“Winter deepens, Otar. They are Steppe-people. They do not know real winters. I waited for them to feel a truly deep Vasylli freeze. It will make them more amenable to our terms.”
“Our terms. Yes. Very good.” His voice was soft and absent.
Yadovír wondered if the priest was going senile.
They turned past the last bend, and before them the passage was blocked by fallen boulders and dirt. Here, as Yadovír had already found, was a small hole, barely visible even with the torches, through which they should be able, with some difficulty, to push to the other side.
“I am afraid we must leave our torches behind, Otar.”
Kalún grumbled under his breath. They left the torches in an old, rusty brazier that clung to the cave wall and plunged into the dark on the other side. The murk was almost substantial, like a hand that groped for their eyes at every step they took.
“Otar,” whispered Yadovír, the echoes running ahead of him. “Follow my voice. I know the way from here well enough.”
The priest didn’t answer, but Yadovír heard his breathing, so he stepped forward into the void. It was far more frightening this time than the last. Every step he took increased the sense that he was approaching something horrid and irrevocable. Maybe it would be best to go back? To just pretend that the way ahead was hopelessly blocked?
“This way, Otar Kalún, follow me. We should come out not far from the enemy camp. Their soldiers have free rein to wander about in search of food or stragglers. If we are accosted, we must not panic. Even it if seems they will kill us, it will be no more than a show of force. The Ghan has ensured our safe passage.” Did he really believe that himself?
Yadovír kept one hand on the walls, feeling for the telltale change. The bare walls needed to give way to scattered roots, and only then could they be sure they were near the exit. But they walked for a long time, and Yadovír felt no change. Had they taken a wrong turn? What if they were going deeper into the mountain, and all that awaited them was a dead end and a stone tomb? His temples began to ache with increased pressure, or was that his imagination? Surely they were going deeper into the earth, not closer to the exit.
Otar Kalún persisted in his silence. Finally, Yadovír felt a moist root.
“Not far now, Otar. I did not tell you this before, but the Ghan is eager to meet the chief cleric of Adonais. He said that he expected an interesting conversation.”
Otar Kalún merely grunted.
Soon they came out through a small opening, and the icy wind bit Yadovír’s face, freezing even the hairs in his nose. Rare, sharp snowflakes did not so much fall as shoot down from the sky like arrows. Below them the mountain sloped down away from the walls of Vasyllia to their left, only a few hundred feet away. There was no path here through the thickly-growing pines. They climbed down with difficulty, slipping on the icy rocks and roots. Mist lay thick around them.
“What’s that?” Yadovír pointed ahead of them.
“Torchlight,” said Otar Kalún.
“Sixty-five,” said Rogdai.
“Sixty-five?” Sabíana could not believe her ears. She had expected ten, maybe fifteen traitors. Sixty-five? A heavy dread settled into the pit of her stomach. This was obviously just the beginning.
She and Rogdai walked through the dungeons, Rogdai naming every one of the conspirators as they passed their door.
“Lord Rudin, his son Nevida…”
Nevida? She thought, alarmed. I grew up with him. He was one of my closest friends. You have no friends, she reminded herself.
“Any clerics, Rogdai?”
“None, my lady. Did you expect any?” He seemed surprised.
She would not speak it aloud, but she feared Otar Kalún had no great love for her. But would he turn traitor?
“I think I have had enough for now. Bring me a written report of their questioning by early tomorrow morning.”
Sabíana allowed herself to wander through the lower reaches of the palace on her way back from the dungeons. She found herself in the passage she often walked with Voran whenever they had wanted to be alone. After the bond with Feína, she found it easier to think of him. Her heart did not immediately fold in on itself as though it were trying to hide.
She remembered the moment she first saw Voran as a man, not a boy. He had just successfully finished the Ordeal of Silence, but the only reward he was to receive was the disappearance of his beloved mother, the madness of his father, and the terrible events of the failed Karila embassy.
Voran was only sixteen at the time.
The memory was as clear as though it had happened yesterday.
It was the first sunny morning after nearly a month of rain, and the air was so clear, so washed, that it seemed there was no air at all. Father had relented for once and allowed her to attend the Dar’s hours—the one day in the month that the Dar accepted direct petitions from any person in Vasyllia, regardless of reach. Voran was the first to come.
She had not recognized him—he was so serious, so thin. The six months of the Ordeal of Silence lay heavy on him. She knew how much heavier his burden was about to become, and she wanted to leave, to not be forced to endure the pain in his eyes. But she forced herself to stay.
“Voran,” her father had said. “I would give my right hand to reward you as you deserve. Instead, I have only pain. The embassy to Karila was attacked. Every single member of the embassy—yes, even the women—were killed. Worse. They were gutted like animals. But…”
Voran’s lips were a white line in his face.
“Your father was not among them.”
Voran gasped in relief. Then, his face changed. He realized the implication.
“But, Highness,” he said, in the voice of a man who had forgotten what is was like to speak. “Surely you don’t think…”
Sabíana’s heart contracted, but she held still.
“No, Voran. I do not. But others…”
