The Gathering Storm by Robin Bridges Page B

stained glass windows. The wind howled through the temple, shrieking like a banshee battered by a summer storm. Three figures, which stood around the altar behind the priest, wore black hooded robes. The sight of their hoods frightened me more than anything. I knew that they were important people in my life, but I could not determine their identity
.
    The priest held his chalice up to the fire, seeking some sort of
unholy blessing from whatever being they worshipped. The cup was beautiful: golden with colorful enamel in the pattern of a phoenix. As the priest turned to me, I stared at the chalice, trying to see what was inside it
.
    He smiled at me, his teeth small, white, and pointed. I felt a sudden wave of nausea. Instantly, I knew what he planned to do to me. The person behind me let go abruptly and the priest grabbed my arm, raking one of his sharp fingernails down my wrist. I gasped in pain and tried to fight down the panic welling up inside
.
    The wound was far too deep. I would bleed to death if it wasn’t stopped soon. I began to pray silently, for I was sure only God could save me while I was in this place. I thought about my parents, regretting that I hadn’t had the chance to say goodbye to them. I was terrified, but determined not to show it to my captors
.
    The priest held out the chalice as my blood fell in fat crimson drops into it. I smelled the copper taint of blood on the air. My very life essence was flowing from me; I knew it would not be long before I felt faint
.
    The priest took the chalice and turned back to the three hooded figures. I would have fallen if not for strong arms and hands that suddenly reached out to hold me up. I did not bother to struggle anymore. I could only look on as the three figures joined in the chanting with the priest. The figure in the middle pulled back his hood to reveal himself as a handsome dark-haired, dark-eyed young man. Stepping forward, he took the chalice from the priest and drank my blood. Suddenly, a thousand white-winged insects flew out from under the altar and ascended toward the temple
vault. The moths flew above the flames and the smoke, swarming the darkness
.

    I woke up stifling a scream. I was shaking. Sweat dampened my white cotton nightclothes. I took a deep breath and tried to calm myself.
Mon Dieu
, what had just happened to me? Had it been merely a dream? Or a prophecy?
    Anya was at the foot of my bed, staring at me in horror. “Duchess? Are you ill?” she asked anxiously.
    I flinched as a single moth fluttered from under my bed and out the open window. Despite the cold air, my chest was burning. I was still shaking.
    Anya poured me a glass of water from the bedside table. “Here, drink this.” She had to help me hold the glass so I didn’t spill anything.
    The water made me feel a little bit better. “Thank you,” I said, sinking back down to my pillows.
    “Do you want me to call for your mother?” Anya asked. “I’m worried about you, Duchess.”
    I shook my head. “I don’t want to trouble her. What time is it?”
    “Half past eight.”
    I groaned. I had to get up. It was Theophany, twelve days past Christmas. We were to attend the annual Blessing of the Waters, when the metropolitan bishop would cut a hole in the frozen waters of the Neva River and bless it. Slowly, I sat back up. The room was spinning slightly, but really, Icouldn’t complain. A spinning room was certainly a better place to be than a cave where I would become a human sacrifice.
    Thinking about the nightmare made me nauseated. I felt a terrible pressure in the back of my throat.
    I jumped out of bed to retch in the washbasin. I held the sides, shaking still, as the spasms seized me.
    “Duchess! Allow me to call your maman!” she begged. “You’re too sick to be going anywhere today!”
    “No, Anya, please! I’ll be fine. I ate too much rich food last night—it’s nothing.”
    “Duchess, I—”
    “It was just the food, which caused another bad dream,”