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Check out an excerpt from The Blood That Binds Us:

Chapter 1 

I remember the first time I ever thought to myself: you’d be better off dead than here.

There were candles white and winking. Sandstone patterns in the floor. The altar, the knotwork, a shaft of light from Heaven. Perhaps you’ve died already. But it wasn’t the Kingdom of God I walked. Maybe it’s the other place.

Initiates were meant to cross the temple in thirty-three steps exactly, yet I’d never managed it in fewer than forty. Your legs are too stubby for this. The Archpoint bit his hairy lip through this particular flavor of shortcoming, but I sensed his disappointment as I lunged splay-legged across the footworn tiles. It didn’t take the High Priest of Kaladonya to know I looked like a spectacular jackass.

Sixteen, seventeen—you’re supposed to be under the skylight by now. I widened my gait as much as I dared, and the bells—at my sleeve, at my hem—chimed their mockery in unison.

God dammit, here it comes.

“I heard that,” the Archpoint sighed from the mezzanine above. “Once again, Prince Abzed. From the beginning.”

Be quiet when you’re told, Abzed. Jump through all the hoops or God might decide you’re not worth His time.

Wouldn’t that be great?

Three deep breaths and I was at it again, another spiraling attempt in the evening’s practice session. You’re out of time to get it right. Tomorrow was judgment day: I’d walk the temple, back and forth, for twenty-four hours. Alone.

Step.

Step.

Tingle-ting.

Flinch.

By intention, the Archpoint’s mezzanine was shaded from the sanctum below yet witness to its every inch. He sees you, but you don’t see him. Omniscience wasn’t sacrilege. But failure is a sin.

“Hold there, young man. I’ll be down in a moment.”

Here comes the lecture. With my eighteenth year on tomorrow’s Dawning sun, it seemed his final chance to treat me like a child.

He jingled over to me, eyes wet like a hound’s, beard banded neatly in strings of golden beads. In his robes he seemed a tapestry, vast and sweeping. “I worry,” he cooed through his plaits. “I worry you don’t grasp this.”

Behold, the Archpoint’s infinite insight. “I’m trying, sir. I’ve studied the Scripture, I’ve read all the histories—isn’t that what it means to be a Man of the Cloth? Why bother with all this?”

The Archpoint dabbed a glistening brow. “The Holy Vigil is about dedication, young man. Dedication and tradition, old as the Prophet himself. You’ll find the discipline as hundreds have before you.”

I stared at my legs, the brown of my naked feet. “I can’t cross it in thirty-three steps.”

“No. No you can’t.” He tugged his gilded beard like he could milk a better answer from it, but it only yielded color in his cheeks. There’s something you agree upon: you’re a horrid fit for this. But the priesthood was my birthright. Offer objections up to Heaven.

He smoothed his splendid garb. “There’s more to the priesthood than tiptoeing about the temple, to be sure; there are sacred texts to copy, sinners to absolve. You will carry the prayers of thousands. You will usher the dead to their rest.” His gaze was luminescent in the skylight’s Dusking glow. “Tomorrow’s ceremony demonstrates your commitment to serving the Lord and His people. It’s the cornerstone of what’s to come, and you would do well to take it seriously.”

Great. No pressure or anything. “What if I need more time? What if I mess it up?”

“No sense worrying, boy.”

Not the Archpoint’s voice. A brimstone sound.

“You will complete the Vigil,” a figure boomed from the temple entrance, “because it is your duty.”

Praises Be, give me a break.

I turned to greet him. “Of course, Father. I was just thinking—“

“Don’t dwell on what could be. Focus on what will be.” He clasped the Archpoint’s shoulder and muttered in his ear. In moments I was left alone with the King of Kaladonya. Dear old dad.

“Your brother has returned,” he said to the chamber. “Held the river from Okulu aggressors—didn’t lose a single man.”

And how many souls did he slaughter? “You must be so proud.”

“Don’t take that tone with me,” he snapped. “You could learn from Jadik; he doesn’t concern himself with failure. He succeeds because he must.” My father paced the tiles, marcher’s step, hands folded at his back. “I can’t hold your hand through this, Abzed.” He stared at the triangular knot slung above the altar, preferring the mysteries of the Triple Tie to meeting my eye. “You’re to be Archpoint someday, and you’re to start off on the right foot. Am I understood?”

When your father holds dominion over every dune this side of the Utep, you never get a say in the matter. “It’s one thing to say,” I offered. “Another to do.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m just saying there’s a lot of pressure on me—”

“Is there not pressure on Jadik? He deals in graver matters than you’ll ever see, and he makes no excuses.”

“Well I’m not Jadik.” Lord knows he won’t let you forget it.

The shouting started, then.

“—how dare you speak to your father that way—“

“—ever occur to you that I don’t want this life—“

“—ungrateful, you watch your damn mouth—“

“—why don’t you just have Jadik do it, then—“

Our barbs exchanged until she stopped us:

“In the Lord’s place? Have you no shame?”

Mama marched into the temple, clacking sandals singing heralds. So saith the Prophet: God is merciful.

My father straightened. “Just as I told the boy, he’s got no sense of respect—“

“Not him, dearest. You.” My mother busied herself straightening his collar. “It’s Abzed’s day tomorrow, and he has enough on his mind without you picking him apart.”

“Yes, but—“

 “I’m certain your time is too valuable to argue. Go play your war games with your firstborn, hmm?”

Some battles even kings couldn’t win. Not against the Resplendent Lady Irmana.

“As you say, love.” He kissed her cheek and took his leave, but not without a flame-tipped glance at me.

 “Thanks, Mama.” Dark bags were gathered beneath her earthen eyes. Flyaways peeked beyond the edges of her headscarf, and the jet clasp at her neck was loose. She’s been working. “God says to love family above all else but Lord, Father makes it a challenge.”

“Look at that,” she said with a smirk, “already you’re preaching the truth.” She wandered to the worship mats, found a place for us to sit. “He does it out of love, sweetness. He only wants what’s best for you.”

Something like a laugh escaped me. “I’m not what’s best for the priesthood, that’s for sure.”

“We all have a part to play. Try to look at the positives—it’s a life of modest meals and warm beds, and that’s not something everyone has.” She met my eyes, callused hands around my own. Hands of a parent. Loving. Labored. “Every day is a gift, especially tomorrow. Though I have no business telling a priest to count his blessings.”

“Not a priest. Not yet.” Dusking light poured down the hole in the ceiling, washing the temple in crimson. “Still time to mess it up.”

“Don’t let your father get to you. Even if things don’t go as planned, you’ll always have another chance.”

Thanks for trying, Mama. I imagined a parade of failures, one botched attempt behind the next like soldiers in my brother’s ranks. And if eventually you do it right, you’re locked in the priesthood for life.

“It’s all hitting me now,” I said.

“Duty has that habit. Do you know how long I knew your father before we married?”

I didn’t.

“Seven days. We met at a feast one summer, and by the end of the night it was all arranged. One week later we were joined until our dying breaths. But trust me, honey—there are worse ways to live one’s life.”

“Such as?”

“For starters, you’ll still live in the palace. Would you sooner be a beggar in the streets?”

“No, but—“

“And you get to stay with your family. You won’t meet your end in the frozen north like your uncle Maldeeb did . . .”

I squeezed her hand. “You miss him?”

“Since the day he left for Vangheim. Now more than ever, Prophet rest his soul.” Her hands signed the Triple Tie, a background gesture, rote as sewing. “At least my marriage kept me here. What my brother saw in foreign rule, only the Lord knows now.”

“He got to see the world.” What will you see? Sweat-stained robes for another fifty years?

She rubbed jeweled fingers down my arm. “You’ll see a Holy People grow through your guidance. You’ll see God’s vision made reality before your very eyes. Even kings miss out on miracles like these.”

“There’s plenty else I’ll miss out on.”

“Don’t talk that way.”

“Foreign food, fine art, wine, sex—ow!” I rubbed my stinging cheek.

 “Well I must try something to snap you out of this! Please try to think outside yourself, Abzed—consider those you’ll bring salvation, those who would never know peace without you.” She kissed the spot she slapped. “And no matter what happens tomorrow, if you succeed or if you stumble, you’ll always be my little miracle-worker.”

I smiled for her sake, but I’d hardly felt emptier in all my life. I’d been her little miracle-worker since the day I was born, when the Menders said I wouldn’t last through the night. Five weeks too early, hardly enough of you to call a runt. There was no explanation when my silence broke at Dawning. Must have been a miracle. God saved the little welp. And why wouldn’t He? As the royal family’s second-born, I was destined to lead in faith, if not in war or politics. My fate was stitched inside His Holy Design. Not that you had a say in the matter.

I thought about quitting. Mama hugged me all the same.

“Come along, sweetness. A cup or two will cheer you up.”

***

As ever, Mama’s tea was flavored with love: spicy and sweet, citrus and heat. A cinnamon morning of laughter and play, a fireside evening of stories. But it still couldn’t quiet my thoughts that night. Who will take the first shift watching you? What would Father say if you fail? What if you die of boredom three hours into the ceremony?

I’d see two Dawnings before I’d sleep again, but still my bed seemed made of stone, so I rolled from the linens and stretched near the windows, their summer air cut with the cool of desert night. Outside the palms of the water gardens waved, brass-capped ramparts rose beyond. Dunes slumbered in the distance, the great green Utep River at their feet, and I found myself longing to plunge down in its waters, like tomorrow could be cleansed. Or drowned.

You’re not ready. You’ll never be ready.

A robe rack watched me from across the bedroom, my garments draped ghost-like across its arms. One bore the evening’s practice gear, its dewdrop bells glinting in the moonlight. Another held the real thing, the holy robe I’d spent the last year crafting. It was free of bells, unspoiled, but it wasn’t perfect, and it set me picking at the fibers. Stop. Before you ruin it.

The final sands were falling, now; I’d wear my work and face critique. It’s out of your hands, like always.

Here’s to a day of godly nonsense.

A path of righteous folly.

Years of writing, chanting, blessing, praying.

Of skirting Heaven’s expectations.

A third garment was hooked on the back of the rack: a shawl I’d started years ago. It was no priest’s assignment, no clerical demand but a project all my own, my knots, my needled patterns. So much had gotten in the way, and only more would come. Sermons and services, birth rites and burials. Throngs of the faithful, hearts aching for the Lord.

If only that’s what waited. 

Looking back, I would’ve sought my brother. I’d hug my father, kiss my mother. I’d finish that shawl if it took me all night, relish every sacred second until my home was turned to ashes—

But I knew not the ruin awaiting me, not then, the night before. So instead, I curled to the window with a volume of On the Lives of the Prophet, certain it would put me to sleep.