Page 53 of The Castle & the Cloister

“No,” the Priest said, with more haste than was warranted. “Or that is, not if it doesn’t bother you.”

Fia thought it over. “Not especially. There isn’t an Inver in Honoria whose opinion I care about, and I’m a daughter of the sun—Raea doesn’t fuss over who her children take to their beds. Only Lyria’s sorias are held to celibacy. No, I don’t care. And I’d rather the jackals here believe I’ve had my way with you than assume I’m creeping about the castle with something to hide. It’s safer that way, I think.”

The Priest’s air of discomfort faded to mild surprise. “I’ll admit that isn’t the choice I expected. You haven’t made a secret of the fact that you dislike me.”

“You mustn’t take it personally,” Fia said drily. “In case it’s escaped your notice, I don’t like most people.”

“Well then.” The Priest gestured courteously for her to fall in at his side. “Consider me your humble, albeit unlikable, escort.”

He led her away, skirting the press of celebrants. At first, Fia was perplexed as to how he could move with such assurance, even with the help of the phelamon wood cane she often saw him use. But as they carried on, just outside the expansive ring of torches that hemmed the revelersin, Fia realized there were thick grooves scored in the rock of the sanctum floor—a path for touch, not for sight. The Priest, barefoot as always despite the chill of the stone, had evidently spent years altering the sanctuary to suit his particular needs. And when they reached the rise on which the prisoner’s lifeless body still rested, she saw another of the Priest’s way-markers—a steel peg, driven fast into the rock at the base of the altar rise, from which a length of taut wire ran away into the dark.

“It’s not too late to change your mind,” the Priest said, as Fia hesitated. But it wasn’t the curious gazes of a few nearby courtiers or the thought of rumor-mongering that made her pause—it was the impenetrable dark ahead, which she would have to follow him into.

She would not shame herself, though, by admitting to the panicked fear she felt, or by asking for a torch.

“I don’t change my mind once I’ve made it up,” she said, and followed as he led on.

With the wire at her heel and the sound of her heart thunderous in her ears, Fia mustered her courage as the torchlight slowly died around them. First the Priest grew indistinct, then ghostly, and at last the darkness swallowed him whole. When she glanced back over her shoulder, Fia could make out no more than a distant ring of light. But they were traveling downhill, farther into the mountain’s uncharted depths, and the second time she looked back, there was nothing.

Only unbroken midnight ahead and behind and pressing in on all sides.

When the Priest’s voice spoke from ahead of her, Fia was starving for it—for any sign that she wasn’t alone with the darkness that felt like a living presence.

“They tell me Silith’s people revere the dark,” the Priest said. “That for them it is hallowed and sacred, since in her waxing and waning their goddess sometimes hides her light entirely.”

“It’s true,” Fia answered, her voice sounding high and thin and unlike herself. “But I’m a daughter of the sun, right down to my bones.”

“Yes,” the Priest said, and there was reassurance behind the word. “I recall what you said at our first meeting—you’re no friend of the dark. When we reach my cell, I’ll strike a light. But for now, this serves us better. I’m accustomed to it, and if there’s anyone waiting, it gives me the advantage.”

“Who are you afraid of?” Fia asked.

“Everyone,” the Priest told her frankly. “At Inver court, there’s no one you shouldn’t be afraid of.”

“There’s me,” Fia said, in a moment of uncharacteristic leniency. “And there’s Ariana.”

She could hear the Priest’s smile as he answered. “Don’t be so certain of yourselves. Any Inver would kill me outright for their own benefit. But you and Ari would just as readily let me die for your cause.”

“I don’t have a cause. I have myself, and my daughter, and all the world stands against us.”

“If you don’t have a cause, what brought you back to this mountain?” the Priest asked, with far too much shrewdness for Fia’s comfort. She obstinately said nothing, until he finally stopped before her, doing something inscrutable in the dark.

“That’s all right,” she heard him mutter under his breath, followed by the small sound of a door opening, which cut through the far-distant murmur of voices and music.

Fia held back a moment, feeling the steel peg against her ankle—a twin to the one at the altar rise. They’d reached the end of their road. Hesitantly, she reached out and felt an open space before her, flanked by a reassuringly ordinary doorframe made of solid timber.

Stepping through it, she found herself in a place where the very atmosphere seemed markedly smaller, and warmer, and lived in.

“Shut the door behind you,” the Priest said, moving about with perfect assurance. Fia did as she was told, and it bolstered her a little, to be the one who shut the door. If she’d shut it, she could open it again. She could not be kept in this close, lightless place against her will.

And it did not stay lightless. The sound of a patch box striking sparks rose up, small and sharp and infinitely welcome. The first flame was almost intolerably bright, though Fia’s eyes grew accustomed quickly once the Priest lit a pair of clay lamps. They stood on a long wooden chest of drawers, on which a broad silver laver, a pitcher of fresh water, a sheaf of lavender, and a stack of clean linen towels had also been set.

The sight was so familiar it caught at Fia’s throat and woke prickling heat behind her eyes.

“This is everything you need for the moment, yes?” the Priest asked.“I may not have had time to forestall a blood sacrifice, but I did manage to send an inquiry to a washerwoman in town who does her work the old way. One of the pages made certain everything was ready for you.”

Fia raised a brow as she moved to the washstand. “You were very sure of me.”

“Yes. I was.”