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“I’ve never met a priestess before,” Gracen admits. “Not a real one, anyway.”
I’m unsure what she means by that, but now is not the time to ask.
When Wendeline opens her eyes again, they’re shining. “You have no reason to worry. Your baby is healthy and strong. She will be born soon.”
“She?” Gracen lets out a breathy laugh. “Another girl. That’s … wonderful news.” Her smile falters, as if it’s not.
A low wail carries through the sanctum, turning the few heads of people who are here for midday prayer. Lilou fell asleep in Dagny’s arms on the carriage ride and was content to stay asleep while the sturdy seamstress strolled the aisles, but she’s awake now and searching for her mother. “I should get her before she begins to shriek.” Gracen heaves herself out of the pew and waddles away. Mika trots closely behind, closing and opening his hand with fascination.
“She doesn’t seem particularly thrilled about another girl.”
Wendeline’s gaze trails mine. “I sense she has seen great hardship in her young life, and she fears her daughters will face the same.”
“Not anymore. At least, I hope not.” I’m not sure how much better a life she and her family will have under Zander’s employ, but I am sure it will be infinitely safer than the one Danthrin offered.
Wendeline stares at me a long moment before startling, as if catching herself. “I cannot believe you marched up to the lord’s booth and demanded to take them all.”
Neither can I, after the fact. I shrug. “If I’m playing this role, I might as well get some enjoyment from it, right? Hopefully that monster is suffocating in the bed of tarts and pudding cakes he made for himself.”
Elisaf is far in the back, waiting patiently; the other guards are outside. But I sense my time here is limited. Too long and I might be testing the lax leash Zander released me on. Regardless, I’ll have to provide an explanation for our conversation.
Three priestesses kneel in front of the altar. They haven’t moved an inch since we sat down. There are no wary looks, no secretive stares, nothing to suggest they’re hiding anyone within these walls.
“Is something the matter, Your Highness?” Wendeline asks.
“I don’t know.” I’ve spent years looking at everyone through a lens of suspicion. I didn’t want to use it on Elisaf and Wendeline. But maybe that will be my downfall.
I study the priestess intently as I ask, “What reason would a seer have to come to Cirilea?”
She can’t hide the flash of surprise in her eyes fast enough. I think that’s the trick with Wendeline—she’s always given the opportunity to slip on her invisible armor before facing anyone. But my impromptu visit here with Mika in tow didn’t allow for that.
Her reaction brings a conflicting surge of satisfaction, and a sting of betrayal. Bexley was right, and I’ve been far too trusting. “You knew.”
Her gaze shifts to the kneeling priestesses, and then to her peripheral, to make sure no one is behind us. She releases a sigh that seems to carry the weight of a heavy burden from her chest with it. “They arrived two days ago. But I knew they were coming.”
“They’re here?” I glance around us.
“They will not come here. They’re not foolish.”
“Have you told Zander?” The state of her fingernails would suggest not.
“No.”
I shake my head. “You lied to us yesterday.”
“I shared what information I could.” She studies the floor. “Do not think that I am unaware of Zander’s suspicions or his contempt for Mordain. I share that contempt. All I can do is act in the best interests of Islor and hope that he continues to allow me the grace to do so.”
Zander was right to be skeptical of her, but now is not the time for condemnations. “Where is Ianca?”
“Ianca’s knowledge is invaluable, and Gesine is a powerful asset, even collared. They did not break free from Neilina’s grip and sail here just to risk becoming puppets for someone else. They will find you when they are ready, and not before.”
“Why are they even here?” I lower my voice, afraid it’s carrying. “Is Mordain scheming against Islor?”
“No.” She shakes her head firmly. “Not in the way the king would fear. There are events that must come to pass and pieces that must fall into place. They are here so that when that happens, they can guide you forward as best they can.”
“Guide me? I don’t understand. Guide me through what?” Frustration bleeds into my tone.
The smile she gives me is pained. “The prophecy is there, collecting dust within thousands of years of ramblings, scribed and forgotten. The Ybarisan daughter of Aoife and the Islorian son of Malachi joined together will bring peace to both realms.”
