Page 23 of The Castle & the Cloister

The speaker drew closer—so close the Priest could feel his breath, stirring the air beneath his chin. The Priest kept himself utterly still and blank-faced, as if carved from stone.

Do not move. Do not make a sound, he thought fervently at Ellimere, who was half-hidden in the encroaching gloom.

“I’ve been watching you for years,” the spy murmured. “That is the barest fraction of the disloyalty I’ve witnessed from you in that time.”

“Difficult, I should think,” the Priest said. “To keep close watch on someone who famously dwells in darkness.”

The spy let out a small, disparaging sound. “Not as difficult as you clearly believe. But I will tell you this, Priest—I’ve kept the worst of your betrayals to myself. I haven’t breathed a word to Lucian about the Corrinians who pass through these caves, or the Lyrien sorias who were here only last night. Nor have I brought up the way Her Majesty the queen uses you as a go-between to maintain the ties of her former life, which Orden takes such pride in having severed. I have not mentioned how she passes letters to you, intended for her old Matria and those conniving witches, Gileta and Dolenza. What treachery such missives contain, I can only imagine. Nor have I spoken on the matter of your collusion with Caervallion, or Her Majesty’s. I’ve been the soul of discretion.”

The initial hints of blackmail had not moved the Priest. His pulse had not so much as quickened. It was far from the first time someone had attempted to use him to their own advantage, and certainly would not be the last. If it suited him, he allowed the arrangement to go forward, eventually tilting the scales of fate until he himself benefited as well. If it did not suit him, a word in Orden’s ear or an edict from the gods, and the offending party was sent to some minor province in disgrace, or to the fiercest frontlines in Vesper.

But no one had ever threatened Ariana as well. The moment the spy spoke her title, a wash of rage flooded through the Priest—the sort that clouds judgment and renders its bearer unwise. Carefully, he fought it back, focusing on something else that jangled at his attention, piquing his interest. On all counts save one, the spy’s accusations were true. And it was of the greatest interest to the Priest that Lucian would purge thecastle of possible sympathizers to the old ways or Caervallion, while whispering that Inverlyn’s queen and religious leader were both in league with the Caervallin king.

“I assume there’s some favor or position you require in exchange for your silence?” he asked.

“Yes,” the spy all but purred. “I set myself to thinking, recently, how I might benefit from the new prince’s arrival. I should like to stand as one of his patrons at the naming ceremony.”

“Impossible,” the Priest scoffed, because he knew better than to appear to give way readily. “There are only four patrons who stand for a child as highly born as the prince. Orden will stand for Tyrus, the queen for the hearth goddess, myself for Mortis, who governs justice and death, and Consul Hadrian Inver, for Kidrien and the realms of industry and trade. I cannot appoint a fifth.”

“Then name me in Hadrian’s stead,” the spy said easily. “Or your own, or the queen’s. If you wish to keep your secrets and Her Majesty’s, I expect you to bring this about, as well as any future favors I may name.”

“You know,” the Priest answered, sidestepping any agreement or refusal, “I can work out how Lucian might uncover what Ariana and I have done, in transporting Corrinians and keeping up contact with her former mistresses. But I don’t understand how he discovered that we’ve put ourselves in league with Caervallion. I thought I’d hidden our tracks very cleverly.”

“In Honoria, perhaps,” the spy said. “But my master is a paragon of his profession and visits Caervallion often. A stray word here, a coin in the palm there, and many things can be brought to light. You would not grasp the full scope of the tools of our trade.”

An absolute fool, and a poor spy at that, the Priest thought. Lucian must only keep this lackey about to fuel the fire of his own ego, an indulgence which he would pay for.

“Is he in Caervallion often?” The Priest feigned surprise. “I know Orden has tried for Afon’s life three times since the battle summer, but I wouldn’t have called three visits in seven yearsoften, assuming Lucian even went to carry out the king’s business personally.”

Pleased with the breadth of his knowledge, the spy audibly preened. “I’m sure the king has a great deal of business you aren’t party to. Lucianvisits Caervallion several times a year to carry it out. I will tell you, though, he’s much taken with the manner of the Caervallin king. Says Orden would do well to emulate it—that Afon has more of the Inver fire in him than Honoria’s own sovereign. Not that such admiration means anything—Lucian only voices it when he’s in his cups, but Orden should remember the heritage he springs from, and the ways of his predecessors. If Afon were king in Honoria, Lucian says, he would never have left a maimed half brother alive or taken a soria to be his queen. He’d have slaughtered you on Tyrus’s altar and bedded the star witch before cutting her to pieces, or saved her for a sacrifice once she’d got him an heir. Of course, Orden could do that yet—the prince’s naming ceremony shall be soon, I expect?”

“Indeed, and you shall be a patron at it,” the Priest said, acceding with the poor grace that would be expected of him, even as he fought back revulsion. “But the prince’s other advocates have already made offerings to Tyrus to prepare themselves for the ceremony. You must do so as well.”

There was no such requirement for a child’s patrons, but the Invers were a primarily irreligious lot, who used their faith in times of trouble or when it served them best to do so. The Priest could count on one hand the number of court members who might be considered truly devout, and this upstart spy was certainly not among them.

“Do you think me witless?” the spy said. “Now that I’ve threatened you, you’ll come nowhere near me with a knife.”

In answer, the Priest removed his short-bladed pugio from its hidden sheath on his upper arm, setting it down on Kidrien’s altar. He held out his hands in an invitation. “Search me, if you like. The only knife will be held by you, and there will be no blood spilled but mine.”

The spy patted him from shoulders to ankles, brisk and businesslike. When he drew away, satisfied with the results, the Priest moved to Tyrus’s altar once more. Already, a plan was fomenting in his mind. He worked through the next few moments—where this irksome stranger would stand, where he himself had taken up position, feet rooted to the ground, the altar before them both.

With a careless motion, the Priest unbandaged his left arm, revealing the network of old scars and fresh cuts. He could feel the shift in the airas the spy’s wariness immediately became disdain. What Inver, after all, would suffer willingly?

The Priest offered his arm without hesitation, wincing slightly as the spy made a vicious cut, deeper than necessary. When sufficient blood had run down to Tyrus’s altar, the Priest took powdered herbs from a pouch at his side and pressed them to the wound, where they staunched the flow of blood in almost an instant. It wasn’t a medicine known to other Invers, the clotting powder he used—he’d borrowed a great deal from the daughters of the moon, having found an old herbal of theirs in one of the abandoned cavern chambers, its pages still in perfect condition. It had been written both in Honorian script and in an odd, pinprick manner of writing meant for those without light or vision, for it must be read by touch, rather than sight. With Beneson to read the Honorian as a reference point, the Priest had learned it, though he knew of no other book written in such a manner.

“What else must I do?” the spy asked, his tone vaguely scornful as the Priest rebandaged his arm with a mild expression.

“Light the tinder in the brazier—use the patch box, not the torch; you’re required to kindle the flame yourself,” the Priest said. “Then declare to Tyrus that you intend to stand as patron for the new prince tomorrow night, with his approval.”

“Very well.”

At that moment, Ellimere let out a small cry. Immediately the Priest felt the spy’s attention splinter as he focused on the sound. The man drew away, moving toward the cry, murmuring to himself as he bent over the bundle of blankets and its helpless occupant.

“What in Tyrus’s name are you doing with the prince already, Priest? Is he—” The spy’s voice cut off, and when he spoke again, there was disgust in his words.

“A star-marked child. Orden will be livid. All of Honoria will think his get cursed, after the moon girl. So much for the heir he desires.”

Silent on his bare feet, the Priest drew up behind the spy. He’d taken the bloodied knife from Tyrus’s altar without a sound. All the spy’s attention was on the baby, and so he did not see or sense the fatal moment in which the Priest’s focused patience turned to searing anticipation—the moment before the strike.