Page 104 of The Castle & the Cloister

The little soria knelt, too, and something twisted within Fia as lamplight gleamed off a blade in the girl’s hand.

“Iknow,” Lynette said. Her sorrow was gone, replaced by that perfect conviction. “And it’s all right. If I’m to be a star, let me start now by serving as your guide.”

The hilt of the knife was in Fia’s hand, which Lynette drew to the soft, pale curve of her own neck. The world blurred mercifully as Fia’s eyes filled with tears—a gift of salt water from the goddess of the moon.

“I will never forgive myself,” Fia whispered. “I will never forget this. I will live in this moment forever.”

“But you’ll live,” Lynette said. “And I cannot.”

All Fia could recall afterward was the feeling of Lynette’s hand lightly cupping her own. The tug of the knife as lamplight refracted on a veil of tears, turning all the world to stars. Lynette’s grasp falling away as warm blood flowed down the front of her kirtle. It was not only the knife that brought her blood, but Fia’s touch. She gave this to the soria as a parting gift—that Lynette would not die despairing, or afraid, or even resolved. Lynette died with the transcendent bliss of the blooded touch drawing life from her through the wound in her throat. The little soria left the world in silence, with no last words, no regret or change of heart, no ecstatic testament that she had reached her goal and was joining her beloved goddess. She bore her pleasure as she had borne her pain—stoically, crumpling to the ground and lying still, her wide eyes going dim as the unmistakable pall of death settled over her.

It seemed to Fia that she had never done anything but tend the dead and dying. From the moment she’d entered the world, still tethered by the birthing cord to a twin who’d been smothered before she could draw a single breath, Fia had been marked for sorrow and for hardship. She’d fought against it, striving with everything in her for life, yet here she was, kneeling at the side of a soria who couldn’t bear to live.

Slowly, Fia got to her feet. Slowly, she wrapped Lynette in a blanket rather than a shroud. And the girl truly did weigh no more than a child, when Fia settled her into the handcart with infinite care.

“Where do I go from here?” Fia asked the encroaching dark, her words faint and joyless.

In answer, Silith’s long-dead sorias began to sing—a funeral hymn, to guide a fallen star and a lost daughter of the sun through their midnight realm.

Fia left Lynette on the narrow bed in the Priest’s cell, laid out with her hands placed over her heart as if in prayer. She left her dressing gown and sheepskin slippers there as well, and did not take a lamp when she left, because she wanted the cold, and for once, wanted the dark. Following the road of wire to the altar rise, Fia found two ruddy lights flickering atop it—basins of offertory flame, scattered with loose incense, glowed on the altars of the hearth goddess and Mortis.

The Priest himself sat at the base of the rise, back in his plain religious garb and cast into flickering shadows by the uneven light from the altars. He had his head in his hands and straightened at the sound of Fia’s approaching steps.

“What are you doing down here?” the Priest asked. “I came down before dawn and gave orders that no one’s to come into the sanctuary until afternoon. Glora’s in an uproar over having had so little time to prepare for the coronation tonight, but I needed the quiet.”

Fia did not answer the question. Instead, she lowered herself down at the Priest’s side, slipped one arm through his, and put her head on his shoulder. She was unspeakably tired. She wanted rest. Oblivion. A long descent into unconsciousness, after which she might wake to a better world.

“I’m sorry,” the Priest murmured. He shifted her closer to himself, putting an arm around her and kissing the top of her head. Fia knew it would do her good to cry again, giving vent to the hideous ache of grief inside her with another tempest of weeping. But she couldn’t. She’d gone beyond that, into a hurt that could be healed by nothing but time. The best she could hope for was to endure it, until it began to fade.

“I’ve been praying,” the Priest said, with a hint of mockery directedonly at himself. “It’s not something I do often, or have much faith in. But there’s no other way for me to help you or Ariana now, so I thought I’d try.”

“How do Invers pray?” Fia asked numbly.

“With blood,” the Priest said, reaching around her and pulling up his left sleeve to reveal a fresh bandage on his lower arm. “How else?”

Fia flinched. She wanted no more of bloodshed—if her time on the mountain had driven home one thing, it was that she believed implicitly in the rightness of the goddesses’ blood prohibition. And yet she knew that if need arose, she’d break it again. It was difficult, so difficult to reconcile what was true and right and best with how one must live in the world, and sluggish with sorrow, Fia’s mind could not strive for reconciliation or distinction at present. All she could do was let the chasm between the ideal and the practical be.

“Where’s Justus?” Fia asked presently.

“Safe,” the Priest said. “With Beneson and Nikolau in the king’s chambers. Where were you?”

“Don’t ask me that,” Fia said, and turned her face up to the Priest and kissed him.

She wanted a reminder of what was warm and good in life—of what made it worth living. The Priest obliged, kissing her back until little by little, Fia lost herself in him. There was nothing left but this oasis of light in an endless sea of darkness, and the two of them together, the Priest’s mouth on Fia’s, his hands tangled in her hair. She could feel herself coming alive again, like waking slowly from a night of chilling dreams. The first cutting edge was wearing off her grief, dulled by each passing moment, by the quick, wanting cadence of the Priest’s breath, by the knowledge growing in Fia that though she’d paid a terrible price, she’d done the impossible and obtained what was necessary for Ariana. Inside her, the cold helplessness she’d felt since first seeing Lynette had begun to thaw. It melted into cool water, into warm seas, into a hot spring, into something torrid and expectant.

Fia pressed herself against the Priest, and he pulled her closer, his hands running down her waist and hips to cup the full curves of her underside, until with a lift from him and a motion from Fia, she was on top of him again, just as she’d been the night Justus came between them. There’d be no interruptions this time, though, not with the little king safein Beneson’s care, and the Priest’s orders to keep the sanctuary empty carrying the full weight of the regency now.

They slowed a little, the Priest’s kisses growing languid, Fia’s fingers trailing along the sides of his face, his arms, his chest. When, at last, she slid her hands beneath his loose shirt to trace the planes of his back, they were both flush with nearness, with the accord between them, with desire. With a single easy movement, Fia pulled the Priest’s linen shirt over his head, and it warmed her to the core to have an Inver half-naked and in her power.

Fia deepened their kisses, parting her lips, teasing the Priest with the tip of her tongue until he took control, kissing her back hungrily, his mouth fierce on her own. The shift Fia wore had pooled around her knees and the Priest slipped a hand beneath it, a sudden thrill running up Fia’s spine as he brushed the velvet skin of her inner thigh. At the first touch between Fia’s legs, she let out a ragged gasp. Tightening her hold on the Priest’s shoulders, she rose up and he took full advantage of the opportunity, sliding two fingers into her as his thumb brushed a little higher, sending a jolt of heat and pleasure through Fia. She could feel herself spiraling into the sort of agonized longing that begged for an outlet, that pleaded for release, but when she could think of nothing else but the Priest and his touch, he withdrew. He guided Fia down beside him, until she lay with the stone of the altar rise solid beneath her, her feet braced against the rock. And when he pulled away, moving to her feet and running slow hands from her ankles to her knees, until her night shift fell and gathered around her waist, Fia understood.

“Not here,” she managed to get out. “Let me show you.”

Rising, Fia took the Priest by the hand and led him to the altar of Tyrus, god of war. She pushed aside the basin ready for offertory fire and the sacrificial knife with an impatient sweep of her arm, and they let out a metallic clang as they fell to the stone below.

“Here,” Fia said adamantly, and the Priest did not hesitate. As she lifted herself up onto the altar, he knelt before her, on the rust-red, spreading stain where a Matria and countless others had died. The Priest lifted the hem of Fia’s shift, his hands running from her knees up the soft and welcoming stretch of her flanks. She moved a little, spreading her legs further to welcome him, and then his clever Inver mouth was on her. Everyfraught word, every secret that had been shared and plot that had been devised between them, had been a promise leading to this moment. It was too much to hold, it was unbearable, it would tear her apart, and—

“Stop,” Fia gasped, as she felt her body tensing in preparation for the moment of release. “Silas,stop.”