CHAPTER 21

“So, Lanri, you’re Seeker’s…” Began the priest. They trailed off, leaving Lanri to fill in the last word.

Consort? Girlfriend? Pet?

Lanri simply nodded, deciding against adding a noun. She was Seeker’s. That alone was an answer, in her mind. She looked at the priest, and tried to gauge their reaction to that. In this light, they, or rather she looked a little like Seeker, actually. She thought her hair had an ever so slight red sheen to it in the light of the stairway, and she had very similar eyes.

“Tell me about that.”

“A–About being with Seeker?” Lanri asked. She was met with a nod. “I love it. It’s… It’s the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to me. She’s powerful, and kind, and… a little stern, but very patient.”

The priestess, as Lanri had decided, grinned at her. “Exciting?” She asked, as they got to the landing. She stopped propping Lanri up, and gave her her crutches back. “Exciting is good.”

Lanri giggled at that, the dazeweed still helping her see everything as a little more entertaining than it would be otherwise. “It’s great! But… shouldn’t we go all the way downstairs? I’m pretty hungry.”

“Oh, we can, if you’d like. But… I’d really like to hear about Seeker, and that beautiful brooch in your hair.”

Lanri smiled at the priestess, and she freed one hand of a crutch so she could reach back, and touch it. “Y–you like it?”

“Oh, I love it,” the priestess assured her, as she began to slowly set the pace towards Seeker and Lanri’s room. “She gave it to you, then?”

Lanri nodded as she followed. “How do you know about that?

The priestess shot her a knowing look, as she pointed at the mosaic floor, where the sigils of what Lanri assumed were all Heartwardens were arranged in a meandering curve. Seeker’s sigil stood out to Lanri like it was glowing. “When you see those sigils often enough, as I do, you learn to recognize them.”

“What’s your… Your name?” Lanri asked. As they walked, the light in the corridor shifted. The sunlight’s colors faded, and it seemed to drain the color from the priestess leading her. From behind, Lanri could see her – or maybe her was the wrong word, after all – gait. It had a kind of wide confidence to it. It reminded her of how Faron used to look when he walked. And that voice did have a certain coarseness to it that reminded her of him, too.

“Oh, I’ve got lots of names,” she – he – said. “Why don’t you give me one?”

Lanri couldn't help but laugh at that. “You want me to just give you a name?”

“Well, no, not particularly. That would just be one more persona for me to keep track of. But you look at me like I remind you of someone you like. I’d hate to spoil that for you with a name that doesn’t fit.”

“You remind me of more than one person,” Lanri said. She wasn’t quite sure what to make of this cryptic priest.

“Oh, I get that a lot. Everyone seems to see someone else when they look at me.” He stopped in front of their room, and grinned. “I guess I’m just very average looking.”

“I think the smoke’s just making me see things,” Lanri said. She squeezed her eyes shut, and shook her head, trying to clear it as she opened the door to her room. She stepped inside, and looked back at the priest. The sunlight and enchanted stones shone on them in equal amounts, and she could swear Seeker and Faron were equally recognizable in them. They were a little shorter than either of them, but other than that, their muscular build, their posture, and their face looked nearly equally like both of them. He didn’t fit, either. “Thank you for…”

They simply walked into the room with her. “This place is nice,” they told her.

“It… It is, yeah,” Lanri said. “I… Thank you for helping me with the stairs, but…”

“Oh, don’t worry about it,” they assured her. “Believe me, you were doing me a favor too, helping me get those novices out of my hair.”

“They seemed nice enough,” Lanri protested.

“They absolutely are! But they’re also just… a lot.” A mischievous grin crept onto their face.

“What?” Lanri asked, hesitantly.

“Two young adults, eager to devote themselves to the goddess of love and passion? You really don’t see why that might be exhausting?”

“I suppose I do.”

“Exactly. But to their credit, they did make themselves useful by letting me help myself to this.” They reached into their robes, and produced another roll like the one Mirabelle had made. “You don’t mind if I–”

“No, of course not,” Lanri said, uncertainly. “I’d be an awful hypocrite if I objected after–”

“Outstanding,” purred the priest. They repeated the same procedure Mirabelle had used to light it. They intoned ”Allumez,” and breathed in to light it. The little spell sent a few sparks up Lanri’s spine, reminding her of that thrilling feeling of magic.

Their grin grew into a bigger smile, and a moment later, they blew the smoke into Lanri’s face in a gesture that would be offensive if she didn’t find them so comfortable.

“All you have to do is ask, if you want some. What do friends do if not share, right? And it’s not like you’ll have trouble making it back to your room from here.”

Lanri considered it for a moment. She’d prefer to get back to the stairs, to go find something to eat. But she wanted to sit back down even more. She walked past them, and sat down on the foot of the bed, close to where she’d left the sketchbook. “Fine. Give it here,” she said, running her hand along the soft sheets next to her, indicating where the priest should sit.

They winked at her, and took the offered spot happily as they offered the… thing to Lanri.

Lanri took it, and took on another lungfull. The smoke tasted different, she noticed. Softer and sweeter, it was much easier to hold in for a moment. Not that she could actually hold it in for long in the absolute sense, just longer. Once she’d had enough, and needed to come up for air, she made a point of blowing the smoke in the priest’s face.

Their face scrunched up, and Lanri giggled. “You must really like whoever I remind you of,” they said.

“Oh, more than you can imagine,” Lanri said, as she looked around for somewhere she could put the burning wad of plant and paper that wouldn’t start a fire.

“Is it Seeker?” They asked, as they took it from her, and dragged another lungful of smoke from it. “Her, and whoever the other person you mentioned is.”

“Yeah,” Lanri said. She didn’t want to bring up Faron to a stranger, no matter how likable they were. But judging by the pity in their eyes, they probably had a pretty good guess.

“Something awful happened to you, didn’t it?”

Lanri snorted derisively, and nodded, then made a point of looking away from them. How could they even need to ask that? She was missing a leg, Shala help her. Of course awful things had happened. She looked down at it, at the part of her that was so obviously gone and missing, and tensed when she felt them wrap their arms around her. Was she really that blatantly and obviously broken, that even a priest of Ishara felt the need to be so chastely compassionate? Was the worry about her parents writ so large on her face?

A few moments passed, and then they broke the hug as suddenly as they’d started it. “That brooch really is beautiful. May I see it?”

“No,” Lanri firmly said. She was more than eager to change the topic, and jumped on the opportunity, but the idea of anyone but Seeker taking it out was beyond unsettling. “I’d prefer you to leave it be. I’ve barely even seen it myself.”

“Now, how can that be true?” They asked. “If I got a gift like that, I wouldn’t be able to keep my eyes off of it.”

“I’d have to take it out to look at it, and I like it where it is.”

“Oh, I bet you do,” they said. “I can only imagine how it must feel, being you. Having a divine creature like her’s favor, and love.”

“I told you, it’s… It’s amazing. The way she looks at me, you’d think I was the most interesting thing in the world.”

“I don’t blame her. You might only be a blink of an eye to her. She should make the most of it.”

“Yeah. We are… fragile,” Lanri said, and she sadly gestured at her leg.

“Why do you say that? I bet you’re tough.”

“She said pretty much the same thing,” Lanri said, recalling when she woke up for the first time after her injury. “That we mortals can adapt to anything.”

“And she’s right.”

Lanri quirked an eyebrow at the priest. “Maybe. But I can’t adapt to immortality. She loves me, adores me even. She showed me that, with her powers. But she won’t have me forever. I might well be the first person to ever turn a Heartwarden into a widow.”

“I think you’re right,” they solemnly said. They paused, and took another drag of the roll. The little front of cinders moved up the paper, until all of it had burned. “Purgez au feu,” they said as they breathed out smoke that burst into familiar pink and golden flames which engulfed the ashes in their hand, and seemed to just unmake them. Lanri shivered again, not able or caring to hide how magic made her feel since she found the dress. “Ishara, you are perfect.”

“What?”

“I said you’re perfect for her. The very picture of devotion. So many forget that Ishara isn’t just sex. That she’s just as much love as she is lust. You’re going to die some day, and your biggest concern is that it’ll make her sad. I think that makes you perfect.”

Lanri smiled at the compliment, even though she didn’t believe it. “I’m not perfect.”

“No, I suppose you aren’t. But you’re everything anyone needs you to be.”

________________

Mischief struggled to hide their glee at the mortal’s answers. She oozed unbridled loyalty to Seeker with her every word, and they were fascinated and thrilled by it. This young woman, whom Seeker had come to them and The Lady for advice about, was telling them so much more than she realized.

When Seeker had been willing to try their patience and so brazenly lie to them a few days earlier, so eager to deny what was obvious to them both, they had realized this mortal might well be exactly what Ishara needed. Obviously The Lady would be interested in her; because she was the first one Seeker had been interested in. A thousand years of stoic duty to Ishara, and what few relationships she’d courted were ephemeral, and superficial.

“I’m not perfect,” she told them, and Mischief agreed. She had flaws. Several that they’d noticed in their short conversation. But those didn’t bother them, not one bit. They would all be ironed out in time, through Seeker’s guidance and unintentional grooming, and divine influence both. But it would mostly be Seeker, they knew.

“No, I suppose you aren’t. But you’re everything anyone needs you to be.”

Because Seeker did not want to share this mortal. It was obvious, plain to see in her actions, and in the mortal’s thoughts. She had made her mark on her, claiming her for herself both with that brooch in her hair, and by enthralling her with her aura. Because even Seeker, easily the most conservative and reserved of the Heartwardens, would not and clearly had not resisted the allure of imposing and enforcing her will and values on the mortal.

This Lanri had been married, they knew. A doting wife to the very last, she’d been desperate to throw herself at someone new to fawn over, and had found what she no doubt saw as the ideal outcome. A lover, immortal. Someone she knew she would never ever have to lose. Someone flawless to adore, and revere, and worship, and live out her life with.

The two were simply put, perfect. They were both curious, and Mischief suspected they were both completely dedicated to each other, despite no oaths or promises to compel any loyalty.

They would have to test them both, Mischief knew. To make sure that when push came to shove, they truly would be loyal enough. But that could wait. First, they wanted to sate their own, personal curiosity. On the bed, between her and them, there was that little black sketchbook of Seeker’s, and the silence looming between them was drawing on long enough.

They picked it up, and started to browse through it. The very first picture was of Seeker herself. She must have made it so, so early on. Probably before she learned any languages other than the divine, judging by the runes used for annotations. “Please put that down. That’s hers.”

Lanri’s hand was on the book already, but she wasn’t pulling. Yet. She was asking, first. Trying to appeal to a priest’s reverence, they realized. They smiled softly, and nodded. “Of course. Who am I to say no to a perfect dear like you?”

The word dear clearly held power in the mortal’s mind. Lots of power. She smiled and frowned at the same time when they called her that, and her thoughts and feelings seemed to tumble accordingly.

Surprisingly, she settled on anger.

________________

Half of a continent away, Seeker grunted with effort as she brought her sword around, and slashed down across the last siren’s chest. They weren’t the smartest of creatures at the best of times, but these were all – the entire tribe – feral. Nothing but guttural war cries and the choking sounds of their deaths passed their lips She’d sought them out hoping to find answers about the collar she assumed they had forced that young man to wear, asked the locals and tracked down the half-submerged cave they called home in search of answers but found only violence instead.

The shanty village, built out of driftwood and salvage, looked normal enough for their kind. The figurehead of what must have been a massive ship was set in the middle as a shrine to their own efficacy, and the shacks were built radially around it, all of them dank and moldy.

Normally, a siren could be expected to be able to speak, and hold a degree of conversation. They weren’t as smart as humans, but they were definitely still people. But these? These acted like the sirens from the stories of mortals. They were to other sirens what her Dear’s prejudiced thoughts about giants were to the real thing. These sirens produced the sounds of humanoid voices, and they had bodies that aside from their gills looked much like elves or humans, but they simply had not been able to reason. Their eyes lacked any understanding, and they’d neither spoken nor understood words.

All Seeker had wanted to know was where they’d gotten the collar. She didn’t care about punishing them, it would have been an unnecessary cruelty. But she had to know how this artifact had leaked from Ishara’s vaults, and back to Eitheris. It was too unmistakably hers to have come from somewhere else. Had Gorance stolen more than the dress, and scattered the rest about?

Seeker was about to give up and leave, when a sparkle caught her eye. A shiny bit of metal, almost completely swallowed in tidal quicksand. She knelt beside it, in the slimy remains of jellyfish and broken shells, and dug it up.

It was a small idol of Ishara. A little stone statue of her likeness as it had been centuries ago, with a large pouf of curly hair. On instinct, she dipped it in the sea water, washing the sticky sand away. The enchantment on it was powerful, she realized. Extremely so. Perhaps even enough to have driven the sirens mad over the course of months. But that couldn’t be it, that would have been noticed by The Lady, or at least Mischief. Something else, something that was not merely a mindless enchantment leeching Ishara’s power, but active intent, had corrupted them, and that was before they’d taken up Ishara’s treasures to wreak havoc with.

She sighed, and went into the first of the shacks, resolving to search them all for clues. She desperately hoped to prove this was all a coincidence.

________________

The sun had set, and Seeker still wasn’t back.

Lanri tossed and turned on the bed, uncertain of what to do, or say, or even feel. That priest, they’d been so kind, so familiar. Should she not have taken the notebook from them like that, and asked them to leave? At the time, she’d thought they were violating Seeker’s privacy, and were being overly familiar with her. But in hindsight? They were probably just fascinated by the opportunity to learn more, just like her.

Seeker had told her explicitly not to take her situation for granted. Warned her that things that seemed obvious to her were substantial trials and hurdles for others. This priest had made it past all of those, proven themselves worthy of Ishara’s favor, pledged themselves to her in a way she never could, and yet she’d had the gall to kick them out of her room for accidentally calling her dear?

As the pleasant fuzz of dazeweed had waned, she’d started to feel more and more guilty about that. She didn’t quite know where she fit into things, didn’t know which privileges Seeker’s favor actually entitled her to. But she suspected kicking a Touched priest out of her room was a step too far.

She took a breath, and got up. Hunger and a need to apologize were both compelling her to go downstairs, and she would not be able to sleep for hours yet. She slipped her foot into the sandal Seeker had chosen for her, and had already taken two steps when she paused, and looked at Seeker’s notebook. She couldn’t take it with her. She just could not. The dress didn’t have any pockets, and she had both of her hands full with her crutches. She’d need to put it in her satchel to carry it, and she hadn’t seen that since the villa. But just because she couldn’t didn’t stop her from wondering if she should. Should she let the priest look at it, like she’d done? Her gut told her that, no, she should not. She shouldn’t even have looked at it herself, let alone consider allowing another. But her logic sowed doubt. Her logic told her that she didn’t know enough about Ishara’s devoted and Touched to deny a priest anything, and that she should have given the priest the benefit of the doubt.

But, whether she should truly was moot. She couldn’t, so she wouldn’t. She sighed at that, knowing she could either walk, or hold things, but not both. She made to leave her room.

When she opened the door, she was startled to find an elf with the darkest skin she’d ever seen waiting for her, with one hand raised to knock on the door. The same one from the villa, and that had given the speech yesterday. She’d heard her name a few times. “Ithella?" She tried. The name sounded right enough.

The priestess nodded, and smiled warmly. “Ithella Val Gyr,” she said with a nod, before she tried to look past Lanri, into the room. “Abbot Du Bois said Her Grace–”

“Seeker isn’t here,” Lanri offered. “She’s off to do… Well, she didn’t say. Do you need me to tell her something?”

“No, actually,” the priestess said. “I’m here for you…”

“Lanri,” Lanri offered. This time, she didn’t repeat the mistake of intonation that implied a surname.

“Lanri. I’m here for you. I bear a gift.”

“A gift?” Lanri cringed a little at the incredulity she heard in her own voice.

“A gift.” The priestess paused, and reached into one of her cloak’s pockets. A few moments later, she drew a crude iron dagger from it, the same color as her medallion of Daray.

Lanri put one of her crutches down, leaning it against the doorframe so she could have an empty hand with which to accept the dagger. She was perplexed, both by the sudden arrival of the priestess, and the gift she was offering. “What is this?” She asked as she grasped the hilt offered.

“A trophy.”

“Of…?” Lanri urged.

“Of your glorious fight in the Unminded Lands. You vanquished the demon Gorance, and another dozen–” Lanri stopped listening. She’d killed over a dozen? She’d known already that some had died in the blast, and that it was her doing.

“A dozen?” Ithella had still been talking when she voiced the question, Lanri was fairly certain. Understanding seemed to dawn on the priestess’ face, and her eyes softened from the eager pride, to a softer understanding as she nodded.

“Please, do not feel–”

Lanri looked down at the knife the priestess had given her, and she clenched her fist around its hilt. “Do not,” she hissed, “tell me how to feel.”

“Forgive me, I thought you would–”

“You thought I would what? Rejoice that my husband’s legacy is that his last reserve of ragira was used to kill twelve people? That I would be proud to have–”

“You saved my life,” Ithella quietly said. She sounded so small and timid compared to the awesome warrior Lanri had heard yesterday, but quickly seemed to regain herself. “You protected Her Grace from indenture, and delivered me from mine, while destroying a wretched assembly of villains. That dagger belonged to the man who would have blasphemed against not one but two gods.

“The Inquisitor?” Lanri tried to recall what Seeker had told her about him, in the haze after her panic had been stomped out by her aura. She looked down at the knife. “This was his?” Ithella nodded, and Lanri immediately offered it back to her. “No. Seeker said you killed him. That you didn’t show him mercy. This… I don’t want this. This is yours.”

Ithella hesitated for a moment, then took the dagger back. She looked pained as she considered something. “I did not mean to burden you with guilt, Lanri, but to honor your courage.”

Lanri scoffed. “I wasn’t courageous. I was terrified, and desperate. Courageous would be joining your militia, not vaporizing enchanted spearmen with a treasure I can never replace.”

“I… I have to say, I believe you are mistaken. Fear does not preclude courage, Lanri. It is a requirement. Without fear, there can be no valor, only foolhardiness.”

“Thank you, Ithella. But I still… I still killed people. I don’t want to take pride in that. I understand Daray is one for killing, but I’m not.”

“Did Her Grace chastise you?”

The question caught Lanri completely off guard. “What?”

“Her Grace. Did she chastise you for taking up arms in her defense?”

“Well, no, but–”

“Then who are you to do so? I know intimately that you pleased my patron, Lanri. And in defending Her Grace, you surely pleased all of the divine.”

"They have a peculiar way of showing their pleasure and approval," Lanri said, as she kicked in Ithella's direction with her right leg. If her foot hadn't been gone, she would have hit her shin. "That I should do something so allegedly righteous, and be left a cripple as a reward."

Ithella frowned at her. "Her Grace was their agent on that stage. You know that. Had it not been for her invoking such a flurry of spells, your actions would have unmade you, not merely injured you."

“I expected it to,” Lanri quietly admitted.

Ithella smiled, and nodded. “I know you did. I saw it. And I promise, it was remarkable of you.”

“Thank you.”

“No, thank you. I know you did not wager everything on a losing hand for my benefit, Lanri, but I’m still profoundly grateful, and I always will be.” Ithella paused, and slipped the dagger back in her pocket. She looked behind her, at the opposing door. “Is that where the abbot resides?”

“I… honestly don’t know. I’ve hardly seen the man. Why do you ask?”

“I wish to speak with him. I have a substantial militia, and I intend to drill them hard. But the support of Ishara’s greatest Touched would be a grand boon indeed.”

Now it was Lanri’s turn to hesitate, and look around. Seeker’s sketchbook still lay on the bed, a reminder that she owed the mysterious priest an apology. “I’ll help you find him,” she said. “I need to get food, and find someone else, anyways. And you look like you could catch me if I slip on the stairs.”

“I think that sounds perfect.”

________________

Downstairs, Lanri and Ithella searched the more public areas of the monastery to no avail. They’d first gone to the front gates, where Ithella had seen him before, but the man had better things to do than play gatekeep, it seemed. As they walked, Ithella drew some looks, but she was clearly as welcome as any other divine devotee.

It took some searching, poking their heads into various shrines and common rooms, until they eventually found abbot Du Bois in the monastery’s library, with a steaming cup of tea to one side of his comfortable looking chair. Lanri couldn’t but tilt her head to read the title of the volume in his lap. Bethel, Assassin. Lanri grinned as she saw it. She’d never heard of it before, but she recognized it as being her kind of book. The kind of two-Scale drivel that wasn’t worth the pages it was written on.

He looked up from his book, at the waiting women, and gave them a patient smile. “Lady Val Gyr. I see you’ve found who you were looking for.”

“Both of them,” Ithella said.

The abbot’s eyebrows went up at that. “You have more need of me?”

“Of you, and all of your Touched, abbot. I would formally petition that you aid my militia.”

“Aid you? We can’t seduce them into packing up and leaving, Ithella. We’ve already tried that.”

Lanri watched Ithella roll her big, elven eyes, and felt the good nature behind the mocked frustration. “No, not that. I don’t need your prettiest to spread their legs for the enemy. No, I would ask that you help me drill and condition my fighters, and lend Ishara’s power to ward off magical attacks when the fight does come.”

“Our Lady Ishara is not one for fighting, Ithella. She wants us to comfort the men and women wielding spears, and try to make peace through our… diplomatic talents. Not join the battle when those fall short.”

“I certainly invite you to do that,” Ithella promised. “A warmed bed is a good motivator for any soldier, indeed. But I could press the madams of the brothels into lending me their girls and boys if all I needed were pretty faces making doe eyes. No. I need more. My enemy is a mage, and by all accounts a damned powerful one. I need priests, and magic, and potions. Otherwise, if you stay in camp as tradition dictates, a lot of you will find you’re warming the beds of already cold bodies.”

The abbot put a bookmark where he was, and folded his novel closed. “That’s a mighty good speech. Did you practice it?”

“I might have,” conceded Ithella.

“It’s a shame nobody else heard it.” He scratched the gray stubble on his face, and thought. “Her Grace Seeker came to my monastery wielding a sword, seeking shelter for her injured consort. I am not oblivious to the fact that sometimes, fighting is necessary. Nor am I blinded to reality by other people’s interpretations of my vows to Ishara. In spite of what the other abbots and high priests might believe, when it is necessary, Ishara allows me to wield her power to protect myself and my beloved, be it passively as one of Shala, or actively as you yourself would.”

He paused, and sipped his tea. “I am too old for war, Ithella Val Gyr. But many of my priests are not. I will not advocate that they enlist in your militia, but I will not forbid it, either. Her Grace is an example for us to follow, but her beloved Lanri is a warning that doing so is not without risk.”

Ithella seemed to consider that for what felt like a long time, before she nodded and said “thank you, abbot,” as she turned to leave. Lanri found herself glancing from her to the abbot and back, unsure if she should follow her, or stay with him. Remembering she was still looking for the priest, and vaguely hopeful that Ithella could help her find peace with the violence she had inflicted, she followed her.

“I have a question,” she said as they left the library, and made for the monastery’s gate.

“Then you should ask it.”

“It’s about… what I did,” Lanri said. “You said I… killed… a dozen villains.”

“You did,” Ithella assured her.

“But what about the one who wasn’t?”

“Who wasn’t what?”

“Sheep,” Lanri said, as she recalled Gorance’s blindly loyal valet. She hadn’t liked the fluffy beastkin much, if only because her first impression of her had been so bad. But she suspected nothing would have kept her from growing to like her given a few days or weeks, if only she hadn’t killed her the day after she met her.

“The valet’s name was Sheep?” Questioned Ithella. “That is… unfortunate.”

“That was my first reaction too,” Lanri said, wistfully. “But… how could Daray approve of what I did? I killed her, too. And she didn’t deserve it.”

“I suppose she likely did not, no. But that does not mean you did anything wrong, either. When you slew her master, she had murder in her eyes. I saw it myself. Even if she was not in her right mind, she was still a danger to you and Her Grace. If you had had the means to prevent her death, I am sure you would have done so.”

They turned a corner, to the large doors that led to the fenced courtyard. When Ithella opened one, the rush of frigid cold filled Lanri with nothing but a resolve to end the conversation as quickly as possible, so she could find a blanket. On the far side of that courtyard, just past the fence, she could see a young woman in a city guard’s cloak, holding the reins of a massive draft horse that had inexplicably been saddled.

She was looking at the statue of Ishara with a faintly dull sense of wonder and admiration, likely enthralled by the enchantment. “Is that Mara?” She asked, recalling a brief explanation Seeker had given her about how they’d made it into the city.

Ithella turned, and gave her a questioning look. “You know of her?” Lanri nodded, and winked at Ithella. Apparently the elf had seduced the only guard brave enough not to run at the sight of her amulet, and Lanri adored the story as Seeker had told it. “Would you like to meet her?”

“I don’t see why not,” Lanri said.

Ithella nodded, and turned. “Restez, Maréchale.” she intoned, and across the courtyard, Lanri could see the horse lower her head. The woman holding her reins looked confused for a moment, then turned her attention to Ithella and Lanri just in time to watch Ithella beckon her to come.

“Why the draft horse?” Lanri quietly asked.

“She was a gift from Her Grace, for escorting you to Cerene.”

“Seeker gave you a draft horse for that?” Lanri tried to imagine why Seeker would do that. If she were to give a horse to a priestess of Daray, it would be one she could imagine a knight charging into battle with, not the one the squire followed with.

“I suppose she did. But, while traveling, she noticed I was growing fond of the horses pulling the wagon, and let me have my pick of one. I chose Maréchale.”

“Marshal,” Lanri translated with a whisper. “I like that name.”

“You know that tongue?”

“C’est un part de la raison qu'elle m’aime.” (It’s part of the reason why she likes me.) Lanri said.

Ithella eyed her, curiously. “Her Grace does seem fascinated by you. I suppose I see why.”

Lanri wanted to ask more, to press Ithella. She knew speaking the divine language was not particularly bizarre, or unusual. Plenty of well educated people did, even those who were not devoted to the divine. Her own professor had been nearly fluent from years of puzzling together ancient inscriptions. But she couldn’t ask why Ithella thought it was so interesting before her partner, Mara, was within earshot.

“You know, you really don’t need to cast spells on M–Mau–Maré–”

“Marshall is fine,” Ithella assured the woman, as she stepped out, and pulled her into an embrace. “Not everyone has as talented of a tongue as me.”

The young human woman giggled at that, and playfully slapped Ithella’s shoulder. Lanri couldn’t stop herself from smiling, too. “You’re lucky we’re somewhere that’s appropriate.” After a moment, the pale woman looked away from Ithella, and fixed Lanri with blue eyes that were a dull gray in comparison to Seeker’s.

“That’s Lanri,” Ithella said. “The young woman who Her Grace and I were escorting when we met.”

“Lanri?” Asked Mara. She squinted at her, and Lanri got the terrible sense that it would be a mistake to admit who she was. This woman who wore the overcoat of a Cereni guard seemed on the verge of recognizing her, and if there was one faction that had no business noticing her, it was Cerene’s guard. With a gasp, it seemed to click for her. “Dread Widow Vattens.”

Fuck.

“Dread Widow?! Why would you call her that?!” Ithella scolded.

“It’s what Baron Vattens calls her,” Mara answered, then she refocused her gaze on Lanri. “He says you stole his son, and that he’s dead because of you.”

Lanri stared at the blonde woman in disbelief. Had this stranger really just said that? She had known to be wary of guards, but this went far beyond reason. The lack of empathy it must take to say something like that to a person confounded her. This Mara looked to be about twenty. She would have been a child when she and Faron had met, and eloped. The cold wasn’t bothering her anymore, not compared to this hideous thing that she’d just heard, but she backed up anyway, into the monastery.