Page 47 of The Castle & the Cloister

“The type of bleeding you were speaking of. I’ll show you how to use each part of it, and then I want you to leave, and never call on me again. I, however, will come to you at harvest time, when you will make good on your promise to show me our daughter.”

Fia said nothing, hiding how his continued rejection stung. Her mind was elsewhere as Nikolau instructed her in how to use the contents of the bag, but she paid enough attention to ensure she was capable. When he’d finished, she nodded her goodbye tersely, and he did the same. That was all that remained of what they’d once been to each other. It was cruelof Fia to come back to him, to harass him, to use their child as leverage rather than to let him be. But she hadn’t seen any other way.

Fia did not look back as she left the storeroom. The sentry posted at the foundry’s door made no move to stop her, and she carried on until the faithful district was behind her, the labyrinth of Inverlyn’s streets growing livelier once more.

Only then did Fia slip into a shadowed alleyway and press her forehead to a cool stone wall. Knowing she’d made Miriel a pawn and filled with loathing over having done so, as well as how ill Nikolau viewed her now, only one thing served as a comfort.

The memory of Dolenza’s words as she’d sent Fia away.

Is there no one else you care for? No one else for whom you want—what is it you said? Peace and security?

She wished such things for Ariana. She wished them for Nikolau, in spite of his disdain. And she wished them in a faint, abstract way, which was growing more concrete with each passing sunrise, for Honoria.

Perhaps it was enough now. Perhaps Dolenza would see the way her vision of the world had grown, and welcome her home with open arms.

Let it be so, Bright Raea, Fia prayed fervently.Please, please, let it be so.

XIII

By our traditions, if not by our laws, I move to have the ninth Priest stripped of his office. Not only has he tampered with the rites and honors due to our gods, claiming divine inspiration in matters of personal choice, but he has in every way worked to render our people weak and diffident. He welcomes blasphemous worshippers to our sanctum, permitting them to carry out their antiquated and occult religious services, and it is everywhere rumored about that his preference is for the followers of the Beloved Three. Frankly, it is an insult to our forefathers that he was permitted to live. Three times over he ought to have been put down: first, as a royal bastard, second, as a threat to the current throne, and third, as a heretic and underminer of the purity of our faith.

—A MOTION PUT FORWARD BY HADRIAN INVER, STRUCK DOWN BY A NARROW MARGIN IN COUNCIL DURING THE SECOND YEAR OF ORDEN INVER’S REIGN

You asked for me?” the Priest said, as he let himself into Ariana’s private chambers.

Her summons had been a welcome distraction—the mountain sanctuary, usually a place of refuge and isolation, swarmed with naming ceremony attendants. The Priest’s preparations were all complete, and he’d been glad to leave the noise and heat and torch smoke behind.

The queen’s rooms, by contrast, were utterly silent. If there was anyonepresent besides himself, Ariana, and the prince, he couldn’t hear them. A twinge of regret stirred in the Priest, that the postulant was not there. He wanted to test her mettle again—to determine whether or not she was a fit companion and ally for the queen. The spark of interest he felt was all for Ari’s benefit, the Priest told himself sternly. It had nothing to do with the pleasure he’d taken in matching wits with that bristling mountain cat, or the way her goddess mark had felt cool beneath his hand.

“Yes,” Ariana said quietly. “I wanted to speak with you about the ceremony tonight. Have you chosen a prisoner for the sacrifice?”

The Priest nodded. “A Vesperin soldier—a commander from their army. He’s the highest-ranking prisoner of war in our custody at present. Orden will believe his death honors your child.”

“And you?” Ariana asked. “Do you believe the same?”

Sweeping the floor with his cane, the Priest went to her, where she sat before the fireless hearth, in one of a pair of highbacked, cushion-strewn chairs. Lowering himself into the other, the Priest fixed his full attention on Ariana.

“I was under the impression that we have an agreement,” he said. “Certainly, neither of us has ever put it into words, but it goes like this: I do not ask about your faith. You do not ask about mine.”

“I want to know,” the queen said. He heard her rise, and then the small, living weight of the prince settled in his arms. “Do you believe this death will honor my son? Do you believe it will earn him the regard of the Inver gods?”

With one finger, the Priest traced a line across the sleeping prince’s face, from the crown of his head to his chin. The scent and weight and shape of him was an echo of Ellimere. The Priest had sacrificed for her, as his gods required. Had wanted to do it, and felt it would serve her well. But he hadn’t intended for it to be life’s blood that he spilled—only an offering of his own, willingly given. The death he sealed her name with had been a matter of opportunity and convenience. Tonight would be different. There would be no threats, no insidious whispers in the dark or struggles over the war god’s altar. Instead, the sacrifice would take the shape of a prisoner on his knees, helpless in a strange land, chained to the altar onto which he bled out and died.

“I believe there is little honor in my people at all,” the Priest answeredwith complete honesty. “And as the gods do not speak to me, I’m a poor judge of what might secure their favor.”

Ariana let out a regretful sigh. “I thought as much. What is the prisoner’s name?”

“Acaius Berentos.”

“And when you make an offering, Priest, how do you go about it? You seem to manage things… neatly. When you make the sacrifice, everything is over in a heartbeat. What must be done to ensure a quick death, as you do?”

Only awareness of the prince in his arms anchored the Priest as Ariana spoke. She made her inquiries in an even tone, but the Priest could think of no reason save one for her to ask such a thing.

“Little queen,” he said, leaning forward as he spoke. “What are you planning to do?”

“To bless my son.”

He realized, then, that it was hollowness, not evenness that he heard in her voice. There was a void in her—an empty and blighted place from which these words and intentions proceeded.