Chapter XXV
XXV
Let us find each other in the space between the stars, in the dark of the moon, in the eclipsing of the sun.
If there be no place for us in the light, then in the shadows we will meet.
Better you than sight. Better you than hearing.
Better you than sweetness on the air or the tongue, than warmth or wealth or comfort.
—A CORRINIAN LOVERS’ PLEDGE
Every beat of Ariana’s heart tolled a death knell.
Orden was gone.
Gone.
Gone.
And only now, fool that she was, did she understand the extent to which she’d cared for him.
Things had always been difficult between them—they could never have been anything else.
But he’d been her salvation when she so desperately needed it, putting her beyond the reach of little knives and their callings, and giving her a way to work for peace with…
well, not clean hands. But cleaner hands than she’d have had if she’d bowed to her Matria’s will and become a holy assassin.
She had loved him for that, and in spite of herself, in spite of Blessed Lyria, she’d loved him for who he was.
At first, she’d refused to believe he could really be dead.
She’d known she needed to act, to ensure Fia was not declared guilty of regicide, and the cloister by association, though what Fia had been doing in the king’s chambers, the Beloved Three only knew.
Orden had promised not to involve her in his plans until later, when the way to claiming the cloister was clear.
But he was eager and impetuous—no doubt he’d wanted to hurry things along.
So Ariana had been forced to claim her husband’s death, while telling herself it couldn’t be true.
When he returned, he’d laugh his deep, reverberating laugh, sweep her into his arms, and tell her that she’d done well in weathering his absence.
That her regard and her strength were his greatest pride.
Surely, surely, a man like Orden Inver couldn’t actually be killed.
Then Lucian had clapped her in irons, and Ariana began to grow cold inside.
Orden would never have allowed that, no matter the circumstances.
Now she sat in a cell with guilt gnawing at her, eating away at her soul with each passing hour.
She should have done better. Should have been better.
Should have found a way to prevent the new war that had earned Orden so much ire.
Should have handled him more carefully, and understood why he chose this path…
Ariana retreated into herself. She knew it was essential to find some form of grounding—at any moment, Lucian might appear with whatever arcane and sadistic devices he used to torment political dissidents or treacherous nobles or Vesperin prisoners of war.
But it was difficult, without her goddess.
She couldn’t pray. Couldn’t sing. Couldn’t drop into the vast sea of silence and perfect serenity that was Lyria’s heart, and her gift to her children.
None of that was meant for Ariana now, nor was she worthy of it any longer.
So she sat in the gloom of a stone cell and tried to count her breaths.
The occasional half-mad cries of other prisoners kept stealing her focus, shattering what little concentration remained.
Her mind fragmented, drifting up through the layers of rock above her, wondering what Fia was doing, or the Priest. Wondering why Lucian hadn’t come yet, and where they’d taken Orden’s body.
The last hurt so badly to think of she nearly choked.
A ruddy glow flared in the darkness. Light, surreptitious steps sounded on the stairs spiraling down to the dungeons, followed by a slow and cumbersome tread. Lucian appeared before Ariana’s cell with a torch in hand and a satisfied look written across his unremarkable face.
“At first I was at a loss,” he said companionably, “as to how I should manage you. You confessed so prettily, the moment you heard I’d taken the postulant into custody.
And you’re a rare prize, aren’t you, little bird?
It isn’t every day an Inver has the pleasure of winning both a throne and the care and keeping of a treasonous queen who was once a soria.
I intend to hand you to whomever takes the crown like the gift you are, and to be rewarded richly for it.
Of course, it would diminish the significance of the thing if I spoiled you in any way.
But I’ve waited so long to see you writhe.
I’ve been so patient these past seven years, while Orden kept you safe in his shadow. ”
Ariana said nothing. She stayed where she was, seated on the dank stone floor of a cell the Invers had carved out themselves, because sorias took no prisoners.
She trained her fathomless dark gaze on Lucian, and even now, with her behind bars and him holding the castle hostage, he could not withstand the mild look of one of Lyria’s daughters.
His eyes faltered and drifted, and his expression shifted from satisfaction to rage.
“I’ve brought you a cellmate,” Lucian ground out. “Someone to pass the time with you until your fate is decided. It seemed a pity for you to be left all alone.”
He gestured to the unseen guards that Ariana had heard behind him, and they stepped forward. Now she saw what they’d been carrying—what burden had weighed them down. Between the two of them they carried Orden’s body, which ought to have been turned over to the Priest for tending hours ago.
The last spark of hope in Ariana guttered and died, leaving nothing in its wake but an endless chasm of darkness. No stars. Only night, bleak and all-consuming.
“You chose him in life,” Lucian said. “Why should you be parted in death?”
Ariana stayed silent. However she’d worked against Orden and struggled to reconcile who she was with who he wished her to be, whatever he’d done to Corrin during that long-ago battle summer, she’d never wanted him dead.
To desire someone else’s death was entirely alien to her nature—she had, from infancy, been trained into an empathetic and generous spirit, wishing only goodness and peace for anyone whose path crossed her own.
Ariana Inver had been forced to make many compromises in life, but Ariana Lyrien could stand before the embodiment of evil itself and offer nothing besides love.
And oh, how she had loved her flawed and foolish king.
The guards filed into Ari’s cell, dropping Orden’s body next to her none too gently. She couldn’t help but flinch and reach out a possessive hand, as if she could protect him in death when she’d been unable to in life.
“He was less than his father before him, allowing himself to die this way.” Lucian looked down at Orden with a disapproving twist of his mouth.
“What a waste. I’d hoped he’d do great things, and in the end he proved the disappointing offshoot of a more powerful sire.
Well, we shall see what becomes of Honoria now. ”
Ariana shouldn’t let Lucian know he’d moved her. But a sob caught in her throat as he leveled an insult at the king, who was no longer able to respond. Automatically, as if she could defend him with her body, the queen lowered herself down, resting her head on her husband’s cold and lifeless chest.
“Pathetic,” Lucian spat. “An Inver doesn’t mourn the dead. An Inver avenges them or supplants them. If you were fit to rule in his stead, you’d know that by now.”
Breathe in, Ariana thought. Breathe out. Please. If I have ever known so much as a moment of favor, let him breathe in. Let him breathe out.
Orden stayed motionless. There would be no more seeking to undermine him, no more grappling with the intemperate nature of his love, no more attempting to placate him by bartering away bits of herself.
He’d troubled her in life, but he was an agony to her now, his stillness striking her like a blow.
With a final disdainful glance over one shoulder, Lucian left the cell.
Breathe in, Ariana thought as he and the guards retreated. Breathe out.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
How long she lay with her head on Orden’s chest, she couldn’t say.
A chill had settled in her bones and pain in her neck and back by the time something caused her to stir.
It was not noise, but the absence of it.
The castle dungeon had fallen dead silent, as quiet as Orden’s lifeless body.
There were few other occupants, and no more than an occasional cough or groan had sounded from them, but a constant low mutter of conversation emanated from the guard station. Now all that had stilled.
Ariana glanced up at the bars of her cell door and found Ambassador Gwylen staring down at her. The woman’s goddess mark glowed eerily pale in the torchlight, and she regarded Ariana with something that might have been pity or might have been scorn.
“So. They told me you’d turned king killer.”
Ariana remained silent and stayed with her head on Orden’s chest.
“You’re making a spectacle of yourself,” Gwylen said. “He was only an Inver. They’re a penny a pound on this mountain, and not worth the grief of a woman like you.”
Breathe in. Breathe out. Blessed Lyria, overlook my apostasy. Grant me this one miracle, even if afterward you never think of me again.
“How did you get in here? Is Lucian charging admission to those who’d like to make a mockery of me?” Ariana asked.
“This was Silith’s mountain, once. Her daughters know more about it than the Invers ever will.
And I’ve been sent by Afon, who has an offer to make,” Gwylen said.
“His messengers rode two horses to death getting orders to me so that I could stand before you now. Afon says he’ll take you to wife and to bed if you but send word.
He’ll have an army in the foothills within a fortnight, and an advance force outside your cell within a day.
Whatever his conduct to you in the past, he would have you as queen and make your firstborn daughter his heir, until such a time as you get him a successor of his own blood.
Between your queendom and his kingdom, the two of you could rule the Hand from north to south. ”
“And Justus?” Ariana murmured. “What about my son?”
Gwylen said nothing, which was as good as an answer. Afon would not suffer Orden’s son to live.
“And Corrin?” Ariana pressed. “Even with Honoria and Caervallion joined, Corrin stands between us. We would not rule from north to south as Afon promises.”
Again, silence. And Ariana, serene daughter of stars though she was, found that she was angry. Perhaps she’d kept company with Fia for too long, or spent too much time among the Invers. But wrath ran through her like liquid fire.
“My king may be dead,” she said fiercely, “but you can tell yours that I would choose the rack or hot oil or drawing and quartering—any manner of torture—before I betrayed my country and Orden’s son.”
“What of your daughter?” Gwylen spoke quietly, her patience unshakeable as Ariana’s temper flared. “Did you not betray her in putting her aside?”
“I saved her, and you know it. Run back to Afon and tell him what I said.”
Gwylen stood motionless outside the cell, contemplating Ariana with her head tilted to one side. Ari shut her eyes and refused to look at the woman again.
“I have an offer of my own,” Gwylen said.
“Accept Afon’s proposal. Come to Caervallion.
And accomplish what you did here in Honoria.
The people there chafe under Afon’s rule worse than anyone ever did beneath Orden Inver.
Come and kill our king for us, and live.
Think what the Hand could be, freed of its tyrants.
It could go back to the old ways. You may no longer be a true servant of Lyria, but you could be the instrument who returns our world to the rightful worship of the Beloved Three.
They don’t believe here that you were the means of your king’s destruction, even though they’ll pin that death to you.
I know better. I know who you are, cultellus. ”
From in the dark of her own making, Ariana spoke.
“I chose to live here, at Orden’s side, and I choose to die here as well. Let them make a sacrifice of me.”
“Wasteful,” Gwylen said sharply.
Ariana did not reply. Soon, she heard the muttering of the guards begin again, and knew the ambassador had gone.
Breathe in, she thought. Breathe out.