Chapter XXX
XXX
It is the role of Lyria’s children to be endlessly pacific, pouring themselves out over and over again in service of all living things and of their goddess, and never harming another.
It is the role of Silith’s children to be endlessly wise, testing all things to determine truth, to divine intent, to plumb the depths of human hearts.
It is the role of Raea’s children to be endlessly strong, offering their energy and resources without reserve, never failing to give assistance when needed, taking on the burdens of others even at great cost to themselves.
—A TEACHING OF THE BELOVED THREE
Fia felt as if she was standing on the edge of a precipice.
She couldn’t bring herself to visit the queen—she knew that even a glimpse of Ariana in the castle dungeon would be fatal.
At the sight of her behind bars or in shackles, all Fia’s better judgment would fly out of the castle’s high windows, shattering on the rocks below.
She’d do whatever it took to get Ari away, and leave the consequences to be dealt with later.
So caution and restraint were paramount.
The first day after the Priest’s revelation, she set Beneson to scouring the city’s mortuary houses in search of a body that might resemble Ariana closely enough.
Fia hated sending the boy—he was a bright spark, and the moment she told him what she wanted, she could see he’d sorted out her intentions.
But he agreed without a moment’s hesitation, and made no complaint about a day spent among the dead when he returned to the castle at nightfall, to reluctantly tell Fia he’d met with no success.
She slept little that night, though the Priest slept less.
Fia paced herself into exhaustion, gave Justus his late feeding, and climbed into the king’s vast, silken bed.
She did it in spite of the reminders it dredged up of Orden and Ariana—whenever the Priest returned from his arguing and bargaining and haranguing among the nobles, she wanted to be near him.
But when Fia woke in the dark before dawn, to the sound of Justus beginning to stir, the Priest was already gone.
His pillows were warm, the impression of his head still pressed against them, and she could smell the faintest breath of him on the covers.
Restlessly, Fia fed the little king. She dressed and splashed water on her face and cleaned her teeth, then stepped into the corridor to call for Beneson, only to find him already waiting.
“Same as yesterday?” he asked at once.
“No,” Fia said, her heart heavy within her. “No, just for now, I need you to stay with Justus while I go out. Can you do that? I’ll send Glora up with a skin of goat’s milk and paschalflower—he takes it well from a clean rag, he’s easy as far as babies go.”
Beneson nodded, wide-eyed at the responsibility, but willing to serve.
“I’ve moved his linens into the bureau. You’re sure you’ll be all right?”
“We’ll do just fine,” Beneson said, taking the little king easily as Fia handed him over. “And if I need help, I’ll ask one of the guards.”
If anything could have induced Fia to smile that morning, it would have been the idea of Beneson and one of the guard fussing over a change of their infant sovereign’s linens. But she was too sore for smiles. She did not relish what she was about to do, but neither could she see a way around it.
With a murmured goodbye to Beneson, and a kiss pressed to Justus’s baby-soft forehead, Fia slipped away and out of the castle.
She lost herself in the tangle of back alleys and little squares and hairpin turns that were Inverlyn, eventually coming to a quiet, out-of-the-way market.
There, she bought herself a mug of mulled cider and settled on the cobblestones against an overhanging wall.
Then Fia waited, and she watched. For two hours she sat in the shadows, because she couldn’t bear the touch of the sun. She didn’t want Raea’s light, not with the thoughts and intentions that were running sluggishly through her mind.
At last, a family walked into the open space of the square.
A raven-haired and pale-skinned mother, her mass of curls threaded with silver, and two black-haired daughters, one only a child, eager and awkward, with arms and legs too long to be managed.
But the second was a girl nearly grown into womanhood—she was a delicate thing, short and slender, with a smile that lit the whole square as she laughed at her sister, or offered help to her mother.
A fall of straight dark hair brushed her waist. Her face was not Ariana’s, but it didn’t matter.
She could pass for Ari. She was what Fia needed.
Fia stayed where she was, her eyes trained on the girl as her mother navigated the market square, buying vegetables and eggs and a sweet bun for each of the children.
Swallowing the dregs of her cider, Fia fought back wave after wave of sick guilt.
She could do this. She was enough for this.
She could be ruthless and heartless for Ariana.
Too late, she realized that both of the girls were headed toward her, the youngest child’s eyes fixed curiously on Fia, while the older girl glanced shyly at her, then away.
“You’re from Raea’s house, aren’t you?” the younger of the two asked as they stopped before Fia.
“Yes,” Fia answered, barely able to get the word out.
“We see sorias in the city now and then,” the older girl said softly.
Even her gentleness was reminiscent of Ari—the way she held herself with a little uncertainty, but kept glancing about with a wistful smile, as if hoping the world would prove better than she’d heard it could be. “Elsinore, give her your alms.”
The gangly child held out a hand to Fia with a gap-toothed grin, and dropped a half dozen copper carvers onto her palm.
“Good, Els,” her older sister said. “When we see the daughters of the Beloved Three, it’s our honor and our gift to treat them with respect. Isn’t that right, soria?”
“Yes,” Fia repeated.
The moment the girls had drawn away, she was on her feet.
Fia dropped her empty wooden mug into the bin by the cider vendor’s stall and hurried out of the square.
Hot tears blurred her vision, and she stumbled along until she could go no farther.
Slipping into an empty alleyway, Fia dropped down against the wall, buried her face in her arms, and sobbed.
The grief she already felt over Ariana tore out of her in a wild storm of weeping—she’d never felt so low before.
Even in the mountains, there’d always been the daunting prospect of leaving.
It had hovered before her like a mirage, and she’d never felt truly hopeless.
Now, despair rushed into her like autumn floodwater, cold and life-sapping.
What hurt worst was knowing that Ariana could be saved, but that Fia could not bring herself to do it.
She had never run up against the end of herself like this before—even in a life of hardship and privation, she’d always been able to struggle through to what she wanted, if she tried for it resolutely enough.
Knowing that Ariana’s salvation lay within her grasp, but that she herself was unable to set aside her conscience and reach for it, cut at Fia like a knife.
When she’d managed to calm herself, Fia rose unsteadily to her feet. Her throat was dry and she could feel the beginnings of a raging headache, but she forced herself through the city, paying calls at each of the mortuary houses Beneson had visited the morning before.
Nothing. No one who could even come close to passing for Ariana Inver.
When the sun was high overhead, she made her way back to the castle.
Her chest ached with unspent milk and her head ached with unspent grief, for her moment of devastation in the alley had hardly touched the vast well of sorrow within her.
Fia went straight to the king’s rooms, where Beneson was waiting with Justus, dangling a string of bright beads over the baby as he waved his tiny fists, trying to reach for them.
Gathering Justus up, Fia pressed her face to the boy, breathing in his infant scent as he smiled and clutched at her hair with his small hands.
He wasn’t Miriel—no one would ever usurp Miriel in her affections—but he’d become as important as Miriel, in his own way.
Fia didn’t care for him as a king, but as a son.
She wanted only goodness and peace for Justus Inver, now and always.
Beneson stayed where he was, seated on the floor, as Fia retreated to the bed and fed Justus. The baby fell into milk-drunk, contented sleep, and at last Beneson spoke.
“There is… a guard,” he said slowly. “I think you might want to see her. I won’t tell you her name, but she’s stationed down in the city, and she lives at the top of Pharilon Way, in the merchants’ district.
She’s been a presser before—volunteered for it too.
Mostly she’s on duty from early morning till late afternoon.
If you leave now, you could catch her going home. I can stay with the king again.”
The faintest spark of hope kindled in Fia, but she tamped it out immediately, refusing to allow it to rise into a flame.
“Thank you, Ben,” she said, rising to her feet and setting Justus down in his bassinet. “You’re a better friend than I’d hoped to find when I set out for Inverlyn.”
The boy smiled bashfully, but there was guilt and hurt lurking behind his eyes.
Fia knew she was on the cusp of drawing him into something he’d never forget, but she steeled herself against sympathy.
Beneson himself had told her surviving on the Invers’ mountain meant being dangerous—becoming a threat.
He knew the cost of living here, and still he chose to stay.
Fia refused to think of how narrow the boy’s options would be if he left, and the poverty he’d risk, cutting ties with the castle.