by Megan Bannen
The Archbishop of Rosvania rises, the blue silk and gold embroidery of his formal vestments reflecting the flames of the chandelier above so that he seems to shine with the Father’s light. He rings a small bell to call the summit to order. The room falls silent, and he leads the men in a prayer from The Song of the First Kings, the story of how the Father planted his seed in eight chosen Vessels, who gave birth to the eight saint-kings of the Ovinist Church.
“The sacrament of the Grand Summit has begun,” he declares. “I call on Tovnia to speak his concern.”
The Tovnian ambassador, a petit man in his thirties, draped in rich robes of Tovnia’s orange-and-red standard, rises from his seat between his two comrades.
“That’s Tovnia’s crown prince, Horaccio,” Zofia whispers to me.
A prince. My throat tightens, making it hard to swallow.
“On the fourth day of the month of Saint Ferda,” begins the prince, “my father, King Horac, dispatched a unit of five hundred men to the Tovnian border when Ukrenti scouts sent word that Kantari troops had been spotted crossing the Koz foothills. The king’s assumption was that the Kantari planned to make a move against the Monastery of Saint Ovin in a new attempt to open the Vault of Mount Djall.”
“This is known,” Wesmar’s ambassador interjects with impatience. “We understand that Tovnia was caught off guard when their unit found themselves face-to-face with the entire Kantari army, which did not approach Mount Djall but crossed into Tovnia instead. I move to hear Tovnia’s request. Let’s get on with it.”
“I second,” calls the ambassador of Ostmar, equally disdainful.
I know that many view the Tovnian royal family with a suspicious eye since they adhere to a form of Ovinism that venerates female saints almost as much as Saint Ovin himself. The Holy See ignores the custom since Tovnia provides important trade routes between north and south, but hard-line Ovinists find the practice heretical. Even so, I didn’t expect to see such petty politics here, despite Zofia’s warning, and I already feel out of my depth.
“Tovnia will state his case,” the archbishop directs.
Prince Horaccio clears his throat. “Tovnia requests the immediate military intervention of the Order of Saint Ovin as well as a coordinated military strike with the eight kingdoms of the Ovinist faith to repel this threat to the innocents within our borders.”
I do my best to follow the rapid-fire debate that follows. Most of it is carried out in Rosvanian, but Zofia steps in from time to time to translate for the Ukrenti and Degmari ambassadors. My eyes keep darting to the alcove where the Kantari prisoner waits, tucked behind the Tovnian captain and Brother Miklos, but try as I may to catch a glimpse of him, I see only his shadow beyond the guards.
The Rosvanian ambassador, sallow in a velvet jacket of our standard’s bright green, cuts through the bickering with a bombastic voice. “Why are we discussing military cooperation across borders? The Kantari pose no threat to Rosvania. This is Tovnia’s problem, not ours.”
“They’ve crossed the Koz Mountains for the first time in centuries,” says the Aurian ambassador. “They’re clearly heading north. Auria is deeply concerned. Why isn’t Rosvania?”
“Who’s to say their complaint isn’t with the Tovnians alone? Rosvania has nothing to gain from committing troops.”
“That’s easy for the Rosvanians to say, safe as Daughters in a convent, sitting on the best land of the continent,” the Wesmari ambassador cuts in. “You haven’t had to deal with the Kantari threat the way your southern brothers have. We’ve fought those heathen monsters off our trade routes for decades, and it gets worse every year as the Kantari drought spreads. Now the devils are at your doorstep, and Wesmar would like to know what you plan to do about it.”
“Enough. We’re not even an hour into these proceedings, far too early to dissolve into a schoolyard tussle,” calls the Yilish ambassador with his musical accent. Yil is an empire unto itself, a land of many faiths. So while there’s a tentative truce between Yil and the countries of the Ovinist Church, most of the ambassadors regard him with cool disdain, and the Rosvanian ambassador doesn’t even try to mask his loathing. “We don’t know why the Kantari are attacking Tovnia or why they moved north of the Koz. The answers to those questions should be illuminating to any further discussion. The Tovnians have brought a captured Kantari soldier for questioning. Well and good. Let him be questioned.”
This must be news to Wesmar, because the ambassador and his two assistants whip their heads around, searching the room. “You’ve brought a Kantari soldier? Here?”
“He’s not a Two-Swords, is he?” the Sudmari asks warily. It never occurred to me that the Tovnians might have brought a Two-Swords with them, and the possibility frays my already ragged nerves. The Two-Swords are the most elite fighters on earth, chosen by the seedpods of Elath’s Tree in Kantar.
Rosvania rolls his eyes. “For the love of the Father, calm yourselves. There are hardly any Two-Swords left, and this one is only a boy.”
“They don’t make boys in Kantar,” the Wesmari spits. “They make demons.”
The archbishop beckons to the guards anyway. “Bring the prisoner forward.”
Oh no, I think as Zofia touches my arm. I’m so nervous my ears start ringing, but I rise from my seat and take my place at the top of the U with my knees wobbling beneath me. The Tovnian captain and Brother Miklos pull a man out of the alcove and escort him forward.
Toward me.
Six
The Kantari is gagged, and his wrists are tied together in front of him. A length of rope pins his upper arms to his torso. His ankles are bound with just enough slack between his feet to allow mincing steps, but he only makes it a few paces before tripping.
“Can we at least untie his ankles?” the Rosvanian ambassador drawls.
“With all due respect, sir,” says the Tovnian prince with no hint of respect in his tone, “this ‘boy’ killed twelve men in one skirmish before we captured him.”
The Rosvanian smirks. “The boy is bound from the waist up, and we are guarded by the Knights of the Order. I’m hardly worried.”
“Fool,” the Wesmari mutters.
“Remove the ankle ties,” the archbishop directs the Tovnian captain. The man’s jaw clenches in objection, but he unties the rope, coils it, and slings it over his shoulder before he and Brother Miklos march the Kantari to the opposite end of the U. I take a breath to steady myself, but it does little to ease my nervousness.
The captive’s stench radiates from him like heat from an oven, a pungent combination of armpit musk, sweat, dirt, and another aroma I can’t identify that is both horrible and familiar.
“Dear heavenly Father, Prince Horaccio, could you not have rinsed him off first?” jokes the Rosvanian ambassador. The archbishop eyes him with irritation but instructs the guard to remove the gag.
“Wonderful. Now he can bite us all,” the Wesmari ambassador grumbles.
The Tovnian captain struggles with the gag’s knot, which ratchets up my nerves with each passing second. When the cloth falls away, the Kantari lifts his head and stretches his jaw. He looks as terrible as he smells. A strand of dark, greasy hair has come loose from its binding and falls across his dirt-streaked face. His nose is large and has clearly been broken at some point in time. Even though he’s young, a scraggly beard stubbles his upper lip and jaw. Two thick eyebrows hang heavily over his unsettling eyes, which are a mossy green. What remains of his black clothes leaves little to the imagination, clinging indecently to every line and curve of his long, lean body. He might as well be standing before me naked. From the top of his head to the tips of his toes, he is every bit the dangerous Kantari heathen I always imagined.
“Ask him why his people have crossed the mountains,” the archbishop commands me.
I nod, focusing on the language, on the words, on my purpose. I clear my throat and translate the question into Kantari. “Why have the Kantari crossed the Koz Mountains?”
The gag has
left an angry red stripe on either side of the boy’s mouth, which remains silent. I wish he would direct that intense green gaze somewhere else, but he doesn’t. When it becomes clear that he has no intention of answering the first question, Prince Horaccio says, “Ask him why they’re attacking Tovnia.”
“Why are the Kantari attacking Tovnia?” I’m feeling steadier now, more capable, and I refuse to let a brute rattle me, even though, once again, he refuses to answer.
“The Kantari have focused their attacks on the Monastery of Mount Djall and the Vault for centuries,” the archbishop presses. “Why this change in tactics? Why now?”
I translate, already certain that I’ll be met with the same reticence . . . which is why I’m startled when the Kantari speaks at last. To me.
“Holy Mother, you’re tall.”
“What did he say?” asks the Rosvanian ambassador, but before I have a chance to translate, the boy speaks again.
“Do you shave only your head?” His tone isn’t malicious, but the clear connotation is that he wants to know if I shave the rest of my body as well. A mixture of humiliation and anger makes my entire body blush.
“Translation,” the archbishop prompts.
I glare at the Kantari as I translate. “He says that I am tall. He asks me why my head is shaved.”
“Was that an accurate translation, Daughter?” the boy asks with a mocking grin.
The captain jostles him and barks, “Shut it. You’ll speak when you’re spoken to.”
The Kantari looks to me. “Aren’t you going to translate that?”
“What did he say?” the Rosvanian ambassador snaps.
My head is spinning with all these demands. I’m only one girl. “He asks if I’m going to translate the words of the Tovnian captain,” I answer the Rosvanian.
The Wesmari ambassador snorts. “Go ahead.”
But I don’t. I’m too busy reassessing the boy. He would only have noticed my omission if he spoke Rosvanian. He inclines his head as I study him, and I get the feeling that he’s reassessing me, too.
“Now that his tongue is loosened,” says the Yilish ambassador, “ask him again why the Kantari are attacking Tovnia. What is their purpose?”
I hesitate for the span of one breath, studying the boy’s face to see if he’ll betray another sign of understanding Rosvanian. His face goes cool, impassive. I translate the question. This time, when the boy doesn’t answer, the archbishop gives a curt nod to the Tovnian captain, who punches the boy in the lower back. An alarmed “Oh!” escapes my lips as he cries out in pain.
The Kantari sneers at me. “Do you pity me? Look at you, tall as a man and ugly as a buzzard. Can’t you see what these monsters have done to you? Don’t pity me. Pity yourself.”
Each word sinks in like the teeth of a feral dog. I bite back my own infuriated response. Anger is an emotion no decent Daughter should indulge, but Holy Father, it’s hard to contain.
“Daughter?” the archbishop prompts.
“He says he is not to be pitied. He says I am tall as a man and ugly as a vulture.”
“Buzzard,” the boy corrects me, whispering in Kantari.
“I knew it! You speak Rosvanian,” I accuse him in Kantari.
“What’s this?” the Rosvanian ambassador bellows.
I tear my eyes from the boy to find that every man in the room is staring at me, some shocked by my impropriety, others blazing with outrage. I bow my head in shame.
“We will not tolerate a female, who is made in the image of Elath, speaking out of turn at these proceedings, Sacrist,” the archbishop seethes at Zofia, his hawkish nose red with outrage. “Make it clear to her that a woman’s voice is only to be heard in translation.”
“You are not to speak of your own free will, Daughter,” Zofia says softly.
“Yes, Sacrist,” I answer, praying that I won’t start crying or do anything else that will ruin me in the eyes of men.
“See? Monsters,” the boy whispers to me. When I glance up, I expect the return of that mocking grin, but his lips are unsmiling. When he speaks again, his voice is so loud it bounces off the arched ceiling. “I also have questions. Why don’t you ask this Knight of the Order to my left what happened when a small band of Elathians breached the walls of the Monastery of Saint Ovin twelve years ago and opened the Vault of Mount Djall?”
The question is so shocking it borders on incomprehensible. The Kantari have been attacking the monastery for hundreds of years to try to set the Great Demon free, but they have never breached the walls, not once. When I translate, my voice sounds mechanical, distancing itself from this madness. “He says I should ask Brother Miklos what happened when a group breached the walls of the Monastery of Saint Ovin twelve years ago and opened the Vault containing Elath the Great Demon.”
Behind me, I hear Zofia’s intake of breath before she translates for the Ukrenti and Degmari ambassadors.
“Elath the Mother,” the boy corrects me, but I know perfectly well what evil is contained in that vault. Every devout Ovinist knows.
The Aurian ambassador breaks the stunned silence that follows. “Nothing has happened to the Vault of Mount Djall. Has it?”
“It’s a ploy,” says the Rosvanian, waving his hand dismissively. “He’s trying to distract us. This prisoner is worthless, Tovnia.”
The boy speaks again, his alarming eyes boring into mine. “Ask this knight what Goodson Anskar and the Order of Saint Ovin did when they discovered, just as the Elathians did, that the Vault was empty.”
“Translation,” the archbishop demands.
I shake my head, incredulous, even as I say the words. “He says I should ask Brother Miklos what the Goodson and the Order of Saint Ovin did when . . . when they discovered that the Vault was empty.”
The table bursts into sound. The Wesmari ambassador yells in alarm, while the Rosvanian ambassador continues to dismiss the Kantari’s claims. The archbishop rings the bell again, thundering, “Enough!”
The Kantari shouts over all of them. “Ask him what happened to the city of Grama! Ask him what the Order did there—to women, children, the old, the sick! Ask him what the Order took from us so they could hunt down the Mother!”
“No,” I answer without thinking. “The Vault has never been opened. And the Goodson would never—”
The archbishop slams the bell down on the table. “Translation!”
“Ask him where the Mother is!” cries the Kantari.
“Gelya, don’t—” Zofia says, but my voice, shrill with bewilderment, cuts through the ambassadors’ uproar as inevitably as an avalanche.
“He asks Brother Miklos where Elath the Great Demon is!”
It’s not until the translation exits my mouth that I fully comprehend what the Kantari has said. The restless doubt that has plagued me for weeks must have gotten the better of me at last, because I am inexplicably certain of one thing: He’s telling the truth.
All eyes turn to Brother Miklos, who has, until this moment, stood quietly at the prisoner’s side. He answers with action rather than words, reaching inside his sleeve with a hand nearly as pale as the white wool of his tunic to pull out a dagger. Only a couple of ambassadors have time to gasp before the Goodson’s old friend throws the blade across the room.
Right into Zofia’s heart.
Seven
Dark blood snakes from the wound as Zofia clutches the table, gasping for air.
He killed her. I stand there, frozen, the words repeating themselves in my head over and over until they morph into a blur of meaningless gibberish. Hekilledherhekilledherhekilledher. . . .
And then I move, rushing to catch her under her arms before she falls out of the chair. “Fetch the convent physicians!” I shout at the ambassadors, but they all continue to gape in shock at Zofia dying in my arms.
“What the hell is this, Brother Miklos?” demands the Rosvanian ambassador with false bravado. The knight ignores him and heads straight for Zofia and me. My heart pounds with fear, but I ho
ld tight to Zofia. When he reaches for the chain around her neck, I try to shove his hand away, crying, “No! What are you doing? Stop!”
“Brother Miklos!” the archbishop protests, ringing that ridiculous bell as if the chime could stop the knight from pushing me aside so he can take the key. With no one to hold her up, Zofia slumps to the unforgiving marble floor, and Brother Miklos saunters to the double doors at the back of the room as dispassionately as you might carry a chamber pot to dump it.
“Do something!” I scream at the knights, who shuffle uncomfortably, glancing doubtfully at each other. One of them finally works up the courage to say, “Uh, Brother?”
Brother Miklos unlocks the doors and opens one of them. I beg the Father to send the Goodson to come rescue us. Instead, masked men enter the parlertorium, each bearing a sword, and terror turns me bloodless. Brother Miklos exits the room, and the sound of the tumblers rolling into place, locking us in once more, echoes off the vaulted ceiling.
I am going to die.
We are all going to die.
A numbness takes over my brain, as if I were seeing the world through gauze as the masked men attack the ambassadors. One of them slices into Prince Horaccio’s neck as the room explodes like a henhouse when the fox gets in.
A wave of childhood memories slams into me, forcing me to relive the horrors of the Dead Forest with vivid clarity. I see the monsters floating between dark tree trunks, their black cloaks hanging from strange, skeletal bodies, their gray skin pulled taut over faceless heads, their long, unnatural hands swiping and killing, tearing apart the Goodson’s companions as if they were made of rags.
A tug on the hem of my tunic makes me shriek in terror. I look down to find the Rosvanian ambassador frantically beckoning to me. “Get under here, stupid girl!”
I dive beneath the table just in time to see the Wesmari ambassador hit the floor across the room, blood spurting out of his slit throat like a fountain. The contents of my stomach surge up my throat and out my mouth, drizzling from my nostrils in burning streams. The Rosvanian ambassador grips my arm too tightly and shakes me. “Is there a way out of here?”