Page 7 of The Castle & the Cloister

Stubborn to the end, the Corrinians—or rather, the Lyrien sorias who guided them with stringent standards—refused to leave, to harbor an army in exchange for material aid, or to levy their own tolls, even to save and feed their starving people. In his darkest moments, the Priest believed they deserved the hardship forced upon them by the bickering powers of the Hand.

But even in his darkest moments, the Priest could not bring himself to be party to the ruthlessness of his own clan, and of so many others. If ever he needed proof that he was no true Inver, here it was—at his core, he lacked their resolve and fire. Their taste for conquest. If Corrin was to fall into utter ruin, pushed over the brink by the actions of his brother, the Priest would do his part to save a remnant of the Corrinian people.

“Just… follow me,” the Priest said with a dismissive gesture. “We need to get you out of here as quickly as possible. Regardless of what happens to the queen, if the king’s child is delivered and lives, this sanctuary will be crawling with courtiers and guards, all making celebratory offerings and starting preparations for the heir’s naming ceremony.”

“Even if the queen should die?” one of the sorias asked in shocked disbelief.

The Priest said nothing, only set his jaw and led the way out, into the vast emptiness of the sanctuary. Running his hand along the cavern wall, he walked steadfastly away from the altar rise, and the steps beyond it that led up to the castle itself. Farther and farther into the heart of the mountain they went, until the weight of it seemed to bear down on them. Or at least, it seemed so to the Priest. From out in the darkness, he heard faint notes of music; delighted whispers; the patter of swift, unshod feet.

The spirits of Silith’s long-dead children were happy to have sisters among them, it seemed.

When a small, cold hand slipped into the Priest’s, a shiver ran through him at the thought that it might be one of the sanctuary’s numerous ghosts.

“The sacred dead are pleased with you,” a soft voice murmured from beside him, and he realized both that it was one of the Lyrien sorias, and that she was little more than a child. She spoke heavily accented Honorian, and though her words were steady, her hand in the Priest’s trembled slightly. Involuntarily he tightened his grip, run through by a sudden lance of fear at the thought that this child might lose her way and be swallowed up by the mountain’s long dark.

Which was foolish, considering where he was sending her.

“They say they like your company,” the girl went on. “They say you are a sympathetic soul.”

“I’m an Inver. We murdered every one of them,” the Priest muttered, and picked up the pace. But he did not let go of the girl’s hand.

Time as a concept did not seem to exist at the heart of the mountain. The Priest had walked out to its farthest reaches on a hundred occasions now, always in company with hapless Corrinians, and he could never gauge how long the journey took. All he knew was that he returned to his spare, comfortless cell thirsty and ravenous, and weary in his very soul.

This journey was no different. As he stopped at the cavern’s innermost point, where a stir of dank, chill air signaled the presence of a tunnel opening, the Priest could feel it already. Not physical tiredness yet, but a bleakness of spirit. The girl at his side seemed to sense it and squeezed his hand with her small fingers.

“This is for your queen,” the Lyrien girl whispered, and pressed something into his other hand. A thin braid of soft leather from which a smooth stone hung. “A gift, to remind her of home. Tell her, someday I will give her another and worthier gift, and that I offer them both with an open heart.”

Without seeing the jewel, the Priest knew what it must be. That it would cast a pale blue glow in the darkness. It was nightglass—a gem the followers of the Beloved Three revered, and that the Invers believed cursed.

“She can’t have that,” the Priest said, giving the jewel back to the girl. “It would be dangerous for her if anyone found it in her possession.”

“Please,” the Lyrien girl begged. “It’s important.”

Taking the necklace, the Priest shoved it into his pocket. He’d get it to Ariana if he could, or dispose of it if not, but the child could at least feel she’d done her duty.

“This is it,” he said abruptly to the small group. “You can feel the tunnel ahead of you. There’s no light for a little while, but supplies and torches have been left at intervals throughout. No, I don’t know where it goes, and no, I don’t know how long it will take. I’ve been told that you’ll find… a new beginning at the other end. A place to forget Corrin’s misfortunes. I’m not aware that such a place exists on the Hand, and no one ever comes back, so you could very well be walking to your graves. But that’s none of my business. This, and only this, is my end of the bargain.”

“Why should we trust you?” one of the sorias asked. She’d not spoken yet, save to tell the Priest where to find her mark, and had a low, musical voice. “There could be soldiers down there, waiting to take us captive. To haul us off to one of your king’s prison camps, or to treat us with the violence they inflict on Caervallion’s southern villages and outposts. It’s barbarous, the way the Invers deal with their enemies.”

The Priest had already opened his mouth, ready to say something hot and furious about the risk to himself, and how he owed Corrin no favors. It would cow the soria, he knew. The same conversation had transpired between him and a dozen Corrinians. They all backed down immediately in the face of anger, unwilling to displease their goddess by becoming embroiled in an argument.

But the girl whose hand still rested cool and soft in his own answered before he could.

“Aline, for shame,” she said sharply. “To be graceless to someone who offers us help. You must petition gentle Lyria to grant you more charity.”

“Yes, Lynette,” the other soria answered, her voice schooled into serenity once more. “You’re right, of course.”

“This is where I leave you,” the Priest said gruffly. He heard footsteps begin to retreat down the tunnel at once—first the heavier tread of the nameless Corrinian man, then the lighter steps of the two older sorias, keeping pace with each other.

Only the girl, Lynette, was left, and she’d not yet let go of the Priest’s hand.

“You truly don’t know where it leads?” she asked, uncertainty clouding her words.

“I don’t.” For the first time, the Priest felt regret, that he had no answer or reassurances to offer. “I’ve led a hundred of your people to this road without knowing where they go or if they’ll ever return.”

“I’m afraid,” the little soria whispered, as if speaking only to herself. But the admission cut the Priest to the core. He’d spent his whole life in company with fear, and Lyria’s daughters always seemed to see that in him.

“Go with the gods or the goddesses,” the Priest said, pressing a rough kiss to the top of the little soria’s head. “Whichever of them happen to be watching. And if they watch, may they smile on you.”