Page 87 of The Castle & the Cloister

Breathe in, Ariana thought as he and the guards retreated.Breathe out.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

How long she lay with her head on Orden’s chest, she couldn’t say. A chill had settled in her bones and pain in her neck and back by the time something caused her to stir. It was not noise, but the absence of it. The castle dungeon had fallen dead silent, as quiet as Orden’s lifeless body. There were few other occupants, and no more than an occasional coughor groan had sounded from them, but a constant low mutter of conversation emanated from the guard station. Now all that had stilled.

Ariana glanced up at the bars of her cell door and found Ambassador Gwylen staring down at her. The woman’s goddess mark glowed eerily pale in the torchlight, and she regarded Ariana with something that might have been pity or might have been scorn.

“So. They told me you’d turned king killer.”

Ariana remained silent and stayed with her head on Orden’s chest.

“You’re making a spectacle of yourself,” Gwylen said. “He was only an Inver. They’re a penny a pound on this mountain, and not worth the grief of a woman like you.”

Breathe in. Breathe out. Blessed Lyria, overlook my apostasy. Grant me this one miracle, even if afterward you never think of me again.

“How did you get in here? Is Lucian charging admission to those who’d like to make a mockery of me?” Ariana asked.

“This was Silith’s mountain, once. Her daughters know more about it than the Invers ever will. And I’ve been sent by Afon, who has an offer to make,” Gwylen said. “His messengers rode two horses to death getting orders to me so that I could stand before you now. Afon says he’ll take you to wife and to bed if you but send word. He’ll have an army in the foothills within a fortnight, and an advance force outside your cell within a day. Whatever his conduct to you in the past, he would have you as queen and make your firstborn daughter his heir, until such a time as you get him a successor of his own blood. Between your queendom and his kingdom, the two of you could rule the Hand from north to south.”

“And Justus?” Ariana murmured. “What about my son?”

Gwylen said nothing, which was as good as an answer. Afon would not suffer Orden’s son to live.

“And Corrin?” Ariana pressed. “Even with Honoria and Caervallion joined, Corrin stands between us. We would not rule from north to south as Afon promises.”

Again, silence. And Ariana, serene daughter of stars though she was, found that she was angry. Perhaps she’d kept company with Fia for too long, or spent too much time among the Invers. But wrath ran through her like liquid fire.

“My king may be dead,” she said fiercely, “but you can tellyoursthat I would choose the rack or hot oil or drawing and quartering—any manner of torture—before I betrayed my country and Orden’s son.”

“What of your daughter?” Gwylen spoke quietly, her patience unshakeable as Ariana’s temper flared. “Did you not betray her in putting her aside?”

“I saved her, and you know it. Run back to Afon and tell him what I said.”

Gwylen stood motionless outside the cell, contemplating Ariana with her head tilted to one side. Ari shut her eyes and refused to look at the woman again.

“I have an offer of my own,” Gwylen said. “Accept Afon’s proposal. Come to Caervallion. And accomplish what you did here in Honoria. The people there chafe under Afon’s rule worse than anyone ever did beneath Orden Inver. Come and kill our king for us, and live. Think what the Hand could be, freed of its tyrants. It could go back to the old ways. You may no longer be a true servant of Lyria, but you could be the instrument who returns our world to the rightful worship of the Beloved Three. They don’t believe here that you were the means of your king’s destruction, even though they’ll pin that death to you. I know better. I know who you are,cultellus.”

From in the dark of her own making, Ariana spoke.

“I chose to live here, at Orden’s side, and I choose to die here as well. Let them make a sacrifice of me.”

“Wasteful,” Gwylen said sharply.

Ariana did not reply. Soon, she heard the muttering of the guards begin again, and knew the ambassador had gone.

Breathe in, she thought.Breathe out.

XXVI

Seeing is belief. While we take the utmost care in raising up those destined to become shadows, we can only offer a facsimile of the world they will encounter across the sea. Here, the gods do not move us through dreams or marks or holy orders. There, they do. Here, we can teach the language and practices and particulars of life and faith, but none of the conviction and passion. Those can only be discovered upon contact, and many of our shadows are drawn into full belief. So be it—faith is not at odds with Vesper’s interests, although it is not part of our own traditions.

—FROMUNDERSTANDING THE RELIGIOUS PRACTICES OF THE HAND: A GUIDE FOR VESPERIN SHADOWS

Once again, there was no apparent way out of the castle proper. The nobles remained locked down by the guard, though Fia and the Priest were making free use of the servants’ corridors. Several times, Fia had found other courtiers in the warren of back passages riddling the mountain. They ignored each other, all bent on their own nefarious business. Fia’s latent anger sparked into a blaze of aggression any time she passed someone recognizably titled, however, for she was determined to get out via the kitchens and had Justus in arms. If anyone attempted to harm him while he was in her care, Fia knew she’d tear them to pieces with her nails and teeth.

Perhaps everyone was right. Perhaps she wasn’t cut out for life as a soria.

Whatever was happening in the rest of the castle, the kitchens were unchanged. If anything, the pervasive clamor and chaos there were heightened. Glora shouted directions to a bevy of servants, all bearing trays which would be brought to the ostensibly captive nobles. The cook was sweating and roaring equally loudly, overseeing a half dozen steaming cauldrons and several spits of roasting pigs. Apparently, the Inver response to crisis was to ensure their masters continued to eat well.