“There’s plenty of food where you’re heading,” says Ronan, pushing the three bound Selarans towards a door at the back of the shack that must lead into the passage. “And there are reduced sentences for those who agree to help with the war effort. Let’s see if a few nights in the dungeons can restore your patriotic spirit.”
I gesture back to the others from the door, and we all head into the smuggler’s passage together: Taran keeping hold of the prisoners, Larus carrying Seth, who has begun to stir and is muttering about a bath, Prima following Octavia, and me joining Ronan with two young boys on my trail.
“I thought I was rescuing one beautiful Nithyrian flautist, and instead I’ve recruited a ten-piece string orchestra,” says Ronan, sending a series of lights into the narrow, rock-hewn passage as it descends beneath the walls of Faros.
“Don’t worry,” I whisper, waiting until the boys race ahead out of earshot. “Once we take care of the rest of the band, your flautist will give you an enthusiastic solo performance.”
“Fucking hell,” murmurs Ronan. His pupils are completely blown when he turns to me in spite of the light hovering inches from his face, and I’m hit by a strong wave of his desire that sends a warm rush down to my core. “I can’t wait.”
We’ll both have to wait, though. There are too many things that need to happen once we get to the palace for us to have time alone together. Seth’s knowledge of his battle plans and Adria’s movements will grow stale quickly. She’ll figure out he’s missingsoon, if she hasn’t already, but she won’t know he’s abandoned her until he helps us.
Ifhe helps us.
If we want to take advantage of his knowledge, we’ve got to get it out of him as soon as possible.
But first, there are all of our other new companions to deal with. After a seemingly endless slow march through the underground passage, we reach a staircase hewn from the same pinkish tan stone as the palace.
But this isn’t the palace. The doorway we enter takes us directly into the undercroft of the Temple of Vayla.
Chapter Seventeen
The Temple of Vayla resembles the palace, and it’s more than just the stone it’s made from.
It’s the entire atmosphere: the airy, bright open spaces, the cloistered archways, the delicate white curtains blowing in the breeze.
And it’s the hustle and bustle too, dozens of people coming and going in a mad but oddly quiet rush, as if even the war couldn’t disturb the peaceful reverence of this place.
It’s lovely to behold. Vayla’s acolytes seem to float in their white robes, fluttering like moths from cot to cot in the undercroft, floating like doves in the great cathedral above as they greet the injured, the ill, the infirm. Refugees and fallen soldiers, lost children and people with empty bellies and nowhere else to turn.
I know Ronan has his doubts about religion, but I can truly see him reflected here. He may not believe he’s the living embodiment of Vayla on earth, but I’ve seen few other places that live out his message of peace and goodwill more than this one.
We head first for a group of knights gathered near the back of the cathedral floor near the altar.
The Order of the Sun.
“Your majesty,” says a woman in gleaming silver chainmail trimmed with gold, the royal crest emblazoned on her breast and the white cloak on her back gleaming as she kneels before Ronan.
No one else recognized him as he passed through in spite of the fact he shed Soren’s face. His simple clothes and lack of crown blinded everyone to him.
But now they notice him, now word of his presence reaches the others in the room. Many of them—the ones that are able to—kneel.
“Rise, Ser Lucia.”
Ronan informs Ser Lucia and the others of the situation we encountered in the passage, and she sends several of the knights to secure the other entrance. Another of the Order leads the prisoners away, while a priestess comes over to help the lost boys and Prima find their families.
“Thank you, your majesty,” says Prima, kneeling low like Ser Lucia did. I’m not sure if she’s meant to do that or if a simple bow would do—I forget to bow to Ronan all the time, something I really need to get better about now that we’re nearly back to the palace—but either way, Ronan doesn’t mind the gesture. “And thank you all,” says Prima, turning to the rest of our small party. “Good luck to you.”
“And to you,” I say to Prima. “Take care.”
A priest comes over to help Larus with Seth, assuming he’s in need of medical care, but Ronan stops them. “He’s with us. Taran?”
Taran goes to take Seth from Larus, but he struggles as he wakes. “I need my bathnow. Where is that water-born? Oh, here he is. Carry me to my bath.” Seth then collapses dramaticallyinto Taran’s arms as Taran looks at me like,is this what he’s always like?
I shake my head and give him a look back that says,are you sure this is what you want?
To Seth’s credit, he’s still coming off of the sleep elixir. But it’s not too far from his normal behavior.
Ser Lucia personally accompanies us from the temple and over the bridge into the palace. It’s my first time seeing Faros since I was taken and much has changed. The streets are as busy as ever, but instead of festival goers, the people marching about are in chainmail. Storefronts are boarded up, and the markets are filled with tents for living rather than selling, occupied by refugees and soldiers alike. The roofs are covered in dampened leathers and furs to prevent fires, and up on the city walls, legions patrol and line up catapults and ballistae, the drumming sound of their projectiles underpinning the rhythm of the city at war.
