Page 39 of The Castle & the Cloister

“I’d say good for Orden Inver,” Fia said, “though I never thought I’d put those words together. If Orden hadn’t called for war, Afon would have eventually. That’s a neat solution to your king as a problem. I’m only surprised Orden would do it—an outright war means he could annex mostif not all of Caervallion, and make Corrin a protectorate at least, caught between his holdings. This is tidier, more peaceful, but… well, it’s less Inver, isn’t it? Also, why are you tellingmeany of this?”

Gwylen was silent for a moment. Then, “Orden’s men will fail. When Afon learns who they are—and he will, regardless of their training, because I have seen him torture prisoners who believed themselves unbreakable before—he will begin this next war at once, striking Honoria when it is least expected. Or perhaps he will strike Corrin first, knowing how it would hurt Ariana, and therefore Orden as well. He is a vicious man, Fia, wildly inventive in how he wounds those who wrong him. At present, he is content to wait and let Orden start any conflict, knowing that it brings him favor in Gileta’s eyes, and the potential for new ties and trade with Song Royale. But if he believes that Orden is already trying for his life, I will not be able to convince him to exercise restraint.”

Fia scowled down at the last of her lamb stew, suddenly uninterested in what was left of the food. “How will Afon know all this? How will Orden’s men fail? And again, why are you telling me?”

“Orden’s men will fail because I have tried to kill Afon Caervallin twenty-seven times as of this summer. He’s unaware of who was behind the attempts, and yet each one has failed, some through the most bizarre twists of fate and circumstance. I have no choice but to acknowledge that the Beloved Three are preserving his life, even as I use my position to undermine his crueler orders whenever possible.”

“I don’t believe you,” Fia said. “A goddess mark doesn’t make you honest, or prevent you from being a traitor to your people. Afon brought you here over anyone else. He obviously trusts you. Relies on you. That must come from somewhere.”

“Yes, of course,” Gwylen owned. “I do things for Afon that I never would have dreamed of, because it enables me to prevent other, worse actions. I believe you know someone in a similar position.”

Begrudgingly, Fia thought of Ariana, who had been a matchless soria and now sat at Orden Inver’s side, deftly playing those skeins of passion and intent that stretched from person to person across Honoria and the Hand.

“Fia,” Gwylen said in deadly earnest. “I swear to you by my mark that I come to you honestly, and in pursuit of peace. If I have misled youin any way, or acted in any manner other than one that honors the pacific heart of our goddesses, may Silith strike me dead. But I need you to warn Ariana of this, and to tell her she must find a way to dispose of Orden’s men before Afon returns home after the council. This has to be done quietly, without the involvement of kings.”

“Then do it yourself,” Fia said brusquely, tears pricking at the back of her eyes as she thought of the cloister, so tantalizingly close and yet so far beyond her reach. Miriel was waiting for her; Ariana was worn to a thread; why should either of them pay the price for this particular matter of state? “Isn’t that why you serve Afon in the first place?”

“I can’t.” Gwylen’s admission came out strained. “Anyone who might be able to manage the matter for me is engaged elsewhere. And it is no small thing, to bloodlessly remove an entire troupe of trained assassins.”

“How is Ariana to manage it, when you can’t?” Fia asked. She could hear the desperation in Gwylen’s voice when the ambassador answered.

“I don’t know. But sooner or later, she always finds a way.”

“Why can’t you tell her this yourself?”

Fia was growing belligerent, as the homegoing she had longed for slipped from her grasp. Gwylen met it with irritation.

“Because it would be dangerous for either of us to be seen speaking to each other privately. You are best placed to carry the message without suspicion, and what’s more, I think Honoria’s queen needs you by her side. So I’m giving you a reason to return. You can, of course, refuse me, if your conscience is clear. If you feel you can go back to Raea’s cloister and take up a soria’s role there, and never think of Ariana Inver with regret.”

Abruptly, Fia stood. With tension singing in every line of her, she stalked out of the stuffy, hot interior of the inn and into the cooler outdoor air, not stopping until the shadows of the encroaching forest hid her from view. Then she balled her hands into fists and rested her forehead against the rough bark of a stone pine.

“I don’t want this,” Fia muttered to Raea. “I won’t go back. I have somewhere else to be.”

But as she spoke, chatter from the Corrinian encampment across the roadway drifted through the trees. Fia could see the woman she’d left her mule with ladling thin soup from a pot, feeding the children first, and then the elderly. At last the Corrinian woman herself sat down without a bowl,for there’d been nothing left. The sight bit at Fia’s conscience—she’d gone to sleep with hunger gnawing at her insides many a time during childhood, and then on the long road from her village to the plains. But she’d had an end in mind on that last journey, at least—a clear destination, and a sanctuary. This family had none of that. There was only uncertainty before them, and the vain hope that perhaps someday, the homeland that was unable to sustain them would become a safe haven again.

If Fia could do even a bit of good on the Hand, if she could lessen the privation of those who suffered there by even a fraction, who was she to refuse? With her heart heavy in her chest, she collected her shoes from near the inn door and crossed the roadway to where the Corrinians sat. The woman Fia had spoken to before glanced up with a stricken look.

“I’m so sorry, I thought you’d be longer—have you had something to eat? I wish we could ask you to sit and share what we’ve got, but there’s nothing left.”

“No, no, it’s all right,” Fia said. “I’ve got to be going—there’s someone waiting for me. Thank you for watching my mule, and for the use of the cloak.”

She took the garment off and held it out to the woman, who frowned as she took it.

“You bought this, it’s yours now.”

“I did not, I rented it,” Fia said. “And you drove an awfully hard bargain, at that. Besides which, I need a favor. That mule belongs to Matria Dolenza—I want you to return it to her when you reach the cloister. Tell her Fia sent it back and was unavoidably delayed. The beast is a little lame, but not badly so—nothing a day of easy travel won’t sort out, I should think.”

“If you’re sure,” the Corrinian woman said uncertainly.

“I’m sure, and I’m in a hurry, so I’ll take my leave,” Fia answered. “Keep anything left in those cloak pockets, and may Blessed Raea shine on you.”

Gritting her teeth, she ducked her head and set off up the mountain. She’d left every coin she had in the Corrinian woman’s cloak, and little as she liked to be weighted down with belongings, it felt terribly familiar to be on the road and destitute once more. The only difference was that when she’d left the mountains, Fia had Miriel housed safely withinher. Every small movement, every kick and turnabout, had served as a reminder of why she was walking, and what stood to be gained by upending her life. Now, she did not have even that. Now, Fia was traveling away from Miriel once more, and every footstep was like a physical pain.

When she glanced back over her shoulder for one last look at the Corrinians, she found Gwylen standing in the inn doorway, a smile on her sharp and canny face.

XI

… Such marks appear on the skin almost as burns, but come painlessly to their bearers, nearly always before those bestowed reach the age of their majority. Some few infants are born already marked, but regardless of the age at which the image appears, it is viewed as a calling to faith and service, whether as a layperson or a religious. A goddess-marked soul is considered illuminated by the goddesses forever, and secure in their light and their regard. The only way to sever that bond and shatter that regard is to remove one’s mark with fire or a blade.