Vespertine (Vespertine #1)(112)

He lay on a bed, his slender hands resting across his stomach, as elegant and still as a marble effigy carved on a sarcophagus. He was dressed in a plain linen nightgown instead of his confessor’s robes. Most startlingly of all, his hair had turned completely white. It lay curled on the pillow around his head, emphasizing his sharp cheekbones and austere brow. His pale skin held the translucency of alabaster.

“He has only woken briefly,” one brother informed me, wringing his hands. “There is little that can be done for him, except to make him comfortable.”

I hesitated, taking in his spectral appearance. I had assumed him dead; I had never imagined he might have survived Sarathiel’s destruction, not after the torments his body had endured that day. Even now he looked as though he were lingering within the gates of Death, transforming into a spirit before my eyes.

My throat tightened. I wished he had died swiftly instead of suffering this drawn-out fate, and yet I was grateful to see him again, a feeling that startled me with its painful, punishing intensity—like swallowing a draught of water and finding that it burned instead of quenched.

Seeing my expression, the brothers made their excuses and hurried away. I found a stool and dragged it to Leander’s bedside. Then I waited.

The sun slid across the floorboards and onto the wall before his eyes opened. Unsurprised by my presence, he gazed up at me with the calm fatalism of the dying. I had started to get used to his appearance by then, but it came as a new shock to see his white eyelashes against the vivid green of his eyes. They looked like they were coated in snow.

“This dream again,” he murmured breathlessly. “My favorite.”

“What dream is that?” My voice sounded hoarse.

“The one in which Saint Artemisia stands over me in judgment.”

“I told you, I’m not a saint.”

“Even in my dreams,” he said softly, “you never cease arguing with me.” He said this in distant wonderment, as though it were a quality he admired. “But you must realize… if you weren’t one before… you are now. Not just a saint, but a high saint. One of the seven.”

“Technically, he’s right,” the revenant commented into the void that followed this remark. “Saint Agnes didn’t destroy Sarathiel. You did.”

Leander blinked. Frowned. “Have I been praying to you? Is that why you’re here?”

“This isn’t a dream.” My throat was dry. “You’re awake.”

His eyes narrowed, struggling to bring me into focus. “No,” he decided. “The real Artemisia wouldn’t be here.”

At that, an emotion close to anger prickled hot across my skin. My chest ached. It wasn’t fair of him to make me feel sorry for him. He didn’t deserve my pity. “Stop dying,” I told him.

A faint smile touched his lips. “Is that all?” he asked softly.

I remembered what the old curist had said in the convent, and realized there was another thing I wanted to know—especially since this might be my last chance to ask. “What happened to your brother?”

“Ah,” Leander said. His eyes drifted shut. He didn’t answer for so long that I thought he had lapsed back into sleep. Then he murmured, “The view from the battlements of Chantclere, overlooking the sea… it’s a very good place to think. My favorite place, in fact. Gabriel went up there during last year’s feast of Saint Theodosia. He jumped. I never found out why.”

Silence reigned between us, filled with the soft rasp of Leander’s breathing. I thought of the prayer book’s dedication. I’ll see you soon.

When he spoke again, I had to lean closer to hear. “In the cathedral, I meant to say… when I used Saint Liliane’s relic on you in Naimes, to hurt you, I had only been ordained as a confessor for a few months. It was my first time using it that way. I didn’t predict that it would be quite so…”

“Painful?” I suggested. “Cruel? I know you aren’t sorry. You’ve used it on plenty of people since.”

“I don’t expect your forgiveness. In fact, it would be better if…” He briefly seemed to lose the thought. He turned his head aside, blinked a few times, and then picked up the thread, “As I told you, one can’t like oneself in order to be a confessor.”

I shook my head, disgusted. “All those people you hurt—you did it to help control the penitent?”

“When you put it that way… but no.” Bitterness hardened his tone, turning his words as sharp and brittle as broken glass. “I did it so they wouldn’t slow me down. A necessary means to an end. I believed the Lady wouldn’t send anyone to help, and if I wanted to stop the disaster in Roischal, I would have to do it myself, alone. But She sent you. And you accomplished in weeks what I had been striving to accomplish for months. You succeeded where I failed.”

His hand moved slightly on the coverlet. I noticed for the first time that his fingers were bare. He no longer wore the relic of Saint Liliane.

“Do you truly want my judgment?” I asked.

That caught his attention. His gaze had grown clearer, sharper. I wondered if he had realized that he was awake, but his eyes held a fevered intensity that I doubted he would let me witness if he thought this was real instead of a dream. “Yes,” he answered, very quietly, so quietly I could barely hear.