Chapter XXI #3
While Ariana kept a vigil in the lightless sanctuary at the mountain’s heart, Fia shared it with her at its peak.
As she had fruitlessly waited for guidance from the goddess of the sun, now she sought the same from the moon and stars.
Fia did not sleep. She did not eat. She took water and fed and rocked Justus, and from the open balcony, watched the stars and a sickle moon wheel across the sky.
Fia prayed with all her strength and fire that Gentle Lyria would see past Ariana’s actions, past her ruined brand, and guide her lost daughter rightly.
When the first light of dawn stained the eastern horizon faintly gray, a noise from the doorway in the room behind her brought Fia’s heart to her throat, her pulse racing. She whirled, hoping to find her queen, but it was only Beneson letting himself in.
“The king wants to speak with you,” Beneson said. “He’s been speaking to a lot of people. I think… I think changes are coming. He’s had the Priest in, and Hadrian for hours, with Lucian coming and going too. It’s been busy in his study all night, mostly with his merchants and spies.”
“Is Ariana with him?” Fia asked in a rush as she left the balcony and reentered the queen’s chambers. “Has she come up from the sanctuary yet?”
“Not that I’ve seen,” Beneson said. “But I had to step away a time or two. She might’ve gone in and I missed it.”
Fia turned away from him because she didn’t want him to see her grow pale, sudden fear running like ice through her veins. Everything was unsteady and uncertain, and the memory of the bloodborne dream dogged her like a haint.
“Fia,” Beneson asked softly from his place by the door. “Are you all right?”
“Yes,” she said, steeling herself against the fear. “Will you watch Justus, or did the king want him too?”
“I can stay with him.”
Fia was under no illusions as she went down the queen’s narrow stairs and through the corridors that led to the king’s broader, more expansive staircase.
If Ariana had chosen to align herself with Orden, and to ask Fia to join them, a refusal would end in death.
They couldn’t have her going back to Dolenza, bearing tales about an Inver plot to take over the cloister and replace its Matria.
Fia’s death would have to be made to look like an accident, to avoid giving Dolenza cause to sanction the castle—a fall, perhaps, or an unfortunate meeting with bandits on the road back to the plains.
Whatever happened, if Fia refused the king, her life would dwindle to a few days’ span at best.
The irony of it all, Fia thought as she stood on the threshold to the king’s chambers, was that she’d never, even for an instant, craved the martyrdom some sorias desired.
“He’s waiting for you,” one of the door guards said. “You can let yourself in.”
If Fia had ever thought to envision a room that fully reflected the Inver kings, it would have been the one she walked into.
Shutting the door in her wake, she found herself in a sitting room with expansive views of the southern plains.
Pale gray light illuminated the space, which was masculine in its appointments.
Tapestries of hunting scenes draped the walls, the furniture was heavy and dark, and the room’s central furnishing was not for comfort, but for statecraft—an enormous oak desk sat near the windows, its surface strewn with maps and ledgers.
The whole place was suffused with Orden Inver’s energy, redolent with an air of restlessness and power and potential.
At the room’s far end, an open door offered a glimpse of the king’s bedchamber, where the covers of his shadowy, ornately carved four-poster bed were thrown back.
A pair of wiry-haired hounds lounged on the bedroom hearth, but neither seemed bothered by a stranger’s presence.
They were used to comings and goings, Fia expected, bred for companionship and the hunt rather than service as guards, like some of the vicious-tempered curs she’d encountered in the mountains.
Drawing in a deep breath to steady herself, Fia frowned. The very air in her lungs smelled of Honoria’s king, potent with sandalwood and phelamon spice, and beneath that, with the sweat of horses and men. She felt, more than ever, like a creature in a trap and fought down the urge to turn and bolt.
No. Fia had never run from anything. She’d only ever traveled toward a goal—moving from hardship to hope.
Honoria desperately needed hope and healing just now, and Fia seemed uniquely placed to give it.
She’d bide her time. She’d accept whatever unholy bargain Orden offered her, playing into his hand just long enough to ensure she was trusted.
Then, before Dolenza could be harmed, and when it could not be traced back to a postulant and the cloister, Fia would do what Raea’s own daughters had taught her.
To heal through bloodshed. To cut off what was rotten in order to save what was sound. She would sever Orden from the Hand like so much spoiled flesh.
“Your Majesty?” Fia called, her voice perfectly even. “How can I be of service?”