Page 35 of The Castle & the Cloister

“It doesn’t matter,” the Priest answered with an easy shrug. “But your understanding of our mode of worship is outdated. An Inver petitioner no longer spills their own blood for Tyrus, as your people do for Silith. Our gods have no need for self-sacrifice, and so I have reformed our offerings. A gift to the divine must be taken from someone else. Given your actions upstairs, one of our prisoners of war would be fitting, should you like me to have one brought out for you. It would lessen the offensiveness of your earlier sacrifice. Or you can proceed in the ordinary manner—Tyrus, of course, is less pleased by an incomplete sacrifice, but it’s better than nothing.”

As he spoke, the Priest rolled up both sleeves of his plain linen shirt,fingertips alive to the network of raised scars that crosshatched his forearms like a form of writing—an Inver sort of scripture, cut into his very skin. Afon let out a small, disdainful sound, and it came as no surprise to the Priest. What he’d made of his role required too much abasement, too much indignity. Only a father was meant to mark his son in this way, whereas the Priest was marked by every Inver who wished to spill blood for the gods.

Truthfully, he’d grown sick of cutting at others, and used the voices of the divine as an excuse to spare himself the task.

“Very well,” Afon answered, reaching for the Priest’s right arm. “Is there anything particular I must say?”

“Use the left,” the Priest said. “It’s the side I favor, and so will be the most potent offering. Make your cut, then request something of Tyrus.”

“No.” Ariana had approached without a sound, her hand replacing Afon’s on the Priest’s arm. “Today I will be the sacrifice, as I was yesterday. I believe Caervallion’s king has a powerful hunger to see me bleed again.”

A thousand words crowded together at the back of the Priest’s throat, but he dared not naysay her. It would only pique Afon, and make him more interested in a chance to prick Honoria’s queen.

Ariana placed her arm in the Priest’s hand, her skin cooler than it ought to be, and a little clammy. She still held the infant prince, the child pressed between them, and the Priest could feel the baby move and snuffle in his sleep. There were small tremors running through Ariana at intervals—all this was costing her greatly.

“The Priest will check you if you do more to me than the gods require,” Ariana told Afon. “I may be willing to bleed for your petition, but I’m not fool enough to put myself entirely in your hands.”

With a small singing of steel on steel, Afon took up the offertory knife from Tyrus’s altar.

“Does Orden know how well you trust his brother?” he asked, a note of amusement in his harsh voice. “And would he approve, if he did?”

“Just make your cut,” the Priest growled.

He never grew used to it, the sharp sting of pain that followed someone else’s act of worship. It brought no shame or humiliation to the Priest, as he knew he ought to feel. He’d chosen to stand in as a victim, an avatar for the conquered and overthrown. But the Priest did not feel conqueredwhen someone else cut him. He felt clear and steely and infinitely present in the moment after a bloodletting.

With Ariana as the offering, a full measure of shame surged through him like cold water. He counted down from five after Afon’s cut, ensuring enough blood was spilled, then reached into one pocket for the soft rag and bundle of clotting herbs he carried.

But when Afon spoke, everything in him froze. Even Ariana’s pulse beneath his fingers seemed to slow. The Priest had never been out of control in his sanctuary before. He’d always been the true master of things—his blood, his altars, his ostensible gods. Now, he found himself bearing witness to Afon’s vengeance for Ariana’s sacrifice in the audience hall.

“I name Silith as arbiter of this sacrifice,” Afon said, his rough voice ringing out as the Priest envisioned Ariana’s blood trickling down the altar, to the ancient stone beneath which still bore the stains of the Invers’ first slaughter. “And as Honoria’s queen has given blood willingly, she is bound to my request and to Silith’s judgment. I would live to see Orden Inver dethroned and made a corpse, and his child placed within my power. I would have the one whose blood carries my request live to witness it.”

Orden would be furious if he found out about this, the Priest thought numbly. Afon had made a mockery of Ariana, and the Priest was to blame. He shouldn’t have let the old bear anywhere near the Inver altars.

Then the queen spoke, her words a whisper meant for Afon only.

“Did you like that?” There was mockery in her normally gentle voice. “Are you eager to finish the job? A pity that you’ll never have the chance. Orden would raze all of the Hand before he let you touch me against my will. As for your petition, Silith does not hear prayers her sacrifices do not consent to.”

Despite her bravado, the queen was faltering. She leaned heavily on the Priest, and he felt when Afon draw closer, brushing against the Priest’s shoulder in order to menace Ariana.

“You forget that I am sworn to the service of the moon, and understand her requirements better than you do, with your ruined mark. It is the blood of your offering itself that serves as consent, and so it has already been given.”

With Ariana half fainting beside him, the Priest finally found his spine.

“Leave,” he ordered, and there was steel in the command. “I’ll havethe guards drag you out if you don’t go of your own will. What’s the worst a bit of force can do, precipitate a war? We’re past that point already.”

“It will beveryinteresting to hear what Orden thinks of the two of you.” Afon withdrew as he spoke. “Close as a pair of nesting doves, by the look of things. Does he relish being made a cuckold? Does it add to his pleasure, when he takes his soria to bed? Or is it both of you he enjoys? Silith knows, there must be some reason he kept a near relative alive.”

The Priest made no retort, preoccupied as he was with supporting Ariana. With a parting laugh, Afon retreated, heading for the stair and the tunnel that led to the castle above.

“It’s a dangerous game you’re playing, Ariana Lyrien,” Gileta said sternly. “Pitting kings against one another. I hope it doesn’t prove the ruin of you, and of the Hand.”

She followed in Afon’s wake, her retinue departing with a rustle of silk. Only when they were alone together did the Priest take Ariana’s full weight and lower her to the cold cavern floor.

“Just hold the baby for a moment,” she said dimly. “I’ll be all right.”

The Priest obliged, taking the prince as Ariana leaned against him. She was shivering violently now, and he wished he had something to offer her against the chill in the dank subterranean air.

“Ari?” he asked finally, when her shaking subsided and she sat a little taller. “What is it you intend, taunting Afon like that?”