A Dark Sacrifice by Madeline Howard

By Madeline Howard

Greater than a century has handed because the potent fight among the wizards and the mages resulted in their mutual destruction, and greater than 40 years because the Empress Ouriána turned the Divine Incarnation of the Devouring Moon. Appointing twelve lethal sorcerers as her clergymen, she principles the land in darkness never-ending. but there's a small likelihood for wish, if one foreordained princess can live on. yet she has vanished at the back of enemy traces, or even a courageous band of heroes is probably not in a position to succeed in her in time. For Ouriána's darkish reign has woken the traditional terrors of legend, and their vengeance could be quick and all-consuming. . . .

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By the time the Empress finally waded back to shore, day was breaking in the east. The crowd parted reverently to let her pass. Her bath in the sea had changed her profoundly. No less beautiful, she had such a freshness about her that she might have been born that very morning. Her face was bright with a savage innocence; her eyes had taken on an astonishing luminescence. And all along the beach, men and women reached out to touch the sandy hem of her gown, a damp tendril of her hair—hoping to be renewed as she had been renewed, to be lifted above the sorrows and the cruelties of their daily existence, if only for an hour.

Her architects, masons, and stonecarvers created nothing beautiful that was not in her image, while every icon of the older religion that preceded her cult had been decapitated, mutilated, or hammered into dust. Maelor paused where two streets crossed while a procession passed. Although they were only a straggling line of limping, dazed-looking worshippers, just now coming home from the early-morning ritual, the magic that was on the day transformed them: they became acrobats and maskers of an old-style samhrad celebration, clattering through the streets with all the noise and good-natured merriment that bells and pennons, streamers and tambourines, could possibly provide.

Indeed, it was a setting deliberately fashioned for the Empress to rest in like a rare jewel. Her architects, masons, and stonecarvers created nothing beautiful that was not in her image, while every icon of the older religion that preceded her cult had been decapitated, mutilated, or hammered into dust. Maelor paused where two streets crossed while a procession passed. Although they were only a straggling line of limping, dazed-looking worshippers, just now coming home from the early-morning ritual, the magic that was on the day transformed them: they became acrobats and maskers of an old-style samhrad celebration, clattering through the streets with all the noise and good-natured merriment that bells and pennons, streamers and tambourines, could possibly provide.

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