“I give easement and rest now to thee, dear lady. Come not down the lanes or in our meadows. And for thy peace I pawn my own soul.” She spat the words, keeping her eyes on the mayor the whole time. “I’ll expect to see bull’s eyes at your father’s Eating,” she said, and the mayor gasped. “But I won’t Eat them. I will not take that sin.”
He held out the silver coin to her but my mother didn’t take it. It was the only time she didn’t.
* * *
“My lady, we must go,” Lief says, pulling me back into the present, though I can still feel the old man’s hand on my arm.
“My lady?” He peers around the door. One look at my face and he’s half drawn his sword.
“I’m fine, Lief,” I say shakily. “I just …”
Lief looks at Dorin, slack-jawed and wan against the pallet. “Wait outside, my lady. I’ll try to make him more comfortable.”
I nod, grateful to leave, taking great gulps of clean air and leaning against the damp stone walls. Poppy tears. Lost children and monsters in the dark. The sin my mother would not take. I shudder, trying to shake it off.
When I look back into the room, I see Lief moving Dorin’s head with a practiced hand, his actions deft and tender, and I wonder how his father died.
“What shall we do today, my lady?”
I am staring out the window, my thoughts flitting between Dorin, the king and queen, and Lief himself, and his question flusters me. “We?” I ask.
“I don’t mean to presume. But I thought … We’re both here, and it seems foolish for us to not use each other’s company. Not that it’s my place to use your company. But … if you wanted company, I am here.”
“Well”—I smile sweetly—“I’d planned to pray.”
“Ah.” His face falls. “I might leave you to it, then. No need to gild the lily with too many prayers.”
“You don’t believe in the Gods, do you, Lief?” I voice a suspicion I’ve held for a while now.
He looks at me before shaking his head. “Not really, my lady.”
“Do many Tregellians not believe in them?”
He shrugs. “It’s not like here, if that’s what you mean. But then Tregellan is governed by a council, not a monarchy. We place a lot of value on science and medicine. There’s not a lot of room for Gods in that.”
“Is there not? Can you not see the life that Dæg brings in your sciences and medicines?”
“I see the work of men in our sciences, my lady. And the Gods have never answered a single prayer of mine,” he adds bitterly, before he shakes his head. “Forgive me, my lady. I speak out of turn.”
“No,” I say before I can stop myself. Lief looks at me, his eyes wide. “You may have your opinion. Just be careful where and with whom you speak it.”
“In here, it is safe?” Lief asks.
I nod.
“With you, it is safe?”
I nod again.
“Even though you’re the incarnation of a Goddess?”
“Daunen isn’t a Goddess,” I say. “She’s the daughter of the Gods, but not a Goddess herself.”
He shrugs lightly and smiles. “Maybe that’s why I like her best.”
* * *
When I lived with my mother, my sister and I built a den of sorts in the garden, hollowing the innards of a bush, painstakingly snapping branches back to carve a space inside. When our brothers went to market and our mother rested, we would crawl inside our den and sit, hiding our treasures amongst the leaves and telling stories. No one else knew it was there and it was our place. It was a safe space.
Now my room is the same, a den for Lief and me to hide in and tell our stories. We chat about our childhoods, exchanging tales of misdeeds and tumbles and the folk from our villages. When he asks, I tell him how I came to be at the castle and he is suitably awed.
“Perhaps I should look into becoming dedicated to a God.”
“You’d have to believe in them first.” I smile.
“I could learn to.” He smiles back.
“Can you sing?”
He draws himself up to his full height and rests a hand over his heart.
“In mountain’s shadow, Lormere stands,
Most blessed of the western lands,
Through snow and ice it doth endure,
A land of might forevermore.”
A smile creeps across my face at how badly he does it.
“What do you think?” he asks once the song is over.
“You make an excellent guard, Lief.”
“You wound me, my lady,” he sniffs, pouting at me before grinning. “Though I confess I wouldn’t be keen on being poisoned once a moon.”
I answer him softly. “Daunen is the daughter of two Gods. One giver and one taker. It’s because of Næht that I have to take life, as she did when she took the skies from Dæg.”
He nods, looking thoughtful before he speaks. “What would you do if you weren’t Daunen Embodied and betrothed to the prince?”
“I’d be the next Sin Eater.”
“No, my lady,” he sighs. “I mean what would you do if you didn’t have a destiny? What do you wish for?”
I close my eyes, replaying my life in my mind. I’ve never thought of not having a destiny. I’ve always had one. Last time I wished for something I believed I’d never have, it brought me here. I tell him I don’t know what people do when they’re free.
“What do you mean by free?” he asks.
“Like you. You can go where you please and do as you wish. I don’t know what that’s like.”
“I’m not free, my lady,” he says slowly. “I can no more wander off and do as I will than you can. You think of having choices like people think of flying. They see a hawk soaring and hovering and they tell themselves how nice it would be to fly. But pigeons can fly, and sparrows, too. No one imagines being a sparrow, though. No one wants that.”
Lief looks at me with such sadness in his eyes that my breath becomes caught inside me. I want to reach out and wipe the expression from his face.
He rises to his feet and turns away. “I’ll go and see if our supper has been brought.”
With sudden, horrible clarity I realize that one day Lief will leave—whatever his thoughts on freedom are, he’s at liberty to leave if he chooses. But I’m not. I’ll stay here in the castle forever. My entire life has been mapped out before me. I won’t even have sparrowlike freedom.
I didn’t realize tears had fallen until Lief returns. His gasp is enough to check me, and I turn away, wiping my cheeks as he clatters the tray down and sinks at my feet.
“My lady?”
“I’m fine, Lief.”
“Was it me? What I said? Can I fetch you anything? Send for anything?”
“No. Wait, yes. Could you bring me some wine?” I say, ignoring the quirk of his eyebrow. “Honey wine, please. Only a little.”
“At once.” He nods and speeds from the room. A short while later he’s back, a small bottle and glass on a silver tray in his hands. He pours my glass and places it on the bureau before me. I don’t want the wine, not truly, but I can think of nothing else that will take the edge off my melancholy. The wine is sweet and warm and doesn’t help at all. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.
He sits on the floor in front of me, gazing at me with an unusually grave expression.
“I don’t want to upset you further, but the maid who fetched the wine also had news about Dorin. It’s not good,” he says hurriedly before I can interrupt. “He’s fallen into a sleep. He won’t wake up. The healers don’t believe there is anything that can be done, but the prince says they’re wrong. He’s insisting they send for a physician. A Tregellian one.”
“A Tregellian physician? Here?” Relief and fear war inside me. Would Merek really do that for a mere guard? A cruel voice in my mind whispers that this provides Merek with the perfect opportunity to bring his much-wanted Tregellian medicine into Lormere, and I push it aside, trying to concentrate on what Lief is saying.
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“The prince has apparently told the healers they are to send for one. They’re in an uproar about it. I’m not sure what bothers them more, that a physician may come or that it will be a Tregellian.” His face darkens, and then it clears. “Forgive me, I’m being stupid. Now isn’t the time.”
“Will a physician be able to heal him?”
“It might be his only hope. I saw inside that sick room. Waving a censer over him isn’t going to heal anything. He needs a proper diagnosis, not all this talk of imbalanced humors. If they can find what’s wrong with him, he might at least stand a chance of getting the right treatment and recovering.”
Again he speaks as though he knows about healing, and I remember his hands on Dorin, firm and practiced. He said he was going to be a farmer, but surely no farmer knows so much about plants and their properties? For now I swallow my questions, looking down at my hands as my mind turns toward another problem. “I hope my mother doesn’t find out they’re sending for a physician,” I say quietly.
“What does your mother have to do with it?”
I keep my eyes on my hands as I try to find the words to explain it, knowing he’ll want all of it, and I’m not sure if I can tell it all, even now. “She doesn’t hold with it. She believes that if Næht has marked a man for her own, it’s wrong to intervene.”
“Intervene? As in to heal him?”
“To undo the will of the Gods. Some healing is permitted, certain herbs and prayers, but if it goes too far … She thinks it’s wrong to take from the hands of the Gods. And that’s what physicians do. They use unnatural ways. At the least she’ll want a balancing or she won’t do the Eating if he does die.”
“Balancing?”
I sigh. “When someone is gravely ill, another death can be offered to Næht to try to appease her so she doesn’t take the life of the dying person. A sacrifice can be made, usually a sheep or a pig.” Or a goat, I say to myself. “If Næht is satisfied, then she’ll spare the life of the person who ails and my mother will accept Næht’s will and not hold it against the soul of the survivor.”
“I don’t understand what that has to do with healing.”
“Physicians tether the soul with their cures and keep it here when it should have gone to Næht.”
“But who’s to say that it’s not Næht’s will that they’re healed?” Lief says.
“You don’t understand,” I say, turning from him, a headache starting behind my eyes.
“Forgive me, my lady. I was being churlish. So when this healer comes, we’ll kill a sheep and if your Goddess accepts, then Dorin will get better? Is that how it works?”
I nod, unwilling to think about it, to remember.
“Well, then, we’ll do that. Will that please your mother?”
I shrug. “It has done, in the past. As long as a cut of the meat is sent to her as a tribute when the animal is killed.”
“Does it happen often?”
“No, not often. There aren’t many families who can afford to lose an animal, even at the cost of a loved one.”
“When was the last time?”
I look away from him. The last time that I knew of was for my sister, and it did not happen in the way I had described to Lief. Maryl had been feverish for days, and no amount of cold compresses would bring down her temperature. We could get no fluid into her, her bones were small under my hands, and she was fading from us. My mother, ever the dutiful servant of Næht, shrugged when I cried.
“If Næht wants her, she shall have her.”
“Can we do nothing?”
“We must do nothing. It’s Næht’s will.”
Then she was gone, away to an Eating, leaving me behind to be with Maryl as she died. I screwed up my courage and went to the with-woman in Monkham, begged some feverfew and willow bark from her. I ground it and boiled it and fed it to my baby sister, drop by drop, until she was cool and lucid again. When my mother returned, I told her it was a miracle.
“Næht didn’t want her after all,” I said, unable to meet my mother’s eyes.
We dined on roast goat that evening, a rare treat cooked by my mother herself—a celebration, I had thought—and I swallowed it all down. An hour later, I brought it all back up in the goat house beside our home. Penny had been my favorite, my darling. She had chewed delicately on my skirts and snuffled her hairy nose into my pockets. She came when I called her.
But I kept my sister and Næht had her sacrifice. I push away the thought that the sacrifice is only ever meant to appease her for a little while, and that I don’t know how much time was bought for my sister.
* * *
“The last time was a long time ago,” I tell Lief. “As I said, it’s not often practiced—there aren’t many who could afford to lose a moon’s mutton or lamb.”
He shakes his head and sighs. “It’s not a sin to heal people, or to help them. It’s not defying the Gods. How can it be, when the plants physicians use grow in the earth and the knowledge comes from the people the Gods supposedly created? I was saying all of this to Dimia yesterday.”
“Who’s Dimia?”
“She’s the maid who brings our food. She brought your wine to me. She’s been finding out how Dorin fares for you. She—”
“That’s kind of her.” I speak over him.
Lief looks at me curiously before continuing. “She has been checking on him and reporting back to me. And I promise you that Tregellian physicians are the best. If anyone can do something for him, they will … and then we’ll sacrifice a sheep to your Næht to balance it if we have to. My lady, is it not worth it for Dorin?”
I stare at him. “He’s going to die, isn’t he? Without this physician?”
Lief nods. “He can’t be helped if they don’t know what’s wrong with him.”
I recall his thin skin, the smell of cypress, his delirium. He looked barely alive. “But I’ve been praying so hard to the Gods. I’m dedicated to their daughter, anointed in her name.”
Lief notes the panic in my voice and rises to his knees, leaning past me to top up my glass. As he moves back he pauses, his face close to mine, and my stomach aches strangely. “It’s not over yet,” he says. “It’s all down to the physician.”
I turn away to lift my glass and when I look back he is at my feet, a safe distance away again.
“Either way, it marks the end for us,” he says softly.
“What do you mean? Are you leaving?” The panic returns, my voice becoming shrill.
“No. No,” he says hurriedly. “I’m staying with you. But this … time that we spend together will have to come to an end. Whether Dorin returns or someone else is sent to guard you. I’m not completely stupid, I know it shouldn’t happen. I know it can’t continue.”
His brow furrows and I drink some more of the wine, understanding why Merek is so fond of it and the numbness it offers.
“I can’t think about this now, Lief. I need to think about Dorin. If I pray harder, if I could go my temple. I can’t pray here, it’s not right,” I babble, but already I’m imagining losing Lief, returning to my old ways, with him outside my door and never in here with me. No more talks, no more jokes. No more questions. Just my guard. “What can we do?” I moan.
“The only thing I can think of is ask the queen to permit me to be your sole guard. That way you can go to your temple, and see Dorin.”
“And if he returns?” There is a brief, delirious moment when I imagine all three of us laughing together in my room.
“We’ll deal with that if it happens,” Lief says. And I know from his tone that he doesn’t think it will.
“She’ll never allow it,” I tell him, pushing my confusion aside. “You know what she said. She wouldn’t trust one guard to keep me safe.”
“Then let’s not ask her. Let’s ask the prince.”
“Merek? Why would he help?”
“Because he’s your betrothed. Because he has a vested interest in your well-being, and you being cooped up in here is not good fo
r you. He knows how much you value your temple and being there. And he knows what it’s like to be shut away.”
“You were listening when we had supper!” I accuse him.
“I couldn’t help it, my lady. I had to stay within earshot so I could hear him summoning me,” he says. “I might be invisible, but I have ears.”
I shake my head at him. “The queen will hate it if I go over her head.”
“But will she deny Merek if he asks her for it? She allowed you out with him, without a guard, after all. She’s allowing him to bring in a Tregellian physician for your guard. If he says it’s what he wants, is she likely to deny it to him?”
“Are all Tregellians as cunning as you?”
“I am not cunning, my lady. I promise you that. I’m good at seeing around obstacles is all.” His eyes are larger than usual as he looks up at me, and my heart races in my chest. It would solve all of my current problems. I would be able to leave these rooms, but keep my … time with Lief. I can deal with Dorin if—when—he returns. It wouldn’t be hurting anyone.
“Would you send word to the prince?” I say slowly. “Tell him I’m thinking of him, and that I’m grateful for his trying to help Dorin. Ask him to send someone to my temple to pray on my behalf, seeing as I am isolated in my room.” I think back to what he said during our supper. “Tell him I fear I’m spending too much time in my head. Say that I’ll be sad to miss the dandelion clocks this year, but that I hope he enjoys them.”
He grins at me and I’m sure now that he heard much of the conversation during the supper. “Are all daughters of Gods as cunning as you, my lady?” he asks.
I smile grimly. “Perhaps I’m good at seeing around obstacles, too.”
He grins again and sets to work, and I watch his long, slim fingers curl around the quill, gripping it tightly as he writes. His knuckles, too large for his hands, whiten as he grips the pen, guiding it across the sheet. I am transfixed by the movement and I almost don’t hear him when he speaks.
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