She’d already learned to live with royal blood on her hands, though her son and grandson still haunted her dreams. With them, at least, she had the justification of the good of the realm. But ordering the palace guards to take violently unruly citizens out into the courtyard and shoot them was another matter entirely—and although order had quickly restored itself among the city folk who’d taken refuge in the palace, the terror in the eyes of those who remained hadn’t abated.
The good of the realm, so long an unshakable rock beneath her feet, was beginning to turn to sand. Faster and faster, now that Margaine knew. It would have been wiser to simply smother the girl in her sleep, but she was not without conscience. If her grandson’s consort had to die, it had to serve the realm.
And so she paced, casting grim looks out into the darkness. The view from her chambers let her see the city, but most important, it let her see the tower of St. Merrodrie’s Cathedral.
Ealasaid had the tower in her direct line of sight when the screens were changed from red to yellow, announcing at last that the Ardtennal had made their choice. She pulled herself taller at the signal of the golden light, letting it fill her with resolve.
High Priest, High Priestess, it didn’t really matter which—whoever the holy council had chosen would not hold a candle to the man who’d been her High Priest, and she didn’t deceive herself that she could achieve the same easy accord with his successor. But the first sacred act of the new leader of the Church of the Four Gods would tell her quickly how devoted that priest or priestess would be to the good of the realm.
Her chest twinged as she spun on her heel and strode for her door. Ealasaid ignored it, and forced any hint of strain from her voice as she flung the door open and called out her orders to the first guard she saw in the corridor.
“The Ardtennal has made its choice. Send word to them to expect me, and to prepare the princess. It’s time.”
* * *
Not long after Tamber Corrinides left, Sister Eslenn and her acolytes descended on Margaine once more. To the princess’s dread, the priestess informed her in pious tones that her time had come. “And if I have anything to say about it, my lady, you’ll go to the Mother’s arms looking like the Daughter incarnate.”
Margaine would have laughed at that, but there was no room in the ministrations of the acolytes for laughter. They scurried through their final tasks under Eslenn’s gimlet eye, and Margaine herself was given strict orders to hold still while they dressed her in a fine white gown and wound her hair in a complex crown of braids around her head. Into the braids they wove small white roses, the only fragrance Sister Eslenn allowed upon Margaine’s person.
As if I’m a doll or a trained pet. Margaine gritted her teeth to keep from shrieking as the priestess finally escorted her, with the acolytes in tow, toward the nave. She had no other option but to walk where she was bidden, and to pray that the doctor would fulfill his promise to help her survive the rite.
A great massed union of voices rose to meet them with multi-layered harmony as they approached the nave. Even from the cathedral’s back corridors Margaine could hear them, hundreds of people all singing, without a single instrument to accompany them. None seemed necessary, for even at a distance the sound of it, brimming with fear and hope alike, caught at her throat.
When Sister Eslenn opened the door into the nave and the harmony poured out to engulf her, it brought tears to Margaine’s eyes. The priestess held up a peremptory hand to keep her from entering, but that, oddly, didn’t matter. Margaine was content to stand there for a moment drinking in the sound of the singing. It was the second most beautiful thing she’d experienced in the past many days, surpassed only by the curl of her daughter’s infant fingers about her own. Then the hymn at last drew to a thundering close, and with a murmured command, Eslenn bid her and the young acolytes to proceed into the nave.
It wasn’t the first time Margaine had set foot in St. Merrodrie’s. It had been here, after all, that she’d been married to Prince Padraig—and before that, where the High Priest himself had performed the funerals for both of the prince’s parents. Memory of Padraig kept the tears on Margaine’s cheeks. Memory of the High Priest, however, turned them to droplets of ice against the fury that flushed her cheeks. Eslenn hissed a warning to her, but she elected to ignore it.
Let them see me angry. I will not go meekly to my death.
The silence after the singing was itself almost deafening, but it lasted for only a moment before a woman’s voice pealed forth.
“Behold! She who would give her life to regain the favor of the gods for her people comes!”
Eslenn and her acolytes, with Margaine at their center, escorted her unwaveringly up onto the dais at the very front of the nave. There, waiting for her to ascend the shallow steps, were gathered the highest-ranking priests and priestesses of the Church of the Four Gods. Foremost among them was the Ardtennal’s choice for the new High Priestess, a woman not quite as old as the Bhandreid, and whose gently weathered features might almost have had a grandmotherly air were it not for the fervor burning in her eyes. It was she who’d raised an ornate golden staff to the congregation before her, and whose call now provoked an outpouring of cheers.
Halfway up the steps to the dais Margaine froze, looking out to the hundreds of faces in her line of sight. She hadn’t expected this. But several of the people on the closest pews were sobbing, and several more began to toss white roses her way.
“Gods bless you, Your Highness!”
“Saint Margaine of the roses! Saint Margaine!”
It was too much. The grandeur of the nave alone staggered her every time she set foot in it—but now all of it, the magnificent stained-glass windows that filled the place with rainbow light, the gleaming mahogany pews and the marble statues of the Four Gods on either side of the pipe organ, was overturned by the outpouring of adulation from the congregation. New tears threatened Margaine’s sight, and it was all she could do to keep from screaming at them all.
None of them knew. None of them understood. They’d gathered in solidarity to seek the forgiveness of the gods—and not a one of them comprehended that the holy avatar they’d been given was a lie as old as Adalonia itself. The gathered priests and priestesses in their holy vestments were no better, for they’d been trained to perpetuate the falsehood. And with the Bhandreid herself in a throne on the dais, none of them would hear a word against her, much less the Anreulag or the gods.
I’m not getting out of this place alive.
For a seemingly eternal moment Margaine lingered, paralyzed by that thought, on the highest step leading onto the dais. Sister Eslenn hissed another warning just behind her, but what finally made her move was Tamber Corrinides hastening to her side and offering her his hand. In his suit of charcoal gray he seemed almost dowdy amid the finery all around him, but to her, he was a welcome spot of silence in the chaos. Gratefully she accepted his hand and ascended to the dais at last, while the congregation roared its approval. The doctor himself said nothing, and for that Margaine was more grateful still. She couldn’t muster any hope that he’d be able to help her, but there was comfort in the knowledge that she was not entirely alone.
Then Ealasaid raised her hand, and silence swept through the nave, making way for her voice to resound in its wake.
“My people, attend now to Anjanke Tramorsen, First Priestess of the Mother—and now, by the verdict of the Ardtennal, High Priestess of the Church of the Four Gods.”
The priestess with the grandmotherly face bowed to the Bhandreid, and then boomed, “Brothers and sisters, I do not need to explain to any of you the tribulations our fair city now faces, for you’ve seen them with your own eyes. The Voice of the Gods has turned Her face from us. Many of our loved ones have fallen to Her fire. Our homes, our places of business, and indeed, even this place of worship have stood at risk. We come together now in sup
plication and penitence—and in the hope that Princess Margaine, wife of Padraig, mother of Padraiga, can call back the favor of the blessed Anreulag and restore peace and prosperity to our land.”
“Ani a bhota Anreulag, arach shae,” intoned the rest of the priests and priestesses on the dais, along with the watching people before them all.
“I call now on Her Highness to receive her final blessings before we consign her into the Mother’s arms,” Tramorsen went on, turning to look in Margaine’s direction.
“Courage, my lady,” the doctor whispered beside her. “I’m prepared to do as I promised.”
Margaine couldn’t spare him the slightest glance, not with all eyes on her. She could only trust that his pledge would hold true as she stepped toward the High Priestess.
Something struck the massive doors at the back of the nave, and as startled cries spread through the crowd, the doors flew open in a burst of force. A pale, haggard figure stood wreathed in flame between the opened doors. For a fleeting instant, Margaine felt a wild, ridiculous surge of relief—relief that lasted only until the figure raised its hands and hurled fire into the closest pews. As the congregation screamed and began to scramble toward the front of the nave, the High Priestess shouted, “We have no more time! Prepare the sacrifice at once!”
Two of the priests seized Margaine, but even as they bodily hauled her toward the altar, the Anreulag’s voice sliced through the tumult. “Sacrifice? You think to avert my wrath by spilling blood?”
“She doesn’t want her?”
“Spare us, Anreulag! Tell us what the gods demand!”
“Tell us how we’ve sinned! Please!”
The frantic cries echoed throughout the nave, but the Voice of the Gods ignored them all as She stalked forward. In each pew She passed the occupants pressed back toward the outer walls, while many in the back of the church fled out the now-opened doors. Half a dozen young Hawks leaped out into the aisle to intercept Her, only to fall beneath crackling bursts of blue. Three more Hawks opened fire upon Her, sending the people in range diving behind the dubious shelter of the pews to evade the pellets from the muskets—and only until High Priestess Tramorsen called out, “Blessed Anreulag, spare Your faithful! We have come only to offer you up this woman, young to honor the Daughter, yet a mother of royal blood!”
“That is not my name!” The Anreulag’s hands lashed out to either side, sending bodies hurtling toward the walls and shattering the ends of the nearest pews, before Her right hand snapped forward to point straight at Margaine. “That human is the last one in this wretched city I will kill, because she is the only one who wished me free.”
Behind Her, some of the Hawks still on their feet began taking charge of the exodus to the doors, guiding people out as quickly as they could move. The Anreulag never turned, and Her attention remained fixed upon the dais, yet She snapped Her hand almost negligently over Her shoulder. Fire lanced back from Her outstretched fingers into the wall high above the doors, sending fragments of plaster and wood raining down on the wailing people at the back of the nave.
“Do not do this, Blessed An—Blessed One!” the High Priestess called. “If our princess is not an acceptable sacrifice, we will provide another! Just tell us, your people who love and honor you, what we must give you!”
In answer, the Anreulag’s hands lashed in all directions, striking down men and women who screamed as they crumpled beneath Her assault. With each strike, She hissed out a syllable that rang like a bell of ice.
“You. Will. Give. Me. My. NAME!”
“Blessed One, we know of no other name to give—”
Before Anjanke Tramorsen could finish, the Voice of the Gods struck her down. Priests and priestesses flung themselves to either side while Margaine whirled to find the doctor simultaneously reaching for her. She pulled him down off the dais and then spun back once again, sheer force of noble training and the years of habit driving her attention to the Bhandreid. Ealasaid was the only living person still upright on the dais—and she rose calmly from the throne, a pistol in her hand, and shot the Anreulag.
Margaine froze under two simultaneous flashes of shock, that she recognized the gun as the same one the Bhandreid had used to threaten her, and that the Anreulag roared in fury and pain. The Voice staggered, and then, with a final blast of flame hurled straight at the aged monarch, She vanished. Ealasaid shrieked and fell backward against her throne, her skin singed, her free hand clutching at her breast.
“She hit Her,” Margaine breathed.
“She hurt Her,” Corrinides replied, his eyes wide with shock. “And the Voice hurt her in reply. Oh gods.” With that he scrambled to the Bhandreid’s side, leaving Margaine to realize that the gods had indeed granted her a reprieve, but at a dire cost. No one was crying “Saint Margaine” now—they were instead crying out in terror and pain. And with the High Priestess and the Bhandreid both fallen, she held the highest rank of those still able to act and restore calm in the sudden chaos.
Her heart heavy, Margaine pulled herself upright and began to call out her orders.
Chapter Sixteen
East of Camden, Kilmerry Province, Jeuchar 12, AC 1876
In the course of her life Faanshi had rarely seen many people in the same place at the same time. In the years at Lomhannor Hall before she was locked up in the cellar, she could see dozens of people in the course of a day. She’d seen far more than that on her journey to Shalridan, even more than were riding under the command of the akresha duchess now.
Never before, though, had she seen so many people united in purpose. Khamsin’s regiment far outnumbered the remaining warriors of Dolmerrath, with enough armed men and women and beasts that Faanshi quickly lost count of them all. Gerren, Alarrah and the rest of the elves carried themselves with grim formality among so many humans. Alarrah in particular grew far more reticent than Faanshi had known her to be before, and barely spoke to her unless they were alone. By contrast Rab, Celoren and Lady Ganniwer, the more outgoing of Faanshi’s small core of human companions, flourished with such company, freely intermingling with the Nirrivan soldiers, chatting, asking and answering questions, and lending their aid to work.
Faanshi tried to do the same, for at least with the simple tasks of tending beasts, preparing food, or mending clothing, she could convince herself she had a place among this host of soldiers. There would be wounded men and women, for she and the others learned quickly enough that they’d be pressing eastward in search of military outposts to claim in the name of Nirrivy. No one seemed to expect her to join what fighting would come, and indeed, both Kestar and Julian pulled her aside at two different times to urge her to keep herself safe and stay far from any battles they encountered.
She had little time to wonder how she might occupy herself instead, however, for their regiment journeyed first back to Camden. The regiment camped outside the town, but to her dismay, their camp was part of a far larger gathering of forces, large enough to leave her feeling lost indeed. Nor was her dismay helped when she received word on the night of their arrival that the akresha duchess wished to speak with her.
An Adalon girl younger even than herself guided her to Khamsin’s tent, calling out in respectful tones to announce their presence, and then smartly saluting the healer before she hurried away again. Bemused, Faanshi was left on her own to answer the duchess’s command to enter, along with the curious call of a child.
Inside she found Khamsin still wearing the Tantiu warrior’s garb that now seemed to be her wont, but with her face uncovered by korfi or veil. A small girl in a child’s version of the same raiment was playing on a rug at her feet with an even smaller boy, helping him build structures with brightly painted wooden blocks. All three faces turned her way, and the girl raised a hand to point directly to her. “Mama, who’s that?”
Faanshi drew in a breath, more startled than she’d expected to
be, for she’d almost forgotten that the duchess had children. Khamsin had been pregnant with her daughter when Faanshi had been locked in the cellar. “Eshallavan, little akresha,” she said, bowing to the girl. “My name is Faanshi, and I’ve come because your mother bade me come to speak with her.”
“Eshallavan, Faanshi, come in,” Khamsin said, gesturing her forward. “And say rather that I requested, not bade. I’m well aware that I hold no power over you, no matter what the laws of Adalonia and Tantiu alike might say. May I offer you tea?”
Warily Faanshi approached. The tent was smaller than she’d expected, for all that she had no real idea of how large or small a duchess’s tent should be. But there was room for a bed large enough for the woman and both children, two trunks that perhaps contained clothing and other belongings, and two chairs. Khamsin occupied one and waved Faanshi into the other. Behind Khamsin’s chair was a tall mirror on a wooden stand, and Faanshi eyed her own reflection as she sat, wondering if she could convince herself to be less frightened than her image looked. “Yes, please. Thank you.”
Khamsin leaned forward to the low table before her chair and poured tea into a porcelain cup, filling the air with a scent of cinnamon. “Take sugar and cream if you wish,” she said, handing Faanshi the cup and gesturing to the other dishes on the table, a saucer of cubes of brown sugar, and a small porcelain pitcher of cream. “And I’m sure you must wonder why you’re here.”
Sugar and cream. Faanshi paused a moment, aware of her own surprise at such an invitation, which had been startling enough in Dolmerrath where such things were rare. Coming from her former master’s wife, it was astonishing indeed. She took a single cube of sugar from the saucer, and as she watched it sink into her tea, she ventured, “I must admit to wondering why you’ve decided to be kind to me, akresha. You never were before, even when you knew I had magic. And I’ve already promised to use it for your cause. What more do you wish of me?”
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