Chapter 35

No one died in the night.

A relief, but it did little to lift the mood when they began gathering in the gate room half an hour before the gate forward opened. Angharad had not slept well, wrestling with what she had heard – trying to sort out the truth from the lies. Song had tried to approach her about it but the Pereduri put her off. Unfair as it was, she resented the Tianxi for forcing her hand about eavesdropping on Isabel and Ferranda. Her world had been simpler before that conversation.

Now Angharad must weigh everything. Was she being unfairly generous, when she thought something good of Isabel Ruesta? Was a contact bending her mind? Or was she being unfair by picking at every thought this way when Ferranda Villazur had brought nothing but accusations. A contract was difficult to prove, but it was just as difficult to disprove. What could Isabel do or say to put Ferranda’s allegations to rest? Nothing. And some of Ferranda’s other accusations had been dubious, the talk of plot and there being a false killer.

Grief at the death of a lover – and to think Sanale had been that, Angharad would never have suspected – could darken one’s mind. Ferranda might have been lashing out.

Or am I looking at Isabel’s chances through the kindest mirror?

The thoughts circled like dogs chasing each other’s tails. There was no clear liar here, no monster whose warped pale face could be revealed by ripping off a mask. Just as she had through the night, Angharad wrestled with her doubts and stared moodily ahead. She did not shun Isabel, but neither did she engage in conversation – she lengthened her stride to stay ahead and prevent it. It left her at Acanthe Phos’ side on the way to the temple-fortress, the blemished traitor needing only a single quelling look to stay silent the whole way.

This time, when they went down the stairs, everyone kept a large distance from each other.

The temple-fortress’ red stone awaited them at the bottom of the cauldron again, wind whistling softly behind them as they passed the bronze gates still open wide. This time, when they passed through the eclectic hall of treasures and trinkets, Angharad hung back. She left the front to others, those yet to become victors. They could deal with the spirit themselves.

“You came back!”

The massive peafowl leapt down from her dais, dead god jostling on her back, and with all the dignity of an excited child trotted towards them. Flicking her tailfeathers happily, she swayed to the sides in celebration.

“I thought you’d died,” the mayura confided. “Mortals are so fragile.”

“Not yet,” Lord Zenzele said, “but then the day’s just begun. Surely one of us will be up for it.”

“Let us be optimists,” Lady Ferranda mused. “I’ll not settle for Xical alone – I choose to believe that, as a community, we can also get Lord Augusto killed.”

The pair, Angharad thought, truly had become thick as thieves. Part of her was glad for them, that their griefs need not be borne alone, but the part of her that must go beyond decency worried. If Lady Ferranda pressed her suspicions and tried to kill Isabel, would Zenzele Duma help her? Angharad did not know and hated that she even had to consider it. This Trial of Ruins, it was like a mire. The longer they stayed in the maze, the deeper they sunk into the mud of their own petty plots and hatreds.

Sometimes she though the spirits might not be the true peril of this maze.

“Watch your tongue,” the Cerdan snarled, “else you-”

Cozme Aflor’s hand on his shoulder silenced him.

“We must win tests to reach the Toll Road,” the older man said. “By the rules our host has laid down, three champions must still be beaten. Is there one among us that would step forward?”

Angharad scoffed, which drew more than a few eyes to her.

“An interesting question to ask,” she said, “when you are not a victor yourself, Cozme Aflor. Where has yesterday’s boldness gone?”

Unfriendly looks, but most of them were not sent her way. To her dismay, she found support in an unexpected place.

“She has a point, Cozme,” Tupoc said, idly tapping his spear against his shoulder. “Go on then, my bold man, take the vanguard. Are you and Augusto not entirely capable of protecting yourselves?”

Angry, worried looks from both men Tupoc had named. Angharad’s eyes narrowed. A split between them and Tupoc, perhaps? It may be that with Cozme at his side, Augusto had decided he need no longer be the Izcalli’s lickspittle. This is Tupoc calling them to heel, then, she thought. Uncertain as to whether she should allow it to happen, Angharad hesitated until the decision was taken out of her hands. Cutting through the rising tension, Song stepped forward and bowed before the mayura.

“Honored elder, I would face one of your champions,” the Tianxi said.

The peafowl peered down at her.

“Do I know you?” the mayura asked. “I feel as if I should be pecking your head.”

“I would prefer you do not, honored elder,” Song politely requested.

It was not possible for a bird to pout, given the lack of lips, but the spirit made a valiant attempt nonetheless.

“Fine,” she sniffed. “Refuse my blessing.”

The mayura waited for a moment, perhaps hopeful calling it a blessing would change Song’s mind, but was destined for disappointment.

“I await the introduction of your champions,” Song said.

The peafowl left in a sulk, returning to the dais to begin her spectacle. Cascades of blue and green silk fell from the ceiling again, the sight less staringly impressive the second time. Curtains surrounded them on all sides as golden light began coursing down. Sounding mor like a Lierganese hawker than an ancient spirit, the mayura began announcing her list of foes again.

“Hark! Will you face Ojas the Clever, who you must defeat in a contest of riddles where every mistake sees you lowered closer to a pool of-”

Angharad only paid half-hearted attention to the list of champions, knowing there was yet time. At least three victories must still be earned to win the right to reach the very summit of the temple and the path to the Toll Road that lay there.

“- Thangaraj, master of mists and illusions, whose defeat must come by might of arms. Then there is-”

“Him, honored elder,” Song said. “Thangaraj. I will face him.”

“Oh, that’s been a while,” the mayura enthused. “Usually they choose Inimai instead, she sounds like a pushover.”

Angharad cocked her head to the side. Was the spirit not the one who had crafted the introductions?

“I was given to understand,” Song said, “that adding restrictions to the test yields greater advances.”

The spirit was visibly pleased at the implication. Also loudly.

“Yesss,” the peafowl hissed. “Tell me.”

“If offer you two oaths,” Song serenely replied. “The first is that I will use only a single shot.”

That was… not unwise, Angharad decided. It was rare to be able to reload one’s gun during a duel, and Song had said nothing of her sword. It was a limitation, but not a crippling one.

“I receive your oath,” the mayura said, then hopped back and forth. “Again.”

“I shall not take more than a step away from where I stand when the test begins.”

The spirit cackled.

“Oh, that is fun,” she said. “I receive your oath.”

A pause.

“Three takes you to the end,” the spirit said. “That means a change in terms.”

“I listen, honored elder.”

“If you lose,” the mayura said, “you’ll become one of my champions.”

A ripple of unease went through the crowd, though this was not news to Angharad. The peafowl had already told her that the last test had this particularity to it.

“That is acceptable to me,” Song replied. “Shall we begin?”

“When you’re ready,” the peafowl happily nodded.

The Tianxi’s silver gaze swept through them.

“I will be leaving, then,” she said. “Kindly do not lower the number of victors in my absence.”

And on that sharp note, Song walked away.

—

Angharad had never seen a test from the outside in this temple, so it was with a curious eye she greeted the changes in the golden light.

What had before been letters and the silhouette of the champions spread out, the strokes thinning as they came to illustrate some kind of strange circular room. As if alive, the strands of gold moved as clouds of mist over a floor that was full of uneven rises and hidden pits. At the heart of it, sitting on a throne, a small bald man with a grand beard and a pot belly was waiting. He had on his lap a mace with a thick head a strange handle – like a saber’s, with a knuckle-bow guard. The Pereduri had never seen such a weapon before, it must be Someshwari.

It would take time before Song reached the grounds of the fight, Angharad knew from experience, so she found a pillar to lean against in a corner and drew back from the crowd. Lord Ishaan seemed as if he might have wanted to chat, but he read her expression and elected to leave her in peace. No, it was another who sought Angharad out.

Lady Isabel Ruesta had dressed with an eye to the practical, even though she was unlikely to be challenging a test today. A high-collared yellow doublet over a pale shirt matched hose of the same shade, tucked into elegant knee-high boots. The sole concession to traditional femininity was the feathered riding hat, angled coquettishly over her black curls. The infanzona was a feast for the eyes, as always, and Angharad would not soon forget how soft her skin had been under her fingers the evening when Isabel had visited her.

Only she was not so certain she should be fond of that memory, now. The kindest possible mirror, Ferranda had called it. What would that mean, if it were true?

Isabel came to stand by her side, hands over her lap. Silence held between them. Would not looking at the infanzona undo the effect of her contract, Angharad wondered? Or did Isabel perhaps need touch to seed the veil over one’s eyes? Angharad could not help but wonder even knowing it was unfair, that Ferranda had accused without proof. But how would one go about proving the unseen? A fair question, but so was the opposite: how would one go about disproving it? It the end it was a matter of trust, and Angharad was feeling thin on trust.

She had uncovered too many lies. It was tiring, to question everything. Enough that she thought it might be better to simply go her own way.

“Hold out your hand,” Isabel suddenly asked.

Angharad stilled. The other woman noticed.

“Ah,” she said. “As I thought. Please allow me, then, a defense against the accusations Ferranda brought to you.”

Would it be unwise, to agree? Her contract at work? Angharad could have let the dog chase each other’s tails for hours and earned nothing but barks, so instead she set aside her own thoughts and doubts. If her mind was uncertain, then she need only avoid relying on her minds. Isabel Ruesta had been accused and was now asking for a way to prove her innocence that would not be harmful to Angharad.

By honor’s count, this should be allowed.

Almost relieved that there was a way around the doubts, the Pereduri offered her hand. Isabel lightly touched it with the tip of her fingers.

“Beginning now,” she said.

Angharad blinked, eyeing the other woman. A lie? She felt nothing at all. Or perhaps Ferranda’s accusations had been most exaggerated. Isabel breathed out.

“The Duchy of Peredur,” Isabel Ruesta said, “is a barren shithole at the edge of the world, full of slack-jawed yokels who fuck seals and claim they were mermaids.”

The Pereduri drew back in complete and utter startlement, though Isabel kept their hands connected. Past the first surprise at the unexpected vulgarity, anger rose. The infanzona had not only insulted her home, she had called her countrymen liars. Even in jest, and surely this must be in jest for Isabel could not possibly believe it – the infanzona withdrew her hand and Angharad paused. Why could Isabel not possibly believe that?

“I would have drawn a blade on most everyone here,” the Pereduri said, “had they said what you just did. Even knowing it was to prove a point.”

“It is best compared,” she said, “to making a plain girl stand in flattering light and clothes. It does not change anything, not truly – a boy who prefers boys will still not take her to bed, nor will one who does not like redheads. But it makes the graceless graceful.”

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“And I have been made to see the girl,” Angharad plainly said.

Isabel inclined her head.

“You have. If you were to choose to be angry over this,” she said, “I would not dispute it.”

Angharad’s answering look was cool.

“What other choice is there, Isabel?”

“Allowing me to explain,” she replied.

“Have I stopped you?” Angharad sharply said.

The infanzona worried her lip.

“I do not always control it,” Isabel said. “When my emotions run high, whatever the emotion be – fear, joy, desire, hate, it makes no difference – I draw on the contract. Sometimes I do not even notice it.”

You could be lying, Angharad thought. And she could trust her own mind, not right now, so instead she trusted in honor.

“Had you told me this, there would have been no breach in trust,” she replied. “You did not.”

“I was afraid,” Isabel admitted, “and wronged you because of it.”

The dark-skinned woman breathed in at the stark admission.

“I will not excuse the act,” the dark-haired beauty continued, “but I would tell you what drove me to it, if you will allow.”

Angharad felt little sympathy, and even if she had honor would not have cared for reasons. Still, it was her responsibility to see the entire matter through before making a decision about cutting ties. She nodded permission.

“You must think me some kind of coldblooded seductress,” Isabel ruefully said, “but that is not how it started. My parents, you see, wanted a boy. And when Mother finally gave birth to one, suddenly I was no longer their favorite.”

She breathed out.

“Infanzones are taught as children that prayer answered is a dangerous thing,” Isabel said. “Mine was. I wanted to be the apple of my family’s eye against, instead of that squalling stinking thing, and the Beloved Blossom offered me that.”

“I have never heard of a spirit by that name,” Angharad said.

“There is no reason you should,” the infanzona replied. “She is no Mane, hardly an ancient power. But she was so lovely, so glamorous, and why should I distrust a goddess of love promising me that very thing? Only I was wrong, Angharad.”

Isabel’s smile was a melancholy thing.

“She is, you see, not a goddess of love but of love novels.”

Angharad was Pereduri: she well knew how the difference of a single word could change everything. The infanzona sighed.

“I did not realize what that truly meant until I was older, when the boys that had been my friends began falling in love with me every time I laughed,” Isabel said. “I learned to be wary, to control it, but fear is another emotion – every time I felt dread at the approach of a suitor unwilling to accept a no, the contract bloomed anyway.”

Green eyes lowered to the ground.

“So I embraced it,” she admitted. “Used it to defend myself, set them against each other. Only the Ruesta are not the greatest house of Sacromonte, Angharad. We have superiors, those we must not offend.”

“House Cerdan,” she quietly said.

“They way out was to marry above them, beyond their reach,” Isabel said. “And I found a man who would suit, whose contract even dulled my own, but my reputation followed me. He was courteous but kept his distance. Unwilling to give up, I decided to follow him to this island so that I might convince him.”

“And the brothers?” she asked.