House of Secrets and Vows (Crown of Deceit #1)

1. Priestess of Secrets

1

PRIESTESS OF SECRETS

T he high priestess’s dark eyes flare with icy annoyance as she stomps toward me with a scowl. “Is your head in the clouds, girl? I called for you three times.”

I bite the inside of my cheek and will my features to calm as I drop my gaze in deference to Priestess Lana’s position of authority.

You’d think after ten years of deception, I’d be used to responding to Halina, the name I gave when I joined the priestesshood at fourteen years old. Apparently not.

Every day, I walk a dangerous line.One slip-up could lead to questions that might not only get me kicked out of the priestesshood but charged for treason as an imposter, for which the punishment is death.

“Sorry,” I mumble, checking my posture. Shoulders back, straight spine, always the image of perfection—one of the many rules of the Temple of Secrets.

A piercing ache shoots across my temples, and I resist the urge to rub the pain. Three nights of no sleep will do that.

Priestess Lana stops when she is an arm’s length from me and sighs.

The golden celestial embellishments embroidered on her burgundy gown mark her as one of the high priestesses, an honor bestowed on only a select few of the women who have devoted their lives to Mina, Goddess of Secrets and Vows. An honor that takes nearly a lifetime to earn.

“Prince Nevan has blessed us with his presence.” The high priestess’s purposeful tone carries through the room, and a wave of shushes follows as the other priestesses all turn their attention toward us.

Prince Nevan. Whispers ricochet all around me.

Why would the prince be here?

I’ve heard he’s quite handsome.

What would bring him to the Temple of Secrets?

My sleep-deprived mind struggles to form a coherent response. Not that anyone else in the Temple knows of my nightly excursions, save for my friend Aella, so I do my best to feign enthusiasm.

“The prince is here?” I keep my voice light and widen my eyes in fake excitement.

“Yes.” Priestess Lana glares behind me, and everyone hushes. “And I’ve selected you to hear his confession.”

“Me?” I tilt my head, my cheerful tone shifting to confusion, and I immediately regret it. Never question a high priestess’s decision—another rule.

The high priestess ignores the bluntness of my remark, thank all that's holy. “You have been a priestess for a decade now, Halina. I think you’ve earned the trust needed to hear such a confession.”

“I’m honored.” I dip my chin in a subtle nod, my words truthful. I am honored. A confession from a prince is a rarity, and whatever secret he’s come to confess could be very valuable information.

“He’s already in the golden confessional. Best not to make him wait.”

It is nearly unheard of for a confessor to enter a confessional before a priestess, but an exception has been made for the prince. It seems exceptions are always made for people like him.

After a small curtsy, I hurry around the priestess and head out of the common room. As I walk down the hallway, my steps quick, I pull down the sleeves of my dress and fold over the cloth on my headpiece.

Another priestesshood rule: remain anonymous. One of the few rules I actually appreciate. Without it, the double life I’ve worked so hard to perfect over the last ten years wouldn’t be possible.

I snatch my gloves out of a pocket and slip them on, their silken material cooling my skin as I enter the confessional at the end of the hallway. It’s reserved for only the utmost of confessors—Valazican royals, select nobles, and the occasional important foreign guest.

As I take my seat in the high-back velveteen chair waiting for me, I peer through the transparent curtain separating the priestess's side from that of the confessor. Across from me sits Prince Nevan Sterling of Valazica, the middle son of King Tazin and one of the two living princes after his older brother was killed in the war against the fae.

The sweet scent of lilies wafts through the veil between us. On the prince’s side, a large bouquet sits on an ornately carved bookshelf decorated with random items that all look expensive. The flowers are replaced every few days so that they remain fresh in case of a worthy visitor, something that happens far too rarely to warrant such effort and expense.

Not when so many children go to bed hungry in the kingdom.

“Hello,” I manage. “Welcome to the Temple of Secrets.”

A week of such little sleep has strained my vocal cords, lowering my voice at least an octave below normal.

The prince’s short honey-blond hair is bright against the bronze glow of his skin, and even through the curtain, light flickers in his golden eyes. He radiates like the sun, and part of me wants to look away, but another part can’t help but gape.

I’ve only seen him once, at a parade when I was a child living on the streets near the palace gates. He was a gangly teenager at the time, with hair nearly to his shoulders. But now… Now, he is the furthest thing from gangly.

“Hello, Priestess.” He inclines his head toward the enchanted curtain.

His voice is deeper than I imagined. And gods, as he smiles at me, I feel like a silly noble girl asked to dance at a ball. I’ve never been so thankful that the magic of the Temple grants only one side of the confessional curtains transparency, the same magic enchanting the fabric draped in front of my face.

For fuck’s sake, pull it together. Swearing as a priestess is forbidden—it is unbecoming of such a sacred position. But what the high priestesses can’t hear won’t hurt them, and following the many orders of the Temple isn’t in my nature.

And as luck, or sheer determination and wit, would have it, so far, I’ve managed not to get caught. A good thing too, because any mistake I make would likely be my last.

Prince Nevan’s tunic sleeves are rolled to his elbows, not a single blemish on the silk. Though his attire is casual, there is no mistaking its fine quality. His leather pants are tucked into matching boots, both a luxury only the wealthiest in the kingdom can afford. Most of the peasants wear thin cotton in even the coldest of months.

“The Goddess blesses you.” I shift in my seat and will my silly heart rate to slow. With a long exhale, I focus on the prince.

“You speak for her?” He leans back and rests his forearms casually on the chair arms.

“Pardon me?” I ask, confused.

“The Goddess whispered inside your head that she’s thrilled I’m here and offers me her blessing?” He locks his gaze with mine as if he can see right through the curtain.

I pause, uncertain of an appropriate response. In my many years of confessions, no one has questioned my authority. They’ve all been too eager to pour out their secrets and claim forgiveness to actually care about the validity of it all.

“As a Priestess, I’m blessed by the Goddess. Her will flows through me.” I bite my lip, desperate not to mess this up.

A secret from the prince will surely help me move up in the resistance. Although I can’t directly share anything told during a confession, knowledge is power, and I’ve used the many confessions I’ve learned over the past decade to my advantage.

Someday, I hope to work side-by-side with the rebel leader, Felix. I’m getting closer all the time.

“You actually think the gods give a fuck about us down here?” the prince asks.

No, I don’t, but if I ever speak such blasphemy aloud and word gets back to the priestesshood, I’ll be kicked out and tossed back on the streets. I survived that existence as a child; I could do it again. But I have no desire to throw away the life I’ve built.

I’ve worked too hard to lose my position as a priestess, and without the knowledge my station grants me, I’ll be less effective in helping the resistance make the kingdom a better place for the common Valazicans.

Leave it to a prince to show up and waste my time as if the world exists only for him.

“If you don’t believe in Mina’s blessing, why are you here?” The question alone could jeopardize my priestess title, and such boldness to the prince could lose me my head, but I can’t fight my curiosity.

Royals almost never come into the city to visit the Temple of Secrets. It’s far more common for a priestess to be called to the palace. What brought him here if he doesn’t actually believe in the power of confession?

He glances at the door on his side of the curtain then back in my direction. “What happens if you tell anyone what I confess?”

“All words spoken in the confessional are private. Should a priestess disclose a secret, she will be marked by the Goddess as a vow breaker.”

“And if the Goddess doesn’t exist to curse her?”

“I’ve seen it. Twice.” I swallow, the memories making me nauseous. “The curse isn’t always the same. One Priestess lost her voice. The other lost use of her legs.”

No one knows how the curse selects its punishment, but even someone like me, who has no faith in the gods’ benevolence, trusts the magic of the vow we take to join the Temple.

“If you aren’t here to make a confession,” I start, impatience getting the better of me, but he lifts his hands.

“I am.” He rubs his thumb along the tips of his fingers and eyes the closed door he entered from.

Someone like him doesn’t need faith in the gods when everything—and anyone—he could ever desire is his for the taking.

After another glance at the door, he leans forward, extending his neck toward the curtain between us, and whispers, “I did something stupid.”

He runs his tongue across his upper teeth.

Some confessors are so eager to blurt out their secrets they are in and out of the confessional in a single minute. Others take more coaxing. Some come into the Temple simply for a moment of companionship.

As a priestess, I am gifted with the ability to sense the emotions of others, but only if I keep my own emotions at bay. Right now, I can sense the prince’s regret and dread, but any other feelings he has are muffled.

“We all make mistakes. Surely, as a prince, you can find a solution to fix whatever it is.” I scan him from head to toe again, this time not letting myself get distracted by his stunning eyes or sultry lips.

Nothing appears out of place until I notice the small splotch of reddish brown staining his tunic, just below the neckline.

He huffs as a smirk slides onto his lips. “I used to think my title and wealth kept me above human problems. If the gods do exist, I’m sure they’re laughing at my arrogance now.”

“This time is different?” I cross my right leg over my left and twine my fingers over my knee to ease the nerves wriggling in my stomach.

“This time”—he clenches his jaw—“I went and fucked up enough to surpass it all.”

I wait as I sense his confession sitting on the tip of his tongue.

He shakes his head, then sighs. “I’m the lucky new member of the House of Blood.”

His gaze locks with mine again, and I hesitate as silence looms between us like a heavy mist.

There are six Houses in Valazica, the House of Secrets—my House—included. As priestesses, we serve the Goddess Mina and offer peace to the Valazican people.

But the House of Blood… it serves the vilest of gods.

As I search for something to say, he clenches his fists and stands. “I shouldn’t have come here.”

“No, it’s all right,” I say. “The Goddess will?—”

“Forgive me? I need more than forgiveness, priestess.” He tips his head back and cackles. “Don’t bother blessing me. I know I’m fucked.”

A cacophony of laughter seeps into the confessional from underneath the door, drawing the prince’s attention.

I will myself to speak, but no words seem sufficient. I sit in silence as he turns and leaves the room.

Usually, a confessor spills his secrets, and then the priestess hands out a penance to him so he can earn mercy from the Goddess. The prince’s confession is so shocking I don’t even think about the custom until long after he is gone.

Not that Prince Nevan would care. He clearly doesn’t believe in the power of the Goddess anyway, which only makes me wonder why he came here in the first place.

By the time I return to the common room, word of the prince’s visit has spread like a weed.

A group of priestesses hover around the table, sharing their theories of what brought Prince Nevan here as they eat supper. One guesses he is secretly betrothed to a commoner. Another blurts that he indulges too often in wine.

As if either would warrant a prince to make a trip to the Temple.

They all quiet when they see me cross the room. I’m too eager to strip out of my hot gown, fall onto my bed, and rest my eyes to bother with dinner, despite the warm scent of broth permeating the room.

No one asks what he said. They all know as well as I do I can’t spill a single word he shared with me. Not even a high priestess is privy to a secret given to another priestess in the confessional.

I scan the group, meeting the stare of my friend Aella who sits at the far end of the table alone, stirring a bowl of steaming soup. Her brow rises, likely as surprised as I am that I was the one assigned to the prince.

As anxious as I am to speak to Aella to share in the shock, it has to wait until we have more privacy, so I ignore the grumble of my stomach and hurry to the hallway that leads to our bedrooms.

“In the wake of the eldest prince’s death, the king will name Prince Nevan heir to the throne come the Summer Solstice,” one of the priestesses whispers just after I step out of the room.

I pause, listening as someone asks, “How do you know?”

“I overheard Prince Maddox tell one of the high priestesses as he waited for his brother. He says the king is ill and begs the priestesshood to pray for his brother and father.”

Prince Nevan is to be named heir? So soon after his brother’s death?

Valazican tradition dictates that an Heir Ceremony take place a year after the death of an heir, but in the meantime, the eldest male is temporarily next in line for the crown, which means Prince Nevan is already the interim heir. But once an official ceremony happens, outside of death, there is no changing the royal line.

If Nevan becomes king, the House of Blood will gain too much power. The kingdom is already so harsh for so many without such evil tainting the crown.

Such news is crucial to the resistance. I can’t divulge Prince Nevan’s association with the House of Blood, but I need to at least warn them of the shift in power soon to come.

But with the Heir Ceremony fast approaching and the king already ill, I might be too late to protect the Valazican people.

And if the House of Blood learns who I am or what I know, my luck will finally run out.