Page 36 of The Castle & the Cloister

“I don’t… I don’t know,” she confessed. “He brings out the worst in me. I am so far from Lyria’s light when in his presence. All I know is that I would die before he bends me to his will, or let him burn all the Hand to ashes. Someday I will answer for that stubbornness to the Beloved Three.”

The Priest held his nephew close. The child still slept, oblivious to the stratagems and troubles of those around him, his chest rising and falling beneath the Priest’s fingertips.

“Go to Mortis, if the Beloved Three judge you wrongly,” he said. “He’ll know what you intend, and that submission to a tyrant only ever leads to grief. He will tell you that you are not wrong, and that he saw from the very first day how you struggle for a better world, blind though he may be.”

A faint smile colored Ariana’s answer. “Mortis isn’t blind, Priest. I do believe you’ve confused yourself with one of the gods again.”

“Well, we invented our gods, haven’t you heard? Or they invented us. I’m never quite sure which one. Either way, Mortis can do what I tell him for a change.”

Ariana got to her feet, unsteadily and with some effort. Then she reached down and took the baby from the Priest.

“Time to be queen again,” she said with reluctance. “Afon’s doubtless spewing slander about both of us, so I’d better find Orden and get ahead of it. Have I ever mentioned how glad I am that you’re here? You’d make a far better fratria than a Priest.”

“And you’d make a better soria than a queen.”

“Yet here we both are, tied by fate to an Inver king.”

“What fools the gods make of us.”

“Yes, Adda. And the goddesses too.”

Out in the darkness, one of the Priest’s ghosts let out a giddy laugh.

“Indeed. And the goddesses too.”

X

Cleverest among the Three is the moon, whose wisdom so often comes cloaked in darkness. Hers is the realm of death and judgment and subterfuge; hers is the province of questions without answers, of sins rendered necessary by circumstance. She alone of the sisters understands the difficulty of life in a world wracked by violence, and that sometimes, threats and force must be met in kind. Her followers are made in her image; subtle, changeful, and fluid in their ethics and ideals.

—FROM THECODEX SILARIS, HELD IN TRUST BY IMPERATRICE GILETA SILITHIEN FOR THE ORDER OF THE MOON

The sharp sting of a biting insect burned at Fia’s neck, and she slapped the spot harder than was strictly necessary. The pine forests in the outlying foothills were cloudy with gnats and midges and hungry flies, which were having their fill of the short-tempered postulant. Even her placid mule switched its tail in annoyance, occasionally tossing its dun head. Only an hour into Fia’s flight from Inverlyn, the creature had grown inexplicably lame in one hind leg—not enough to halt her progress altogether, but enough to force her to walk. Enough to slow them considerably. They’d traveled the night through and all morning, and Fia had not even reached the flat land of the plains.

Behind them, the castle and its surrounding city were still visible above the trees. Though Fia tried to keep herself from glancing over hershoulder now and then, she couldn’t help it. She’d expected to be fixed on the homeward road, bent on the path ahead, yet her attention wavered, skittering back to the mountain and its Inver stronghold. Guilt roiled in her stomach and images plagued her, flashing through her mind at random—Ariana in bed, desperately afraid and surrounded by blood. Ariana in the throne room, sealing the intentions of the powers she’d assembled as she bled onto the flagstones. Ariana with a world of sorrow in her eyes.

Steeling herself, Fia carried on. Though she’d spoken of herself as a gift from Dolenza, she was a free woman, and doubtless Honoria’s queen would have a ready answer if pressed as to her wet nurse’s whereabouts. All would be well. Fia was not needed in the castle—where Ariana Lyrien had been a perfect daughter of stars, Ariana Inver was obviously an accomplished mover of high powers, shifting the fate of nations with her every word and deed. She would be all right; without a mother, Miriel would not.

She would be all right.

At a fork in the road, Fia found an inn tucked beneath the pines. A ragtag group of gaunt and hollow-eyed Corrinians had camped among the trees across from the stone building, and Fia let out a fretful sigh at the sight of them. Corrinians made a habit of traveling by night, under the provision of Lyria, and stopping by day. Their presence on the roadside meant that either the Corrinians couldn’t afford the inn, or they’d been turned out. Encampments of that sort were a common sight across the great continent of the Hand, in the years since Honoria and Caervallion’s war.

Pulling the lead reins a little tighter, Fia brought her mule over to them.

“Clear skies and bright stars,” she said in Honorian, using the traditional Corrinian greeting, though she couldn’t speak the language it was made for. “I hope you’re able to rest well here. Where are you all traveling to?”

Most of the group was sleeping fitfully in makeshift tents, but one of the women got to her feet and went over to Fia, reaching out a hand. Fia did likewise, and they stood for a moment, palms resting above each other’s hearts. It was a relief and a comfort, to greet someone in the goddesses’ manner after spending time at the Inver court.

“We’re going southwest,” the woman said. “Across the plains. We’llleave the Hand altogether and continue to Eire, if we can find safe passage, and work for our fare.”

Fia shook her head. “Eire won’t take you. Or rather, they will, but once you get there, you’ll find it’s not a place you can stay. There isn’t any work to be had, and nowhere for you to settle. My Matria doesn’t send anyone there, if they come to us looking for advice.”

The woman removed her headrail, the old-fashioned headscarf that only sorias and Corrinians still wore. She wiped her damp forehead with the back of one hand and gave Fia a worried look. “It’s the last place within a week of the Hand’s shores that we can think of. Song Royale turned us out, saying they’ve taken in too many of us already. Skandara’s borders are closed. And Caervallion’s out of the question.”

“You’re right on that score,” Fia said. She glanced at the roadway and saw no one coming but a lone traveler in the distance, mounted and headed for the inn at a brisk and efficient trot.

“Go south to my cloister,” Fia told the Corrinian woman, her voice low. “Matria Dolenza can find passage to Vesper for you, and safe transport across the frontlines. There’s room in Vesper for Corrinians, and work to be had. They don’t worship the Three, or any god, really, but they’ll let you do and believe as you like, so long as it’s not harming anyone. They won’t send you to the front, either; they respect those who pursue peace.”

An elderly man with white hair and shockingly blue eyes joined the woman. A goddess mark ran along his jaw—four snow-white stars, stretching from his ear to his chin.