I entered the basilica by the main door. The long aisle opened in front of me, benches of pale wood almost shimmering under candlelight. I didn’t have to attend all of the services here the way the sisters did; novices were only required to attend morning prayers and the weekly services, as well as the long services on Glorious Holy Days, which peppered the Kvys calendar heavily. Still, I liked the quiet here, and I liked the order of the service, the way it moved in such a carefully orchestrated rhythm that it appeared organic, the way it repeated and circled. It reminded me in some ways of my sewing, of the peace that can come from familiarity and repetition.
There was far less ornamentation here than in the Galatine cathedral in Fountain Square. Instead, the beauty was in the purity of the arches, the gentle curve of the beams, the orderly, symmetrical windows. It was perfect with the same pale tranquility as fresh-fallen snow. I felt that I might mar it, somehow, as I found an empty bench in the back. All was still and silent.
Until the sisters began to sing.
In the music archive of the great West Serafan university, Corvin had told me about the choral music of the Kvys orders. Even so, the intricate, haunting beauty of the harmonies had stolen my breath the first time I came to evening services. I was in awe of the precision of the voices, strands of sound like thread weaving over and under one another. If I closed my eyes, I could lose myself as the music filled the basilica. I had no idea what the words meant, but it didn’t matter, because I could feel the depth of the meaning.
If the Order of the Golden Sphere had ever cast using music, they had not retained any of that practice, even by accident. The magic of the choir was something else entirely, the magic I had experienced when Marguerite played her harp in Viola’s salon. Even if war tore my country apart, beauty still existed. It always had. I clung to the belief that it always would.
The choir finished their piece with a resonant chord. Sastra Altasvet sat beside me as the cantor, a reedy sister with wiry red hair sneaking out from under her veil, began to lead the prayers.
“You look for answers in many places, eh, Sastra-kint?” Altasvet was the primary caretaker of the library. Her Galatine grammar was nearly perfect, but her pronunciation was difficult to understand; she had spent far more time with Galatine books than Galatine people. It was probably fair to guess that she had spent more time with books than with people of any sort.
“I do, Sastra,” I answered honestly.
“There are most probably better answers here than in any library,” she said. “Our books, even our best books, are imperfect reflections of the Creator.”
I smiled politely. I quickly found myself in over my head in theological conversations with the sisters, our language barriers aside. Galatine worship focused on the Sacred Natures, Pellians on their ancestors, and I had not been a strict adherent of either faith. The concept of a vague and distant Creator was strange to me.
“There are very few places we have not looked in the library,” she said quietly. “I am afraid any hint of magic may have been removed years—centuries—ago.”
“It is not the sort of thing your leaders wish to hold on to,” I acknowledged.
“No, nor many of our people. It is a dangerous business, Sastra-kint.” She sighed.
“Indeed it is.” Alba stood behind us. I started, but she maintained an expression like ironed linen. “I do not like to interrupt your meditation on the Divine Creator, Sastra-kint Sophie, but I must ask that you come with me. A carriage has arrived with visitors.”
4
“WE WERE NOT ANTICIPATING GUESTS TODAY,” ALBA SAID AS WE left the basilica and skirted the courtyard of the convent. She didn’t intend it, but a faint tremor of fear slipped into her voice. We had plenty to hide. “That’s the device of Nater-set Kierk painted on the carriage door. Of the Order of the Lead Scale—humorless fellows, all of them. Tashdi,” she cursed. Nearby, a novice’s eyes widened. “Get some berries from the larder,” she instructed her in Kvys. “Tell Sastra Dyrka to make a berry pudding, it’s Nater-set Kierk’s favorite.”
The novice meekly scurried off, no doubt effectively led to believe that any concern was over the reception of the high brother, given Alba’s focus on the pudding.
“Berry pudding?” I said with half a smile.
“It’s one of Dyrka’s specialties—ah, and you learned the word for pudding. Very good,” Alba teased. Then she straightened and sighed, smoothing the precise box pleats of her pale linen overdress. “Kierk is a pompous ass, and most of the order doesn’t think much of him, but he is on the Church Assembly Council for Spiritual Discipline.” Her mouth puckered as though she’d bitten down on an unripe berry. “That’s code for investigations of blasphemy. Blasphemy of the theological, the liturgical, and the practical, of which casting is of course included.”
“You said yourself that it would be impossible to keep my presence here a secret.”
“Yes, but your presence here is not against any rule. Any person can seek sanctuary in our order, and that is protected under Kvys law. Just as any person can seek medical intervention with the Order of the Holy Well or orphans are always welcomed at the Order of the Blessed Dove.”
“So he’s checking in on me,” I surmised.
“Possible. Possible he’s just making his rounds. Or possible he’s somehow found out that I’ve made contacts in Fen and wants to inquire more.” She shrugged. “Or he knows it’s berry season and remembers Dyrka’s pudding. He’s got a sweet tooth like a deprived child.”
Alba insisted I accompany her to greet Nater-set Kierk. There was, we both agreed, no purpose in trying to evade him if he was indeed here to investigate my presence. The less we behaved as though we had something to hide, the less he might assume that we did.
Kierk already waited beside his heavy coach, his dark robes of fine gray wool picking up stray leaves from the cobblestones.
“Sastra-set Alba.” The tall Kvys bowed slightly, from the waist, though he did not take his eyes off Alba. She did not bow; as high sister in her own house, she didn’t have to. And she chose not to, not for the high brother of the Order of the Lead Scale, elevated by the priesthood’s assembly far beyond merely managing a house of his order.
“Nater-set Kierk.” She greeted him with open, outstretched palms, which she swiftly folded together lest he actually decide to embrace her. I made myself small against the shadows of the courtyard arbor. She continued in Kvys, and I made out inside and refreshments and pudding.
He shook his head with grave authority and a torrent of Kvys. Alba raised her eyebrows slightly, in controlled surprise, but didn’t give anything else away. My palms, meanwhile, grew damp as I clutched my simple gray wool skirt, and my heart echoed hollow in my chest. What could he want? Was he, even now, scanning for my face among the Kvys sisters? I couldn’t hide here; my sun-touched skin and dark hair stood out among these women with complexions of moonlight and birchwood and flax.
Alba beckoned him inside, leaving me in the courtyard with the rest of the order who had assembled to greet the high brother. My relief lasted only a few minutes before a novice in cream wool dashed into the courtyard to fetch me.