The next three weeks are a blur of scrubbing, polishing, mopping, and waxing as the ambassadors trickle in from all over the Ovinist world.
On the morning of the summit, as I walk the west wing to fill the lamps with oil, I find myself passing a narrow closet—one of my favorite hiding places when I was little. My memory stretches back to the Aurian folktales Zofia used to tell me. She’s the only Vessel who ever bothered to learn a bit of Hedenski, and she would whisper the stories to me in my native language. I remember the way I would act them out in all my hidden spaces, living in an imaginary world whenever I could escape from Sacrist Larka long enough to play.
Once there was a girl.
Every story began the same way.
Once there was a girl whose mother gave her the gift of life, and she woke the dead.
Back then, I slept on a cot in Zofia’s room. Many nights, I would wake screaming, my dreams haunted by the wraithlike telleg I faced in the Dead Forest.
Once there was a girl who slew the Snake of Umut.
During the day, I used to tuck myself into this closet and whisper the words to the little rag doll Zofia had sewn for me, before Sacrist Larka found it and took it.
Once there was a girl who flew like a bird, up and up, far above the earth.
I haven’t thought about that rag doll in ages, but suddenly its loss hurts my heart. I was only a child. Why couldn’t I have had one toy, one thing that belonged to me? I’m still lost in these gloomy thoughts when Zofia calls my name from the end of the hall. As I make my way toward her, the hard-set expression of her face warns me that I should be worried.
“What did I do?”
“Nothing.” She takes the pitcher from my greasy hands and sets it on a console next to a small sculpture of Saint Vinnica, leaving a shiny wet stain beside the saint. “Come with me.”
“Where are we going?”
“The parlertorium. There’s been a change to the summit proceedings. Your attendance is required tonight.”
All the blood drains out of my head and pools in my stomach. “Am I going to observe?”
“No. I need you on hand to translate.”
“Which language?” By now, my misgivings are stomping on my chest.
“The Tovnians have captured a Kantari soldier and want him questioned.”
I never dreamed I’d find myself face-to-face with a living, breathing, Elath-worshipping Kantari, and now, in a matter of hours, I will have to translate for one at a Grand Summit in front of a roomful of important men. My breakfast roils in my stomach.
Zofia stops and puts her hands on my arms. “I know this is sudden, but you’ll do fine. Better than fine. Your command of Kantari is excellent, well beyond my own grasp of the language, which is why I need you there tonight. You’re ready for this. Give yourself credit.”
I may not think myself capable, but the fact that Zofia does warms me to the core. So despite the fact that I’m worried half to death, I find myself nodding my agreement.
“Good.” She beams at me. “Now take a breath and come on.”
The parlertorium sits at the heart of the convent’s main building and has served as a neutral place where ambassadors, lords, bishops, and even princes have met for centuries to debate issues, resolve conflicts, and make peace. Vessels are the only women allowed to enter this room, mostly to polish the wood and to keep the Eternal Flame of Saint Ovin lit, but also, from time to time, to translate for the men. Zofia pulls up the key on a chain around her neck and slides it into the oiled lock of the gold-inlaid doors, turning the tumblers, which fall into place with a clank. She pushes open one of the doors and ushers me in.
There are no windows in the parlertorium. The only light comes from the Eternal Flame of Saint Ovin, whose statue stands at the front of the room. It’s an oval-shaped chamber, like a giant egg, with a high ceiling that arches toward heaven. Alcoves line the long sides of the room, each containing its own statue of a saint. I wander to the one dedicated to Saint Lanya, the first Sacrist of the convent and the first soulswift. Every time I see an image of her, I imagine what it will feel like the day I die, when I transcend my mortal body to become a soulswift, too, a bird who delivers the souls of the faithful to the Father in heaven.
Zofia rouses me from my rumination. “Gelya, I’m about to entrust you with one of the greatest secrets of the convent. Do you promise to keep it to yourself?”
Her solemn tone drops a stone of foreboding into my stomach. “Of course, but—”
“No ‘but.’” She lights a candle on the small altar at the front of the room, sticks it to a base with its own wax, and leads me to one of the alcoves along the south wall. The statue within depicts a saint peering mournfully into his hands, which are cupped around an object the size of a fist. I stand on my tiptoes and find that he’s bearing his own heart in his hands.
“Which saint is this?” I wonder aloud.
“No one knows. Several scholars have studied it over the years and theorized who it could be, but the more important issue I want to bring to your attention is the fact that if you pull down on his head, a latch below the marble slab should release. There’s a tunnel underneath. It exits into the scriptorium library.”
My anxiety blooms, spreading through me like dye dropped into water. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Just in case.”
“In case of what?”
Zofia softens like the wax candle she carries. “The world of men is dangerous for women. That’s why, centuries ago, the Vessels built a passage leading out of this room. Because every woman should have an escape route if possible. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” I say. But I don’t. I don’t understand at all. The Kantari are dangerous. The telleg—the souls who roam the Dead Forest—are dangerous. But the world in general, or at least the world I inhabit at Saint Vinnica? How can I be anything other than safe within the walls of a convent?
Four
I spend the next hour helping Zofia prepare for the summit, setting up three long tables in a U shape so the ambassadors can face each other. The less impressive table where Zofia and I will sit is tucked off to the side, facing the double doors at the back.
“You are not to speak unless asked to do so,” Zofia instructs me as we carry chairs to our table. “And you may only translate a man’s exact words. You may not—I repeat, may not—say anything of your own volition. A Grand Summit is a sacrament, and it is considered highly offensive to the One True God if a woman, created by Elath the Great Demon in her own image, speaks during the sacred ceremony.”
“Oh, my Father, I know.” I’m sweaty and worn-out and nervous, and I don’t need her to teach me lessons I’ve already learned fifty times over.
“Translating is stressful, and it’s easy to lose one’s composure. Bear with me.” She moves to a point at the top of the U. “I will provide all non-Kantari translations this evening, and I’ll do so from my seat. But when the ambassadors wish to question the Kantari directly, you will stand here, and the prisoner will stand on the other side across from you. He will be under guard and will likely be bound, so try not to worry too much about your personal safety.”
“I’m more worried that I’m going to make a fool of myself.”