Sabine inclined her head to each of them. “Sabine Corvyr.”
A bell rang outside. Not a chapel bell. Sharper. Meant for movement.
Brinna startled hard enough for her shoulder to hit the panel behind her.
Tavi noticed. So did Sabine. Tavi said nothing for the moment, which suggested she was not careless under the irreverence.
The coach rocked as another candidate climbed into the one behind them. Voices outside. Harness checks. A temple attendant calling numbers. Then a softer voice, female, calm with the peculiar firmness of somebody trained to make orders sound like reassurance.
“Remain seated once the procession begins. Curtains stay half-latched within settlements. No candidate is to disembark unless directed by escort or temple authority. At crossings, maintain visible composure.”
Visible composure.
Sabine looked toward the window. The black-and-gold token at her wrist lay against the gray of her sleeve like a compact verdict.
Tavi followed her gaze. “They tie us neatly, don’t they.”
Brinna lowered her hands a little, perhaps embarrassed to have been seen shaking. “It is only for identification.”
“Yes,” Tavi said. “That is always how pleasant restraints are described.”
The coach lurched forward before Brinna could answer. Wheels rolled over the forecourt stones. Through the glass Sabine saw the line of vehicles ahead: lacquered coaches, matched outriders, temple riders in black and gold spaced at measured intervals, two supply wagons toward the rear, and more guards than a bridal convoy required.
Far more.
The bells rang again as the procession turned onto the main road.
Brinna flinched a second time and pressed her lips together.
Tavi leaned back and crossed one ankle over the other. “If those bells go on for three days, I may begin confessing imaginary sins just to vary the sound.”
Brinna looked appalled. “Do not say that where temple ears might hear.”
“Temple ears hear everything until payment is due.”
Sabine almost spoke, then chose silence. Better to let people reveal themselves without interference.
The line of coaches moved through the district streets in careful order. People had come out to watch. Market women with arms folded against the cold. Boys in patched coats trying to count the carriages. Old men removing caps. Girls staring with the hungry fixed attention reserved for queens, corpses, and disasters. Someone threw early blossoms at the wheels froma second-story window. White petals struck the lacquer and slid down into mud.
At the first crossroads the escort bells rang in sequence from front to rear. A temple cantor riding near the lead coach began a hymn in High Veyran, low and measured. A second voice joined, then a third. By the time the sound reached Sabine’s coach it had turned the entire procession into moving ceremony.
Tavi looked out the window and muttered, “Nothing improves a journey like being sung at.”
Brinna tried to correct her and seemed to lose courage halfway. “It is… customary.”
“It is theatrical.”
“It is sacred.”
Tavi turned at that, not unkindly, only sharply. “Everything is sacred once enough armed men are assigned to it.”
Brinna went silent.
Sabine watched the guards again. Two at the lead, two at the rear, riders flanking each third coach, additional men taking the intersections before the wheels reached them. Not escort only. Route control. Containment without the embarrassment of naming it.
The road out of the district ran along fields just starting to thaw. Water stood in the ditches. Dead grass lay flattened under old frost. Here and there crows picked through turned earth where farmers had risked early spade-work. Villages gathered at the roadside in knots of stone and thatch, each with people waiting before the procession arrived because the bells carried ahead of it.
Flowers came in handfuls where flowers existed. Where they did not, people offered branches, bowed heads, or gestures of blessing. Some prayed. Some stared. Some smiled too brightly. Most watched with the concentration people give to publicevents they know may touch their lives later through rumor if not law.
