Page 38 of The Castle & the Cloister

“First, there’s a serving girl coming your way,” Gwylen said. “Order the lamb stew from her. The lentils are burned—mine are barely palatable.”

The serving girl, a pretty young woman with chestnut hair and an open smile, took Fia’s terse order with good humor that never faltered. Lamb stew, cider, and a roll of bread, and Fia thanked those who’d offered her money as a pilgrim for that. If she’d not stopped and been taken for one, she’d have had to forage from the roadsides on her way back to the cloister, though the Solis Plains offered a veritable banquet to penniless travelers.

When the serving girl left, Gwylen spoke again.

“You know the Honorian queen. Tell me how.”

“We met when we were younger,” Fia said cagily, unwilling to give any information to an agent of Afon’s. “Where and how is no business of yours.”

“The Corrinian meadows,” Gwylen answered. “Seven years back. You both served the wounded and dying among the hospital tents there. I saw you once, when you visited Silith’s women at their work. We all talked about you—brought down from the mountains by Raea’s will.”

Fia bristled. “Why ask a question you know the answer to?”

“To sort you out,” Gwylen said. “To determine how trustworthy and how trusting you are. To discern what it is Dolenza sees in you.”

A small disdainful sound escaped Fia. “Nothing worthy of a soria, at least so far. She’s holding my daughter hostage until I can prove my worth.”

“An interesting way of putting things,” Gwylen said. “Rather melodramatic. You have the Inver flare for theatrics.”

“There’s not a drop of Inver blood in my veins,” Fia answered. “I’m backward Honorian peasant, all the way down.”

“Also an interesting way of putting things. You have an unusual view of the world, Fiametta Raeana, Nira’s daughter, who grew up in the village above Helvar Pass.”

Gwylen was transparent in her attempts to shock Fia with the breadth of her knowledge, and so Fia doggedly refused to be shocked. The serving girl arrived with a tray of cider and stew, and Fia handed her a silver coin, mumbling something about keeping whatever was left over. The girl flushed and stammered and curtsied three times before hurrying away, eyes shining at her good fortune.

“Do you know what that was worth?” Gwylen asked curiously as Fia tore her roll in half and sopped up stew, stuffing her mouth full with a contented sigh. The cloister was the only place where she’d ever been certain of her next meal, and life had taught her to enjoy each one as if it might be the last for a long while.

“No,” Fia said around an enormous bite of bread. “I’d never even held a coin besides a penny until Dolenza gave me my travel alms. We had next to nothing in my village, and traded with what little we did have.”

“You could have bought a horse with that coin. Not a broken-down one, a fine-blooded mount. Do you wish to get it back?” Gwylen’s voice was alive with curiosity, and Fia felt rather like a coney being stalked by a mountain cat.

“No,” she said flatly. “What would I do with a horse? I’m sure the girl will put what she got to good use. I’d only have tithed it to Raea once I’d found out what it was worth, anyhow. I don’t like to be weighed down withthings. You can’t be troubled by the loss of what you never had in the first place.”

“What about your daughter?” Gwylen pressed. “Is it a relief to be unencumbered by her?”

Fia twisted in her seat, furious. “Don’t you speak of my Miriel. I’d flay myself alive if she needed me to. I’m only here because I want a safe place for her to grow.”

“Turn back to your meal,” Gwylen said coolly. “Act as if you were stung by a wasp. There are two guards watching us, in the south corner. Watching me, I should say—Caervallin travelers in Honoria are few and far between. Better we don’t let them know this conversation is happening, or they’ll stop you on your way out, and ask some very pointed questions.”

“I’d have nothing to tell them,” Fia sulked. “Just that a servant of Afon Caervallin wanted to have an unpleasant chat about my personal life.”

“You are a beetle,” Gwylen said with amusement. “I can see why Dolenza is testing you so scrupulously before offering you a place.”

“A beetle?” Fia sputtered, nearly choking on her cider. “I am not.”

“Yes, you are. We’ve got ones with spines that live in the Caervallin forests. If you prick your finger on them, your whole hand swells up for three days. Looks terrible, and makes you very awkward, but it doesn’t hurt too badly and does no lasting damage.”

Although the lamb stew was excellent, Fia had begun to lose patience with this odd interview. “I’m halfway through this bowl,” she warned. “When it’s finished, I’m walking out. So you’ve got until then to say whatever you mean to. I don’t think you’ve quite come to the point yet, unless you rode all this way to tell me I remind you of an insect.”

“Of course not. I’m here to tell you that there’s a small party of Orden Inver’s handpicked men camped in a clearing just south of Craygyllen, the Caervallin capital. They’re half a mile east of the southern crossroads. Is all that clear? Could you repeat it, if needed?”

“Orden’s men, half a mile east of the crossroads, south of Craygyllen,” Fia said.

“Good. These men are meant to be ghosts. The sort who leave no trace, who cannot be identified, who carry out quiet work on behalf of their king. They’ve been sent to assassinate Afon Caervallin as he travels home from these pointless peace talks. Orden means to win his new war before he even begins it.”

Fia felt a strange joy as her mind stretched to take in the implications of everything Gwylen said. She’d had the same sensation at the cloister, while sorting out the nuances of Dolenza’s business and politicking. The webs between people, their connections and intentions and passions, all seemed like strings to Fia, to be plucked at will, resulting in harmony or discord depending on the ability of their player.

“What do you have to say to that?” Gwylen asked.