“We do not take them, Your Holiness,” the Vaguer responded. “We shed our attachment to material belongings when we take the oath of the Vaguer, our old identities turning to dust with our past lives. We focus solely on our studies, so that we might worship you fully.”
Aya watched as a muscle in the king’s jaw twitched.
“We have long since pledged ourselves to you, Your Holiness. We’ve felt the stirrings of late; the changes in the realm. The people say it is the gods, but we knew there was more. One of our kind confirmed it. He has the Seer gene, and he had a vision of you returning and joining Kakos.” The Vaguer spread his arms wide. “So we answered your call. We are your humble servants.”
Evie opened her mouth to respond, but King Gregor cleared his throat. “You do not seem surprised at her change in loyalties,” he observed. His elbow was braced on the arm of his throne, two fingers pressing against his dimpled chin as he stared down at the Vaguer.
“Because,” Evie drawled, her mouth twisting in disdain as she spared the king a glance, “they know true devotion.”
Another frisson of tension pulled taut between the king and the saint, but the Vaguer didn’t seem to notice as he bowed his head in supplication.
“You honor us, Your Holiness.” To the king, he said, a hint of amusement lifting his voice, “I have learned its best not to argue with those who have the Sight.” He cut a glance at Evie. “Besides, it seems we were not misguided, were we?”
The king dropped his hand, his fingers taking up a steady drumming on the arm of his throne. “And what is it that you have to offer us?”
Us.Another subtle reminder of his authority. Was theking chafing against Evie’s presence here? It was infuriating to be able to pick up on the subtitles of his tone—to have her training, embedded as deep as instinct, arise and decipher the emphasis in his words—but for her mind to be too trapped and muddled to make sense ofwhyit was there.
Perhaps she never had the ability to do so in the first place.
A spy, but not.
Chosen, but not.
Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
“We offer you our knowledge,” the Vaguer answered easily. “We have always rejected the norms of our society. The Saj of the Maraciana, who our elders originated from, feared us because of our willingness to studyallmanner of the affinities. Including the Decachiré. That is, after all, what you are trying to do, is it not? Eliminate the boundaries the gods have set upon us?”
It was Evie who answered, though the question was directed at the king. “Among other objectives.”
The Vaguer bowed his head. “We are at your disposal, Your Holiness.” He straightened and motioned to one of his companions. “We have also brought you a gift.”
The woman stepped forward, her gray robes swishing against the stone floor. She cradled a long, thin parcel wrapped in a beige blanket in her hands. Gregor looked on curiously, but Aya…
Aya knew exactly what that blanket hid. She could feel the smoothness of the blade beneath her fingertips, could feel the heat of the fire that had reflected off of its worn surface.
Evie’s sword glinted in the sunlight that streamed through the windows. It had been polished to perfection, and the Vaguer looked pleased with himself as he presented it to the saint with another bow.
Evie stayed stock-still, as if her surprise kept her anchoredto her throne as she stared down at the sword.
“Your father’s sword,” Gregor commented. It jarred Evie from her stupor and she rose to accept the blade.
“More mine than his, one might argue,” Evie answered as she angled the sword to inspect it, the blade catching the stream of sunlight. Her eyes dragged across the steel in the same place where Aya’s fingers once brushed.
Aya knew what was carved there.
Pathos, the god Evie had claimed as her patron long before the Visya were bound to a single affinity.
A small furrow formed between Evie’s brows as she took in the name, but it was gone with another flash of sunlight against the sword as she flipped it and placed it back in the blanket at her feet.
“You have my gratitude,” she said to the Vaguer.
Gregor, it seemed, was not as easily mollified. “What of the prisoner?” he pressed.
Perhaps he wanted a gift, too.
The Vaguer glanced over his shoulder, to where Lorna stood, her gaze still fixed on Aya. But Aya avoided her stare, the familiarity of it too painful for her battered soul to bear.
“She is a Seer,” the Vaguer explained. “A descendant of the line who foretold the rise of the Second Saint.”
