“Can you see your mistake?” he quizzes me.
“I should have reinforced my southern defenses?”
“Well, that is an excellent thought, but your mistake is larger than that.” He leans against the wooden seat back and folds his arms. One corner of his mouth twitches upward in paternal amusement. “Daughter, who is your adversary?”
“You are, Goodson Anskar.”
“I am,” he agrees with false gravity. “What happens on the board is less important than what is happening here.” He points to his temple. “You must know your adversary and understand his weaknesses. You must know what mistakes he will make, even before he does himself.”
“But you don’t make mistakes,” I counter, exasperated. “Do you have any weaknesses?”
“I do. Many.” He pushes the board to the side and sorts the pieces, readying them to be put away. “Here now, let’s discuss more pleasant matters. I have a gift for you.”
“A gift? It’s not even the Feast of Saint Ovin,” I protest, though I flush with anticipation. Daughters live spare lives, and gifts are extremely rare. Even my little doll was taken from me.
“I suppose I could have waited until then, but I’m as bad as a child when it comes to presents and waiting. You see? I do have weaknesses.” He reaches into his pocket, produces a small, narrow box, and removes the lid, revealing a gold locket gleaming on a bed of red velvet.
“For me?” I breathe.
“For you.”
I reach for the necklace but stop short. “Goodson Anskar, I couldn’t—”
“Oh, I think you could.” He takes the locket by the chain and hands it to me, his grin widening as I open the gold panels, revealing the triptych within. A tiny image of Saint Ovin trampling a miniature Elath beneath his feet takes up the center panel. Saint Vinnica and Saint Lanya stand on either side of him, pure and dutiful in their own panels. The artistry is stunning, but as I stare at the Holy Family, my niggling doubt rears its ugly head. Surely I don’t deserve such a gift. “Thank you. It’s perfect. But—”
“But Daughters are not supposed to own such fine things,” he finishes for me. “Consider my gift a reminder of your purity and your purpose. You are a sacred Vessel, like Vinnica and Lanya, each serving the Father in her own way. Besides, this was made by a Kantari convert. To wear it is to keep a man’s soul from becoming a telleg of the Dead Forest.”
Tears spill from my eyes. If the Goodson knew of the questions I ask myself, the weight of his disappointment would crush me. It makes this reminder of my purity and purpose more valuable than he could ever know.
“Do you like it?” he asks.
I leap to my feet, knocking my chair to the ground, and race around the table to hug him.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” he laughs.
Five
I was hoping that my nerves would calm as I got used to the idea of translating at the summit, but if anything, the intervening hours have given me ample time to consider all the things that could go wrong tonight. Even the comforting weight of the Goodson’s triptych against my heart fails to reassure me. By the time I meet Zofia in the scriptorium at eighteen bells in my best tunic, trousers, and sash, all I want to do is hide in the library stacks. She takes one look at my face and bursts out laughing. “You look like you’re on your way to the gallows.”
I scowl at her. “It’s not funny.”
“I’m sorry,” she says, although she doesn’t sound the least bit apologetic. But then she wraps her arms around me and whispers in my ear. “You’re ready for this. I promise you.”
Though I bask in Zofia’s approval, my imagination keeps up a continual supply of all the ways I could mess up tonight as we walk to the parlertorium, where Goodson Anskar is stationed outside with several Knights of the Order. I expect him to greet me with words of encouragement. Instead, his tone is sharp when he asks Zofia, “What is she doing here?”
I glance at Zofia, unsure what to make of his chilly reception. “Daughter Gelya is the convent’s only Kantari expert. She will translate for the prisoner tonight. I thought you knew.”
The Goodson’s lips tighten. “With all due respect, Sacrist, she doesn’t belong here.”
“What? Why?” I burst out. An unfamiliar anger bubbles inside me like boiled syrup as he pulls me off to the side, away from Zofia.
“You’re far too young for this,” he insists. “You shouldn’t be exposed to such matters—such evil.”
“He’s going to be bound, isn’t he? And guarded? For the Father’s sake, you’re the general of the Order of Saint Ovin. You carry the Hand of the Father in your scabbard. You protect Ovinists the world over from the Kantari. How could I be any safer?”
“Exactly. I’m in charge of the security of the faithful, and now I am protecting you.”
You’d think I’d crumble under the weight of the Goodson’s objections. Instead, I answer him with an inexplicable defiance, doing my best to emulate Zofia’s poise as I tell him, “Forgive me, but the Father chose me for this, and I must do His bidding.” Then I march through the doors, heading straight for the translators’ table with my pulse slamming through my veins. Once I sit down, I grip the seat of my chair and stare at the door, waiting for Zofia as I both hope for and fear a glimpse of the Goodson, to see his reaction. But Zofia doesn’t come in right away, and I can’t see the Goodson from my vantage point.
My eyes shift to the ten Knights of the Order of Saint Ovin standing guard, five to each side of the entrance. Some are lean while others are stocky. Some have blond hair, while others have brown or black. Their complexions range from pale peach to raw umber, as diverse as the countries united by the Holy Ovinist Church. These brave men stand watch on the Great Wall of Saint Balzos to ensure that the telleg never leave the Dead Forest. They escort caravans of pilgrims from all over the world to visit the holy sites of our faith. Most important, they guard the Vault of Mount Djall so that Elath the Great Demon may never again walk the earth.
The knights stare ahead, their heavy longswords in scabbards strapped to their waists. I’m surprised to see that every one of them looks young. Guarding a summit at a convent in the heart of Rosvania must be an easy assignment, but their youth doesn’t fill me with confidence.
“What did the Goodson say?” I ask Zofia breathlessly when she finally comes in, but she doesn’t answer. She scans the room until her eyes land on two men standing across from us along the north wall, one of them a Tovnian army captain, the other a seasoned knight named Brother Miklos, a friend of the Goodson whom I’ve met a few times. They stand sentry in front of an alcove, presumably guarding the Kantari prisoner within. The thought of facing whoever is tucked away in the alcove’s darkness makes my throat close up. That’s when I notice that the Tovnian’s sword sheath is empty. But of course it is. Only Knights of the Order of Saint Ovin are allowed to carry weapons into the parlertorium.
“Maybe the Goodson is right, Gelya. Maybe you shouldn’t be here,” Zofia murmurs, and an icy, unnamed dread takes up residence next to my screaming anxiety. But it’s too late to turn back, even if I wanted to. Nineteen bells rings. The summit is beginning.