Irreligious elements. Nina savored the words. G?fvalle had been the first step, the first miracle she’d staged, when Leoni and Adrik had saved the village from poison unleashed from the factory. It had been irresponsible, utterly imprudent—and it had worked like a charm. She had learned the practice of deception from Kaz Brekker himself, and there was no greater teacher. Two Grisha—a Fabrikator and an Etherealnik—had saved those villagers. A miracle? No, just good people trained to use their gifts, willing to expose themselves to persecution and worse for the sake of saving a town. Two people who were now worshipped as Saints in the dark corners and candlelit kitchens of G?fvalle. Sankt Adrik the Uneven and Sankta Leoni of the Waters.
“What does this have to do with our daughter?” demanded Brum.
“In the course of searching the convent we came across all manner of contraband, including painted icons and heathen prayer books.”
“Surely they are just young,” said Ylva. “I rebelled too when I was that age. It was how I ended up married to a drüskelle.”
Nina felt an unexpected pang at the warm look Brum and his wife shared. Ylva was Hedjut, considered one of the divine people of the north, from the lost coastline near Kenst Hjerte, the Broken Heart. Had she been like Hanne in her youth—driven by stubborn spirit? Full of love for the land and the open sky? Had Jarl Brum, the military boy from the capital, seemed mysterious and alien? Nina had assumed that Brum had always been a monster, but maybe he’d grown into one.
“We cannot think that way,” said Brum. “These influences must be rooted out before they take hold or all of Fjerda will lose its way.”
The Wellmother nodded. “I couldn’t agree more, Commander Brum. That is why I’m here.”
Ylva sat forward, her face stricken. “Are you saying these items were found in Hanne’s quarters?”
“We found men’s riding clothes stashed beneath the slate tiles in the chapel. Also, prayer beads and an icon of Sankta Vasilka.”
Sankta Vasilka. Patron saint of unwed women. She was a Ravkan Saint, said to have become the first firebird.
“That cannot be,” said Brum, stepping in front of Hanne as if to protect her. “Hanne has had her wilder moments. But she would never give herself over to the worship of abomination.”
“Never,” whispered Hanne fervently, and no one could doubt the look of sincerity on her face.
Nina tried not to smile. Hanne would never worship a Grisha because she damn well was one, a Healer forced to hide her powers but who still found ways to use them to help people.
The Wellmother’s lips pursed. “Then perhaps you think I traveled all this way to tell fanciful tales.”
The room was silent except for the crackle of the fire. Nina could feel the fear radiating off Ylva, the anger that came from Brum—and the uncertainty in both of them too. They knew Hanne had been disobedient in the past. But how far had she gone? Nina wasn’t sure herself.
Hanne took a deep breath. “The riding clothes were mine.”
Damn it, Hanne. What had Nina said? Deny everything.
“Oh Hanne,” Ylva cried, pressing her fingertips to her temples.
Brum’s face flushed red.
But Hanne stepped forward, her chin held high, radiant with the pride and rigid will she’d inherited from her father. “I’m not ashamed.” The sound of her voice was pure and certain. Her eyes met Nina’s, glanced away again. “I didn’t know who I was then or what I wanted. Now I know where I want to be. Here with you.”
Ylva stood and took Hanne’s hand. “And the icons? The prayer beads?”
“I don’t know anything about them,” Hanne said without hesitation.
“Were they found with Hanne’s riding clothes?” Nina asked, taking a chance.
“No,” the Wellmother admitted. “They were not.”
Ylva drew Hanne close. “I’m proud of your honesty.”
“Wellmother,” said Brum, his voice icy, “you may have the ear of Djel, but so do the drüskelle. You will think more carefully the next time you come to my home to accuse my daughter.”
The Wellmother rose. She looked indomitable, not remotely chastened by Brum’s words. “I serve the spiritual well-being of this country,” she said. “The Apparat, a heathen priest, is beneath this roof. I have heard tales of heathen worship in this very town. I will not be swayed in my mission. Still,” she said, and smoothed the woolen skirts of her pinafore, “I am glad Hanne has finally found her way. I will hear her confession before I go.”