Page 50 of The Castle & the Cloister

Truthfully, the odd procedure had helped a great deal. Since Fia had begun it an hour ago, Ariana’s wits had returned, the mental fog that bedeviled her clearing. She had a little energy now, though not much. Before feeding the prince, with the tube and the blood already running between them, Fia had applied a strange, herbal-smelling salve to Ariana’s inner parts as well. It had hurt dreadfully, going between her legs, and when Ariana cried out, silent tears sprang to Fia’s eyes. The flow of blood from the queen seemed to have slackened, though—she could feel less slipping from her as the time wore on.

“Fia,” Ariana said finally. “That’s enough for now. I can’t keep everyone waiting any longer.”

Wisely, the postulant did not protest. Instead, she set the prince down and removed the needle first from her own arm, then from Ariana’s. Bandaging them both neatly, she moved to the wardrobe.

“What will you wear?” Fia asked, moving easily between the roles of wet nurse, physician, and handmaid. “I’ll lay it out for you.”

“The crimson gown,” Ariana said. “It’s the only thing in that color.”

She stood meekly while Fia dressed her, and watched the last of Raea’s light fade from the sky out beyond the balcony. Ariana knew how she must look—she’d commissioned the gown herself after it seemed the pregnancy would take. It was exquisitely Inver, made from the heavy draping fabrics they favored, with the high waistline and overabundant gathered sleeves in fashion at court. The only difference was the back of Ariana’s gown, cut a good six inches lower than most, in order to showcase the Inver crest burned into her skin.

“Hair up,” the queen said quietly after Fia had laced the bodice and tied it. “A crown of braids with gold ribbon through them. Let everyone see the burn.”

Fia did the work easily, with clever, confident hands.

“The brand,” she said, as she wove the braids. “How did you come by it?”

Ariana hesitated a moment, thinking over her answer.

“I chose it,” she said at last. “It won me a king.”

That was the truth, though it barely scratched the surface of what she’d done and why. She’d burned herself in defiance of her Matria, because she refused to take a life, and wanted to be outside the purview of the daughters of the Beloved Three. She’d burned herself on behalf of Lyria, because she’d always believed implicitly in her goddess’s pursuit of perfect peace regardless of the cost. She’d burned herself for Orden—she’d wanted to save him as he’d saved her, and more than a little, she wanted to see that Inver awe and desire, which had kindled for the first time when she knelt at his feet in Corrin. Sometimes, Ariana thought she’d do anything to see that look. Other times, she knew she was only fit to serve her estranged goddess, offering whatever shreds of service she could still provide. It was like being pulled to pieces, spending her life trapped between starlight and flame.

Standing before a long mirror near her wardrobe, Ariana felt more a contradiction than ever. She turned to Fia with confusion and lostness darkening her eyes.

“Did you know that among Lyria’s daughters, the blood prohibition is observed so strictly we’re not permitted to have anything scarlet about our person? You won’t find a single scrap of it in the house of stars, not if you searched the cloister from top to bottom.”

Fia looked the queen over, taking in her crown of ornate braids, the rich, indulgent crimson and gold of her gown, the rubies at her wrist and throat. The postulant had the prince cradled in one arm, and she went to Ariana, putting the other around her waist. Ari leaned against her, and it was as if the mountain itself held her up.

“Did you know,” Fia said staunchly, fixing her gaze on Ariana in the mirror, “that at my cloister, scarlet is our most sacred color? Raea herselfwears it every night when she goes to her rest and every morning as she’s reborn. Matria Dolenza likes to say at feast days that a woman in red is an echo of the sun in her glory.”

“How did I manage before you, Fia?” Ariana asked. Sickening anticipation of the sacrifice ahead had her close to tears. Instead, she forced herself to smile at the postulant.

“After the last few days, I really don’t know,” Fia said in her usual blunt way, but her gaze fell to the floor. “Ari, the Priest told me what you mean to do tonight. He promised he’ll try to find a way around it for you.”

Ariana shook her head, her voice trembling. “I haven’t given him enough time. If I’d been less prideful, if I’d said something earlier—”

“Hush now.” Fia took a step back from Ariana and spoke sternly. “Don’t cry, they’ll all see you’ve been doing it if you let yourself go. Everything will be all right, I promise.”

Ariana was about to reply when a commotion sounded outside the door. Orden swept in, resplendent in gold broadcloth, his retinue twice its normal size. At the sight of Ariana, he held out both hands and gave her a brilliant smile.

“My queen. You’re the very image of Inver flame tonight.”

“My lord,” Ariana answered, sinking low before him. “If I am a flame, I am one that was kindled by your fire.”

Then she had no more time to think. Orden escorted her down the narrow stair and through the castle, which was full to overflowing with courtiers and minor nobles, merchants and visiting dignitaries. Torches flared everywhere, leaving the air hot and heavy, and the night sang with music and bells. On the threshold of the tunnel that led to the mountain sanctum, Ariana stopped, panic rising in her throat.

“Where’s Fia?” she asked suddenly. “Where’s the nurse? I want my son nearby.”

“Here, my lady,” Fia said from the back of the crush of attendants following in their wake, and the crowd parted before her.

They continued on into the tunnel, Orden at their head, Ariana behind him, and Fia at her back. The queen reached backward as they went, and Fia squeezed her hand tight. Ariana wished it would go onforever—the single-file passage through the tunnel, like a channel that would lead them inevitably from one life into another. She didn’t want it to end. Didn’t want to come out into what lay waiting for her on the other side.

Light blossomed ahead. Not clear sun, nor the silver of stars and moon, but ruddy firelight—the glow of a thousand Inver torches. Orden stepped out into it, onto the stony landing at the head of the stair carved in the cavern wall, which led down to the sanctuary floor. As the firelight hit him, a roar rose from the gathered celebrants, loud and raucous enough to shake the mountain.

Ariana wanted to shrink into herself. To retreat. To own all her sins, if it only meant she did not need to carry on. Feeling small and cold and fragile, she followed after her king.

Down on the cavern floor, time seemed to drag intolerably. Ariana was forced to smile and nod and laugh, to beckon Fia forward with the child as if displaying some opulent object from the Inver treasury. Words ran over her like water, half heard as her responses came through force of habit. Ariana knew that the distance she felt was a danger—that she needed to be more attentive, in this place where everyone angled for position and advantage. It was a terrible risk, for her to be anything less than focused, but even with Fia’s strong blood running through her veins, she could not draw the fragmented pieces of her mind together. Gwylen’s face swam before her, then Gileta’s, and Ariana could do no more than murmur thanks for their well-wishes.