“We shall see,” she said and winked. That wink was the strangest part of the whole charade, and almost convinced Mirnían that he was dreaming everything.

As soon as he entered the steam room, he wanted to jump out. His sores screamed with the heat.

And she wants me to thrash myself with oak? She’s crazy.

But he did it. He almost fainted from the pain. The poultice’s effect was immediate, however. It cooled his sores at a touch. He even laughed a little.

What other improbable feats could this new Lebía accomplish?

“Lebía,” he said, mocking. “You’ve grown so talented overnight. Are there perhaps some other talents you have found?”

No answer.

“I need a new shirt, Lebía. This one is seeped with disease and sweat. I noticed you put some fresh rushes on the floor. Can you sew me a new shirt from them before I finish here, so I can put on fresh garments, woven by your love?”

The door to the steam room opened, and a scrap of old wood dropped to the floor. A whittling knife followed it.

“What is this?” he asked.

“I will sew you an entire set of new clothes out of the rushes,” she said from outside the door, “but only after you carve me a spinning wheel from this scrap of wood.”

Mirnían laughed.

He sat in the steam, melting into nothingness, for as long as he could bear it. Then he ran outside, completely naked, and fell into the nearest snowdrift. After his mind reminded him to breathe, he got up and ran back into the house. A linen shirt lay there. As he put it on, he thought he smelled lavender.

Lebía waited for him by the window, absently humming and twirling the end of her braid on her finger. As he came in, she turned and gasped.

“Look,” she said, pointing at his arms.

His sores had healed completely. He felt stronger than he had in months.

“Thank you, my love,” he said.

Her face blanched at his words. His heart dropped in his chest. What did I just say?

He took her shoulders and pulled her into an embrace.

Lebía did not push back.

“I love you too, Mirnían.”

She was crying. Mirnían stroked her hair and put his chin on her head, enfolding her completely in himself.

“I feel so safe,” she whispered in between the sobs.

“I hope you always will, my love,” he said. “So. When shall we marry?”

Beware the man who thinks himself righteous, for he is a liar or a madman.

Seek out the man who knows himself sinful, for in him the light resides.

From “The Wisdom of Lassar the Blessed”

(The Sayings, Book I, 4:20-21)

Chapter 15

The Conspiracy

Vasyllia had been shrouded in fog for weeks. It almost seemed alive, a kind of enormous grey snake squeezing the city in its coils until even the air felt unbreathable. Though the air of the Temple was not as restricted, in Otar Kalún’s mind it was forever defiled by the violence done to the Pilgrim. Even now, as he tried to bring his unruly heart back to its usual, pleasant, barely noticeable beat, he could not stop the images of blood and mayhem from huddling in on his enforced silence. For the hundredth time this day, he tensed his bone-thin body and breathed out slowly, willing himself into submission to the purity of thought that he had nurtured in himself for many years. Only then did he allow his thoughts to proceed unchecked.

“How could we have allowed this to happen?”

He often spoke aloud in the Temple, though he had never heard an answer. He continued to hope. Surely the day would come that Adonais himself would speak to him?

“Adonais, your house has never been so polluted. How am I to put this to rights? What must I do to make it fitting for your presence again? It is no wonder that we are hemmed in from all sides by the dirty refugees, by disease, by rumors of war. There must be purification. Even if it be by fire.”

The words consoled him. How fitting if he, the chief priest of the great, awe-inspiring Adonais, would be the one to purge the filth that had come over his beloved Vasyllia! Who better, after all? He had dedicated his life to the discipline of the purity of the flesh. He had never taken a wife, though the desires for a woman and a family of his own ran hot in him from his youth. It had taken many years of physical effort, even pain, to extirpate those desires. He had even learned to abstain from excessive food and drink.

Nothing could compare with the inner freedom that was the reward of such willful abstinence. Nothing could replace that lightness, that joy he sometimes felt when he realized the dizzying spiritual heights he had scaled. And yet how far he still had to climb.

A muffled roar intruded on the stillness of his heart. It jarred him. Of course. The execution.

“What a disgusting display the Dar has prepared,” he said aloud. “And he expects me to attend. No, I will not befoul the person of your holy one, Adonais. Better for me to be here, to contemplate the Heights of Aer and the depths of human depravity.”

Better to prepare for the purification.

Yadovír stood in the palace turret only a few paces behind the Dar himself. He could hardly contain his excitement at being selected from among the commoners. Finally, his hard work was paying off. Finally, all the unbearable flattery, all the sneers, all the demeaning service he had to endure in his rise through the Dumar was bearing fruit. The Dar trusted him. By the Heights, he did not know why, but he did not complain.

Unfortunately, such a place of honor meant a very limited view of the execution itself. Princess Sabíana further complicated matters by wearing a gown with such an absurdly high collar that his view was blocked completely. Oh, how he wanted to grab that collar and yank it backward! But no. Civility. Decorum. No doubt he would see plenty more blades cutting through exposed necks in the near future. The thought warmed Yadovír.

His thoughts were interrupted by a harsh, nasal ox-horn. To Yadovír’s relief, Sabíana, face pale with contained emotion, turned aside just enough for him to move forward a step. There they were: ten young third-reachers who dared profane the Temple by doing violence to the Pilgrim. Still dressed in all their gold-fringed finery, those noble born sons of sows! The bright future of Vasyllia. A future soon to be decapitated.

Kalún left the Temple, inspired by an unexpected idea. He would ask Yadovír to dine with him tonight. Yes, the man was very common, no doubt, but his determination to gain power bordered on manic. That could be useful. And they had forged a kind of unspoken accord at the trial of Voran, being the only rational voices in a sea of believers in myths and fairy tales.

As he passed the Temple arch, he was accosted by some of the Nebesti refugees. He hated their tap-tapping manner of speech, so lacking in the proper aesthetic. They touched his robes as they passed. As though his clothes had healing powers! Stupid folk superstitions. Kalún would never understand why the Dumar had not insisted on keeping the refugees in camps outside the city.

Their hands, most of them brown with dirt, reached for him. He tried to smile and walk through them as quickly as possible. Every touch caused a rush of cold sweat from the small of his back to his neck, and he began to feel nauseous. There had been several cases of a fatal disease in the city recently. What if these were the carriers?

The ox-horn stopped, its retort lingering in diminishing waves. Ten swords flashed up, then down in a blur. The crowd roared, some with outrage, most with approbation. Yadovír watched Sabíana with rapt fascination. She closed her eyes in horror, but then forced herself to turn around at the last minute. He was close enough now to see her expression. There was no feminine softness there. Her pursed mouth was no more than a thin red line and there were unhealthy spots on her cheeks, but the fear was gone from her eyes. They were fierce, eagle-like. Yadovír was mesmerized.

She turned and caught his eye, and her left eyebrow rose up ever so slightly. Then she smiled, trying to cover her disgust with him, but it was too late. He saw it and was devastated. At that moment, Sabíana became the face of all that was rotten in Vasyllia.