Call of the Goddess: A Bona Dea Novel (Stormflies Book 1) by Elizabeth N. Love Page B

down with each high-kneed step. Between the ranks, the Elite transported the Gifts in their cases, handling them with reverent care.
    At the raised stage, Morton oversaw the delivery of the Gifts to the tables set and draped with gold cloth. The fanfare continued throughout this ritual, played by a quintet of brass players seated openly to the right of the stage. Their tones reverberated off of the arched ceiling and melded into each other. The last notes died away before Morton addressed the congregation.
    “Citizens, welcome,” Morton bowed to them. She smiled proudly, possibly the first real smile Axandra witnessed on the woman's face since their first meeting. Nancy typically scowled, her lips straight or down-turned, disdainful of anything that might be considered a breach of protocol, to which Axandra was prone.
    “We come together this day to receive into service Ileanne Saugray as the Protectress. Our Covenants state: The Protectress, a service heretofore distinguished by these covenants, shall serve the people and the planet. She shall be the voice of the people. She shall be the eyes of the people. She shall be the heart of the people. And in this service, she shall protect the people. She shall be born of the same family as her predecessor, so there may be no feud of power, and she shall remain the Protectress as long as she lives, removable only by death itself.” Morton recited the paragraph of the Covenants that described the position. Agreeing noises came from the audience. “Ileanne is the daughter of Elora, one of many women descended from Amelia, proven by birth to be the only true Protectress. Ileanne, do you accept the terms of this service, knowing that you are obligated to continue it throughout your life?”
    “I do,” Axandra accepted, her own voice echoing in the hall. She stood as straight and as tall as her body was able.
    “Do you accept the responsibility of protecting our way of life and our lives, even as it may interfere with your own life?”
    “I do.” Though she had practiced listening to and understanding these words, the reality of their meaning felt heavy. There would be no leaving now. Her decades of hiding meant nothing. She had not escaped what had frightened her all those years.
    “And do you, Ileanne, vow to hear, see and feel the needs of the people and provide for them and comfort them, so long as you live?” Morton asked the questions without expecting any answer but those practiced. She would not be surprised today.
    “I do, Your Honor.” Axandra bowed at the waist after this final answer, first to Morton. Then she turned to the audience and bowed to them, signifying a bow to the entire population. She climbed the three steps of the dais and stood beside Morton, facing the crowd. She reminded herself not to try to count their number, to think of them only as one, a less intimidating digit.
    “At this time, I invite the regions to bestow their gifts. Foster Tremby from Eastland.”
    Foster came forward from the left, where four of the five presenters awaited their participation. Climbing to the table, he retrieved the granite tablet, then approached while holding it out between his hands. “From Eastland, Honorable Matriarch, our finest stone. A master engraver created for you a portrait of a teacher and children willing and eager to learn from her example. We accept you as our protector and are ready to learn from your example.” Bowing, he extended the tablet.
    Taking the heavy stone, Axandra raised it over her head, calling out that she accepted the gift and thanking the Eastlanders, who raised their voices in loud cheers. Morton set the tablet on the table for display.
    “Sara Sunsun of Northland.”
    The slender young woman collected the wooden staff and offered it horizontally with the words, “From Northland, Your Honor, a gift from our strongest tree, the rockwood. It grows in rock and ice, and thrives in winter. This staff may bend, but it will never