by Megan Bannen
Zofia rouses me from my rumination. “Gelya, I’m about to entrust you with one of the greatest secrets of the convent. Do you promise to keep it to yourself?”
Her solemn tone drops a stone of foreboding into my stomach. “Of course, but—”
“No ‘but.’” She lights a candle on the small altar at the front of the room, sticks it to a base with its own wax, and leads me to one of the alcoves along the south wall. The statue within depicts a saint peering mournfully into his hands, which are cupped around an object the size of a fist. I stand on my tiptoes and find that he’s bearing his own heart in his hands.
“Which saint is this?” I wonder aloud.
“No one knows. Several scholars have studied it over the years and theorized who it could be, but the more important issue I want to bring to your attention is the fact that if you pull down on his head, a latch below the marble slab should release. There’s a tunnel underneath. It exits into the scriptorium library.”
My anxiety blooms, spreading through me like dye dropped into water. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Just in case.”
“In case of what?”
Zofia softens like the wax candle she carries. “The world of men is dangerous for women. That’s why, centuries ago, the Vessels built a passage leading out of this room. Because every woman should have an escape route if possible. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” I say. But I don’t. I don’t understand at all. The Kantari are dangerous. The telleg—the souls who roam the Dead Forest—are dangerous. But the world in general, or at least the world I inhabit at Saint Vinnica? How can I be anything other than safe within the walls of a convent?
Four
I spend the next hour helping Zofia prepare for the summit, setting up three long tables in a U shape so the ambassadors can face each other. The less impressive table where Zofia and I will sit is tucked off to the side, facing the double doors at the back.
“You are not to speak unless asked to do so,” Zofia instructs me as we carry chairs to our table. “And you may only translate a man’s exact words. You may not—I repeat, may not—say anything of your own volition. A Grand Summit is a sacrament, and it is considered highly offensive to the One True God if a woman, created by Elath the Great Demon in her own image, speaks during the sacred ceremony.”
“Oh, my Father, I know.” I’m sweaty and worn-out and nervous, and I don’t need her to teach me lessons I’ve already learned fifty times over.
“Translating is stressful, and it’s easy to lose one’s composure. Bear with me.” She moves to a point at the top of the U. “I will provide all non-Kantari translations this evening, and I’ll do so from my seat. But when the ambassadors wish to question the Kantari directly, you will stand here, and the prisoner will stand on the other side across from you. He will be under guard and will likely be bound, so try not to worry too much about your personal safety.”
“I’m more worried that I’m going to make a fool of myself.”
“You won’t. Just follow the protocol, and everything will be fine. And one last thing.” Her lips twist wryly as she crosses back to me. “Men may have been created in the image of the Father, but they are not perfect. There are long-standing disputes between many of these countries, so be prepared to see childish behavior this evening.”
I’m about to ask what she means when a Knight of the Order of Saint Ovin enters the parlertorium, his pale blue cape billowing behind him.
“Forgive me for interrupting your preparations, Sacrist, but I have come to summon Daughter Gelya to the receiving room on behalf of the Goodson.”
“Goodson Anskar? He’s here?” I exclaim.
“The first Grand Summit in over half a century is taking place this evening,” Zofia says. “Of course he’s here. He’s running security.”
“You didn’t tell me!”
“Because I knew you’d be a nervous wreck. I doubt he’ll be in the parlertorium to watch you work, but I’m sure he’s going to give me an earful about your singing this morning, how I’m not pushing you to reach your full potential.”
“Can I go?”
She laughs and shoos me away with a flapping of her hand. “Meet me in the scriptorium by eighteen bells,” she calls as I race out the door.
When I burst into the receiving room two minutes later, the Goodson rises from his chair at one of the tables and smiles at me. Aside from the Hand of the Father emblazoned on his chest, his white wool tunic is as pure as the day it was shorn from the lamb. He wears a sky-blue cape at his shoulders—blue being the color of heaven—and the Hand of the Father in the scabbard at his side. It’s an elegant if simple weapon, honed for the purpose of serving the Father in modesty and humility. He’s tall like me—but unlike me, he wears it well.
“I hope I’m not calling you away from your work,” he says.
The world’s stupidest grin spreads across my face. “Daughter Zofia said I could come see you.”
“And I must speak with her.” He gestures for me to take the wooden chair opposite him. “Your singing at services this morning didn’t showcase your full potential. She’s not pushing you hard enough.”
My stupid grin widens as we both sit. “She said you’d say that, too.”
“Ah, well, the Father knows I am nothing if not predictable.” His smile turns rueful, but his gray eyes dance with amusement. “Shall we play a game of Shakki? It’s been a good long while.”
I pour us each a cup of tea from the service as he sets up the game board. We speak of banal things—the weather, which of the Aurian translations of The Songs is best—but my mind latches onto the text Zofia took from me weeks ago, the one she didn’t want me to mention to the Goodson. Now all I can think about is how I’m not supposed to say anything to him about it.
I’ve spent the past ten years trying to erase my memories of Hedenskia, but ever since I felt the word Mother in that inscription, I find myself doing the opposite, hunting down and clinging to anything I can dredge up from my childhood. I want to know where I came from, and the Goodson is the only person who can tell me anything about it.
“Goodson Anskar,” I begin as I split my cavalry between two of the fictional countries on the board. “May I ask you something?”
“Of course.” He rolls the dice and takes out half my cavalry with his army from the southwest. I didn’t think he would cross an entire country for such a small threat to his borders, but then, I’ve never been much good at anticipating his strategies, which is why I usually lose.
“Was my name always Gelya? I mean, was that my name when you found me?” I try to sound passingly curious, but I’m quaking inside. I should be grateful that the Goodson saved me from Hedenskia, and I am grateful. But I had a mother at some point, a family, a place where I belonged in the world. I can’t help but wonder how my life might have been different if the Goodson had never found me, and it feels like disobedience, wanting to know about those things.
“No,” he says. He offers nothing more.
“Were you the one who named me?”
“I was. Did you not know?”
“I guess you’d have to be.” I force a smile and move a unit of my men to back up my remaining cavalry. “Why ‘Gelya’?”
He scrutinizes me but in a kind way, the same steady man he has always been, the one who fought the telleg of the Dead Forest for nights on end to save my life. When he speaks again, his tone takes on the mythic, reverent cadence he reserves for the Father alone.
“When I placed the seedpod of the Grace Tree in your hand all those years ago, it was the only time in my life I have witnessed the Father choose His Vessel. To be in the presence of the Father, to watch His hand as He chooses a Vessel for His Holy Word from heaven above . . . it took my breath away. The Father made you so that you would fill the world with His love and wisdom. His eternal goodwill, revealed to the faithful through your voice, is like the gelya berry in winter: bright and alive and lovely when all else seems
to have died, a reminder of our everlasting life in heaven. So, you see, I named you after the glory of the One True God. Surely there is no greater name than that?”
I’ve never thought of my name in this light, and I’ve certainly never thought of myself as bright and alive and lovely. A hard lump of affection clogs my throat. “Thank you,” I croak.
He reaches for his tea and takes a contemplative sip. “It’s natural for you to wonder where you came from, a girl your age. But you must overcome that curiosity. You are a Vessel. Your life belongs to the Father. Who you were before the Father chose you, where you came from—those things don’t matter now. And they were troubling to begin with.”
This is the first time Goodson Anskar has spoken of my past so specifically. My pulse quickens, hopeful. “Troubling because you know what it’s like there, because of your mission to convert the Hedenski heathens?”
“Because of my failed mission to convert the Hedenski heathens.” He sets his cup down and smooths away a drop of liquid that spilled onto the table’s surface. When he turns the full intensity of his gray eyes on me, I can tell I’ve pushed too much, too far. “You must guard yourself against the temptations of Elath the Great Demon. A Vessel is as easily filled with evil as she is with good, and a Daughter of the One True God is still a woman, made in the demon’s image. You must resist this curiosity. To know of sinful things fills you with the sin itself.”
“But Elath is imprisoned,” I argue, both scared and empowered by this new temerity. I just want to know, I think.
“That doesn’t erase Her subtle influence in the world. What on earth has come over you?” Reproach colors his voice. I may as well break a stone with my bare hands as stand up to Goodson Anskar. I slump in my chair, disheartened and sulking. “Nothing.”
“None of us are safe from the lure of worldly pleasures,” he continues when I am already defeated. “The demon’s temptations permeate the very ground beneath our feet and all life that springs from it. As a Vessel, you are particularly vulnerable. That’s why you live here, safe inside the convent.”
I give him a weak nod as he moves his army north to meet mine. Within ten minutes, he trounces me. I stare at the board, my eyes drifting from my decimated southern armies to my nonexistent defenses on my northern border.
“Can you see your mistake?” he quizzes me.
“I should have reinforced my southern defenses?”
“Well, that is an excellent thought, but your mistake is larger than that.” He leans against the wooden seat back and folds his arms. One corner of his mouth twitches upward in paternal amusement. “Daughter, who is your adversary?”
“You are, Goodson Anskar.”
“I am,” he agrees with false gravity. “What happens on the board is less important than what is happening here.” He points to his temple. “You must know your adversary and understand his weaknesses. You must know what mistakes he will make, even before he does himself.”
“But you don’t make mistakes,” I counter, exasperated. “Do you have any weaknesses?”
“I do. Many.” He pushes the board to the side and sorts the pieces, readying them to be put away. “Here now, let’s discuss more pleasant matters. I have a gift for you.”
“A gift? It’s not even the Feast of Saint Ovin,” I protest, though I flush with anticipation. Daughters live spare lives, and gifts are extremely rare. Even my little doll was taken from me.
“I suppose I could have waited until then, but I’m as bad as a child when it comes to presents and waiting. You see? I do have weaknesses.” He reaches into his pocket, produces a small, narrow box, and removes the lid, revealing a gold locket gleaming on a bed of red velvet.
“For me?” I breathe.
“For you.”
I reach for the necklace but stop short. “Goodson Anskar, I couldn’t—”
“Oh, I think you could.” He takes the locket by the chain and hands it to me, his grin widening as I open the gold panels, revealing the triptych within. A tiny image of Saint Ovin trampling a miniature Elath beneath his feet takes up the center panel. Saint Vinnica and Saint Lanya stand on either side of him, pure and dutiful in their own panels. The artistry is stunning, but as I stare at the Holy Family, my niggling doubt rears its ugly head. Surely I don’t deserve such a gift. “Thank you. It’s perfect. But—”
“But Daughters are not supposed to own such fine things,” he finishes for me. “Consider my gift a reminder of your purity and your purpose. You are a sacred Vessel, like Vinnica and Lanya, each serving the Father in her own way. Besides, this was made by a Kantari convert. To wear it is to keep a man’s soul from becoming a telleg of the Dead Forest.”
Tears spill from my eyes. If the Goodson knew of the questions I ask myself, the weight of his disappointment would crush me. It makes this reminder of my purity and purpose more valuable than he could ever know.
“Do you like it?” he asks.
I leap to my feet, knocking my chair to the ground, and race around the table to hug him.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” he laughs.
Five
I was hoping that my nerves would calm as I got used to the idea of translating at the summit, but if anything, the intervening hours have given me ample time to consider all the things that could go wrong tonight. Even the comforting weight of the Goodson’s triptych against my heart fails to reassure me. By the time I meet Zofia in the scriptorium at eighteen bells in my best tunic, trousers, and sash, all I want to do is hide in the library stacks. She takes one look at my face and bursts out laughing. “You look like you’re on your way to the gallows.”
I scowl at her. “It’s not funny.”
“I’m sorry,” she says, although she doesn’t sound the least bit apologetic. But then she wraps her arms around me and whispers in my ear. “You’re ready for this. I promise you.”
Though I bask in Zofia’s approval, my imagination keeps up a continual supply of all the ways I could mess up tonight as we walk to the parlertorium, where Goodson Anskar is stationed outside with several Knights of the Order. I expect him to greet me with words of encouragement. Instead, his tone is sharp when he asks Zofia, “What is she doing here?”
I glance at Zofia, unsure what to make of his chilly reception. “Daughter Gelya is the convent’s only Kantari expert. She will translate for the prisoner tonight. I thought you knew.”
The Goodson’s lips tighten. “With all due respect, Sacrist, she doesn’t belong here.”
“What? Why?” I burst out. An unfamiliar anger bubbles inside me like boiled syrup as he pulls me off to the side, away from Zofia.
“You’re far too young for this,” he insists. “You shouldn’t be exposed to such matters—such evil.”
“He’s going to be bound, isn’t he? And guarded? For the Father’s sake, you’re the general of the Order of Saint Ovin. You carry the Hand of the Father in your scabbard. You protect Ovinists the world over from the Kantari. How could I be any safer?”
“Exactly. I’m in charge of the security of the faithful, and now I am protecting you.”
You’d think I’d crumble under the weight of the Goodson’s objections. Instead, I answer him with an inexplicable defiance, doing my best to emulate Zofia’s poise as I tell him, “Forgive me, but the Father chose me for this, and I must do His bidding.” Then I march through the doors, heading straight for the translators’ table with my pulse slamming through my veins. Once I sit down, I grip the seat of my chair and stare at the door, waiting for Zofia as I both hope for and fear a glimpse of the Goodson, to see his reaction. But Zofia doesn’t come in right away, and I can’t see the Goodson from my vantage point.
My eyes shift to the ten Knights of the Order of Saint Ovin standing guard, five to each side of the entrance. Some are lean while others are stocky. Some have blond hair, while others have brown or black. Their complexions range from pale peach to raw umber, as diverse as the countries united by the Holy Ovinist Church. These brave men stan
d watch on the Great Wall of Saint Balzos to ensure that the telleg never leave the Dead Forest. They escort caravans of pilgrims from all over the world to visit the holy sites of our faith. Most important, they guard the Vault of Mount Djall so that Elath the Great Demon may never again walk the earth.
The knights stare ahead, their heavy longswords in scabbards strapped to their waists. I’m surprised to see that every one of them looks young. Guarding a summit at a convent in the heart of Rosvania must be an easy assignment, but their youth doesn’t fill me with confidence.
“What did the Goodson say?” I ask Zofia breathlessly when she finally comes in, but she doesn’t answer. She scans the room until her eyes land on two men standing across from us along the north wall, one of them a Tovnian army captain, the other a seasoned knight named Brother Miklos, a friend of the Goodson whom I’ve met a few times. They stand sentry in front of an alcove, presumably guarding the Kantari prisoner within. The thought of facing whoever is tucked away in the alcove’s darkness makes my throat close up. That’s when I notice that the Tovnian’s sword sheath is empty. But of course it is. Only Knights of the Order of Saint Ovin are allowed to carry weapons into the parlertorium.
“Maybe the Goodson is right, Gelya. Maybe you shouldn’t be here,” Zofia murmurs, and an icy, unnamed dread takes up residence next to my screaming anxiety. But it’s too late to turn back, even if I wanted to. Nineteen bells rings. The summit is beginning.
Zofia rises to close the double doors of the parlertorium, pulling the key up from underneath her tunic to lock us all in. My stomach turns alongside the tumblers. Once she takes her seat beside me again, she touches my hand, and just in case I wasn’t panicked enough, her eyes shift from mine to the statue of the unknown saint, to the escape route.
You’re imagining things, I tell myself. It’s going to be all right.