Page 101 of The Castle & the Cloister

Beneson stayed where he was, seated on the floor, as Fia retreated to the bed and fed Justus. The baby fell into milk-drunk, contented sleep, and at last Beneson spoke.

“There is… a guard,” he said slowly. “I think you might want to seeher. I won’t tell you her name, but she’s stationed down in the city, and she lives at the top of Pharilon Way, in the merchants’ district. She’s been a presser before—volunteered for it too. Mostly she’s on duty from early morning till late afternoon. If you leave now, you could catch her going home. I can stay with the king again.”

The faintest spark of hope kindled in Fia, but she tamped it out immediately, refusing to allow it to rise into a flame.

“Thank you, Ben,” she said, rising to her feet and setting Justus down in his bassinet. “You’re a better friend than I’d hoped to find when I set out for Inverlyn.”

The boy smiled bashfully, but there was guilt and hurt lurking behind his eyes. Fia knew she was on the cusp of drawing him into something he’d never forget, but she steeled herself against sympathy. Beneson himself had told her surviving on the Invers’ mountain meant being dangerous—becoming a threat. He knew the cost of living here, and still he chose to stay. Fia refused to think of how narrow the boy’s options would be if he left, and the poverty he’d risk, cutting ties with the castle.

The merchants’ district was a great deal busier than the market square where Fia had passed her morning. She could feel herself bristling, the hair on the back of her neck rising, as she was forced to integrate herself among the crowds milling about the streets. Twice, she had to stop and ask for help, being unfamiliar with the sprawl of the lower city.

At last she came to Pharilon Way, and met with a stroke of luck. Whether or not the guard in question lived at the head of the street, Fia couldn’t say, but she was certainly posted at its lower end, occupying a street corner with an older, pinch-faced man. The two of them wore the Honorian guard’s crimson-and-gold uniform, and stood side by side, talking and laughing.

There was nothing about the woman’s mannerisms that spoke of Ariana, but that didn’t matter. All that did was her slight stature, the long black braid snaking over one of her shoulders, the set of her jaw that, though flinty, was faintly reminiscent of the queen.

She was a better match than even the girl in the market square. And as Fia watched, she couldn’t help feeling the spark within her grow brighter. The woman and her partner clearly relished the power they held over thepeople of Inverlyn—they spoke harshly to any who asked for assistance, and several times detained a ragged-looking urchin or beggar for no reason other than to turn out their pockets, searching for stolen goods. Each time, they kept whatever small coins were found on the subject of their searches, ignoring any protests and sending the victims of their attentions off with a rough shove.

“Better,” Fia whispered, desperate to convince herself. “Much better.”

Bells rang out over the city, sounding the hour, and the two guards parted ways. Fia watched as the woman walked to the top of the street, stopping before a building meant for housing several families. She fitted a key in the lock of a door on the first level but hadn’t even managed to open it before the door was pulled open, revealing a disheveled and white-haired woman, lines of worry seaming her face.

“Kaia,” the woman said, wrapping her arms around the guard and visibly fighting back tears. “I’ve been so worried, looking for you and for your father. Have you seen him anywhere?”

The guard sighed, and an entire change seemed to come over her. Her face grew softer, her sharp eyes gentle.

“Matta,” she said. “Patta isn’t here right now. He went away, you know, some years ago. You have a hard time remembering.”

“Went away?” The tears filling the old woman’s eyes spilled over, tracing their way down her lined cheeks. “He’d never just leave me like that! Where has he gone?”

“Come inside,” the guard said soothingly. “I’ll make you some terramon broth. You always used to tell me it’s good for the nerves at the end of a hard day.”

But the old woman’s mind was working, and she pressed a trembling hand to her mouth.

“He’s dead, isn’t he? Amon died, and you never told me!”

“Matta,” the guard said, and Fia could hear the heartbreak and weariness in her voice. It was clearly a conversation they’d had a hundred times, and which always came to the same end. “You were there when he died. You were there for his last rites. You just can’t remember. Come inside, won’t you? Let’s have that broth—there’s nothing to worry about, Patta may be gone, but I’m going to look after you.”

The old woman let herself be led inside, and the door shut behindthem both. Fia knew then that it didn’t matter who she found as a replacement for Ariana—if there was no mortal threat present to herself or those she held dear, it wasn’t for her to level judgment against another soul, or to make herself the arbiter of life and death. That was the province of the Beloved Three, and no matter how bitterly defeat rested within her, she would not try to take the reins of fate into her own hands again.

The vision in Fia’s bloodborne dream wavered before her. The Priest seemed safe enough, but Ariana—would what she’d seen still befall Honoria’s gentle mistress? Biting at her lip until she tasted blood, Fia turned toward the mountain’s pinnacle.

She was halfway through the city, traversing a narrow but busy roadway, when a voice came from directly behind her. “Don’t turn around. Keep walking. I’ve a proposition for you.”

If Fia hadn’t spent nearly an hour listening to Ambassador Gwylen speak without seeing her face before, she might not have recognized the voice at once. But she immediately knew those dark undertones, and that Caervallin accent. With a potent blend of fear and anticipation singing through her veins, Fia walked on.

“You need something,” Gwylen said. Being unable to look at her made Fia feel powerless and giddy with frustration. “A way out for your queen. I do not deny that Ariana’s death would make some things far easier for me, but neither do I relish seeing her brought down. So I offer you salvation for her, though it will come at a price.”

“Is this you offering, or your master?” Fia said sourly. “Am I speaking to Gwylen, or through her to Afon?”

“To me. Afon sent me here to propose marriage to Ariana, and a joining of Honoria and Caervallion if he affects her rescue.”

Fia snorted inelegantly and stepped around a steaming heap of horse manure at the last possible second, hoping it would catch Gwylen unawares. No sound from behind her betrayed annoyance or mortification, however.

“I assume Ariana declined such a generous and enticing offer,” Fia said.

“Yes. She seems uninterested in her own survival.”

“Not uninterested in her own survival,” Fia corrected. “More interested in the survival of others.”