I hate it when she does this. She’s been Sacrist—the director of the convent—for about a year now, ever since Sacrist Larka died. Now I never know whether she’s going to be Zofia, my one and only friend, or Zofia, my boss.
“Come on. I didn’t do anything wrong, and I promise I’ll get my translation finished by tomorrow.”
As the words tumble out of my mouth, Zofia picks up the parchment, brushes it with her fingertips, and gasps. “Gelya, what is this?”
“I don’t know.”
Her eyes flash. “Where did you get it?”
“I found it,” I tell her, wondering just how much trouble I’m in. “It’s the inscription on the base of the statue of Saint Vinnica in the garden. Did you know it was there?”
She turns her attention back to the parchment, and her voice is hushed when she answers, “No, I didn’t.”
“Really? So I found something— Ow!”
She grabs me by the arm and drags me into the dark library stacks, casing the room like a thief to make sure we’re alone. “Have you shown this to anyone?” she whispers, flapping the parchment at me. Anxiety thickens in my stomach as she stares me down with an intensity that sharpens her eyes to pinpoints.
“No.”
“For the Father’s sake, keep your voice down,” she hisses, looking over her shoulder as if someone might jump out from behind a bookshelf at any moment. “I need you to think. Did anyone else see this? Anyone at all?”
“I already told you, no,” I whisper.
“You’re sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure. Zofia, what’s wrong?”
“Good. That’s good.” She folds my rubbing and puts it in her own pocket.
“But—”
Zofia holds up one authoritative finger, silhouetted by what little light from the scriptorium lamp shines into the library. She is no longer Zofia-My-Friend. She is Sacrist-Zofia-of-the-Convent-of-Saint-Vinnica. “Don’t tell anyone what you found. No one. Not even Goodson Anskar. Especially not Goodson Anskar. Is that clear?”
The anxiety in my gut grows heavier. “Why?”
“Is that clear, Daughter Gelya?”
Daughter Gelya. As if she hadn’t held my hand and told me Aurian bedtime stories when I was still a little girl scared of thunderstorms. My lips thin, but who am I to defy the Sacrist of Saint Vinnica? “Fine,” I agree tightly, but there’s a part of me that wants to snatch the parchment out of Zofia’s pocket. The urge to touch it, to feel its meaning again, burns inside me.
For the first time in years, I want my mother.
Two days pass before I get the chance to return to the convent garden, but when I pull back the sorrel leaves covering the statue’s base, I find that someone has chiseled the Sanctus symbols off the limestone block beneath Saint Vinnica’s feet. I gape at the grooves and gouges in the rock, certain that Zofia would never go to such lengths to hide anything from me, and equally certain that she must be responsible for this.
“What in the name of the Father did I find?” I wonder aloud, but no one answers me, not even Saint Vinnica’s steady presence in the garden. Before this moment, it didn’t occur to me that I should be afraid of what I discovered. But now, as I stare at the erasure of a song, my instinct tells me there are things in this world I may be better off not knowing.
Three
It’s been nearly a month since Zofia took the rubbing from me, but every time I try to get a private word with her, she finds an excuse to slip away. Which is why I’m shocked when she sits down beside me at dinner one night.
“Oh, did you decide to join us this evening?” I ask with a mouthful of broccoli and irony, and she gives me a weary sigh in response. After several minutes of eating in silence, I finally soften, leaning toward her to murmur, “You haven’t been yourself since you came back from Saint Helios. What’s wrong? Is it the . . . thing I found?”
Zofia eyes me sharply, but we’re interrupted by a serving girl, who races into the refectory, bobs a curtsy, and thrusts a letter into Zofia’s hand. “Knights of the Order of Saint Ovin delivered this not five minutes ago, Sacrist,” says the girl as she bobs another curtsy and scurries back the way she came. The missive is sealed with the emblem of the Holy See of the Ovinist Church pressed into violet wax. I don’t know if Zofia has ever received a direct message from His Holiness, but she certainly hasn’t received one in the middle of dinner. She breaks the heavy seal, and as her eyes dart back and forth across the looping script, her hold tightens, wrinkling the vellum.
“What is it?” I ask, worried by her reaction. In answer, she squeezes my hand, then rises to her feet, holding herself erect before the Daughters of the convent.
“I’ve just received a message from His Holiness, the See. The Kantari army has crossed north of the Koz Mountains. As of this report, they have made it to Debrochen in Tovnia.”
Cries of alarm fill the room, and my own heart freezes in my chest. The Kantari have never brought their war north of the Koz. Their focus has always been on defending their borders and, from time to time, trying to breach the walls of the Monastery of Saint Ovin to free Elath—their “Mother”—from the Vault of Mount Djall. The fact that an army of murderous Kantari soldiers is only a few hundred miles away makes my veins ice over. Could the Kantari make it all the way to Rosvania? To the convent, even?
Zofia holds up her hand, silencing the Daughters’ alarm before she continues. “The Tovnian army is holding them at bay, but Tovnia has requested a Grand Summit here at Saint Vinnica to discuss their concerns with the other Ovinist nations. The Holy See has granted the request. The date has been set for three weeks from today. I’m placing Daughter Ina in charge of arranging accommodations for the ambassadors. I will personally oversee preparations for the summit. I’ll keep you all informed as I learn more.”
With that, she sits, flapping her napkin onto her lap as if she hadn’t just delivered the most staggering news in decades or, possibly, centuries.
“There hasn’t been a summit at Saint Vinnica in years, and there hasn’t been a Grand Summit in my lifetime,” Daughter Ina sputters. “How many men are we expecting?”
“Ambassadors from every Ovinist kingdom—possibly princes—and their retinues, although they’ll need to be warned that space is limited within the parlertorium. I wouldn’t be surprised to see at least one representative from the Empire of Yil, as well. And the Holy See is sending the Archbishop of Rosvania to facilitate. So thirty men, give or take?” Zofia looks up from her dinner. “All kingdoms but Kantar and Hedenskia will be represented.”
“Of course the heathens won’t be there,” says Ina, spitting the word heathens the way you might say roach or louse.
“What exactly is a Grand Summit?” I ask Zofia. “Is it different from a regular summit?”
“Most summits deal with border disputes between kingdoms or provinces, tariffs, that kind of thing, and there are usually only a handful of men involved. A Grand Summit calls together representatives from all the kingdoms of our faith to make a decision regarding the best interests of the Ovinist Church as a whole. In this case, I imagine the ambassadors will want to decide as a group how to act against the Kantari threat to the north, but that’s not our concern. Our only purpose at a summit is to serve the Father by translating the words of men.” Zofia scans the entire table, making eye contact with each Vessel in turn as she speaks, lingering last and longest on me.