stop!”
From beneath the statues, guards sprang to life, blocking the way with hands on hilts. Others closed in on her side, and the guards from outside closed at her back. Sasha turned to face the man behind, but that man looked over her head. “Lieutenant,” he said. “Sashandra Lenayin, she claims.”
Sasha turned again, this time taking Daryd about with her. The lieutenant stared down at her, eyes narrowed beneath his gleaming helm. Sasha pulled back her hood and met his gaze. “M'Lady,” said the lieutenant. “The king is at prayer.”
“I know,” said Sasha.
“It is a serious thing to disturb the king at prayer.” The lieutenant's face was free of tattoos, but his hair seemed to have a little length beneath the helm. A single gold ring hung in his left ear. Her hope flared. It was not a great display by any means, but she knew from experience that one should never judge the depths of a man's feelings by the nature of his appearance. “With what emergency would you disturb the king's holy contemplation?”
“This boy,” said Sasha, placing her hand upon Daryd's shoulder. The lieutenant's gaze dropped to regard Daryd. Daryd stared upwards, unflinchingly. A good, common lad might drop his gaze, confronted by a man of rank. Daryd's stare was defiant. “He is Udalyn.”
The lieutenant's eyes flashed back to Sasha's, with sharp alarm. She could sense the disquiet her words had caused, in the stiffening poise of the guardsmen. Breathing seemed to cease. “Udalyn,” said the lieutenant.
“A refugee,” said Sasha. “From Ymoth. The Hadryn attacked it barely eight days ago. I would speak with my father, Lieutenant. The boy rode without halt from Hadryn lands day and night for that purpose. He's earned it.”
“Lieutenant,” said one man, in a low, alarmed voice, “we should alert Prince Koenyg.” The lieutenant stared at him, displeasure in his eyes. Beyond him, Sasha caught a glimpse of a priest advancing up the long central aisle, to check on the commotion. The lieutenant seemed unconvinced. He stared back down at Daryd, convictions battling in his eyes.
“Daryd,” said Sasha to the boy, urgently. “Speak, Daryd.” And gestured to her mouth. Daryd spoke, proudly, in a high, clear voice. Complete sentences, precise and formal. The high, stone atrium echoed with foreign Edu vowels, unheard in this place since its construction. For a moment, Sasha fancied that the grim stone statue of her great-grandfather Soros might have flinched for shame.
The lieutenant squatted opposite Daryd and stared the boy in the face. Daryd completed his little speech and stared back, eyes blazing. And the lieutenant, for the briefest moment, appeared to battle against some powerful emotion.
“Go,” he said then to Sasha. “The king's daughter has privileges much unused. Make it brief.”
“But sir!” gasped a soldier. The lieutenant gave him a sharp glare and rose. Sasha fancied that his eyes were a little moist.
“Brief, I say,” he snapped. Sasha grabbed Daryd's hand and edged quickly past. The priest approaching down the aisle changed directions as she marched by, hurrying to keep up.
“M'Lady Sashandra,” he said, cool yet urgent at her right shoulder, “the king is in private chambers. His meditations are deep, he is not to be disturbed.”
“So stop me,” Sasha retorted, striding fast, little Daryd half-running to keep up.
“M'Lady,” said the priest in worried exasperation. His robes were black and plain, and the top of his head was shaved bald, where the rest of his hair was short and straight. A large golden star bounced from a chain about his neck as he strode. He refrained from touching her. Priests and women, Sasha thought sourly. In her particular case, the dislike was mutual.
The temple aisle was long. Many wooden pews crossed the floor beneath an impossibly high ceiling. Coloured windows rowed the walls high above, the morning sun spearing low, angled rays across the stone. The light indeed seemed heavenly, and the temple air hushed and serene. Sasha had not chosen the ways of the Verenthanes, yet even she could feel the awed magnificence in every silent step across the floor. At her side, Daryd stared upward and about in silent incredulity. He made the spirit sign repeatedly. Sasha hoped the priest did not see.
Ahead, an altar rose on a broad stone platform with carved railings. Above were draped two vast curtains of crimson with gold trim upon which there was embroidered the great wooden staff of Saint Ambellion that he had used to walk from Torovan to Lenayin more than three centuries before, and then across