She hadn’t allowed herself to consider whose life she might end, hadn’t wanted to think whether that man or woman had a spouse, a lover, or children they’d leave behind.
Not even the glowing bond connecting her with Khayrivven could warm her as they continued their path through the chamber, Lory’s gaze catching on carvings of winged leonthors and people encircled by fire.
“The Flames built these pyramids,” Khayrivven reminded her when she slowed to inspect one of the carvings more closely. “You’ll find the same kind of motifs all over Ashthorn’s lowest levels, too. That’s where no one bothered to hammer them off the walls after Ulder’s ancestors started prosecuting fire fairies.”
So much history, all in one place. The notes in Aiden’s history book came back to her as she ran a finger over the leonthor’s wings, then the flames in the hand that could be a man or a woman, the carving was too faded to tell.The Great Purge is a great lie. Conquest of the South. Criu borders.All those little margins he’d used to note his thoughts.
Had Aiden been a rebel, too? A real one? Or had his friendship with Khayrivven been of a more practical sort?
“Anees once said you’d do anything for what you believe in,” she whispered, turning her gaze at Khayrivven hovering beside her. “I know you believe in a free Criulias, your homeland. And that you have been toeing a line so fragile it might one day kill you.” Her heart did a throb at the mere thought of such a day. “But do you believe it is possible?”
He cocked his head in silent question.
“Is it hope driving you to follow the Triad’s bidding and Ulder’s orders day after day, or do you actuallybelievethat, one day, Criulias will be free?”
She didn’t know remotely enough about the situation in the south-western province to actually tell what was realistic. Ashthorn didn’t really educate its students on the politics of the south, other than that Criulias’s strive for freedom was unjust and dangerous. That the rebels were the enemy, and if the Pervaille family ever got back into power, that would mean the end for a prosperous Criulias.
Lory knew better than to believe what Ashthorn taught her. Some of her fellow thornlings were Criu, and they didn’t seem to agree with all of what Dunveil said during Knowledge classes. She wouldn’t need Khayrivven’s word to confirm something was off, or the Triad wouldn’t dispatch anyone at Ashthorn suspected of being associated with the rebels.
When she found Khayrivven’s face in the half-light, his eyes were burning with intensity. “I believe in the freedom of every man, woman, and child. I believe in a people who govern themselves. I believe in a better world for all of us, and most of all, I believe in justice.”
Not the gods—because the gods hadn’t helped him when his parents were killed. They hadn’t saved him from a cruel fate, from being enslaved to the man responsible for their deaths.
“And I believe in you,Lory.” His voice wrapped around her name like a blanket of silk and velvet, as if it were sacred.
To the end of the world, he’d go for what he believed in; Lory was certain of that. And he would consider his own life a just payment for the freedom he believed in.
The breath stuck in Lory’s throat didn’t dislodge until Khayrivven cleared his throat, directing his attention on the chamber ahead.
“The temple has three exits: one north, one south, and one east. The yard is situated between the temple and the palace pyramid. Palm trees line the path connecting the two buildings, and flowerbeds frame the temple. The majority of the yard is open space and will be crowded with nobility, perhaps the king himself and his lords.” He didn’t mention Elina, perhaps to smother whatever hope he fostered inside that strong, spacious heart. “Lenya will partake in the ceremony, assisting the priests. He’ll have his eyes on the yard the whole time.”
As he filled her in on the details, everything faded but what she’d have to do. The stone hallways disappeared, and so did the carvings, which became sparse and disappeared altogether as they climbed narrow, steep staircases.
“Even on a cloudy night like this, keep to the shadows. Hide between the columns lining the side of the yard. You’ll be concealed there while you scan the crowd for your target.” He stopped at one more door, turning to face her.
One step up from where she stood, Khayrivven towered over her by two heads, and his muscled frame filled her vision until she tilted back her head to look into those eyes of thunderclouds and salvation.
He’d lived this nightmare for years, had probably killed more people than he could count to maintain the facade he’d built. Whatever it was, she could do this.
“Who will I be looking for?” Finally, she dared ask the question she’d been stewing on.
Khayrivven’s throat bobbed, his voice barely a whisper as he told her. “Brady Niely.”
Thirty
Lory
The yard was exactlyas Khayrivven had described it—minus the flowerbeds. From their position between the columns at the edge of the yard, Lory couldn’t spy those in the soft light the night provided. Torches had been inserted into flagpoles, their orange glow illuminating the stone temple walls. In a different life, Lory might have marveled at the ornate pillars holding up the parapet in front of the temple. She might have appreciated the music and the voices mingling with the melodies of lutes and thethundering of drums.
As if in a trance, the nobles were staring at the two priests and the priestess performing a ceremony she’d witnessed at the temples in the slums, but never like this. There, it had been simple rituals to acknowledge the gods had been shedding their tears on these lands. To thank them.
Here, it was what she imagined a theater play would be like. Everything followed a certain rhythm, and even Ulder seemed transfixed by the spiced smoke wafting from golden bowls that were carried across the dais erected under the temple roof, probably just for this ceremony.
“One stands for the Brother Guardian, one for the Sister Guardian, and one for Eroth.” Khayrivven gestured at the two priests and the priestess.
Lory didn’t respond. Her eyes had landed on the woman in a pale silk dress of fine making. Her hair had been pulled half-up, the usually bronze hue glowing a fiery orange in the firelight.
“Elina is here.”
