, and I no longer enjoyed taking their hard-earned coin.
I spent less time with my peers and more in the market, sharking travelers and lining my pockets. Scraping together my winnings, I went to purchase that battered old deck.
The shopkeep, an older woman who smelt of burnt sage, tried to refuse me its sale, asking "Those priests didn't teach you a bought deck'll bring bad luck?"
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I pressed her. Yes, I'd heard the myth, but the clergy sold cards at a much higher price and were staunch that any "bad luck" was something the purchaser had already brought upon themself. Besides, I had no one to gift me a deck. Tugging at heartstrings was a lie I'd gotten down pat, and I made the transaction happen.
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The next Spring, I received bittersweet news in the announcement of a contest. The temple would be taking on another acolyte. The young man I'd watched with hallowed reverence, the previous Acolyte, had left the position vacant in a tragic incident.
The ritual that manifested a Royal Tarot Deck was an expensive process for my temple. As a result, Acolyte positions didn’t open often and were reserved for youth, who had more time to train and maximize the investment made in them. Knowing this might be my only chance to claim my dream, I gave it everything I had.
The test was composed of three demonstrations: reciting scripture, reading tarot, and performing acrobatics. They were meant to gauge our readiness for serving a congregation, interpreting the gods' wills, and the perils of the road.
I studied any materials I could get my hands on and drilled gymnastics routines until my muscles screamed. Even then, I felt a gap growing between myself and the other contestants— many of which were children from wealthy families, who had tutors and training, and whose cards weren’t scuffed and peeling like my own.
There were 78 of us. We had a good idea of who would end up claiming the title. Brenna. Sweet, perfect Brenna, all pink clothes and ribbons. Somehow, we'd developed a friendship over numerous lazy Sunday afternoons. Since the position had opened, she had become my jealous obsession. Each of the contest's three aspects was just a part of who she was. She didn't train; she just showed up and socialized.
I'd used to look up to her; now I saw her as a cliff to summit.
“You don’t have to push yourself so hard, Rhody,” She said after practice one day, offering a hand to pull me out of yet another failed cartwheel. “Don't worry, it’s okay if this isn’t for you. You're great at cards!”
I smiled at her through clenched teeth, my palms burning from the rough stone. “I’m fine.”
But I wasn’t; my shameful, used, stained deck of cards was cursed. How else could I have been so good at poker and so terrible at all of this? In my desperation, I'd committed a taboo act, used ill-gotten gains, and drawn fate's ire upon me.
When the test came, my readings faltered. I couldn’t remember the second half of the passage I'd tried to memorize, and my gymnastics routine ended with me lying on my back. I came in last, dead last, my performance so poor that Father Herus didn’t even bother to tally a score. That would have only added to my humiliation.
Brenna was chosen, of course. I watched her ascend to the altar, radiating pride, draped in the robes I wore in my dreams. The Royal Tarot Deck in her hands was a testament to my poor decision-making. The bitter knot in my throat burned worse than failure. Brenna hardly even tried.
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I wasn't done, though; over the next three years, I continued to push myself, hoping desperately for another chance. I begged Brenna for the second, lesser deck of cards she no longer needed. I pleaded with her to share insights on her training so I could try to replicate them with my limited resources.
The conversation always went the same way. "Rhody, you're thirteen... another year, and you won't even be eligible..." she would say, trying to dissuade me. "Besides, it's not as great as it seems."
That Fall, she disappeared, leaving nothing but a note in her chambers. The temple elders released a statement that she had taken a pilgrimage, but I knew she wouldn’t be coming back. Brenna had loved the idea of being an acolyte, but it didn’t challenge her. She’d grown bored.
When the temple elders sought a replacement, my name wasn’t even whispered. I'd failed too spectacularly. The others snickered behind my back, calling me "table scraps.” Even Father Herus, who indulged my endless questions about fate and the gods, only seemed to pity me.
I refused to give up, pouring myself into my training and cutting all frivolities from my life. My readings grew sharper, and my interpretations more profound. Still, the clergy dismissed me. I'd had my chance, and I'd failed.
The list of potential replacements dwindled; many had moved on to other pursuits. Some accepted, lasting a week, two weeks, a month, finding the training either too rigorous or too mundane. When the final name was crossed off that list, I remained, not even a last resort.
A small package arrived in the weeks following, wrapped in ribbon and pink cloth. I knew immediately who had sent it, and I hated her for it. The shape of it was unmistakable, a deck of cards. Begrudgingly, I discarded its wrapping. They were, of course, pristine, backed in a brilliant sunburst of blue and orange. I closed my eyes. I didn't want to see my ruddy fingers juxtaposed against something so... so... unlike me.
Flipping the top card over, I set it face up on my cot and wrapped my arms around my back before daring to look at it. A wise man on a throne with a blooming branch in his outstretched hand, The King of Wands, stared back at me. The message was clear: This wasn’t over.
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Father Herus’s vice was no secret. The old priest, with his stooped shoulders and threadbare cassock, loved gambling as much as he loved to preach. His wispy gray hair never stayed combed, and his sunken eyes, perpetually shadowed, gave him the air of a man who wrestled nightly with his conscience—and usually lost. His cracked fingers often fiddled with a weathered coin, his good luck charm, as he recounted tales of divine wisdom from the pulpit with a charm that belied his failing stature. Yet, at the poker table, his charisma faltered.
Over the years, I had played countless hands with him, learning his tells—the way his eyebrows furrowed when he bluffed, how his breath hitched a moment too long when holding a strong hand. When our weekly sessions first started, he would lose a few coins, chuckle at his folly, and wave me off with a self-deprecating grin.
Lately, his losses had grown larger, the laugh-drawn lines around his mouth giving way to deeper creases of worry. His coin purse hung too light on his belt. Each ante seemed like a prayer for deliverance that our god refused to answer.
I knew the Acolyte position was still vacant. And I knew they would never offer it to me. Unless…
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I shuffled the deck of playing cards, riffling them with a satisfying hiss. Five cards each, I dealt them with practiced and deliberate grace. Across the table, he rubbed his temples, his stack of coins pitifully small.
“This is a terrible idea,” he muttered, fanning out his cards. His expression tightened, but I spotted that telltale furrow of his brow. A bluff.
“You’re right,” I responded, rearranging my hand. “But here we are.”
He groaned as I threw more coin to the table's center. “You’re relentless.”
“That’s what makes me good,” My tone was calm, my gaze sharp as I discarded a card and drew its replacement.
He hesitated, then discarded two cards with a sigh. The pot grew as we upped the stakes. Finally, the moment came to lay down our cards.
He revealed his hand first. “Queen high straight,” he said, his voice tinged with satisfaction. "What ya got?"
“Nice," my grin was slow and deliberate as I flipped my cards. “but not nice enough.” Three Jacks and two sevens lay in front of me. "Full house. I know you love those, Mr. Preacher."
He leaned back in his chair, loosing another heartbreaking harumph. “You’re bleeding me dry,” he muttered, his eyes growing wet.
“How about a wager?” I offered, gathering the cards to shuffle.
I could see his hesitation, running his hands over his wrinkled cheeks, "I don't have much more to give you..."
My patchwork book satchel hid a hefty leather sack; I pulled it free and set it on the table. "Your last three months' losses, one hand. I don't want any more of your money."
His hands were shaking as he brought them to the table. A good sign. “What... what do you want in return?” he grumbled.
“I want to be an Acolyte,” I said, dealing another hand. “If I win, you'll back me. Convince the rest of the clergy that I can handle it.”
Father Herus froze, his face tightening. “Rhody, I can't—” he said, "It... It wouldn't be a good fit for you."
"You're wrong," My voice strained, and I broke my expertly-crafted demeanor. "I know what happened in that contest, but I've come so far since then. I'm better than Brenna. I actually care about this."
His eyes narrowed upon me. "It'd be an abuse of my position..."
"Either way, I'll give you your money back," I interrupted. “If you win, I’ll give up on the temple. I'll find something else."
He let out a sigh that carried the weight of resignation and picked up his cards.
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Zeph continued her unbothered strut toward danger as I waded neck-deep in a river of shame. Why was I still screwing up like this? How could I have fallen off a damn mountain? I trained for years in acrobatics. My fingers picked, anxious, against the clasp of my red pouch. Realization struck, and my eyes widened. my breath caught in my throat.
I wasn't gifted this deck.
I'd bought it.