Though he had no faith in the king, the man was her father. And he’d shown a measure of concern when he’d realized she was in the presence of Nik, whom he assumed was a terror-maker.
A father, a king wouldn’t want his only remaining child to fail. His instinct would probably be to protect her—but according to Raf, who would know, she’d never had much by way of official duties thanks to being third-born. Perhaps this trial by ice was in fact the kindest thing he could do for her in the situation. To see what she could do and then adjust accordingly, strengthening her where needed.
Nik nodded. “That seems reasonable.”
She puffed out a laugh. “Then it must be true. Fodur is reason personified.”
“So then…again. How are you doing? With the new responsibilities?”
She flexed a hand, and he felt a pulse of cold that quickly retreated. “Maintaining the ice, the storms, isn’t as difficult as I expected. But the mountains of paperwork may well suffocate me.” She lowered her hand and turned fully to face him. “Youknow the Words. What happens after death? Is it nothingness, like Fodur says? Are they just gone? Extinguished, like a flame?”
“Tread carefully,”he could hear Raf saying in his head. But it sounded in direct opposition to thatStretch out your hand. What if this was the Giver’s whole purpose? What if he wanted this woman to find faith in him?
And besides, what did Nik have to lose? He was already in the Ice Prison, condemned to die if the king had his way—and the king always did. What more could they do to him, even for speaking of such things to a princess?
Even so, Brother Gylfi’s training—unofficial as it was—kicked in. He asked a question, rather than answering one. “Does that feel right to you? In here?” He splayed a hand over his own chest.
She mirrored the action on her own, and frost splayed out across the fabric in a design that mimicked the embroidery. Her chest heaved under her fingers. After an infinite moment, she shook her head. “They can’t just be gone, snuffed out like a candle in the wind. The bodies we recovered, that you arranged so peacefully—those are not what they were. Not fully. Whatever the breath of life is, that is what defined them each as separate beings. Einar with his endless patience and faith in me. Krystiana with her tireless abilities and prodding of us all to improve. Freya with her gentle spirit and warm hospitality. Mamma—” Her voice broke, and she blinked, cleared her throat. “Mamma with her limitless love. Those things will not go into the fire with their bodies tomorrow. So they must be elsewhere. They cannot just stop being. How would that be logical?”
Nik inclined his head. “Then that is the first step toward your answer. Never mind what I believe.Youbelieve in an eternal soul.”
Her hand fell away. “Then where do they go? Their souls? Does the Giver really send unbelievers to the underworld? That’swhat the kyrkas teach, isn’t it? That only the faithful enter Himmel?”
It was, but he didn’t know how to look her in the eye and tell her that her siblings would be condemned for their lack of faith. And what did he really know of it? He’d never visited the after-world. The Giver could choose mercy for those who heard his Words after death and accepted them as they hadn’t in life. Or he could choose justice.
Nik drew in a slow breath and let it out. “What I know is that the Giver is all things true and good and noble. He sees the heart that we here below cannot. He knows intentions and desires. And he knows too how we, his creation, have gotten things wrong in our teaching. I have to believe that he, who is truth and justice, presents each of us with that perfect truth when we meet him. That we decide ultimately not based on the faulty explanations we have been given here, but on his eternal Word.”
She tilted her head, dark curls spilling onto her shoulder. “How could anyone see perfect truth and not accept it?”
He lifted his brows and looked around. “We are surrounded by truth every day, Highness. And yet we often choose not to see it.”
She looked around too. And went stiff. “I see your point.”
Something he wouldn’t have thought to credit to her before. What Fjorder, what royal had chosen to see before? “Perhaps you ought to seek out your mother’s dominie. He will be more learned than I. Better able to answer your questions.” And more acquainted with the dance of answering without pushing too far.
Kyrja nodded. Shifted toward the wall of ice. “I cannot stay any longer—Fodur is expecting me soon. But I brought you what I could.” She motioned toward his bag. “And the cells will not freeze over again, I promise you that.”
Cells—plural? She had thawed them all? Gratitude settled on him, heavy as a hand. He bowed at the waist. “Bless you, Princess.”
She froze with a hand outstretched toward the wall, which was shrinking back to bars. Where did she send the ice when she pulled it away? Her lips turned up the smallest fraction. “That’s odd, isn’t it? They call us the Blessed, but no one has ever blessed me before.”
He smiled too. “You were born with power over water and ice. But you choose to use it nobly. You deserve blessing.” His smile shifted into a grin. “If I see Raf before I die, I owe him an apology. I always teased him mercilessly for his crush on you, but it seems he wasn’t wrong when he claimed you were more than a pretty face.”
He meant it as a joke, but her face fell at his words, making him regret them instantly. “Let’s hope he’s right,” she said. She squeezed through the opening she’d made and closed the bars again without looking back at him.
He only stared after her for a moment. Then he reached for the bag she’d left. Slid a hand inside, a prayer on his lips. And nearly wept when he pulled out his copy of the Words.
6
The Grand Kyrka was immaculately kept, its stonework pristine, its windows works of art. Kyrja knew she’d entered it once as a babe, but she obviously had no memory of that visit, and Mamma had never been permitted to bring her since.
She stood on the sidewalk outside the doors and wondered what Nik would be thinking, feeling, had he stood here instead. A place he’d clearly been more eager to see than the other sights of Reykstoll.
Why? What had excited him, what drew him? If it were impressive architecture he sought, there were other buildings even grander. The palace, of course—or it had been, a week ago. The Great Council chambers. The Museum of Fjordic Art.
She pondered it for a moment, then wondered why she bothered. Why did it matter why a stranger from the domes wanted to see the kyrka?
The pain in her chest gave her the answer. Because thinking about what Nikanor Tristansson would have thought about it kept her from wondering something far more important—what had Mamma thought, when she came to this place once a week? When she walked these steps, so familiar to her yet utterlyforeign to Kyrja? What did she feel when she stepped inside, when the light from those colored windows washed over her?
