by Megan Bannen
Another thump rattles one of the doors, harder than the last.
“Go!” the boy barks.
Fear makes my choice for me, and I begin my descent into the hole.
The nerve-racking assault on the parlertorium doors continues as I climb down the bricks while holding the oil lamp. The knight sticks his head into the opening and whispers, “For the love of the Father, would you hurry up?”
“I’m going as fast as I can,” I shoot back, looking up in time to see the Two-Swords haul the knight back by the hood of his cloak. Once I’m safely on the ground, the Kantari blows out a gust of air and mutters, “Father of death,” before making his way down the ladder, cursing at each rung. Once his head is level with the top, he jumps down and lands gracefully next to me, then motions for the rest to follow. You’d think he’d leave them to die, so it’s a relief to know the Sword of Mercy means something to him.
The knight is the last one down, and my jaw aches from gritting my teeth by the time he heaves the hatch closed behind him. Seconds later, a clatter rings above us, followed by the sound of footsteps rushing into the room, shouts of alarm, coughing. Whoever was trying to enter the parlertorium has succeeded. I fist my hands, forgetting to breathe.
When a full minute goes by without anyone coming after us, a profound relief envelops me. I finally remember to draw air, only to discover that the boy’s ripe musk has permeated the cramped space, so pungent I’d swear it’s seeping into my pores. He glances past me into the darkness of the tunnel beyond, then whispers, “Tell them I want everyone in a line behind you. I’ll be last. Let’s go.”
I translate his order, and our tragically short line begins the journey through the tunnel. The lamp swings from the chain in my hand, making the light shift and move dizzyingly in the darkness as what little relief I felt a moment ago gives way to a growing fear of whatever awaits us at the end of the corridor.
Nine
“How long is this tunnel?” the boy asks from the back, his voice strained.
“I do not know,” I answer in equally clipped syllables.
“Where does it lead?”
“The scriptorium.”
“The what?”
“A room for writing and study.” I keep my answers short and simple. I may be stuck with this Kantari for now, but the sooner I can be free of him, the better, although I have no idea how I’m going to accomplish that.
My light is the only thing that punctures the crushing darkness as we walk for what seems like eternity. Someone’s increasingly ragged breathing cuts through the silence of the passage. Concerned that one of our number is asphyxiating, I turn back to find the ambassadors and the knight staring at the boy, who leans against the wall with his head thrown back as he gasps for air and claws at the neck of his shirt. His light brown skin has turned a chalky color. The others shuffle uncomfortably, as useless as they were back in the parlertorium. I sigh and push my way past them. “Sir, are you unwell?”
I’m thanked for my concern by a fierce glare. “Move,” he rasps at me. “Just keep moving.”
Fine. If he doesn’t want my help, he won’t get it. I head back to the front of the line and march down the tunnel, coming to the end so abruptly that I smack my head against the stone wall.
“Oh, thank you, dear Father,” cries the Sudmari as the Aurian ambassador shoulders in front of me, grousing, “How are we supposed to get this thing open?”
The men push in front of me, arguing over how to open the door and who gets to leave first. The Kantari hangs back and watches. In the lamplight, I can see that his complexion is still waxy. Sweat streams down his face and neck, shining in the hollow of his throat. He looks like a scared boy, not a vicious Kantari soldier.
“Get that lamp out of my face,” he snaps, and I shrink away from him, my hip knocking into a brick that juts out from the wall. To my surprise, it gives way, sinking into the other bricks. The sound of a released latch reverberates through the wall at the front of the room, and a door pops outward like a loosened puzzle piece.
The Aurian shoves the other two men out of the way so he can escape first, but the Two-Swords collars him and yanks him back. He blocks the door, glaring at the men as he says, “You, Daughter, translate this: We are the only witnesses who can attest to the fact that a Knight of the Order of Saint Ovin allowed ten armed men to enter the parlertorium and murder your comrades. I’d say hiding is your best option right now. Deal?”
I do my best to translate, but I’m still having a hard time picking out every word, the reality of spoken language far messier than words written on a page. He must have been speaking formally at the summit, because he was easy to understand then. Now his speech matches his sloppy appearance. I do get his point across, though, because the knight and the Sudmari nod as if their lives depended on it. The Aurian ambassador, however, sputters protestations. The Kantari unsheathes a sword, silencing the man with the unsubtle threat of violence. “I saved your ass, so either you agree to hide and keep quiet once you’re out of this tunnel, or I can leave you to die right here. Your choice.”
Again, I do my best to translate, but I’m not sure what exactly ass means. I’ll have to look it up when this nightmare comes to an end. I cling to the word, a slim hope that I have a future to anticipate.
Satisfied by the Aurian’s reluctant nod, the boy steps aside. The knight, who has worked his way to the front, flings open the door, and all three men scatter through the library stacks like mice. The Two-Swords exits after them, but I’m more cautious. After all, I’m safe here in the tunnel, at least for now, and I’m not sure I’m ready to face the world beyond this door.
“It’s all right. You can come out now.” I can’t see the boy, but his voice drifts back to me, thin and breathless. I step hesitantly over the threshold into the familiar stacks of the scriptorium library. The Kantari leans against the wall to the left of the door, inhaling air as if he had nearly drowned in the passageway. I’m afraid someone might notice my light through the small library windows, so I blow out the flame and wait until my eyes adjust before setting the lamp down carefully against the stone wall.
I study the boy as his breath evens out. I don’t know what to make of him, but I do know this: He could have killed me, but he didn’t, and he could have left those men to die in the parlertorium, but he didn’t. So even though he’s technically my enemy, I tell him, “Thank you,” before I take off in search of my own hiding place.
“Where are you going?”
I stop and look back at him. “To hide.”
“Huh-uh.” He steps forward and grasps my upper arm. “You’re with me.”
My heart pounds with a desperate need to be free of him, to be free of this entire night. I fumble around in my pocket and pull out the knife that killed Zofia, ready to defend myself if I have to.
“Give me that thing before you poke your eye out.” He snatches the knife from my hand, and something in me snaps. I slap him as hard as I can across his horrible face. The next thing I know, his grip on my arm is tight and painful, and he’s holding the knife to my throat. My mind goes white with terror.
“You offered me the Sword of Mercy,” I breathe.
“The Sword of Mercy is strapped safely to my back. The Knife of I’m Very Pissed Off Right Now is at your throat. There’s a statue of Saint Vinnica at this convent. I need you to take me to it.”
I give him an incredulous laugh. “There are at least thirty statues of Saint Vinnica here. It is the Convent of Saint Vinnica.”
He presses the knife into my neck. My skin splits around the point, and a line of blood trickles down my throat. “This one’s special.” His voice contains as much steel as the blade at my throat.
All evidence of my defiance flees far, far away from that knife. “Please. I do not know which statue you are talking . . .” And then it hits me. “. . . about.”
Because I do know. I don’t understand why he’s here or what he wants, but I’m certain he means the old statue
in the courtyard, the one beneath the Grace Tree. And he can see that I know.
He nods and steps back, but he doesn’t let go of me as he tucks the knife into the waistband of his trousers again. And then the strangest thing happens. He takes a good, slow look around him. With his free hand, he reaches out to brush the spines of the books in front of him with incongruously gentle fingertips. On any other occasion, it would be moving, the way he gazes at the books with the same slack-jawed wonder I’ve seen on the faces of pilgrims the first time they enter the Cathedral of Saint Vinnica, all awe and reverence.
And distraction.
I tear free of his grasp and make a run for it, speeding down the aisle, sending a pile of scrolls toppling in my wake. He curses and gives chase. This time, when he grabs me, I do the only thing I can think of to save myself. The Sanctus verse comes pouring out of my mouth, packed with the full force of my gift.
Let the flesh burn away into ash from the bone.
Let the bone wither into dust in the unforgiving fires of the Father.
I have never, not once, attempted to harm another human being with my ability, and the effect makes me nearly as ill as it makes the boy, who gasps in pain and releases me. I wobble on my feet, barely able to stand after unleashing so much force into the song, but I manage to stumble into the scriptorium to get away from him. I make it to Daughter Ina’s workstation before I fall forward, catching myself on the table.
The boy takes a cautious step into the scriptorium, a sword clutched in his right hand.
“Is that the Sword of Mercy?” I ask in false defiance.
“I’m not feeling particularly merciful at the moment. This is the Sword of Wrath.” He hesitates, hovering near the door. “So you’re a Vessel.”
“As you see,” I answer coolly.
“As I felt.”
We stare at each other, he with his sword in hand and I with my words held tight in my mouth, and nothing but Daughter Ina’s neat stacks of paper between us. An impasse.
There are noises in the distance, drifting down the hallways like ghosts. Men’s voices. We both look toward the scriptorium door before our eyes lock again. The Kantari puts his sword back in the scabbard and holds up his hands. “My offer of the Sword of Mercy still stands. Take me to the statue, and I’ll let you go, I promise.”
If Zofia were here, I’d ask for her advice. But Zofia isn’t here. Zofia will never be here again because Brother Miklos killed her. And Brother Miklos is still out there somewhere.
“I don’t want you dead.” The boy gestures toward the voices with a jerk of his head. “Can you say the same for them?”
He’s right. I have no idea if the men who belong to those voices want me dead. Then, too, there is the less than appetizing fact that I now have Zofia’s papers on my person, and the Father knows what kind of heresy they contain. I scowl at the boy, but I nod my agreement.
“Where?” he asks. My eyes dart toward the door leading to the courtyard, and he draws his own conclusions. “Let’s go.” He lets me walk in front of him as I step through the courtyard door. Outside, a gibbous moon blankets the garden in pale light.
“You lead,” he says.
I swallow hard. My throat longs for water as I move in the shadows. At last we get to the gravel path that leads to the statue, but it isn’t until we’re staring up at Saint Vinnica’s blunted features in the moonlight that I realize I could have lied, could have taken him to any other statue at the convent. But I didn’t. I hadn’t even thought to mislead him. And now he’s going to do the Father knows what to the last thing I love in this world.
“Right. Well.” He studies the statue, frowning, this cocksure boy who suddenly looks very uncertain of himself.
“I did what you asked. May I go?” Already, I’m easing sideways, trying to pull free, when his grip on my sleeve tightens, dimpling the fabric, and the unbearable possibility that I might never be rid of him grips my throat just as tightly.
“Wait,” he hedges. “Hold on.”
“You promised you would—”
The words freeze in my mouth as a bird darts out from the withering branches of the Grace Tree to perch on Saint Vinnica’s shoulder.
A soulswift.
Zofia is dead, and now here is a soulswift, a Vessel transformed by the Father into this lovely bird. She looks at me with uncanny intelligence before she releases her song, piercing the night with a melody so bittersweet, I can taste the grief I’ve been holding at bay as it begins to leak through the dam around my heart.
“You left me,” I cry, tears clogging my throat. “Oh, my Father, you left me.”
Once there was a girl who flew like a bird.
“Zofia?” I whisper, begging the Father to let this be her, to keep her by my side.
Up and up, far above the earth.
I hold out my hand to her to coax her onto my outstretched finger, but to my horror, the Kantari beats me to it, taking the soulswift into his own sinewy hands.
“Stop!” The need to peel his filthy, unworthy paws off the soulswift threatens to turn me violent.
He ignores me, looking over the bird carefully before he murmurs, “Go on, then, friend, and may the Mother watch over you.” With that, he opens his hands, and the startled soulswift flies off into the darkness. As she soars out of sight, the realization that Zofia is gone—really and truly gone forever—stabs me in the chest. She was my anchor as well as my guiding star, and I am lost at sea without her.
I’m still squinting into the darkness, searching for any sign of the bird, when the Two-Swords says, “Here goes nothing.” He draws one of the weapons from the sheath at his back, and before I can react, he swings the sword, arcing it sideways toward the statue as if he’s mowing down an enemy on the battlefield. Too late, I lunge for his arm and miss. Metal hits stone with a teeth-gritting clang, but the statue holds strong as the blade breaks away from the hilt and goes sailing into a garden bed several feet away.
“What are you doing?” I scream as he unleashes a stream of what I can only assume are Kantari obscenities at the broken sword.
Lights start coming on in the east wing of the convent. He’s running out of time. Maybe we both are. He pulls the other sword free of its sheath, and this time I do get ahold of him by the crook of his elbow before he can strike again.
“Let me go!”
“No!”
But he’s so much stronger than I am, I could never hope to stop him. He tears free of me with ease, but then he pauses, his sword held in midair. He gazes up at the statue’s blank face before closing his eyes as if sending out a silent prayer to his demon goddess. With nowhere to go and no one to go to, I close my eyes, too, sending out a plea to Zofia, if there’s even a part of her left to hear me: Help me. I don’t know what to do.
Calm washes over me. I open my eyes and watch the boy’s dreamy gaze shift from the statue to the Grace Tree just beyond. The blade in his hand begins to glow, a ghostly blue light like the moon shining through the trees of the Dead Forest. Logically, I know this is wrong, and yet, in my stupor, the only word that could possibly describe the sight is beautiful. He takes a step closer to the tree, and the sword grows brighter, then brighter again with each step, lighting up the night like an unnatural blue fire. Trancelike, he passes by the sculpture of Saint Vinnica and heads for the Grace Tree.
“Gelya!” shouts a familiar voice, yanking me out of the strange somnolence. My whole body snaps toward the sound of my name, and there, panting hard as he slumps against the jamb of the scriptorium door, stands the Goodson.
Alive.
Before I can run to him, before I can shout his name, before I can even taste joy or relief, the Kantari plunges his blade into the Grace Tree all the way to the hilt. I watch in frozen horror as he slices through the trunk like a knife through softened butter, cutting down the heart of the Ovinist faith in one terrible strike. I have just enough time to think, There will never be another Vessel, before the tree explodes in a burst of light so whit
e and blinding, it shatters the night.
“Blessed be the Mother!” the boy cries rapturously when he realizes what he has done. The searing light reaches across the night and pries open my mouth as if my fingers were brushing the Sanctus words of The Songs of the Saints. But it isn’t a song that comes out of me. It’s a song that enters in as I fly into the air.
There is light.
So much light.
And then there is nothing.
Ten
In the darkness, I hear Zofia’s voice.
Would you like me to tell you a story?
I nod, though I can’t see her.
Once there was a girl—a very brave girl—who lived far, far away by the sea. Do you know this story?
Of course I know this story.
It’s my story.
I open my eyes and find myself standing on the cliffs beside the sea. The wind whips my coppery hair into my face and, with it, the thick scent of woodsmoke and something less familiar, almost metallic. It reminds me of scrubbing scorched deer meat from the bottom of Ati’s iron pot, an odor so fat and heavy I can hardly smell the salt of the sea. The ever-present sound of the waves battering the rocks below is the only familiar thing about this moment. Even the girls on either side of me seem alien now, as if I have not known them all my life.
I want to wipe my nose with my sleeve, but I don’t dare.
Because of the man.
I have never feared a man before, but I fear this one. He studies each of us in turn with gray eyes the color of the sea beneath an overcast sky. I understand beyond a shadow of a doubt that this is a person whose approval is everything, so I remain very still as his eyes drift over me.
He speaks over his shoulder—a series of sharp gibberish sounds—to a group of men standing behind him, their pale clothing stark against the trees just beyond, their blue cloaks billowing like ghosts. One of them steps forward, kneels before the man, and opens a carved wooden box, revealing a soft red interior that doesn’t belong to this windswept village by the sea. The man reaches inside and pulls out an object the size and shape of a small plum, only flatter. The outer husk is brown and dried and wrinkled. He holds it up and speaks words I will only come to understand much later: