She was a cunning girl, and eager to display her skill on the wax tablet although generally in the church novices were not taught their letters this young.

After every letter had undergone scrutiny and approval, and been done again, the child peeped up at her. She had big eyes and long lashes, but she wasn’t sweet, not anymore, not since the days before. As it had in the greater world, the cataclysm had shaken loose the many lesser evils that cut into a soul and thereby in those gouges gave purchase for the Enemy’s minions to claw their way inside.

“I’m better at my letters than she is, aren’t I?”

“You are very skilled at your letters, Your Highness.”

“Better than her?”

“My child, do not seek to be compared to that you do not wish to become.”

“She doesn’t like me.”

“She doesn’t like herself. She is very young.”

“She’s older than me. She can’t make letters like I can. Will Berengaria die?”

“We will all die, child. We will all come to dust someday.”

“But our souls will live.”

“Those that do not fall into the Pit.”

She shivered. “I saw it.”

“You saw what?”

“The Pit. There was a big wind. There was fire. The earth split apart. It swallowed people. All that poison poured out. Wasn’t that from the Pit? It was stinky.”

“Maybe so, child. Do not vex yourself. You were not punished.”

She bit her lip and stared at the letters, then with a sharp movement wiped the slate clean. “I’ll do them again,” she said. “I’ll be perfect so God won’t punish me.”

2

ANTONIA meant to stop in her audience chamber—there was so much work to be done—but her steps led her to the North Tower. This time of day, all the prisoners would be within. Blessing was allowed into the courtyard only in the morning, under guard, and her attendants had leave to exercise only in the afternoon, so none would be able to attempt escape without leaving the others behind.

“Holy Mother.” The guards dropped to one knee, bowing heads, then rose and opened the door.

The lowest room of the North Tower was now a barracks. Pallets and rope beds filled half the floor, benches and three tables the rest. Men knelt as she entered. At least two dozen were barracked here.

“Holy Mother.” A sergeant—she’d forgotten his name—came forward. “The queen is above with Captain Falco. Have you come to see the new prisoners? They were brought in at dawn.”

“Yes. I’ll go up.”

A stone staircase curved along the outer wall of the tower, leading up to the next level. Here, the three servants slept on pallets laid out on the plank floor. Two of them, the barbarians, sat here now. The young male was binding hemp into rope. He looked up at her, his gaze impassive, and without the least interest in her rank and exalted status he went back to his work. The female had her eyes shut and, although she was sitting, seemed to be asleep. What coarse hands she had! They were large and callused, and she had the unattractive, flat-faced features of the Quman, although Antonia had been told she was born to a different tribe entirely. It made no difference. They were both doomed to the Pit, because they were heathens who refused to accept the Circle of Unity. Except for a single chest, the rest of the circular room was empty and the shutters barred. A pair of guards sat on the wooden steps that had been lowered from the level above, fastened with ropes and a pulley. The stone staircase, continuing upward, had been blocked off with planks.