Page 75 of The Castle & the Cloister

Fia nodded, knowing that this time he could feel the gesture.

She watched as the Priest went to the washbasin, where he cleaned and bandaged his hand and left the bloodied clothes in a neat pile. When he returned to her, she took Justus, settling the baby between herself and the wall. The Priest lowered himself down beside Fia, and she leaned into him, until she could feel the full stretch of his body and his breath warm on the back of her neck. One of his arms pillowed her head, the other rested over her waist, and Fia realized she’d never lain so with anyone before. Nikolau had been too wary to sleep in her village, and she’d been too shy and shamefaced over their unmatched feelings to spend much time in his deserters’ encampment.

A part of her fought furiously for retreat. All Fia’s broken and fearful pieces—the child who’d cowered before her mother’s temper and nursed bruises and broken bones. The sister who’d watched her siblings die one by one, of hardship or disease or cruelty or neglect, and been tormented by the sight of their lifeless bodies ever since. The girl who’d understood that Nikolau the renegade wanted more from her than she could give, and who went to his bed anyway because she craved kindness and a modicum of power. She forced that wild, wretched aspect of herself down until at last it settled, leaving her boneless and weary, lulled by the warmth and nearness of an Inver Priest and an Inver prince.

“Priest?” Fia whispered, the single word barely audible in the dark. “You never answered me.”

But he was already asleep.

XX

So Mira of the Lake bared her breast to Arandar the Barbarian, prepared for the touch of his sword. She knelt before him and prayed in a dozen tongues; in Corrinian, in Skandish, in Song, in Caervallin. In Honorian, in Vesperin, in Barren, in Harsh. In Hallish and Unforth and Callendran and Wroth. In every tongue, she petitioned Gentle Lyria for peace, even those which had no name for the goddess of the stars. At last, it was Wroth that Arandar understood, and the power of Mira’s prayer and her faith was so great that he set his sword aside, and took Mira to wife, and tilled good earth by the shores of Laclamar, never seeking the ways of violence again.

—FROM “MIRA AND THE BARBARIAN,” A CORRINIAN FOLKTALE

Delivered by a widowed mother who’d taken refuge at Lyria’s cloister, Ariana Inver had been consecrated to the goddess of stars the moment she slipped into the world with her mark already apparent. As she slipped in, her mother slipped out, fading away into death just as Ariana began to live. Matria Serafine had been all she needed for a mother; the sorias, her family and her world. At twelve, she’d been allowed to become a postulant, rather than waiting till the customary seventeen. By thirteen, she’d made her fidelity oath. It was always her faith others spoke of with awe—the purity of it, the strength. No onehad questioned Serafine’s choice to groom her for eventual succession to the role of Matria. It was only natural that a child who shone with Lyria’s light should someday become her hands and voice.

Now, as Ariana stood silent beside her Inver husband and listened to him bid farewell to Dolenza, speaking amiably of the riches of the plains after a week spent touring Raea’s holdings, she thought that every consecrated woman she’d ever met had been a fool. It had not been faith that burned so bright in her. It had been the certainty of childhood. She hadn’t been a paragon—she’d been young and sheltered and brought up in an environment so rarified it often felt like ecstasy.

All that fragile, ephemeral faith had long since shattered, leaving only a single, adamantine belief behind. Ariana knew with her whole being that if the goddesses were merciful, if they were true to their own precepts, it ought to be possible to purchase peace without violence. True peace must be bought in kind, and ushered in peacefully. A cessation of hostility won through lesser evils could not honor the Three as they were meant to be honored. If she was only strong enough and bright enough and devout enough, a child of light ought to be able to forge such peace through force of will alone.

Applause broke out among the gathered sorias and plains merchants as Orden spoke of unity at Ariana’s side. They were pleased with him, while the queen herself felt only dull fear. All too slowly, the formalities of departure were dispensed with. The royal currus was brought out, and Ariana ushered into it. When Gaius brought Orden’s charger, the king waved him away.

“Not yet,” he said. “For now, I ride with the queen.”

Gaius raised a brow in surprise, but as ever, did not question his sovereign. Orden waited until the caravan had begun to snake away from the cloister and the currus was already moving. Then he bid Dolenza a final hurried farewell and jogged over to Ariana’s conveyance, swinging the door open and himself in through it.

Ariana sat pressed to the wall beside one of the windows with Justus in her arms, and tears glistened on her cheeks. She could not help them—her failure was before her, personified in the form of her Inver husband, glad and hale, bent immovably on actions she could not condone. But for Orden’s sake, she wiped surreptitiously at her face and attempted to smile.

Behind them, Dolenza, Aurelia, and several more of the most highly respected sorias stood at the cloister’s great gates. They began a restless, ululating chant, and Ariana wished desperately for Fia. Of course she would stay behind with Miriel, but Lyria’s light, it had been such a comfort to have her near.

“What is it?” Orden asked.

“A travel hymn,” Ariana said dispiritedly, smoothing Justus’s blanket. “For dry roads and fair winds, for a tempering of Raea’s greatest heat by day and a summoning of her leftover warmth by night.”

“All fall in,” Gaius roared, and the various detachments and divisions of the Inver household settled into their decreed places for the journey home.

“I didn’t mean the singing,” Orden said. “What is it that makes you weep? Tell me, so that I can bring back your smile.”

For a moment, Ariana only looked at him. It was no use answering truly—he’d fixed his course and would not be swayed from it.

“I’m pleased the cloister and the sorias met with your favor, my lord,” Ariana said, as if she’d never heard what he asked. “It was good to see you happy with Raea’s house.”

Let it be only that, she prayed.Let him not have designs on the cloister of the sun. War upon war I can tolerate, but not this. If I have ever found favor or stood in the light, turn him away from Raea and her abundance.

Orden shifted in his seat across from Ari, vitality radiating from him. He wore one of the cloth-of-gold doublets he favored, and was freshly shaven, smelling of phelamon spice and horses. Were she ever to envision a king with her mind’s eye, it would be him. It would always be him.

“I’m happiest when you are happy,” Orden said with a smile so honest it pained her. “And I know it did you good, being back in a cloister again. I wish I could give you the chance to revisit your old life more often, my star.”

“You are my life. You and our son.” Ariana took one of his hands in her own and pressed a kiss to it as she spoke. She wanted to believe those words. She said them as if she could force herself to become a queen who felt such things were true. But Ariana was not that woman. She neverhad been, and never would, no matter how hard either of them tried to pretend it was so.

“Where is the nurse?” Orden asked, as Justus began to stir and make querulous sounds and Ariana sighed.

Unable to force the words out, Ari shook her head. Fresh tears pricked at her eyes. Alone again, and nowhere near enough for what lay ahead.

“Perhaps it’s for the best she chose to stay behind,” Orden said. He held out his hands for Justus and took the prince, patting the baby until he soothed. “Perhaps we can make better use of her within the walls of Raea’s house. Certainly you can visit her there as often as you like.”

“A postulant?” Ariana asked listlessly. “Your court would not approve of such a friendship.”