by Megan Bannen
“Holy Father,” I cackle. “That was an absolute gift!”
Twenty-Eight
I share a room with Mera, the pair of us staying up later than we ought to, laughing over the local gossip that pours from my new friend’s mouth with comical flair. As I drift off to sleep, I remember staring at my translation work in the scriptorium, wondering what normal girls were doing. I know I’m anything but normal, yet staying at Illesmaat makes me feel like . . . a girl. Just a girl. Which is really nice.
After another blissful night of sleeping in a warm, dry bed, I wake to find that Mistress Illes has taken it upon herself to wash our uniforms while the rain gives the world a reprieve. Illesmaat is truly a place of miracles.
Tavik borrows a set of clothes from one of Mera’s brothers, and since I’m too tall to wear anything belonging to the mistress or Mera, I have to borrow a tunic and trousers from the younger of the Illes boys. I’ve grown so slim since leaving Saint Vinnica that the trousers keep sliding down my hips as I stand at the kitchen window and watch my knight’s uniform dangle from the clothesline beside Tavik’s, damp and limp in the moldy air.
While my body feels well rested today, Elath’s spirit roils more insistently than ever, leaving me with a strange sense of foreboding. It’s almost as if She’s giving me trouble simply because I’m contented for a change. I wish we could stay at Illesmaat, where it’s not currently raining and where I feel like a normal person and where, if left to my own devices, I might form a lasting friendship with a girl my own age. But we can’t stay, so I sit at the table to study Ambrus’s map, trying to figure out where the Goodson might have gone. Juprachen is one of the biggest cities in Rosvania, and there are so many roads branching into more roads leading out of it that I can’t begin to guess where he is.
I sit back in my chair, close my eyes, and picture his familiar face smiling at me from across a Shakki board, and I let myself sink into a memory of him.
“And what have you been studying since my last visit, Daughter Gelya?” he asks me as he shifts his cavalry westward, a move I didn’t anticipate.
“I’ve been assigned Kantari as my focus language,” I answer absently, trying to figure out my next futile move.
“Kantari? You?” His shocked tone jolts me out of the game. I look up to find disappointment plastered across his rugged face.
“Daughter Miv was the only Kantari expert left at the convent. When she died last spring, Sacrist Larka assigned it to me,” I explain, feeling ashamed even though I had no say in the matter.
“Of course. The Sacrist knows best.” His expression softens, but I can see that this news saddens him all the same. He’s the only person other than Zofia who doesn’t see a Hedenski when he looks at me. I hope he won’t think the less of me because of my language focus.
“I wasn’t thrilled about it either,” I admit to him. “And yet it’s interesting, too. I’ve been learning the strangest things about what the Kantari believe. Did you know that there’s a tree in Kantar that chooses the Two-Swords just as our own Grace Tree chooses Vessels?”
“I do know about Elath’s Tree. As a matter of fact, when I was a young man, I held one of those seedpods in my hand.” He raises an eyebrow and takes a sip of tea, knowing full well he has lit the wick of my insatiable curiosity.
I lean forward, a grin splitting my face. “Really?”
“I’m ashamed to admit this now, but I was young and stupid, and some of my friends and I . . . er . . . had enjoyed a little too much wine that night.” He sets his cup down. His eyes go distant, and a smile pulls up on one corner of his thin lips. “We were stationed at the Monastery of Saint Helios for a fortnight, waiting for pilgrims to gather for a journey to Mount Djall, and we had a great deal of time on our hands. We broke into the library and got into all manner of mischief. We found a box labeled ‘Seedpods from Elath’s Tree of Kantar.’ One of the fellows dared us to hold a pod in our palms to see if it would open and make Two-Swords out of us.”
“Did the seedpod open?” I ask with all my twelve-year-old eagerness.
He toys with one of his generals, rolling the piece between his hands. “We passed it from man to man—boy to boy really, we were hardly men then—and nothing happened until . . .”
His voice trails off. I don’t think I can stand the anticipation. “What?” I demand.
“My friend placed the seedpod in my hand, and it opened.”
His manner is nonchalant, and yet his admission takes my breath away. “It chose you?”
“It opened,” he corrects me, but the memory of my own seedpod rises like a specter. I can still feel the way the gift tugged at my insides, the way the song burst inside me.
“Did you feel anything?” I ask, hushed, reverent.
The Goodson gives me an indulgent smile. “No. Of course not. Do I look like a Two-Swords to you?”
I laugh at the absurdity of it. “No.”
“No,” he agrees as his smile widens.
As I think on that memory, my mind paints Goodson Anskar’s smile in a new light. His grin didn’t reach his gray eyes. Could he have lied to me? Did he experience what Tavik and I experienced when we were chosen? And what does it mean if he did? As my mind whirs with questions, my gaze randomly lands on one spot on Ambrus’s map: Varos da Helios.
We were stationed at the Monastery of Saint Helios.
I bolt upright in my chair and draw Ambrus’s map close. The tip of my finger traces a line backward, beginning at Varos da Helios, the university town just south of the monastery, following one road, then another, then a third until it stops at Juprachen.
Zofia was doing translation work at the Monastery of Saint Helios when she began to piece together the true location of Elath’s prison. The monastery must be where the stone from the library of Grama was taken. That’s where Zofia made her rubbing of the first half of The Ludoïd.
It all starts clicking into place. The Order attacked Tavik’s town for the library, for the information it contained, for anything that might lead them to Elath’s whereabouts. They took the library’s collection to the Monastery of Saint Helios, and they brought in Sacrist Larka, then Zofia, to translate anything the monks couldn’t read for themselves.
The Goodson isn’t running from Brother Miklos. He’s going to Saint Helios. He’s looking for knowledge, for information. Of course he is! Wouldn’t I do the same?
I snatch up the map and barrel out the kitchen door to search for Tavik, my pulse slamming through my veins. I hear low voices nearby. Talking. Laughter. A boy and a girl. Tavik and Mera.
I race toward the familiar sounds, but I pull up short when I find Tavik leaning against the stable wall out of sight of the house and Mera standing just inches in front of him. She leans in close, smiling her pretty smile.
And he smiles back at her.
And she presses her lovely body against his lovely body.
And his hand lands on her waist to pull her closer.
And her lips touch his lips.
And his lips respond.
And I’m pretty sure he eases his tongue into her mouth. My logical brain asks, Why would people want to put their tongues in someone else’s mouth? My illogical heart whispers only, Why?
The map flutters in my hand, forgotten. I stand there, watching them, feeling stupid when, really, Tavik is the one who should feel stupid, not me. We’re facing the end of the world, and here he is, indulging in this ridiculous display of superficial pleasure. And I’m so angry with Tavik for making me feel stupid, even if I’m not sure why I feel this way or why in the name of the Father I’d want his stupid tongue in my mouth anyway.
You’re really pretty, you know, Mera told me, and maybe that’s true, but this is also true: I’m not as pretty as she is, and for the first time in my life, it matters.
“Oy!” shouts a deep male voice behind me, yanking me out of my self-pity. Tavik and Mera separate in a hurry, and I spin to find Mera’s brothers standing a few feet behind me.
&nbs
p; “Gentlemen,” Tavik says, slowly backing away. “Let me explain.”
“You can explain it to my fists, you little shit,” says the older and bigger of the boys.
“Petor! Stop it!” Mera shouts, but unsurprisingly no one pays attention to her. The boys shoulder past me, advancing on Tavik.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” Tavik tells them, still stepping backward, his hands held up in surrender.
“I think you’re confused about who’s going to be hurting who in three . . . two . . . one.”
I don’t stay to watch. I race back to the clothesline, yank down our wet garments, and trip into the house, where I struggle into the damp knight’s uniform before slinging my necklace over my head and grabbing both our packs. I slide the map into my knapsack, cursing Tavik’s name—the only time in my life I have ever uttered such words—as I pick up his swords as well. With a bag over each shoulder and the scabbards in my hands, I stand out front and wait for Tavik as my wet uniform clings to my skin, clammy and itchy and horribly uncomfortable. I gaze longingly at the house with its warm fire and its dry bed and its promise of a girl who might have been my friend.
A few minutes later, Tavik comes sprinting back, alone. He has the gall to present himself like an actor onstage, shouting, “Behold, the daring knight, Brother Remur, returns without so much as a scratch on him!”
“Oh, very well done, Brother Remur.” I make the words Brother Remur sound like you idiot as I shove the swords and pack into his hands.
“You are the smartest, most wonderful friend ever, Brother Elgar,” he gushes, but I’m in no mood.
We run until it seems clear that no one is chasing us. For now, at least. When we finally slow down enough for me to catch my breath, I want to give him the earful that’s been building up inside me for at least a mile, but I’m so livid, the only word that comes out of my mouth is a long, seething “You.”
“I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Except break that poor girl’s heart. Do I even want to know what you did to her brothers?”
“I didn’t do anything to them. And as for that poor girl?” He rolls his eyes, dramatic as ever. “Please.”
Indignation on Mera’s behalf makes my nostrils flare. “How can you just kiss someone and not care?”
“You’re making a big deal out of nothing.”
“Ugh. Poor Mera.”
“Mera . . . ?” He puts a finger to his chin, thoughtful. “Who’s Mera again?”
A fury that is all mine and not Elath’s boils in my veins. “You arrogant, selfish, repugnant—”
“I’m kidding!” Tavik reaches out his hands, imploring. “Come on. Messing around is fun, all right? Fun for Mera. Fun for me. Fun. Ever heard of it?”
“Messing around?”
“Fun. You should try it sometime. Besides, do you have any idea how long it’s been since I kissed a girl?”
Is he actively trying to fan the flames of my anger? I glare daggers at him and spit, “Yes, I do, as a matter of fact.”
I can see the moment when he realizes I’m talking about our wedding. He crinkles his artfully crooked nose in disagreement. “That doesn’t count.”
“Oh, thank you very much!”
“Can we keep moving, please?” He walks ahead of me, but I catch up in a heartbeat, eager to keep berating him.
“Yes, we must keep moving, since you lost us a warm, dry place to sleep tonight. That was the last stop on Ambrus’s map, Tavik, and we didn’t get a chance to ask the Illeses for the next place to stay, thanks to you.”
His pace slows. He bites the inside of his cheek. “Sorry. Father of death, I was waiting for a message from Captain DeRopa, too. I just wasn’t thinking.”
“Correct. You weren’t thinking. Fortunately, I was.” I hold out the map to him, jab my finger at the point labeled Varos da Helios, and leave it in his bewildered clutch before moving on.
“Oh. Oh!” he says in my wake, but while my feet may take me away from Illesmaat, my brain stays behind, not letting me erase the sight of Tavik’s lips on Mera’s, his tongue in her mouth, his hand at her delicate waist.
“Idiot,” I fume under my breath in Rosvanian.
Twenty-Nine
The rain starts up again, so a night spent sleeping—or trying and failing to sleep—under the cold, damp shelter of branches and leaves when I could have been in a dry bed sharpens my anger. Raindrops pelt my hood as we slog through mud toward Juprachen the following day, souring my mood even more.
“Do you have any idea how much I want to strangle you right now?” I snarl at Tavik, breaking the thick silence between us.
“Yeah. Got it,” he snaps, as if he has the right to be angry. My shoulders hunch in resentment, and I take the first opportunity I can to excuse myself to the cover of trees so I can tie another flag to a gelya branch. The gelya has lost its leaves, but its berries cling to its twigs, drab little globes in a muddy brown landscape. You don’t really appreciate their beauty until winter arrives.
When I return to Tavik on the road, I find him rubbing his temples. “Look, I get that you’re mad, and I’m not saying that you don’t have a right to be, but can we please figure out how we’re going to get from here to the Monastery of Saint Helios? And what we’re going to do once we get there?”
I fold my arms. “Fine.”
“Good. Thank you.” He moves toward me, but I step away, keeping an arm’s length between us. He heaves a sigh before continuing. “There’s a messenger coop at Illesmaat. We’ll go back, and I’ll apologize to Mera or whoever, and then we can send a new message to Captain DeRopa. The Kantari army can’t get through enemy lines, but a small unit of men might be able to sneak past and meet us at Saint Helios.”
“You want to attack a peaceful monastery?”
“Why not? The Order attacked Grama, and the Goodson’s sword belonged to Ludo in the first place. I’m calling it fair game.”
“So the plan is to kill the monks of Saint Helios so you can get the Hand of the Father?”
“Look, I’d love to get in and out with no one being the wiser, but we need to be realistic. It’s going to be hard to get into any building that belongs to an Ovinist religious order without some level of risk.”
“I won’t do it.”
He throws his head back and growls, “Gelya!”
“Besides, I have a better idea,” I add, annoyed that he’s annoyed when I am clearly the one who should be annoyed.
He looks unconvinced, but he says, “I’m listening.”
“I’m a Vessel. I can simply walk through the front door.”
“No way. I’m not going to let you waltz into a monastery where I can’t protect you.” His tone is infuriatingly condescending.
“I don’t need your protection for this. Or your permission.”
“Okay, so you can walk through the front door. Whoop-de-do. How do you think you’re going to get the Goodson’s sword once you’re inside? He’s the guy who saw you levitate after Elath the Mother entered your body, remember?”
“He’s also the man who rescued me from Hedenskia, saved my life in the Dead Forest, and has been, for all intents and purposes, my father for the past ten years. He’s not going to just lock me up and throw away the key.”
Tavik bursts into a fit of harsh laughter. “Locking you up and throwing away the key is exactly what the Goodson has in mind. Holy good Mother, how can you not see that?”
“So I’m supposed to put my faith in your Captain DeRopa, then?” I counter. “If he’s so wonderful, why is the Kantari army still moving toward the Convent of Saint Vinnica?”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“Your captain knows where we are. You’ve been in communication with him the whole time. So why are the Kantari marching on a convent full of helpless Daughters if they know Elath isn’t there?”
His eyes falter. “I don’t know.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know?”
“I mean I
don’t know, all right? My mission was to get to the convent and free the Mother. I’m not the one commanding military units. I’m not privy to every scrap of information out there. I’m just obeying orders.” His voice falters on the words obeying orders, and he kicks a rotted walnut into a tree trunk.
“Well, I don’t have to obey orders,” I point out, but Tavik talks right over me.
“And you can stop shitting all over DeRopa, because that man—that hero—is the one who broke open the Vault of Mount Djall. He’s dedicated his entire life to serving the Mother. I’m pretty sure you’re a lot better off in his hands right now than in the hands of an Ovinist zealot like the Goodson.”
The more wound up he gets, the more my own anger subsides. “Listen—” I begin, putting out a hand to stop him, but he’s like a boulder rolling down a hill, and I couldn’t halt his avalanche of raw feelings if I tried.
“If you want to compare father figures, let me just point out that Rusik DeRopa rescued me when I was six years old. He pulled me out of the well where I was hiding when the Order burned Grama to the ground and killed my entire family. DeRopa found me a good home with his cousin, and when the Grace Tree of Kantar chose me two years later, he personally oversaw my training. So don’t you dare try to tell me I can’t trust him, because in a country full of starving, homeless children, he didn’t have to take care of a kid with no family, but he did. I owe him my life. I owe him everything.”
By the time Tavik gets through this tirade, he is ragged with emotion, his voice rough, and I realize, to my shame, that up till this moment, I have known next to nothing about his past, his hurts, his grief. Now, all of a sudden, I’m drowning in it.
For a moment, we stare at each other, me feeling uncomfortably exposed and Tavik feeling the Father knows what, when his eyes shift from my face to a point below my breastbone, and his face transforms into a mask of alarm. “Oh, death.”
“What?” I ask faintly, my stomach dropping.