Page 49 of The Castle & the Cloister

“An Inver doesn’t turn his back on someone he’s unsure of. If I seem unyielding, perhaps it’s only that I’m afraid.”

“Afraid, yes. But not of me.”

A sudden shock ran through the Priest as Fia’s hand reached out and caught his. Her fingers, long and strong and calloused, drew his own to the base of her neck. Her skin was ever so slightly damp with sweat, the heavy rope of her braid rough against the back of his hand, but it was the sunburst goddess mark she’d drawn him to. A glassy smooth whorl, unaccountably cooler than the rest of her warm and living flesh. Curse her for knowing he’d been restless with the desire to touch her and her mark again.

“That’s what you’re afraid of,” Fia said. “Of Raea. Of her sisters. Everyone on this mountain, for all their brawling and backstabbing, is sick with fear of who the Three were and are and will be. And you? You’re the worst of the lot. I can see it in you—half your fear is wanting, and you’re afraid ofthatmore than anything else.”

“What do you recommend for fear, then?” the Priest asked. “How would a soria counsel me to root it out?”

Fia reached up with her free hand, pressing it to his chest. Her touch was soft—insignificant enough that it was not a requirement to yield. But the Priest couldn’t resist. Fia’s gentle hand compelled him to move, until he stood with his back pressed against the narrow stair’s wall. Then she shifted, both her hands on his shoulders now, and pulled herself up to his level, her own back to the opposite wall, their bodies pressed together, her face a bare inch from his.

“A soria,” Fia breathed, “would advise you to give yourself over to your wanting, because when desire and fear are at war, only surrendering to one will save you from the other. But I am not a soria, and I know an Inver never surrenders willingly.”

She was tall, but still not so tall as the Priest himself. He could feel her warm breath on the base of his throat as she spoke, the scent of mint leaves and chamomile joining the lavender and sun-drenched earth that defined her. He’d expected Fia to be all angles and hard edges—for her body to match her temper and her soul. But there was a plush luxuriousness to parts of her, in the swell of her breasts, her belly, her hips. She was not, as he’d anticipated, a creature still bearing the shape of the mountains, with the same peaks and cliffs and indomitable planes. Instead, she was the sea that rose and fell, that wooed and raged, that gave life or stoleit with a single shift of mood. He wanted to press forward another half inch—to sink his hands into her, to feel the waters close around him, to taste salt.

The Priest knew better. So he stood his ground—what little was left of it—and drew in a ragged breath.

Fia shifted once more, rising up against him, her hands on his shoulders as she moved to the next stair. As she went, she drew closer still, until he could all but feel the phantom touch of her mouth brushing against the side of his jaw as she gained ground, leaving them both where they had wanted to be. No retreat required. No surrender exacted, or victory won. The only cost was this: that they’d stood heart-to-heart for a moment, inhabiting level ground.

A high price to pay, because with the postulant on the next stair, the Priest felt as if he’d come out, for a single moment of his life, into the hot blaze of the noonday sun, only to be suddenly thrust back into the chill of midnight.

“Fia,” the Priest said, and her footsteps stopped. She’d been leaving already, unmoved by what had passed between them, even as the Priest felt he’d never be warm again in the wake of her touch. “The queen—she’ll need you tonight. She’s planning to make a blood sacrifice to Tyrus, at Orden’s request.”

“A blood sacrifice to your war god,” Fia said narrowly. “What does that entail?”

“Killing a conquered prisoner. Spilling his blood on Tyrus’s altar. Matria Olienne, who oversaw this sanctuary when it was Silith’s, was the first of such sacrifices made on the mountain.”

He added the last not out of a desire to be combative, but because he wanted to lay his own history bare before her. He wanted her to know, fully, who he was and what traditions he stood within, so that if she ever chose to be near him again there’d be no ignorance in it.

“Fix it,” Fia ground out. “You can’t just stand by and let Ariana do this. She’s made herself apostate a thousand times at your clan’s bloody court, but this—it’s worse than all that. No daughter of stars could do this and come away unbroken.”

“She’s less fragile than you think,” the Priest said.

“And closer to the end of herself than you know,” Fia answered. “It’s your sanctuary. Your altar. Your god. Your feet I will lay the blame at if she does this and damages herself in the process.”

“I mean to try to get her out of it,” the Priest said. “I’ve thought before, how I would save someone from the altar, once they’ve been consigned to a sacrifice. I have the means, but I’m not sure if I have the time. The ceremony begins—”

“Find the time,” Fia ordered.

“I said I’d try.” It was the Priest who radiated repressed frustration now, as if he’d borrowed it from Fia. “I’m always trying, but sometimes I come up short.”

“No,” she said. “No failure. See to it you succeed.”

“All right,” the Priest conceded. “Let it be as you say. I’ll succeed.”

But he was far from certain. All he could think of, as he walked away from her, were the miles of endless dark between him and the body he needed, the careful preparations he’d have made if they did not already stand on the ceremony’s threshold.

As if in mockery of his nascent plans, a deep-voiced bell began to toll from the castle’s pinnacle, joined in a moment by an answering carillon echoing its call across the mountain city. He’d run out of time. The ceremony and the sacrifice he himself must preside over were already beginning.

XIV

Night and day your sisters and I offer prayers for you, and for the eventual fate of your soul. I am afraid, however, that you have gone beyond our intervention in forsaking the will of the goddess and burning away your mark. If you had qualms about the role assigned to you, you ought to have received guidance and been led by the wisdom of your superiors. I am afraid there is no help for you now, and apart from Lyria’s light, surrounded by barbarous practices, you will slide further from the grace that once illuminated your path, until your spirit is consumed by darkness.

—FROM MATRIA SERAFINE LYRIEN TO ARIANA INVER

Fia had insisted on the bizarre ritual, and Ariana had not possessed the strength to withstand her. It would mean the prince’s naming ceremony and therefore all of Inverlyn must wait on the queen’s pleasure, but in truth, few would notice. The principal draw at the ceremony was the feasting and drinking, not the religious rites. Glora had been in a terrible mood all day, murmuring darkly about the castle kitchen being stripped bare and the mountain being sparsely provisioned at the best of times. Yet she’d still managed to work miracles, it seemed. Beneson, who seemed to be on comfortable terms with Fia by now, had reported that the cavern sanctuary was laid out with abundance to rival the feast at Orden’s coronation. Ariana let out a small sigh of relief at that—were the food or drink to give out before the naming ceremony’send, the king would have no choice but to punish Glora’s failure with a public execution.

Ariana lay on her back, still connected to Fia by a strange device. The postulant stood over Ariana with the infant prince at one breast, and a thin, flexible tube ran from her arm to Ariana’s. Blood flowed out, from Fia to Ariana, given for healing in perfect observance of Raea’s requirements. It had taken Fia some time to pierce Ariana’s arm in what she claimed was the proper manner, and a great blue bruise was already blossoming around Fia’s many failed attempts. She’d apologized profusely, and Ari was too tired to offer much assurance. All she wanted was to sleep, and that seemed to worry Fia more than anything.