Page 89 of The Castle & the Cloister

“If it’s needed, I will keep your son safe with my own body and blood,” the postulant promised before turning away.

The small track Fia found herself on wound around the outside of the castle proper, emerging near the city’s laundries. She lost herself in a restless crowd—people were everywhere, the news of Orden’s death already spreading like wildfire. Shops were shuttered, foundries silent, market stalls abandoned. Inverlyn was bracing itself for upheaval. Even the faithful district wasn’t immune. There were people in the streets there, too, albeit more sparsely than in the populous areas of the city. Fia made her way to the single taberna she’d seen in business, and pushed through a relatively subdued knot of gossipers who’d gathered in the doorway.

“Maybe Charin Inver?” someone asked as Fia passed by.

“Not Her Majesty, for certain.”

“If it takes much longer, Afon will have the throne.”

“Would it be such a bad thing? He worships Silith, at least.”

Fia set her jaw. It would, she thought, be a very bad thing indeed if Afon seized control of Honoria, though most of the people seemed to disagree. What their fascination with Caervallion’s warlord was, she could not understand.

The interior of the taberna was dusty and unkempt, smelling of barley wine and mead and day-old bread. At one end of the room, a lightless gray hearth still housed yesterday’s ashes, and at the other end, a publican stood behind the tall counter, dispensing wooden mugs of his house brews. As Fia approached the counter he gave a nod. “What’s your pleasure?”

In answer, Fia fished the small pressed-metal token from her pocket, imprinted with the image of a drowning flame.

“I think you know what that is,” she said. “I think you know who it’s meant for. Have it brought to them.”

Taking it immediately, the publican handed it over to a waiting errand boy with a few low words. The boy ran off, and he turned back to Fia.

“What can I get you while you wait?” he asked. “Anything you like, the house covers it.”

Fia deliberated. “You don’t have anthara tea, do you? I haven’t tasted it since leaving the northern mountains. It was one of the few tolerable things about life there.”

“Might have some of it left, let’s just see.” The publican rummaged around underneath the enormous counter, removing tins and wooden boxes and casks, finally coming up triumphantly with a leather pouch in one hand. “It’s from two seasons back, but it should brew up nicely.”

With one eye on the door, Fia watched him scatter a blend of spear-shaped leaves and starry flowers into a mug, followed by a stream of hot water. The steam that rose was fragrant but carried an edge. Floral, but with a slight astringent bite. Nothing about the mountains had ever been sweet without an element of bitterness.

“Better fix a second cup,” Fia said quickly as an all-too-familiar figure appeared in the door.

Sunlight glinted off Nikolau’s golden hair as he strode toward her. In daylight, rather than the shadowy back corner of a rundown foundry, he looked just as Fia remembered. Burnished sun-bright, lithe and light on his feet, with a sharp blue gaze that held hints of both mastery and mockery.

“Anthara,” Fia said, pushing her own cup toward Nikolau. “Just like old times. Shall we sit?”

Nikolau shot her a look of frustration. An improvement on the barely restrained anger he’d shown at their last meeting. “Fia. I managed your errand and Dolenza’s as well, but I told you to leave me be until harvest time, when I’d collect on your debt. What the hell do you want now?”

“To make the payment we agreed on,” Fia said, taking the second cup the publican offered and gesturing to an empty table with it. “I owe you something, and here it is. I’d like a report on your work for Dolenza too.”

She’d had no idea Dolenza used the deserters on behalf of the cloister—Fia hadn’t shared her connection to them with the Matria,or the truth of Miriel’s parentage. There was no reason for Dolenza to inform Fia she was engaging Nikolau and his people, and it was only Nikolau’s belief that Fia had hired him on Dolenza’s behalf that led him to mention her now.

“Let us begin, then. Corrin is unfortunately not my concern any longer, despite your Matria’s interests and my work there,” Nikolau said, seating himself at the table Fia had led them to. His eyes cut hungrily and constantly to the bundle that was Justus, sleeping in Fia’s arms. “In addition to dealing with Orden’s band of assassins, I’ve had a hundred of my people scattered along the northern Corrinian border, posing as merchant caravans and itinerant traders and herders. They engaged in half a dozen skirmishes over the summer, with supposed bandits who were far too disciplined to be what they seemed. Every time, the raiders withdrew quickly when they realized there was someone acting in Corrin’s defense. They were Caervallin mercenaries, of course—without the distraction of Orden’s war, Afon will drive the last of Corrin’s folk from their land and claim it himself. He was already taking bites out of the borderlands before this business of Orden’s death.

“Things were going well until Serafine sent word to me herself, saying my people weren’t welcome in Corrin and had to leave at once. I ordered them to stick things out for a little while, given it was Dolenza’s coin keeping us there, but Corrinians are difficult. They wouldn’t so much as sell one of my folk a crust of bread after Serafine gave the word that they were to turn strangers away. I was forced to pull everyone out, not a week past.”

Fia scowled. “Why would she do a foolish thing like that?”

“She said our presence in Corrin was—let me see, how did she word it?An affront to Lyria and a deterrent to the pursuit of peace.”

After a momentary struggle, Fia hid her frustration. “Still, you tried. And I haven’t forgotten what I promised you for your help.” She shifted the baby in her arms so that his face was more clearly visible to Nikolau. “That you could see our daughter and have a part in her life.”

“May I—?” Nikolau asked, and Fia nodded easily, handing Justus to him.

“She’s a great deal smaller than I thought she’d be,” Nikolau murmured. “And darker-haired. Miriel, you said her name is?”

“Yes,” Fia answered, blowing on her tea and watching him closely through the cloud of the steam that rose up. “Miriel is our daughter’s name. I nearly starved on the road, and birthed her early, but she’ll outgrow that trouble. Perhaps she looks like my father.”

Fia had never known her father, not his name nor his face. Miriel looked like Fia and like Nikolau—she had the golden coloring her parents shared, with Fia’s determined chin and Nikolau’s sky-blue eyes.