He sprints past the rest of the shouting squires, towards the magnificent white wood doors, and he almost makes it to the threshold before a paladin tackles him.
The weight of a fully-grown man in leather armor slams Karis to the floor. His cheek goes numb with impact, before pain blooms under his eye. Everything spins around him; all the shouting and clatter blur away.
Someone drags him to his feet, and he sees his own blood bright on the marble floor.
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CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
RONAN
Ronan is jotting notes on a worn blueprint of the Bright Cathedral for the third consecutive hour when Coira swears behind him. He turns to see her leaning over Leth’s shoulder, looking at the book in his hands.
“That’s fucking sick,” Coira swears again. “Is that really what it says?”
Evain pauses in hanging laundry by the barely-open window, and Dansa finishes refilling Alice’s water. Ronan folds up his blueprint. He knows seven plausible routes into the Bright Cathedral, but he’s paralyzed by the risks. He wants to make the right choice this time—he’s tired of taking chances. Maybe a break would help. “What’s fucking sick?”
Leth rises from the floor with a grace Ronan couldn’t have managed after sitting for that many hours. He sets the book on the table, covering the folded map. Ronan recognizes the old family journal Leth’s been reading for the past few days—the one he lifted from the Tariel library weeks ago.
“My great-something grandfather wrote this,” Leth says quietly. “He was the first high general after the Dravans assimilated into the Charaini military. Most of this journal is useless minutia, but since he worked so closely with the Varans and Sephinians after the binding, I’ve been reading for any mentions of something useful.”
The rest of the Locksmiths draw closer as he speaks. Unease thrums in the air. In Ronan’s heart.
Leth’s face is impassive, but disgust colors his voice. He opens the book to a bookmarked page and points to the top line. The coded script is illegible to Ronan. “That’s the date, in the year 934 Standard. The entry describes a commendation for a Dravan captain who assisted in apprehending a Sephinian heretic for execution.” He taps the page. “He especially praises the captain for his discretion, because the year before, the Maizans killed a heretic too publicly, and it caused trouble.”
Ruthless, but nothing too unusual. Nothing that would shock Coira.
Leth flips the page, which Ronan still can’t read. “He notes that he plans to argue against a law that would criminalize claims about speaking to gods outside of the official churches.” Which sounds kind-hearted and sensible of the general, until Leth continues, “Because the law would drive heretics into hiding, and make it more difficult to quietly eliminate Voices.”
Ronan freezes.
“We were wrong,” Coira says, just as disgusted as Leth. “The binding didn’t prevent the gods from finding Voices. The Charaini have just been fucking murdering them this entire time.”
Dansa squeezes the cat in her arms. “Halla help me. I thought I was used to the hypocrisy in this country. They act so faithful.”
“Most people don’t know.” Leth closes the journal. “Ordinary Charaini don’t even know Voices exist, or they think it’s a weird foreign thing. Even I didn’t know the bound gods should have them too, until I met you all.”
Ronan barely hears them talking. He’s stuck on that one assumption, now proved false: that the binding kept the gods from finding Voices. And he’s stuck on a seamless lie told by a young man sworn to the god of truth.
A young man who wielded golden magic without a vow or focus. A young man who often stared into the distance, as if listening to something or someone that nobody else could hear. Who was drawn instantly, unerringly through a warded box of telliron to the Crown of Vara.
Ronan even asked him once,Has Radiant Vara ever spoken to you?
No,Karis answered, so easily that Ronan never considered the possibility again. Not even when Karis asked questions like,Why wouldn’t the bound gods say anything through their Voices?
Incredible, that Ronan ever doubted Karis’s ability to keep a secret.
Horror rises through every breath and every drop of blood in Ronan’s body. If the Church of Vara has been killing their god’s Voices, then all Ronan’s cruelty and good intentions were worse than useless. He was so afraid of harming Karis that he may have sent him into even greater danger.
“Ronan?” Dansa asks. “Is something wrong?”
Like a cold blade, the revelation carves every last vestige of uncertainty from Ronan’s heart. He can linger in regret and self-loathing later. Right now, he knows what he needs to do.
“Change of plans,” he says, voice rough as he bites back his panic. “We break into the Bright Cathedral tonight.”
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CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
