The Sleeping Prince - Melinda Salisbury Page 0,100

too young, but you wouldn’t listen. You insisted you knew your own mind.”

“Mother, please,” Silas says, his hand reaching for mine.

“You swore your life to the Sisters, Silas. So you’ll answer to them.”

We follow her through the corridors in silence, single file. Silas walks before me, glancing back every now and then, his expression thoughtful, and Dimia behind. The passageway we are being led down is wider than I would have expected; a small carriage could travel through it. The walls are stone, flecked with salt, lit by more sconces. It must cost them a fortune in candles, but then I recall who lives here.

“Did the Conclave build this?” I ask to break the oppressive quiet, jumping when my voice echoes back at me. I’d thought I was whispering.

“No, it’s what’s left of an underground river, we think,” Silas answers me. “Obviously long gone, but you can see the signs. There are fossils in the floor and along the walls. There are caverns down here we haven’t even explored yet, miles of them.”

The ground is dusty but smooth, faintly dipped in the centre where many people have walked along it over the years. There are columns of stalagmites that look as though they’re made of wax, and I trail my fingers over them as we pass, then rub them together, surprised at how soft my fingers feel.

We turn another corner, into a narrower passage, a large red curtain at the end. Silas’s mother reaches for it, holding it back so we can enter.

“After you.”

The room is cavernous, furnished with three wooden tables, a bench along each side. The two outer tables are full of people, most white-haired and golden-eyed, though some are normal-looking, dark- and light-skinned, old, young, male, female; generations of alchemists and non-alchemists. At least fifty pairs of eyes turn to watch us as we enter, and none of them looks glad to see us; every face is stony and cold, like the room itself.

Along the centre table, four other figures sit alone. Each wears the same eerie robes as Silas’s mother. The Sisters of Næht.

I swallow and feel Dimia step closer to me. I turn to look at her. Her face is pale, her freckles stark against her pallor. To my left Silas lets out a long breath, and I shift so my fingers brush against his once-again covered ones, just for a moment.

“Sit,” Silas’s mother commands us, and I follow Silas to the centre table. Dimia remains close to us. No one smiles, or makes any gesture of greeting as we approach. Instead their gazes move from Silas, to me, finally lingering on Dimia.

Room has been left at the far end of the central table, and it’s here we sit. Out of the corner of my left eye I see Nia lean over and whisper to a white-haired woman beside her.

Silas’s mother walks to us, standing by her son.

“We haven’t been formally introduced,” she says, looking down at Dimia and me. “I am Sister Hope, of the Sisters of Næht. We’re joined tonight by Sister Wisdom, Sister Peace, Sister Honour and Sister Courage.”

Each ones nods in turn, though there’s nothing in their manner that would be recognized as friendly. Sister Peace even goes so far as curling her lip at us.

“I’m Errin—” I begin, but stop when a low hiss rises to my right. I turn to look at the sea of faces staring at us, shrinking back when their cold eyes meet mine.

“We know who you are, Errin Vastel.” Sister Hope’s voice is stern.

I look at Silas, who is leaning forward, tense and poised, scowling at the room.

“And you, of course, are Twylla Morven, daughter of Amara Morven,” Sister Hope continues, though in a much warmer tone. I look around to see who she’s addressing, to find her looking at Dimia. “We’ve been looking for you.”

“What?” I say, looking from Sister Hope to Dimia.

“Heir of the Sin Eater, lately Daunen Embodied.”

A shiver seems to go around the room at her words, and a memory clicks into place. Daunen Embodied, the living Goddess. The missing one.

“That’s you?” I say, trying to reconcile the image of the girl who fought the golem with what I knew of the pious, virgin girl destined to marry the prince. The dead prince. Oh. Of course she was so upset about his death; she was supposed to marry him. “But you said you were Dimia,” I say, and again the alchemists and their companions murmur. “You said you didn’t know what