Chapter 25
Cressyda
THE MORNING BELLS tolled from the Sanctuary’s tower.
Thunderous clanging that shuddered through the vast building, rattling the rusty stones and causing the ribbons that hung from its ceiling to quiver.
The bells swallowed every other noise: the whispered prayers of priests on the balconies; the scrape of brooms across the tiled floor; and the groaning of the doors as Cressyda slipped inside.
She darted down an aisle, her steps timed with the peals that shook the air, her head bent and shoulders hunched. By the fifth toll, she had opened a narrow door on the right side of the Sanctuary, and by the sixth, she was inside, closing it swiftly behind her.
The small muniments chamber smelt of wax and old leather.
Its narrow windows allowed only fractured shards of light, their thin glass quaking with the muffled boom of the bells.
Oak shelves climbed the cramped walls, filled with scrolls and records that would not fit in the racks at the back of the Sanctuary.
At the centre stood a cluster of lecterns, their wood blackened, and upon them rested books, leatherbound, their clasps greened with age.
Cressyda cast a quick glance at the door before moving closer.
She had recently discovered that the muniments chamber was left unlocked every third morning during the priests’ shift change, and she had visited the dusty, cobwebbed room a few times, poking through its contents.
It was mostly filled with charters, deeds and out-of-date Calestran maps, but she had found a few items of interest.
She halted before the nearest lectern and laid her hands on the book that rested there. The leather was cool beneath her fingers. With a reluctant snap, the clasps gave way and the cover creaked open on stiff, musty hinges.
Outside, the Sanctuary bells fell still, their roaring crash replaced by the soft, muffled chants of prayer. The quiet pressed against her ears. Cressyda knew she had only a handful of moments before a priest came to lock the door again. She must be quick.
She lowered her gaze to the opening title page: The Ledger of the Maiden Sacrifice.
A line of names followed in neat, tidy columns.
Maiden after maiden.
Spring after spring.
Cressyda sifted through the pages, her breath shallow. The names blurred into one another, yet each represented a life cut short, a girl who had been sent to death. And these were her people – she knew that now. Her own flesh and blood.
Since learning that she was one of the Mountain folk last summer, Cressyda had thought of little else.
By day, she prowled the castle library, leafing through histories, and unrolling scrolls until her eyes stung.
At night she lit a candle in her chamber and bent over still more books until dawn glowed at her shutters.
Her mind burned with questions. Every tale, every scrap of law or legend that spoke of the Mountain folk, she devoured with feverish hunger.
And though she had learnt as much as there was written about their rites and customs, she still did not fully understand what Samsel had called the Sight.
Chronicles spoke of the Mountain folks’ laws and governing system at length, but little else was mentioned.
From her own analysis, Cressyda had deciphered that the Sight was some kind of natural magic.
It seemed to be something inherent that could appear in those who had Mountain blood.
Last moon, she had cornered a cloche-wearing kitchen girl in a corridor, and tried to ask careful, tentative questions about the Sight in a hushed tone.
But the more she probed, the more terrified the girl had become, until finally, she had cried, ‘I don’t know nothing about it, Princess.
I’ve got no Gifts, promise!’ Reluctantly, Cressyda had let the girl go.
At least it was a relief to know that she was not mad.
All her life, Cressyda had feared that the things she glimpsed were the inventions of a warped imagination, that there was something wrong with her, that she was somehow broken.
But there was a reason that she could see and hear shadowed creatures when others could not.
And these beings were real. What exactly they were, she still was not sure – something to do with the Sight.
And something to do with what the kitchen girl had called ‘Gifts’.
Cressyda had so many questions, and no one she could ask without risking everything.
Even interrogating the lowly kitchen girl had been dangerous; a single misplaced word, a flicker of curiosity noticed by the wrong ear, and the rumour of her secret could spread through Syonno Castle like rot.
Yet she could not stop. She had to learn what the Sight truly was – and she had to do it before Samsel.
He had warned her that he would be making his own enquiries into her origins, and as the days passed, she could feel his net tightening.
Whatever he had planned, it would not be quiet.
Perhaps a grand unveiling meant to strip her bare before the court and finally force the Queen to publicly admit that Cressyda was not her real daughter.
Such a revelation would not only ruin Cressyda, it would rob her of protection.
If Samsel succeeded, she would have no defence left.
But if she could uncover the truth first, perhaps she might turn it into a weapon of her own.
Cressyda stopped at the last few pages in the ledger.
The parchment was thin and soft with age, edges frayed where countless fingers had turned them before hers.
She traced her nail down the neat columns of ink, each name an echo of some forgotten girl.
There were several Rachellies, a few Esmelies, and one Flessanie.
All common Mountain names. The names of her people.
She paused.
Perhaps her mother had been called something like that. Or perhaps her mother was even one of these women, a Maiden Sacrifice.
The thought had occurred to Cressyda before, especially when she had first started looking through the muniments chamber and discovered the Ledger of the Maiden Sacrifice.
She had dismissed it then, told herself it was a foolish fancy born of desperation.
There were plenty of other Mountain women she could be.
But the idea would not fully release her.
It was too much like longing. Longing for a name, a face, a story that would make her whole.
She bent closer, breathing in the dry scent of ink, as though some trace of truth might linger in the faded strokes of the quill.
She thought often of the scroll she had read many winters ago that recorded the Battle of Silicia, where the horrifying tradition of the Maiden Sacrifice had been formed. She still remembered its words:
‘The Great Dragon decreed that on the first day of spring, one of our kind must be sent into the mountains or else face the mighty creature’s wrath …’
Nothing about a Maiden Sacrifice. Nothing about women. Yet the ledger before her was full of the names of girls who had been forced to die.
When she had first read that scroll, Cressyda had thought the record was mistaken: a scribe’s omission or a lost line.
But over the winters, it had slowly dawned on her that the truth was harder and darker than that – it was a choice.
A decision made by King Freddini Tangello when his army seized Calestra, then perpetuated by every King that followed.
They had chosen to turn the burden upon women alone – on Mountain women.
Had the treaty demanded the heir of a noble family, it would surely have been contested long ago.
But the Mountain folk were generally belittled and dismissed, so their daughters had been offered up without challenge.
As Cressyda had grown older, she had too clearly understood how such a thing had happened.
It was easy to weave cruelty into ritual until the winters wore away all memory of what had truly been.
She stared down at the names in the ledger, anger rising like heat under her skin. She had always known that the Maiden Sacrifice was barbaric, but only now did she grasp the depth of the betrayal. This was no sacred rite, no shield against the dragon’s wrath. It was butchery, sanctified with lies.
From above came a booming clang.
Cressyda jumped, her fingers slipping from the ledger.
More peals followed, rolling through the Sanctuary. The sound crashed down from the tower, louder and harsher than before, shaking the air. A puff of dust shivered loose from a shelf above, showering over her.
The bells should not be ringing again so soon. Something was wrong.
Cressyda hurried to the door, straining to hear if anyone was passing by over the din of noise. After a beat, she gave up and pushed it open anyway, hoping no one would see her.
Inside the Sanctuary, all usual peace was shattered. Priests flurried like startled crows on the balconies and novices ran with their skirts gathered in their fists, faces pale.
‘The King!’ she heard someone cry.
‘King Borto is dead!’