Vespertine (Vespertine #1)(61)

It took him three tries to hang it. Afterward he slumped against the wall, his face blank with pain. He pressed an unsteady hand to his side. When he drew it away, blood shone red on his fingers. His harsh breathing was the only sound in the corridor.

His hand tightened into a fist. Slowly, he straightened to his full height. He stood for a moment with his eyes closed, almost as though praying. Then he lifted the skirts of his robes and wiped the blood from his fingers. When he set off, only a slight limp betrayed his injury. He stepped over the unconscious sister without looking down.

It struck me as his footsteps receded up the stair that if I had only seen him then, I wouldn’t have been able to guess that he was injured, such was the skill of his acting.

“He’s growing reckless,” the revenant observed.

Attacking a sister was a risky move. The curists had already noticed the change in his behavior. Either his actions were growing desperate, or he was so close to executing his plans that he cared less about discovery. Neither possibility boded well.

I waited a moment longer before I snuck out and took down the other lantern—the one Leander hadn’t touched. Before I entered, I glanced over my shoulder. The corridor lay empty behind me, the half-smiling statues gazing silently into the dark.

All other thoughts fled after I closed the door and raised the lantern. Its light trickled over a dusty confusion of jewels, gold, carved chests, books bound in leather. Some were arranged on shelves, others piled unceremoniously in the corners. An iron chandelier the size of a cartwheel hung overhead, frozen waterfalls of wax cascading from its unlit candles.

“Stop gaping like a peasant,” the revenant said. “This is nothing. You should see the vault in Chantclere; you can get lost in it.”

I lifted the lantern higher. “There’s an entire suit of armor down here.”

“That isn’t just armor. That’s a dreadnought.”

I picked my way over, interested. The armor had been fashioned for a true giant, a man Jean’s size. Though crusted black with tarnish, the intricate engravings on the metal still showed through. The ball of a mace sat on the ground beside it, attached to the chain and hilt of a flail. The ball’s spikes almost reached my knees. Even for someone of near-inhuman strength, I wasn’t sure its weight would be possible to wield in battle. “Was that a type of knight?”

“No one wore it. It’s a construct animated by Old Magic. It walked around on its own with no one inside. Don’t worry, nun,” it said at my reaction. I hadn’t moved a muscle, but my heart had almost stopped. “It’s an antique. It’s been inert for centuries. Do you see that small hole in the center of its breastplate? The key that belongs there is carried by the human who controls it. Doubtless it got lost hundreds of years ago.”

I swallowed, sweeping the lantern’s light around, seeing the room’s contents anew. The light fell on a silver reliquary shaped like a hand, the base decorated with seed pearls to resemble the edge of a lace sleeve. I had heard of a reliquary like that—the one containing the hand of Saint Victoria. Rarely for a saint, she had left a whole hand behind intact, its withered skin and fingernails still attached. According to legend, it bound a fury so violent and maddened that no one could control it after her death.

This wasn’t a treasury. It was a room where dangerous things, forbidden things, were locked away.

I tore my gaze from the glittering objects before I could recognize anything else. Leander had left with a piece of parchment. I went over to inspect the books, setting my lantern down nearby. They were piled together in a heap, a tangle of chains securing them to the shelves.

The wealth they represented was staggering. The scriptorium in Naimes had only a handful of books like these, with leather covers and gilt flashing on their spines. Most had been scrolls or sheafs of sewn-together parchment. I had learned my letters by copying them, stooped over a desk trying to force crabbed shapes from my scarred hands under Sister Lucinde’s patient instruction. To have been exiled down here, left in a haphazard pile despite their worth, these books had to be brimming with heresy.

Shiny fingerprints marked the dust on the covers. It wasn’t hard to identify the volume Leander had handled. When I lifted it, its chain rattled unexpectedly loudly in the silence, and I froze; but after a moment’s waiting, I heard no answering sound from the corridor outside.

I could tell even in the dim light that the book was old. Its cracked, flaking cover showed patches of fabric beneath the leather, and when I opened it, it smelled as musty as the inside of Saint Eugenia’s reliquary. But to my surprise, it wasn’t filled with unsettling diagrams or dark incantations. It seemed to be a list of items.

Year of Our Lady 1154, I read. A gold-plated candelabra, fashioned in the shape of lilies, set with three rubies and eight sapphires, gifted to the Cathedral of Bonsaint by the Archdivine. I turned the pages, frowning. More descriptions of precious objects awaited me, relics and paintings and altar cloths embroidered with thread of gold.

“This is a record of treasures bequeathed to the cathedral.” What was it doing down here? I flipped onward until I came to the empty space where the missing page had been, the vellum cut near the binding.

“Interesting,” the revenant said. “I think the priest might be looking for an artifact.” It hesitated. “Nun, do you remember what I told you about the shackles in the harrow?”