Chapter 38 #2
It is like a prison, I think. If you wanted to leave, how would you go?
I chew my thumbnail. Eventually, I lie back down with my eyes closed, but I can't sleep. All I hear is footsteps in the hallway constantly. So frequently, I wonder if they're just watching me, like I can't go anywhere in my life, life without some kind of bodyguard anymore.
I must doze off eventually because when my eyes open there are bells ringing and the light outside the window is faintly red.
"Gwenna," calls a voice. "Time for church, come!"
I follow them through the now familiar corridors, and as I do I see familiar figures exiting another hall. Kingston and Kai, Lanz and Callahan. I catch their eyes again. I'm okay. I telegraph and memorize where they've come from, just in case. Are you okay? Are you? Please be okay.
We emerge into the cold, the wind almost smacking me over, as we cross the pebbled courtyard to the cathedral. Other people are moving in the same direction. Monks, the other women, students, even the officials, like a procession toward the cathedral.
I've never been in an Orthodox church before, churches, even a few European cathedrals, sure. But nothing like this. I glimpsed the St. Ignaty cathedral, its imposing onion-shaped domes and needle-thin spires, when we came in, and we'd walked the perimeter this morning, but this is different.
I step inside, flanked on either side by Dasha and Sveta, and my senses are overwhelmed.
It's fully lit, candles everywhere, hundreds, maybe thousands, and incense is so thick I can barely breathe.
Above us, the dome soars overhead, and the massive iconostasis, the wall of icons, gleams with gold before us like a grand, ornate backdrop, and a broad altar stands in the center of the floor, just before the rows of pews.
But for all of that, there’s one thing that catches my attention.
A seat—a throne. White.
Behind the altar, before the icons.
Just like the one in Camlann House.
"Gwenechka," Sveta whispers urgently, "here." She hands me something soft and silk—a scarf, I realize. Red. Their heads are all covered, and so are the rest of the women.
Right, of course. I awkwardly fumble with it, folding it into a triangle and tying it around my hair.
Our footsteps echo as we make our way to the left side of the nave, the women's side, and instinctively I turn and look across the aisle.
The four of them stand in a row. Solemn-faced, attentive, but Kingston breaks closest to the aisle. He looks at me, holds my game.
I'm all right, I try to say. I'm doing fine. Just do whatever you have to do to make it to tomorrow and win.
As Dasha and Katyenka fidget next to me, a low, haunting vocal melody stretches above us.
Chanting. Church Slavonic. Incomprehensible, but beautiful.
Deep voices, no instruments. From behind the iconostasis, the priests emerge, their vestments heavy and gold, stark against the black robes.
The incense gets somehow stronger, tickling the back of my throat.
And I feel strangely dizzy. I think of Morgan's perfume. Is this something like that? I cough. But no, it's just too much. It's all too much. Too grand, too loud, too all-encompassing.
Then behind us, there's some sort of commotion cutting under the music. Everyone turns. Down the aisle, four monks are wheeling in a chair, a kind of litter almost, an ornate platform, ancient looking, with golden wheels. And on it sits a man.
The archmandrite.
I shudder without meaning to, without even realizing what I'm seeing.
The man is ancient, almost impossibly old.
His form is skeletal, his waxy and parchment-thin.
Deep black robes hang off of bony limbs as his head, in the square black cap, nods forward, so far that his thin beard grazing the front of his chest, and the cross pendant that hangs there.
I gulp as he passes us, the wheels of the litter cranking, and then I catch his eyes, bright, burning, terrifyingly awake despite the rest of his form.
I gasp before I remember not to. Next to me, I feel Dasha's hand clamp on my wrist, hard. In support or in warning, I can't tell. But I freeze.
They finish the procession, wheeling him to the center of the nave, and turn him to face the congregation.
Shakily, almost convulsively, he raises a hand, and his lips move.
He's speaking, barely, his voice like wind through dry leaves, hardly loud enough to carry even though everyone is deathly silent.
Heads are bowed. I bow mine too, even as my heart is pounding, and then I look up. Those eyes catch mine again.
His hand falls, moves side to side, the sign of the cross so specific and intentional I can feel it, almost like a physical touch.
I look away, shivering, and my gaze lands on, of all people, Moroslav.
He smiles at me, broadly, almost too broadly to be friendly.
I look away, skin crawling, and stare at the tiled floor.
The rest of the service passes in a blur.
I sit or stand, as the rest of them do. Understand none of the prayers, recognize none of the music, mumble amen when I think it's appropriate.
And then finally we are dismissed, the wheeled chair going first, and then the rest of the congregation all at once.
My energy returns in the flood of the crowd, everyone in the center aisle.
I try to get to them, to Kingston, who's closest, but the crowd is too thick.
Bodies are pressing, moving me along, and then the girls are on my sides again.
"It was beautiful, yes," Dasha says. "We have the most perfect church."
Katyenka nods. "Beautiful,” she echoes.
I can't speak. Can barely breathe. Finally, outside in the cold air, I suck in a deep inhale, like I've been drowning. Our steps slow as the crowd knots up, and I’m loosening the scarf from my hair when someone pushes through the crowd.
Kingston.
"Gwenna," he says. "Are you—how are you? Are you all right?"
I breathe out hard. Up until now, I was, I think. But that was... I shake my head, short and terse. "This place is weird," I mumble.
Kingston form goes stiff and taut. "I know," he says, quiet and tense. He looks to each side.
“How are you?” I ask, urgent and low. “Are you okay? Are you all—”
“Don't go anywhere alone, okay?” Kingston says. It's not like him to interrupt me. His eyes are fierce, almost desperate. "Stay with the girls."
"But you—are they—" I drop my voice even lower. "Has anyone tried anything?"
"Nothing we can't handle." His jaw clenches.
"Moroslav's been watching us all day. Studying our form, looking for weaknesses.
Tomorrow during the bouts..." He trails off, glances over his shoulder.
"Just promise me you'll stay out of sight. The further you are from the fencing, the safer you are, okay?”
I nod. “I promise.”
“And if anything happens to us—”
"Gwenechka!" Dasha waves to me. "Come."
When I turn back, Kingston is gone, pulled back into the throng of men.
Away from me.