“SURELY THERE ARE ALTERNATIVES we might pursue.” As Cassia said the words, she wondered when she and
the mages of Kyria had become we.
“I appreciate your determination.” The Prisma’s sigh betrayed how tired she was. She sank into
her chair beside the altar. “But when you are my age, you will understand there comes a moment when
you must acknowledge all the alternatives are exhausted and it is time to admit defeat.”
How strange for anyone to tell Cassia she was the one who did not know when to give up.
The Prisma’s hand tightened on the altar, as if what she really wanted to do was lift that hand and
slam it down. “I fail to see how the Hesperines can grow anything in that wasteland of theirs. Did you
know Orthros is covered in constant night for most of every winter? The sun doesn’t even make it
above the horizon. How do plants thrive when they are trapped in darkness?”
A strange and powerful image came to Cassia’s mind. A mere fantasy of Lio’s world, surely. But it
struck her powerfully.
An endless wood in an endless night. No glimpse of the sun, just moonlight that never faded.
Living, growing things thriving in the shelter of that darkness, nurtured by a white glow like Lio’s
spell light.
“It is their magic,” Cassia said. “They can help things grow.”
“I ask my goddess of life and harvest every day how such an irony is possible, that heretics can
coax healing out of ice better than Kyria’s handmaidens can out of her own soil, and I still don’t have
an answer. Frigid as Tenebra is, it isn’t cold enough for rimelace to thrive without the aid of magic.
And our magic was not enough.” The Prisma rubbed her face in both hands.
Cassia shifted on her feet. They wanted to carry her to the door. But she stood riveted by the image
of despair before her: this powerful woman slumped in a chair with her head in her hands.
Even as Cassia prepared her thoughts, she prepared a defense in case her own words turned on
her. She supposed the Prisma’s vestibule, all things considered, was not the worst place to utter
heresy. In her compassion, the mage might dismiss Cassia’s suggestion as the misguided notion of a
young person desperate to help.
“There may still be a way.”
The Prisma lowered her hands and lifted her head, her eyelids drooping in exhaustion. “I wish
there were, child.”
“I must beg your clemency before I speak further. If what I am about to say offends you or the
goddess whose domain this is, let my words be forgotten...and forgiven...as if never uttered. I only
wish to help.”
The mage’s brows lifted. “What could you have in mind?”
“The king will not accept the herbs. But you and your temple could.”
The Prisma blinked, then her gaze sharpened. Her keen mind was clearly working, racing through
the possibilities. The consequences.
Cassia pressed on. Tightening the rope about her neck. When had she volunteered for that? “The
king wishes to hear no more about rimelace. He assumes it will return to Orthros with the Hesperines.
What matter if it happens to be left here at the temple instead?”
“He refused them,” the Prisma said. “Therefore they belong only to the Hesperines.”
“Yes.”
“But would they agree?”
“Yes.”
“How can you be sure?”
“The Summit has given me the opportunity to observe the embassy firsthand.”
“How much can anyone really observe about such creatures?”
“As much as she can observe about the king or the free lords after a lifetime of watching her
back.”
At that the Prisma grimaced. “You do well to remind me. You are young only in years.”
The comment added fuel to Cassia’s words, and they became easier to say. “I am confident the
embassy’s chief desire as far as the herbs are concerned is to extend the offer as a display of
goodwill. Naturally, you and the mages would be able to tell if there were any insidious spells on
them. Here in this sacred place, unholy magic would be revealed.” Silently Cassia apologized to Lio.
But he was a diplomat. He knew one must often say words one found distasteful, for the greater good.
The greater good. Now those were words Cassia would have thought sounded more like Lio than
her.
But the Prisma was shaking her head. “This is madness.”
See there. Cassia was not the only one who thought so.
“There are too many obstacles,” the Prisma lamented. “Too much risk. I can’t believe we’re even
having this conversation.”
Was Cassia losing ground? “Surely the goddess would want us to prevent suffering above all.
Surely that makes this...not wrong.”
“It’s not our consciences we need to convince, child. It’s the king and the heretics I’m worried
about.”
“We have satisfied ourselves the king has no cause for ire, and he will not under any circumstances
learn of what goes on in Kyria’s domain. We also know the Hesperines will agree. What other
obstacles could there be?”
The Prisma let out a breath that might have been a bitter laugh. “Aside from those small
uncertainties? The little matter of how the daughters of Kyria are to have a conversation with an
embassy of heretics staying in the capital, without offending the gods, the Orders, or the king.”
“That is the least of our problems. I will act as intermediary.”
The Prisma stared at Cassia for a long moment. At last she rose from her chair and rested her
hands on Cassia’s shoulders. “If you are willing to take on such a thing, who am I to refuse?”
Cassia lost an instant to her own surprise, too startled to speak.
The Prisma had known what she asked, when she requested Cassia first bring information to her
about the rimelace. She, who brought people out of danger for a living rather than thrusting them into
it, had asked anyway.
And was accepting now.
“I can see how necessary this is,” Cassia said. “I know you would not have asked in the first
place, unless the need was dire.”
“I will not deny it. But I will thank you, and I will pray for you and commend you to the goddess.
This won’t be easy.” She patted Cassia’s shoulder. “Saving lives seldom is.”