Page 85 of The Castle & the Cloister

“By Bright Raea and my mark, I swear to honor the debt I owe you at once and without question, at whatever time you choose to ask for payment. Should I fail in my oath, may the sun strike me dead.”

“Very well, then,” the Priest said. “Let us begin the work of claiming Honoria’s throne.”

It was the Priest’s responsibility to manage Lucian—Fia had claimed she could find a replacement for Gaius who would not just keep the guard in line, but ensure the Priest’s and Justus’s safety while he did so. The Priest was unsure such a person existed, but could do nothing besides let her try.

For his part, he had a delicate series of interviews that must be conducted prior to moving against Lucian. Each piece must be perfectly in place, to mitigate the chance of failure. First was a meeting with one of the castle’s most formidable occupants—a player in Inverlyn’s politics who many overlooked, to their detriment every time. She held power of an entirely different sort than the Priest’s own, but was no less potent in her way.

Standing on the threshold to her private apartment, the Priest wiped his damp hands on the fabric of his trousers, cursing the nerves rising within him. It was an involuntary response left over from childhood—no youngster frequented the castle without feeling the ire of this particular Inver. Anxiety did not prick him at the prospect of pitting himself against Lucian, only a fatalistic sense that what would be, would be. But this? This was a daunting prospect for the Priest.

His knock echoed in the empty corridor. Heavy footsteps sounded within, and the door was pulled open with more force than was strictly necessary.

Silence hung on the air for a moment as the Priest stood beneath the scrutiny of the first ally whose assistance he required.

“Well,” a rough voice said. “The Priest Who Dwells In Darkness on my doorstep. Never thought I’d see the day. I suppose you’d best come in.”

And the Priest meekly did as he was told, following in Glora Inver’s wake.

He’d never been in Glora’s private apartment before—it was near the kitchens and necessarily smelled of baking bread and roasting meat and boiling cabbage. None of that was unpleasant, only distinctive, and the smell of service had always set Glora apart from her fellow Invers. It was her form of power and of rebellion against the established order of things, just as his own role was for the Priest.

“There’s a chair on the left,” Glora offered. “And a few steps forward. The space in front of it’s clear.”

The Priest took the seat he was offered, and heard Glora settle in across from him. They were seated by a hearth—he could smell the soot, but so soon after midsummer, there was no fire lit.

“Pity about your brother, and about the queen,” Glora said, sounding half-disinterested, as if she were discussing an overcast day she’d hoped would be fine. “To make a bid for the throne and fail so pathetically. But she never did understand our ways. It’s already getting round to the servants that Gaius has a pool going in the guard, setting bets on which of the nobles will take the throne and have her drawn and quartered in the city.”

“Will Hadrian move on the throne, do you think?” the Priest asked.

When Glora answered, her voice was tense. “You know as well as Ido that my husband’s business is none of mine, and hasn’t been for years. But if I had to guess, I’d say he won’t. He’s devoted to Kidrien, more so than Tyrus—trade and merchantry is his preferred avenue of conquest.”

“Given his taste for prosperity by any means, would Hadrian be amenable to a position as court magistrate? It affords many covert opportunities for material advancement. The chance to take bribes and level threats and such,” the Priest said carefully. He knew the moment the words were out, his intentions would be clear. “I anticipate a vacancy in the posting very soon. And given that Hadrian is the most powerful and vocal of my detractors, I thought a change in his opinion of me would do a great deal to sway the remainder of our people.”

“You upstart bastard,” Glora said, but there was admiration in the words. “You mean to make your own bid for the throne. I always did like you best of Darias Inver’s whelps. Orden was more a peacock than you, though he managed to steal your eyes.”

“Which bought him a paltry decade on the throne, in the end,” the Priest said. “And here I still stand, while his body lies cooling in the castle crypt with our forefathers.”

“How did you kill him?” Glora asked. “I heard it was poison of some kind, and they can’t sort out what. He’d been drinking summer wine from the cloister, but Lucian forced a scullery maid to down a whole pint of it from the king’s own goblet. She’s happily soused now, and nothing more. So it must have been something else. Some other toxin. That would be your way—you must get your fill of blood down in the sanctuary, if it’s not sacrilegious to say so.”

“How Orden died isn’t important,” the Priest said, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. He felt increasingly at ease in Glora’s presence. She was no longer the towering figure he recalled from childhood, or the strident and dictatorial court manager he’d spent the better part of his priesthood avoiding. She felt congenial—like someone he could make an ally of, not just in name, but in spirit. “What’s important is this: a position as magistrate will mean Hadrian’s at court far more often, and he brings his family with him. It won’t just be for a few weeks over summer anymore. I realize the two of you don’t get on, and have some arrangement in place—that his time in Inverlyn must be brief, and that he not bring his mistress or heirs when he comes. Which is why I’mspeaking to you. I won’t ask him without your express consent. I’ve far too much regard for the power you hold in this court.”

It was the truth, and had the ring of it. Few Invers could resist an appeal to their pride, especially one honestly spoken.

“I have something to offer, as well,” the Priest went on. “As a token of appreciation for your tolerance of Hadrian’s presence in Inverlyn, and of your assistance in the years to come. There’s no one at court that doesn’t know your history with Hadrian—how he married you when you were little more than a child, and took over guardianship of the lands you’d inherited, only to refuse to turn them over when you reached the age of your majority. How he then went on to replace you with his mistress and her get, when you were unable to bear him children. And how, rather than live on an estate that was yours by rights, with another woman in your place, you left it all behind to carve out a position for yourself here.

“I can’t restore what is rightfully yours. Not if I mean to keep Hadrian as a supporter as well. But I can offer a replacement. I’m not sure if you recall Electa Inver—she was an old woman already when I was a child. But she took an interest in me and made me a sort of unofficial ward. There were a few attempts on my life I’m certain were only thwarted because of Electa’s influence. When she died, she left me her land—it’s nothing like what you lost, just a few hundred acres on the eastern coast, but there’s a good stone house, and mixed timber lot and pasturage, besides some income in fishing from the streams. The place is self-sustaining, and I’ve always thought it a bit wasted on me. I’ll likely never survive court long enough to enjoy it, but your position isn’t nearly as fraught as mine. When you choose to set aside the role of chatelaine, and move on to a life lived for yourself, you could do it there. I’ve deeded the estate to you already.”

Reaching into the shoulder bag he carried, the Priest pulled out the documents and passed them to Glora.

“I’ll accept this on one condition,” she said, with some indefinable emotion heavy in her voice. “You and Electa and I all have something in common—no direct heirs to leave anything of ours to. When I die, I want the house and lands to revert to you.”

“As blind regent to an infant king, I have no expectation of surviving that long,” the Priest replied. “But I appreciate the gesture.”

“You won’t take the throne on your own behalf, then?” Glora asked,and for the first time, he heard some of her old disapproval. “There’sneverbeen an Inver regency.”

“Then these are unprecedented times,” the Priest said with wry humor, rising to his feet. “How lucky we are to be living at the cusp of something new and interesting.”

And so, the Priest thought as he left Glora’s rooms, his unwilling bid for supremacy began. With a wet nurse and a housekeeper as his first allies, and an admission that he would not even claim the crown for himself. A low chuckle escaped the Priest as he walked through the castle, cane sweeping the ground ahead.

Gods, how Tyrus and his forefathers must hate him.