THE TOWER OF HERA | Wattpad Creator

1

Astara is blinking, brows rising. Lys has pulled back, face drawn open, stunned. Even the frigid Naica, in the midst of wide eyes and gasps, has turned to look at us.

"Oh," Astara says. "That's, well. They let you be here?"

"Starting this cycle."

"Oh."

"The city of Tir, from the songs?" Lys is leaning back in.

"Yes." I try on a smile.

"'And behold,'" Yen recites, shameless. "'The smoke of the wicked rises as smoke from a pyre.'"

"So it's true?"

Yen shrugs.

"The city isn't much of a city these days," I explain. "We live in a little grove surrounded by many old ruins."

Lys' voice is breathy on awe. "That must be incredible."

I smile again. Lys is sweet, almost childlike. She no longer seems afraid of us.

"Makes no sense to me." Astara tugs on her ear. "Tir's an evil city."

Yen smiles. It looks sharp on her. "Maybe the gods are bored of good girls."

We laugh. Astara frowns, and says nothing else.

#

That night, as we sleep huddled against one another, the Sightless drift close.

They reach out a veiled hand to touch a girl on the shoulder, on the head, to wake them. I have not slept, and am watching it all. The girls that are roused are brought away. They have been chosen, Picked. The rest of the girls, slumbering on, will have leave to go home in the morning.

Again, a Sightless stops before me.

It occurs to me then, in the silence of the night, that the Sightless have no Pitches. I have never heard their souls sing, not even once.

A blue veiled hand reaches out to me, and touches my temple.

I have been Picked.

#

We're given silks and jewels, and oil for the hair, and watched by the wives of the gods.

These women are still with child — bellies swollen at four months, or six, or eight — and they are resplendent. Henna of gold glove their arms. Rings gleam from their fingers and nostrils. Strings of gems are threaded into the thick of their hair, and their robes, the colour of them, burn with an impossible richness.

Their cheeks are red with their smiles, because many of us are gathered around them with bright questions.

How is it living in the tower? Do you have servants? How many? What are the gods like? What was it like?

Our voices chirp. The room we are in now is warm, full of cushions, and thick with luxury.

"It's a right joy," a wife says. She was bedded by Bountiful four months ago. "Th' Sightless make for attentive servants, but don't be goin' to 'em for conversation. Th' gods each behave different from one another, like you and I or anyone else. 'Course, it's a given that Bountiful is givin'. Big belly-laugh. Strong shoulders. The sex is delicious." She smiles, a sly curve like a cat's. "You'll see th' light once you've tasted th' divine."

"Some husbands are quite absent." The wife of Tempered is heavy with child. Her belly is large and high, nearing nine months. She lounges with her feet propped high on pillows. "And pragmatic. Once they've put a baby in you, they'll leave you be."

A couple of the girls frown and murmur. "Sounds lonesome."

"No." That wife fans a hand. "Many of us are allowed lovers, so long as no fruit comes of it."

The girls coo this time, awed, giddy. The gods are generous.

"They'll bring men in for you, or whoever you're wanting of. There's no leaving the tower until they will it, though there have been cases of wives being let go when they truly had no desire to stay."

More questions are asked in a flurry:

How many children must we bear? Can we see our families? How many rooms are in the tower? Hundreds? Thousands?

And the answers come as water flows:

You will have as many children as the gods will, but they are kind. They will not wear your body out. They, being divine, will know your physical limits. You can see your families, yes. They can be sent for, and you may meet them and entertain them in the palaces outside the base of the tower. The tower itself is holy ground. Only the gods and their potential brides and bedded wives are allowed entry. There are rooms on rooms in the tower, more than thousands, as numerous as sands and stars.

I look down at the silk dress sheer against my body, white like everyone else's, and take up a ribbon of white lace to tie around my neck. Gently, meticulously, I begin to braid baby's breath into the length of my hair.

There is one question that is never answered.

Never answered, because it is never asked. I don't ask either, even as it buzzes in my ears, in my teeth, in the tips of my fingers.

What happens to our children after they are born?

We do not ask. We mustn't.

We know the children we birth will not belong to us.

The wailing, wrinkly, wet infants will be lifted from our breast after their first suckling. They will be swaddled up and taken away, to where and for why, we do not know. It does not matter, anyhow.

No matter how many times we ask, we will never see them again.