“No,” Val-Theris said simply. “But selfless people are rarely what they seem. You will return with a full report in three days.”
Rohannes bowed his head, retreating from the room in silence, leaving Val-Theris to once again close his eyes and force himself to see Jesenia’s face in the marble.
The lower marketsof Solmiris had changed since the refugees came. Once a place of uniformity and precision, was now a place of color and noise. The Lunarethians had used old fabric from skirts to decorate their tents in oranges and blues and yellows, for it was all they had to make the stone streets of Solmiris feel like home.
What citizens passed through the refugee quarter stared and mocked, straying far away from any of the Lunarethians. Between them stretched an invisible line of distrust that none of them dared to cross.
The king had asked Rohannes, no,commanded him, to keep an eye on the foreign girl. So here he was, three days into his shadowed surveillance, following Jesenia of Lunareth, who seemed determined to make saints look lazy.
At first glance, she was nothing but a worn shawl and shoes held together by twine. But as he watched her, it was the smallest of actions that caught Rohannes off guard. She moved through the crowd like someone who was used to taking up less space, yet always found it in her to help others stand taller.
He watched her kneel beside an old man struggling with a cart of firewood, her hands red from the effort as she helped him stack it. Later, she shared her water with a child who had spilled theirs, then gave away the bread ration she’d just been given to an elderly woman too weak to stand in line. By dusk, she had nothing left but her shawl, which she draped around a coughing boy’s shoulders before disappearing into the alleys.
Rohannes followed her there, silent as a shadow.
She knelt beside one of the makeshift fires the Lunarethians kept burning at night, warming her palms from the chill in the air.
The firelight caught her face then. Not beautiful in the way poets described, but luminous in its sincerity. There was a strength there Rohannes recognized, the same kind that kept his soldiers on their feet long after hope had left them.
He stayed until the fire burned low, until most of the camp had drifted to sleep.
Only Jesenia remained awake, sitting near the embers, her hands cupped around the faint warmth as though she could protect it from the night.
Rohannes stood once morebefore the king’s desk, the smell of smoke from the oil lamps curling in the air between them. Helooked tired; his cloak was still dusted with dirt from the lower district.
“Well?” Val-Theris asked quietly, setting aside the parchment he hadn’t really been reading. “What did you see?”
Rohannes was silent for a moment before answering, as though searching for the right words.
“I watched her for three days as instructed,” he said finally. “At dawn she helps the old and sick at the refugee tents. By day she teaches the children of her people anything she knows: their letters, the phases of the moon, songs. She gives away most of what she has, sometimes–oftentimes–even her own rations. She just…gives.”
He exhaled, shaking his head. “I thought at first it was an act. Some attempt to earn your favor. But she does it even when no one is looking. Never once did she mention your name. She did not curse our city or our people. If anything, she makes us look like savages, the way we’ve forced them into a cramped corner of our city and forced them to live on less than we give to the criminals awaiting trial.”
Val-Theris leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled. “And what is your judgment, Captain?”
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say she’s trying to atone for the whole world’s sins.”
Val-Theris was silent for a long moment, staring at the flame between them. “Did she seem to have any family among the refugees?”
“None that I could tell. She walks alone at night,” Rohannes continued softly. “Talks to the sick, checks on the children sleeping near the fire pits. When one of them cries, she stays until they stop. It’s as though she’s trying to hold what’s left of her people together with her bare hands.” He paused. “It’s like she’s a blessing from the moon.”
Val-Theris’s expression didn’t change, but something in his shoulders eased. “A patron saint of the pitiful,” he whispered to himself. He looked toward the high arched window, where dawn was beginning to brighten the sky. For a long while, neither spoke. At last, Val-Theris said, “Thank you, Rohannes. That will be all.”
Rohannes studied him for a long moment before speaking again, his voice edged with curiosity. “You’ve seen her before, haven’t you?”
“Yes,” Val-Theris replied softly.
But Rohannes didn’t ask when or how, because he saw the look in his king’s pale gaze: the devastation of what had not yet come to pass.
SEVEN
It wasmid-day when the sound of wheels grinding on stone filled the streets, and carts came into view of the refugee quarter.
Jesenia stood out of the way, in an enclave made by two of the high walls of Solmiris connecting. Her hands were gripping the worn edge of her shawl, watching the procession of golden-armored soldiers push their way through the narrow streets with carts following them.
The scent reached the refugees first. Fresh bread. Roasted meat. Hearty broth. Clean water. The refugees gathered slowly and cautiously, as if unsure if this was a test or some cruel trick. Whispers rippled through the crowd, disbelief so clear in their hopeful voices:
The palace sent this? A blessing from the King! What if it’s poisoned? Why would they do this now?
