Sons to Keep: Sister Seekers

Sons to Keep

A Sister Seekers Prequel

by

A.S. Etaski

Published by Corpus Nexus Press

ISBN: 978-1-949552-17-1

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Copyright © 2022, A.S. Etaski

Cover Design by Eris Adderly

Book Layout by DocKangey

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This book is a work of fiction and intended for adults. Sexual activities represented in this work are between adults and are fantasies only. Nothing in this book should be interpreted as the author advocating any non-consensual activity.

Note from the Author

It’s been a decade since I began building the world of Miurag.

The beginning started in a small, dark place. Then it grew, season-by-season and become vast.

I recently published the seventh book of Sister Seekers, and the eighth book brings about one of the most significant events for this era. The Battle for Manalar.

By this point, the main story needed a prequel. Now, we have one.

Welcome to Miurag’s underground city of Sivaraus, where our story begins.

Chapter 1

2883 S.E. – The Sanctuary of Sivaraus, in the Deepearth

Irrwaer opened her eyes when the male child began coughing, working to breathe past his own spit. She neither lifted her head nor shifted on the cot until she was certain no others were in the small room. The stone door leading to the hall was closed, its ward spell in place; so was the innocuous, hidden panel on the far wall.

A whimper escaped the young Davrin. She smelled fear-soured sweat. The acolyte sat up on her cot, crossing her legs rather than touch her feet blindly to the floor.

P-Priestess? he asked in the dark. I-is that you?

Her lips twisted. I’ve a long way to go, bua. In time.

Mother … he croaked, turning over. Thirsty.

Would he expect that from her, were she here?

Are any of these sons not spoiled?

Irrwaer sighed, leaning over to inspect her slippers for dampness or pinching creatures. Once satisfied, she tucked her feet into them without lighting a candle. She waited.

Mother?! he shrieked, bolting upright.

Irrwaer jumped, clutching her heart where it tried to escape her chest. Spinning goddess, child, shut up!

No, she answered gruffly as she stood up. Acolyte Irrwaer.

He gulped, and she heard his heart race. He couldn’t see her with or without light; his eyes had been bound with a blindfold.

A-Acolyte. I am sorr —

I’ll get water.

From her bed stand she poured two cups before moving to stand in front of him. Taking an audible slurp from the rim of her cup, she demanded, Hold out your hands.

Irrwaer waited for him to obey before nudging the drink between his palms. The bua clutched it and drank swiftly, emptying it before she was finished with hers. She sighed again.

Another?

He flinched at the resentment leaking out. Y-yes, please, Acolyte.

Irrwaer refilled his cup, still nursing hers as the child tried to consume this one more slowly. He would have to piss in half a mark regardless. She checked his bed pan, deciding to wait on it.

Five turns in the Sanctuary, invited to earn my worth, to wield the magic of a goddess, and I’m emptying waste pots for the Nobles’ future breeding slaves. Pfeh.

She would rather be observing the ritual at the altar right now.

If Priestess Juliran weren’t so protective of this pretty, delicate burden …

Why are you sick? Irrwaer asked bluntly, sipping on her water with an arm crossed over her middle. You were fine two cycles ago.

He turned his twice-empty cup in his hands. I-I don’t know, Acolyte.

You weakened right before the ceremony, she said tersely, hostility rising. After all, he was the reason she was stuck here. Your Priestess must focus on other duties with her First Son. If you aimed to distract her, to draw her pity in your jealousy —

I-I am not! The bua shuddered at the mention of his half-brother. Acolyte, I am sorry. I do not know why I’m sick.

She exhaled and took a nearby seat. For the cost Juliran had hinted she’d paid the Conceiver for this child, he possessed a disappointingly limp spirit, unrewarding to engage with for long.

Nonetheless, if he was awake, she must remain so as well.

At least he can’t stare at me.

His coloring wasn’t unusual at all: stark white hair, beautiful like a gossamer garden web; unmarked, dark skin; and scarlet red irises. His body was whole, symmetrical, and without defect; even his ears rose to perfect points without a hint of curl. Yet with that face alone, with those eyes, Irrwaer imagined every Matron and Daughter in Sivaraus would want to sample him once he was grown.

Assuming he doesn’t insult someone and land on the altar, first.

What is your name? Irrwaer asked.

His lean shoulders lifted, his chin dipped, while his throat flexed in another swallow. I am however you call me, Acolyte.

She scoffed. What does your Priestess-Mother call you?

The child hesitated. Sil?

Sil? Are you not sure?

Th-that is what she calls me with others nearby.

Fine. Sil. Irrwaer drummed her fingers, narrowing her eyes. She has a private name for you?

Mutely, he nodded. From the wince of pain on his lips, the acolyte wondered if Juliran’s second son was magically compelled against speaking this name.

If so, is he like a Sathoet but pureblood? Hm. Is this common among the Conceiver’s bred buas?

Well, the acolyte continued, does she ever —

The ward of protection snapped from the door, and Irrwaer launched to her feet with a gasp, the pad of her thumb rubbing across the ring on her right hand as her first spell formed in her mind.

The stone door clunked against the bolt keeping it from sliding open.

Irrwaer! called Priestess Juliran through the molded stone. Let me in.

Shit.

The acolyte hurried to obey, lifting the hand bar to its vertical position before pulling the embedded bolt out of its wall socket. Grasping the long door handle, she pulled the slab toward her to let her superior inside.

Close and secure the door, Juliran said.

Exhaling in silent annoyance, the acolyte reversed her grip and pushed the handle to roll the door shut again, replacing its block-bolt before twisting the hand bar parallel to the floor again. She fervently wished they had materials lighter to work with. Strange to have slow, heavy reinforcement for the sick beds, isn’t it?

The scent of fresh blood and recent magic struck her nose then, and Irrwaer turned around as Sil cried out in distress.

Mother, you’re bleeding! What happened?

Shh, quiet.

Irrwaer stared as the elder Priestess impatiently removed the bua’s blindfold and held his cheeks between her hands, studying his face carefully without seeming entranced.

How do you feel? she asked. Any better yet?

N-no, he answered, clutching his middle dramatically. Where sh —

Shh, shh. Juliran pulled him against her, muffling his question to her breast as the Priestess stared vacantly at the smooth stone wall. Soon, her attention was distant, elsewhere long enough that Irrwaer lost count of her heartbeats in the dark.

No one else came to the door behind her, but she heard distant sounds of unrest in the temple. Her skin pebbled beneath the fine sleeves of her black and ivory robe. Irrwaer listened to the bua shudder and huff for breath against his Priestess’s body, on the cusp of relenting to light a candle so she could mark the time.

Then, Juliran cut her head to the side, eyes fixed on the younger female. Although a Davrin Elf’s dark sight lacked any color, the form and detail alone were enough for Irrwaer to know the Priestess had become aware.

I need to speak with you, the elder said. Wait for me in your quarters while I handle my son.

Irrwaer’s stomach tightened on a frightened flip, but she masked it, bowing to her current tutor, her hands folded over each other. Did anything go wrong with the ritual, Priestess?

Hold your words, acolyte. Wait for me, and speak to no one, understand? Make any excuse to keep your door closed and barred until second waking.

The young novice felt a shiver up her spine. Yes, Priestess Juliran.

She turned around and left the infirmary, taking the hidden panel this time. Always much easier than using the door.

When Irrwaer arrived at the Sanctuary, she had been yet another Noble cousin to the Matron of the Sixth House. Though not ambitious enough to be the originator of most schemes, she’d had sisters and cousins aplenty to participate; to know the games and desires; when to observe and keep her mouth shut.

This upbringing had served her well moving into a large communal hall with other hopeful recruits for the Priesthood. She remembered it as a flood of abject misery after leaving her family behind.

The Priestesses of the Spider Queen were spoiled for choice among acolytes, with more recruits than they had need for. The Sanctuary was flush with messengers, scribes, assistants, free-flowing gossip, and hustling, young hands doing all menial tasks for the Daughters of Braqth.

The unremitting contests for the best space, attention, and desirable tasks contained a flux which mirrored water cycling through the pipes, but Irrwaer had learned enough tricks to earn her own tiny suite within the first three turns. For two of them, she’d been passed around to serve different Priestesses, seemingly on a whim, but always with the promise of learning pieces of magic as reward.

Though difficult to predict their moods at times, this was still better than the crush of plotting caits among rows of cots in the bunk hall.

I’ll never live like that again. Those backstabbing, covetous slits might as well be a pile of demons chewing on each other’s haunches.

Nonetheless, within her own quarters and with mage skills to better determine if anyone had entered while she was gone, Irrwaer had come to believe that someone was always watching.

Rarely were her modest belongings disturbed or missing, but sometimes she heard the barest scratch behind walls or above her head. Although no one had bothered to force her door while she was inside, there’d been other times an oppressive weight would flow in to sit on her while she rested in Reverie. Occasionally, she awoke with a yelp or a garbled scream, unable to remember what she’d seen which made her fear imminent pain, death, or … something much worse.

The neophyte to the Priestesses of Braqth never truly felt alone in the Sanctuary.

*Irrwaer. Let me in.*

She looked to the barred entrance even as she heard the command spell in her ears. For an instant, the cait imagined refusing and staying on her bed. The next, she stood and opened the swinging door to her tiny quarters, allowing a Priestess inside for the first time.

What does she want?

How would her life change again once Juliran left?

The Priestess barred and warded the door herself while Irrwaer stood back. In truth, between the bed, the desk, and the changing closet, there was barely room enough to change places while brushing elbows, but the elder was neither concerned nor offended.

Light a candle, her superior commanded.

Irrwaer obeyed, unsurprised she must use her own rations for this meeting. In the light, however, the acolyte noticed for the first time the fine creases at the corners of Juliran’s eyes and the strands of gold shining at her temples. Irrwaer had estimated Juliran’s age at four or five centuries, and yet she knew Priestesses who were older but not showing these same signs of maturity.

Why doesn’t she try to hide them?

Sit, commanded