THE TOWER OF HERA | Wattpad Creator

1

"Is it?"

"Yes." Her lips twitch. "Because now you know for a fact that you're better than other girls."

I look down, and puff out a laugh. "Right."

"Who would you want to be Picked by?"

I pause, and ponder.

Fortitude is a strong god, reliable, primordial in age and power. He will provide for me for the rest of my days. He is not known as a gentle lover. Passion is charming, and full of song. They say he likes to take his time with his women, that he keeps a tally of how many times he can make his lover peak. They also say he forgets his women as quickly as a dandelion spreads.

Instead of answering, I turn to Yen. "What about you?"

"Purpose. The Spear God."

"You didn't even need to think about it."

"No." Yen touches her lashes, brushes a speck from it. "He's a god that gets things done."

I look away, back to the other women. "He takes good care of his wives."

"He puts his wives to purpose. Nin, and Kishar. They built the glass city."

"By the crater. I know."

"Better that than being heavy with child for half my life."

I smile. "Definitely not Pleasure, then?"

Yen wrinkles her nose, like at a sour smell.

I laugh.

#

The sun on the horizon is setting; it has been many hours. Yen and I are watching the others from the base of the stage. Most have already performed.

Naica of the Adan tribe, a girl of seventeen that looks a little like a blade of ice, and a little like the peak of some mountain — tall, elegant, imposing in her chill. There was an edge to her Pitch, and in the turns of her dance. She frowned the entire time.

Lys of the Isru palms and wheat, plump, and older than most of us. She has a five-year-old son from her late-husband, and had no dance or song to offer on the stage, only a hello and a pleasure to meet you all. She was lovely, gentle — her Pitch like an embrace. Many of the women here are too sharp with talent or beauty to sound so kind.

Astara of the Nuskan dunes, dark with large eyes. Spilled across her thighs and neck and cheeks are white freckles, galaxies bright against the canvas of her skin. She is one of the rare few to command a Voice. When she sings, metal comes alive. Her Pitch like a trumpet line is triumphant, victorious, because many gods will be wanting her, and she knows it.

Some of the women, like Yen and I, do not mount the stage.

Yen, because her talents do not suit the stage. Me, because I want to go home.

We're joined by others at the base of the stage, by those that have finished performing. Together, we watch and chatter, share and learn. Astara is the second youngest daughter in a family of daughters. Lys' late-husband was very old, and had died mid-laugh at his own joke. Naica is an only child. Her parents had given her an ultimatum: go to the tower, or go elsewhere, anywhere else, because she would no longer be their daughter.

It is our turn to answer questions now, Yen and me.

"Call me Starry," Astara greets.

"Iyenna," Yen says.

"Irulu." I smile.

"Where are you two from, then?"

I pause, and consider lying. But then Yen answers with, "Tir," with the truth, and I tense. My eyes tick from face to face, from expression to expression.