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.
Yadovír walked home alone, heavy with regret, not even bothering to push through the crowd still seething after the execution. His only comfort was imagining all sorts of fantastic ways in which he would someday be able to torment Sabíana.
“Sudar Yadovír!”
He looked up absently, not recognizing the voice. When he saw Kalún, he hurried to the priest, then bowed before him and kissed his hand in the customary greeting.
“You look as if you were the one condemned today, Yadovír.” The priest chuckled. “Come and dine with me. I think a hearty meal will lift your spirits.”
Inwardly, Yadovír groaned at the thought of a meal with a man who chronically starved himself.
“Oh, Otar Kalún, I am honored, honored!” he said, assuming his habitual subservience. He was surprised to see the priest’s face frost over with scorn.
“Don’t pander to me. It is beneath you. I invite you as an equal. Act as one.”
Yadovír’s heart skipped a beat, as much from exhilaration as from embarrassment. He had never before been acknowledged as an equal by a third-reacher.
Yadovír was amazed at the interior of Kalún’s spacious third-reach house. It was bare. Stone walls, a few wooden tables, some benches, and nothing else, even in the expansive hearth-hall.
“Otar Kalún, you live so simply. I admire that.”
Kalún smiled. “My family is among the oldest in Vasyllia. It does not follow, however, that I should live extravagantly. I have always prized abstemiousness over excess. I do not believe in even moderate enjoyment of physical pleasures. I seek something else. Dare I say, something higher?”
Yadovír felt a sharp thrill at the words. There was an intangible quality to the priest’s tone that Yadovír knew well. This man was a fanatic. Yadovír had uses for such a man.
“How sad that more do not follow such a path,” said Yadovír. “Certainly, the refugees do not.”
“How true. Until I saw these Nebesti, I did not know human beings were capable of swallowing so much food at once.”
“You will be happy to know that the Dumar is considering keeping the refugees restricted to the first reach. What with the pestilence rearing its head.”
“Yes, I am glad to hear it. What is perhaps less encouraging, however, is the Dumar’s continued inability to stop the spread of rumor. Have you heard the latest stories about our mysterious invaders?”
“How they flay their victims alive and brutalize their women? Yes, yes, I have heard. Nothing particularly interesting in that, is there? It is a tactic as old as time itself to intimidate an enemy with propaganda. It would not surprise me if a few of the refugees are in the pay of the invader.”
“Now that is interesting. I had not considered it.”
Kalún’s formality had begun to soften. Yadovír wanted to rush forward with his characteristic enthusiasm, but this fish needed to be boiled slowly, or it would jump out of the pot.
Kalún served Yadovír with his own hands—there was not a servant to be seen anywhere—from a heavy iron pot. The red lentil stew proved to be surprisingly filling and very well-seasoned, even to Yadovír’s pampered tastes. Heartened by the food and the conversation, Yadovír decided on a tentative attack.
“I was pleased, Otar Kalún, that we agreed on so many points during the trial of Voran. How shocking to find so little intelligence among any of the other counselors.”
“Indeed. Now that you mention it, I had intended to speak to you on this matter.”
It took all of Yadovír’s honed self-possession not to jump in excitement.
“I hope that we understand each other,” said Kalún, lowering his voice, though they were the only people in the entire house. “What I say to you must never leave this room. I do not play court games with you. I know that what you are about to hear will be worth a great deal of money if you decide to betray me. I trust you will not do that.”
Kalún’s eyes bored into him, assessing, then the priest visibly relaxed. Yadovír assumed he passed the test.
“You were present at the execution, yes? What would you say if I suggested that such punishment is not sufficient?”
“What do you mean, Otar?”
“I believe that we are all at fault for the profanation of the Temple. I believe we must all pay the price. In fact, I welcome the invasion of Vasyllia.”
Something twisted uncomfortably in Yadovír’s gut. This was not how the conversation was supposed to go.
“You cannot mean that.”
