I slid the other books together to hide the small gap the book had left, and looked through a few pages. It might prove useful to help me decipher the Vendan book I stole from the Scholar, but I’d have to explore it further somewhere else. I hiked up my shift and slid it into my underclothing, a safe, if uncomfortable, place to hide it until I was at least out of the Sacrista. I lowered my shift and smoothed it back in place.

“I would have given it to you, Arabella. There was no need to steal it.”

I froze, my back to my unexpected company, and contemplated my next move. Still atop the stool, I turned slowly to see a priest standing in the doorway, the one who had watched me yesterday.

“I must be losing my touch,” I said. “I used to be able to slip into a room, pilfer what I wanted, and steal away again with no one the wiser.”

He nodded. “When we don’t use our gifts, they leave us.”

The word gifts settled on me heavily, no doubt the way he intended it to. I lifted my chin. “Some gifts were never mine to lose.”

“Then you’re called to use the ones that you do possess.”

“You know me?”

He smiled. “I could never forget you. I was a young priest, one of the twelve who delivered the sacraments of your dedication. You wailed like a stuck pig.”

“Maybe even as an infant I knew where that dedication would lead me.”

“There’s no question in my mind. You knew.”

I looked at him. His black hair was tinged with gray at the temples, but he was still a young man by ancient priest standards, vigorous and engaged. He wore the required black vestments and long white cape, but he hardly seemed like a priest at all. He invited me to step down to continue our conversation and motioned to two chairs beneath a round leaded-glass window.

We sat, and the blue and rose light streaming through the glass spilled over our shoulders. “Which volume did you take?” he asked.

“Close your eyes.” He did, and I hiked my shift up to retrieve the book. “This one,” I said, holding it out to him.

He opened his eyes. “Vendan?”

“I’m curious about the language. Do you know it?”

He shook his head. “Only a few words. I’ve never encountered a barbarian, but sometimes soldiers bring back verbal souvenirs. Not words meant to be repeated in Sacristas.” He leaned forward to take the book from me and leafed through it. “Hm. I missed this one. It looks like it only provides a few common phrases—not exactly a Vendan primer.”

“Do any of the priests here know the language?”

He shook his head. I wasn’t surprised. The barbarian language was as faraway and foreign to Morrighan as the moon, and not held in nearly as high regard. Barbarians were rarely captured, and when they were, they didn’t speak. Regan’s squad had once accompanied a prisoner back to an outpost, and Regan said the man never spoke a single word the whole way. He was killed when he tried to escape and finally uttered some gibberish as he lay dying. The words had stuck with Regan even though he didn’t know what they meant—Kevgor ena te deos paviam. After so long a silence, Regan said it was gripping to hear him say it over and over again until his final breath ran out. The words chilled him with their sorrow.

The priest handed the book back to me. “Why would you need to know the language of a distant land?”

I looked at the book in my lap and ran my fingers over the soiled leather cover. I want what you stole. “Let’s just call it a multitude of curiosities.”

“Do you know of trouble?”

“Me? I know nothing. As I’m sure you’re well aware from your talks with Pauline, I’m a fugitive now. I have no connections to the crown anymore.”

“There are many kinds of knowing.”

That again. I shook my head. “I’m not—”

“Trust your gifts, Arabella, whatever they might be. Sometimes a gift requires great sacrifice, but we can no more turn our backs on it than will our hearts not to beat.”

I hardened my expression to stone. I wouldn’t be pushed.

He leaned back in his chair, loosely crossing one leg over the other—not a pious priestly pose. “Did you know the Guard is marching on the upper highway?” he asked. “Two thousand troops being moved to the southern border.”

“Today?” I said. “During the high holy days?”

He nodded. “Today.”

I looked away and traced the scrolled line in the arm of the chair with my finger. This wasn’t a simple rotation of troops. That many soldiers weren’t deployed, especially during the holy days, unless concerns were real. I recalled what Walther had said, Marauders have been creating all manner of bedlam. But he’d also said, We’ll keep them out. We always do.

Walther had been confident. Surely the moving of troops was only a preemptive strategy. More chest-beating, as Walther would call it. The numbers and timing were unusual, but with Father trying to save face with Dalbreck, he might be shaking his power in their faces like a fist. Two thousand troops was a formidable fist.

I stood. “So the book is mine to take?”

He smiled. “Yes.”

That was it? Just yes? He was far too cooperative. Nothing came that easy. I raised a brow. “And where do we stand?”

A small chuckle escaped from his lips. He stood so we were eye to eye. “If you mean will I report your presence, the answer is no.”

“Why? It could be construed as treason.”