No. He didn’t think so. He knew Gallian Thade’s reputation, and forgiveness wasn’t something he approved of.
Besides, Amalicia herself had said as much, in the last letter she’d sent him.
Moilday Firstweek, Thresh, 145/32
Dearest one,
Through the investigations of those still loyal to me and sympathetic to our cause, I have discovered the location of the hermitage to which my father intends to condemn me. He is sending me to the Highlands. I enclose the co-ordinates, which I am sure your navigator can decode, as they are mysterious to me.
Please forgive the cruel and shameful words I wrote in my last letter. I see now that you were wise to flee when you could, for my father’s mood has not improved. He still swears terrible vengeance, and likely will desire your death until the day his own comes. My heart should break if harm were to come to you. My anger was not towards you, but towards the injustice that made me my father’s daughter and you a man born without noble blood. But our love makes mockery of such things, and I know it will make you brave.
Find me, Darian, and rescue me. You have your craft, and we have the world before us. You will be a great man of the skies, and I shall be at your side, the way we always dreamed.
This letter will depart by my most trusted handmaiden, and I hope it will reach you and find you well. There will be no further opportunity to communicate.
With love everlasting,
Amalicia
Well, I got here eventually, Frey thought.
At the top of the stairs was another corridor, and more doors on either side. Each one was a private study cell, with a small lectern on the floor, a mat for kneeling, and a window slit, high up. There were more classrooms, and a door to a library, which was locked. He was just about to try the next door when suddenly a voice came to him, startlingly close.
‘It’s Euphelia, that’s who it is. She’s the one bringing the others down.’
He bolted into a classroom and crouched inside the doorway just as two women came gliding round the corner on slippered feet.
‘She’s taking her studies very seriously,’ argued the other. ‘She’s terribly earnest.’
‘She’s just not very bright, then,’ replied the first. ‘Her understanding of the Cryptonomicon is woeful.’
Two figures swept past in the corridor. Frey caught a glimpse of them. They were middle-aged, with greying hair cut in masculine, efficient styles, and they wore the white cassocks of Speakers.
‘She has a talent for casting the bones, though,’ the second woman persisted.
‘That she does, that she does. The signals are very clear. But I wonder if she’ll ever learn to interpret them.’
‘Perhaps if we focused her more towards cleromancy and lightened her other studies?’
‘Make her a special case? Goodness, no. If we start with her, we have to do it with everyone, and then where will we be?’
The voices faded as they turned the corner, and Frey relaxed. It seemed the hermitage was still patrolled, even in the dead of night. Out to catch acolytes sneaking into the pantry, or some such thing. Well, he’d have to be careful. He didn’t think his conscience could handle punching out a woman.
He found the girls’ dormitory shortly afterwards, and slid inside.
For a time he stood just inside the door, in the dark. Moonlight fell from a pair of skylights onto two rows of bunk beds. Perhaps fifty girls were sleeping here, their huddled outlines limned in cold light. The room was soft with sighing breath, broken by the occasional delicate snore. There was a scent in the air, not perfume but something indefinable and female, present in a dangerous concentration. Frey began to feel strangely frisky.
He was something of an expert in the art of creeping through women’s rooms without disturbing them. By waiting, he was being careful. The slight disturbance caused by his entry may have brought some of the girls close to the surface of sleep, and any small noise might wake them. He was giving them time to slip back into the depths before proceeding.
That, and he wanted to exult in the moment. It really was quite special, being here.
He moved silently between the beds, looking at the moonlit faces of each girl in turn. Disappointingly, they were not quite as luscious in person as he’d imagined they might be. Some were just too young—he had standards—and others were too plain or too fat or had eyes too close together. Their hair was cut in boring styles, and none were in any way prettified. One or two slept beneath their pillows or obscured their faces with their arms, but they didn’t have Amalicia’s black hair, and their hands—always a giveaway—were too old.
He’d almost reached the end of the room when he saw her. She was sleeping on one of the bottom bunks, her head pillowed by her folded hands, mouth slightly open, face relaxed. Even without the elegant hairstyles and the expertly applied make-up he remembered her wearing, she was beautiful. Her long black hair had fallen across her face in strands; the curve of the lips, the tilt of the nose, the line of her jaw were just as they were in his memory. Frey felt a throb of regret at the sight of her, and smothered it quickly.
He knelt down, reached out and touched her shoulder. When she didn’t respond, he shook her gently. She stirred and her eyes opened a little. They widened as she saw him; she took a breath to say his name. He quickly put his finger to his lips.
For a few moments, they just looked at each other. Her gaze flickered over his face, absorbing every detail. Then she pushed her blanket aside and slid out of bed. She was wearing a plain cotton nightdress that clung to her hips and the slope of her breasts. Frey felt a sudden urge to take her in his arms as he’d often done before, but before he could act on it she grabbed his hand and led him towards a door at the far end of the dormitory.
Outside was another corridor, as dark and spartan as the rest. She checked the coast was clear and then pulled him down it. She took him through a door which led to a narrow set of stairs. At the top was an attic room, with a large skylight looking up at the full moon. It had a small writing desk in a corner, with several books piled atop it. A private study chamber, perhaps. Frey closed the door behind them.
‘Amalicia . . .’ he began, but then she roundhouse-kicked him in the face.
Fifteen
It wasn’t so much the force of the kick but the surprise that sent Frey stumbling back. He tripped and fell to the ground, holding his face, shock in his eyes.
‘What’d you do that f—’
‘Two years!’ she hissed, and her bare foot flashed out again and cracked him around the side of the head, knocking him dizzy. ‘Two years I’ve waited for you to come!’
‘Wait, I—’ he began, but she booted him in the solar plexus and the breath was driven out of him.
‘Did you know they teach us the fighting arts in this place? It’s all about being in harmony with one’s body, you see. Only when we’re in harmony with ourselves can we find harmony with the Allsoul. Utter rubbish, of course, but it does have its benefits.’ She punctuated the last word with another vicious kick in the ribs.
Frey gaped like a fish, trying to suck air into his lungs. Amalicia squatted down in front of him, pitiless.
‘What happened to your promises, Darian? What happened to “Nothing can separate us”? What happened to “I’ll never leave you”? What happened to “You’re the only one”?’