Page 96 of The Castle & the Cloister

Easily swayed, the mutterings of the court took on an edge. But Fia was equal to the accusation. She drew herself up to her full height and wrapped an arm protectively around Justus.

“I don’t speak for Dolenza,” she said. “Twice now, I’ve petitioned to become a soria and been refused. I speak for myself, though I wear a postulant’s robe. I speak for Honoria. What do any of you, perched on this mountain like carrion crows, know about how the citizenry of Honoria truly feel? I am Honorian as they come, raised from dirt in the northern ranges. I grew from nothing and was brought up in a world of trouble and cruelty rather than kindness. I was there in the aftermath of Honoria and Caervallion’s battle summer. I stitched dying men back together andsevered rotting limbs. I walked out of a life of privation and crossed the country in search of a place where my own child could prosper. Then once I’d found it, I left her behind in order to tend the son of your king. I have given Justus Inver life, and whatever strength I possess. I say he will make a fine king, and not only one the people of Honoria will fear and obey, but one they will love. He will belong to them in a way no other king ever has, and they will follow him into a glorious and bold future because of it—the sort of future none of you can so much as conjure up in dreams.”

There was a ring of prophecy in Fia’s voice. Her words were no more than what she felt was needed in the moment—they hadn’t come to her in a bloodborne dream, and were only the result of desperation and anger, but unschooled in the ways of Raea’s daughters, the Invers could tell no difference. All they could see was a woman with an infant king in her arms, speaking with authority on behalf of an entire nation. And they were not so far removed from the ancient ways that the image of Raea as mother no longer lingered in their unconsciousness. There was still a response in each of them akin to worship, as they gazed up at Fia burnished by golden light, offering them a public son. She was something old and something new—an advocate not for Raea or for peace, but for Honoria and an era of prosperity. She was both their former goddess, and their current fire.

“None of this matters,” Hadrian said, breaking the spell of silence Fia had wrought with her words. “Or at least, it doesn’t matter unless the Priest prevails in his rite. Any future for Honoria must be ushered in by blood, so let the rite begin.”

Fia scanned the crowd one last time, hope dying in her as she did so. There was no sign of Beneson and Nikolau, and Lucian was already stepping forward, the glint of a steel dagger shining in his hand.

Neither Lucian nor the Priest spoke as the Priest set his cane aside and moved forward, drawing his own knife from its sheath. If either of them had last words, they’d carry them to the grave. Perhaps it was only her own feelings taking hold, but Fia thought she could sense heavy reluctance radiating from them both, as they took ownership of the empty space at the center of the audience hall and slowly, cautiously, began to circle each other.

A feint from Lucian, and the Priest sidestepped it neatly. The gatheredInvers were dead silent, rather than raucous with good humor, and Fia sent up a breathless prayer of thanks to Raea for that. If the crowd set to clamoring, the Priest’s fate would be sealed—he’d have no way of hearing the barely audible sounds that signaled Lucian’s movement. Fia could see the strain in him—his shoulders were tense with the work of trying to track Lucian’s whereabouts, while the spymaster was light on his feet, relaxed in spite of the circumstances.

Another feint, this one with a vicious and perfectly timed sidestep halfway through, and Lucian had drawn first blood. Crimson stained the Priest’s left sleeve, blossoming out from a shallow wound on his upper arm. But Lucian was away already, retreating swiftly—the Priest had six inches on him, and if it came to grappling, Lucian would be finished. His strength lay in taking advantage of the Priest’s sightlessness, and Lucian evidently intended to do so ruthlessly.

It would be a slow and merciless death, Fia realized with a sickening sensation of dread. Lucian would toy with the Priest, to ensure no one else ever dared to pit themselves against him.

A slight commotion rose from the audience hall’s doorway, tying her stomach into further knots. The crowdhadto stay quiet.

And then, reprieve. Beneson appeared, flushed and sweating at her side. He gestured in the direction of the Priest and Lucian—Nikolau was already striding toward them, across the no-man’s-land of open space at the center of the audience hall.

“Priest,” Nikolau called, and then his hand was on the Priest’s shoulder, the two of them speaking in low, terse voices with their heads bowed together. Fia couldn’t catch their words, but after a moment, the Priest nodded and turned to the dais where she and Hadrian still stood.

“I name an adjutor,” the Priest said, and though no one else, perhaps, would be able to hear it, Fia recognized relief in the words.

Lucian let out a frustrated growl. “Very well. I can’t naysay you. Gaius of the guard will serve as my adjutor. And yours is?”

Nikolau offered Lucian a mocking bow. “Nikolau Raeana, Priest’s right hand.”

“You’re not one of our people,” Lucian scoffed. “I’ve never heard of you.”

“You have, only you didn’t know my name. I’d have preferred to keepit that way, so I’m a little out of temper,” Nikolau answered, and Fia knew a reproach aimed at her when she heard one. “Do you wish to stand here and hiss at each other like a pair of cats, or do you mean to fight?”

By way of reply, Lucian stepped back, spreading his hands wide in invitation. Gaius stumped forward, heavy and thickset as a bear, and did not so much as hesitate. He strode straight to the Priest, twisting his knife forward with a savage lunge. The Priest dodged handily, and began a series of short and measured retreats—Gaius surging ahead, the Priest backing away in plenty of time. At first, Fia found it frustrating—surely the Priest could take advantage of Gaius’s nearness, as the guard captain came within inches of him, often off-center as he did so.

But unlike with Lucian, the Priest would have no advantage if he was forced to grapple with Gaius. And as the Priest and the guard captain circled past the dais, coming within feet of Fia, she realized what the Priest was doing. By far the heavier man, Gaius was already growing breathless. In staying defensive, the Priest was not just tiring a larger, heavier opponent, but chipping away at Gaius’s greatest advantage—the Priest’s own blindness. With every minute that passed, Gaius’s labored breath grew louder and therefore easier to detect.

Content for the moment, Fia turned her attention to Nikolau and Lucian. Unlike Gaius and the Priest, who were circling the audience hall’s outer perimeter, Nikolau and the spymaster were occupying the open space at its center. They wove in tight, contained patterns, feinting and dodging, trying to take a measure of each other.

“You’re from the mountains, aren’t you?” Lucian asked, showing not the least sign of wearing out, like Gaius. “I can hear it in your voice. I’m willing to bet you know that bitch of Dolenza’s, and she’s how you ended up here. She’ll be the death of you and the Priest both.”

But if Lucian meant to rattle Nikolau via a slight to Fia, he’d misjudged. Nikolau only grinned.

“I’m from everywhere and nowhere. And if you think this is the worst position I’ve found myself in because of the postulant, you’re sorely mistaken. I don’t expect it’ll be the last time I run afoul of the Invers on her behalf, either.”

“Stop prattling and fight, Nikolau,” Fia snapped, because a murmur of gossip was spreading through the courtiers. It wasn’t only the noisethat was a concern anymore, not with Gaius puffing like a bellows. The nobles considered it an established fact that Fia and their Priest were bonded to each other, and Fia needed them to continue to believe so. She could not have Nikolau sow seeds of doubt as to how things stood between her and the Priest.

But Nikolau had fallen silent again. Fia could have told Lucian that meant trouble—even a life of privation and danger in a strange land had done little to damage Nikolau’s Vesperin gregariousness. When his focus grew intent and fierce, as it had done now, no good could come for the object of his attention.

The last time Fia had seen him overcome by such a mood, Nikolau killed two pressers with his own hands. Using a flagrum, the very scourge with which they humiliated and punished deserters, he’d beaten the pair so badly they died of their wounds and were little more than raw meat by the end. Not an hour later, he’d been back in the nearest of his hidden camps, laughing with deserters’ families and bouncing one of their children on his knee.

So it did not surprise Fia at all when one of Lucian’s feints failed spectacularly—the spymaster darted forward, and rather than move entirely away, Nikolau shifted to one side, seizing hold of Lucian’s arm. The spymaster’s own recoiling momentum carried him toward Nikolau, so that he ended with one wrist and dagger pinned behind him, Nikolau’s own knife at his throat.

Bright as Raea herself, the Vesperin laughed, a low and mirthful sound, and then pressed a kiss to the side of Lucian’s sweating face. Nikolau had been like this when the pressers died—feral in his anger, half-mad with it, a creature of unruly and gloriously inhumane impulses. Fia knew she should be repulsed by such behavior—that it was antithetical to the substance and beliefs of the daughters of light—but she never found it anything less than compelling. Violence drew her like a moth to flame, and she watched with parted lips as Lucian was forced to wrench himself free, his wrist snapping audibly in the process, while Nikolau’s dagger raked a shallow, bleeding wound along the side of his throat.

Lucian stumbled away, and when he looked up, Fia could see murder in his eyes. He made not for Nikolau, but for the Priest, who remained focused on Gaius, the two of them still circling the audience hall.

“Your left, Priest,” Nikolau called, and unhesitatingly lunged at Gaius, despite the guard being nearly twice his weight. The sudden force of Nikolau’s impact, coming from an unexpected angle, caught Gaius off balance, and the two of them toppled over into the crowd. A crush of bodies hid them from Fia’s view, and a shocked clamor rose up, but her gaze was trained on the Priest. Lucian had come at him furiously, but Nikolau’s warning served its purpose, and the two of them were locked together, striving for the upper hand. At some point in the confusion, the Priest had lost his dagger, but Lucian still held his. The spymaster’s face was crimson with the strain of trying to overpower the Priest, sweat standing out on his forehead as he attempted to embed his dagger in his rival’s throat. With a sudden jolt, the Priest twisted to one side, and Lucian let out a strangled gasp as his broken wrist gave way.