Twenty-Three The Sacred Servants of Adalia Day Divine Daughter of Unbroken Light

TWENTY-THREE

The Sacred Servants of Adalia Day: Divine Daughter of Unbroken Light

MARY

B y the time I approached the gate of Oruse, I hadn't eaten or slept since the farmhouse. Charles's encouragement to look extra pathetic proved unnecessary, as the old woman at the gate took one look at my stumbling frame, opened the door, and ushered me in with wide, compassionate eyes.

"My friends," I said in Usti, pointing back down the road. "They're hurt."

So it was that the four of us—our weapons and the items stolen from the prison stashed in the forest—were welcomed by the Sacred Servants of Adalia Day, Divine Daughter of Unbroken Light. The monastery was sprawling but modest, with a central chapel, a two-storied dormitory and several other buildings connected by covered walkways. Nearly everything was built of wood, including the encircling wall, which was perhaps ten feet tall and crowned with snow.

The shrine itself—the proper ‘Oruse,' as the monk explained— was nowhere to be seen. But Tane had a sense of something, some whisper of power, and it made the hair on the back of my neck prickle with awareness.

"Sam." I caught Samuel's sleeve as we were ushered through a courtyard, where staring novices in grey robes labored with shovels and ice scrapers. "Do you feel that? What can you see?"

He slowed, taking in the courtyard with a glance that, while discreet, held the detached quality of a Sooth.

"There are other mages here, and a great deal of ghisten wood," he returned in a low voice. Ahead, our guide opened a door and led us into a long, echoing hallway where monks stood aside with bowed heads. "They are difficult to differentiate in the Other."

"Like as not, these monks are more afraid of us recognizing them than the other way around," Charles interjected, misinterpreting our conversation. "Did you see the scars on that woman's face? Powder burns, likely from a rifle backfiring. Folks at a monastery this remote are not here to be found."

I resisted the urge to glance back at the old monk in question. I caught Samuel's gaze instead, silently promising to pick up our conversation at a later time, and kept walking.

"They still might betray us," Benedict muttered. He skulked behind Samuel, his arm in a makeshift sling. I had no idea how he was still upright. "I assume we are worth some kind of reward."

"I should hope so," Charles scoffed.

"We won't give them the chance to turn us in," I said. Up ahead, our guide opened a door on silent hinges and waved us through. "We get help and leave."

The room beyond proved to be an infirmary. An ebony-skinned man in a dark-grey robe approached at the same time as novices converged from all sides, and he and Samuel began to speak in Mereish. I sensed Tane listening, so I let my own attention wander.

The infirmary was quiet and warm, scented distantly with lemon and sage and clean sheets. The shelter, the quiet rumble of Samuel's voice and the presence of my three companions—even Benedict— lulled me, and I found my head bobbing.

The relief was short-lived. My body, realizing it was no longer in imminent danger of freezing to death, began to make a hundred lesser miseries known. I needed to piss. I needed to sit down. I needed a bath—a very hot one, with lots of soap. I needed cloth and herbs to make suppositories, because, Saint pity me, I had a fresh ache in my lower stomach that refused to abate. And I was starving, of course—I wanted food, roasted venison with potatoes and cream sauce and too many carrots, with cinnamon cakes for dessert, and thick, hot cardamon coffee.

I was contemplating how many potatoes I could eat when a female novice took my arm.

"Come with me," she said in Usti. I was apprehensive at being separated, but the novice's hand was firm. She added in a gentler tone, "You are safe here."

Safe. The word was enticing, her tone so gentle. I wanted to forget Tane's unrest, I wanted to believe the novice, but it wasn't until I caught Sam's gaze that I did. His smile was reassuring, and he gave a subtle nod.

I allowed the other woman to lead me away. We passed through a door and into another chamber, where another female novice waited.

I stripped at their direction, handing over my torn and soiled clothes, and submitted to having my scratches and bruises examined. The sister who had brought me quietened at the sight of my throat and exchanged a look with her companion, a brown-skinned woman of small stature who I recognized as southern Sunjani.

"If they did this, we can protect you," the Usti-speaker said.

I blinked at her, too tired to understand. "This?"

The novice exchanged another look with her companion. "Did your companions hurt you?" There were more questions in her eyes, sharp and hard-edged, but she did not ask them. "Are you with them willingly?"

"No! I mean no, it wasn't them," I hastened to add. "I trust them."

The novice didn't look entirely convinced, but the matter was dropped. My injuries pronounced superficial, I was given a robe and escorted to a small, private room where a bath steamed. Both unsettled and relieved, I glanced from the door to the wooden tub, the hand pump and the hearth. More water was already set to boil, and the steamy warmth of the chamber was exquisite.

Exhausted tears prickled at my eyes. I let out a half-relieved, half-pained sigh, and submerged myself in the water.

Tane slipped from my skin and came to stand over the tub. I will keep watch . She didn't wait for affirmation—she already knew I agreed—before she glided away through the wall. Her voice still drifted through my mind though, unaffected by the distance. And see what else I can sense. There is something here, something beyond mages and harvested ghisten wood.

Something bad?

I cannot say yet. Perhaps not. Rest, Mary.

A strange absence settled over me. Now I was truly alone, with only the thinnest thread of ghisten flesh to connect me to Tane.

I released the sides of the tub, letting the water close over my face. It stung on my cold-burned cheeks but the silence—interspersed only by the distant slosh of water and the rhythm of my own heart—soothed me.

I surfaced when my lungs began to burn and set to scrubbing. My mind wandered, freed by heat and comfort and Tane's steady vigil. Memories presented themselves, drifting and muted. The prison guard grabbing me by the throat. Benedict collapsing on shore. Samuel staring at me in the doorway of the farmhouse.

The Mereish Magni I'd shot appeared in my mind, clearer than any of the other memories. His power had been so pitiful compared to Benedict's. I had hardly felt it in the moment before I pulled the trigger and he crumpled into the snow.

I had dealt violence before. I was—quietly, darkly, in a hidden part of my soul—sure I'd even killed, though I'd never watched the life drain from my enemy's eyes. I had given my tithe of sleepless nights to that reality.

Now, perhaps, I would tithe more. The Magni mage was probably dead by my hand. I hadn't shot the Sooth—or the other soldiers—but I felt just a responsible for her death. She had looked at all four of us with such fear, riddled with Benedict's magic. I had felt her terror, watery and maddening.

But as I rinsed my hair and dried myself with a towel, it was not the memory of that fear, nor even the probable deaths of the Mereish that perturbed me most.

It was my apathy towards them.