Vespertine (Vespertine #1)(72)
I had heard about this festival custom, but seeing it firsthand made me uneasy. I supposed that for most people, mocking their fear made it seem weaker. The more they laughed at it, the less power it held over them. But that had never been my experience with the Dead.
The revenant was watching too, its attention focused on the stage. “Nun, that human has the Sight.”
“The beggar?” I asked in surprise.
Charles leaned over to see if there was someone sitting on my other side. “Who are you talking to?” he asked, puzzled, when he found the space empty. The group of girls sitting next to us—oddly, they had been lurking nearby ever since we had joined up with Charles—all erupted nonsensically into giggles.
“I’m praying,” I lied.
“Oh.” He raised his eyebrows. “That’s, ah—very pious of you.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” Marguerite assured him, her eyes sparkling. “Back in Montprestre she used to pray over the goats every morning, wearing a hair shirt, kneeling in the cold.”
Charles nearly choked on his pastry. Gravely, I signed myself.
“Yes, the beggar,” the revenant said, waiting impatiently for us to finish. “In places where the risk of possession is low, it isn’t as uncommon as you might think. Your Clerisy can’t round up everyone with the Sight. The humans who escape their notice typically live like this one, pretending to be mad. That way no one will think twice if they seem to see and hear things that aren’t there.”
I stole a glance at Marguerite. I had never seen her so happy. She reminded me of the healed patients in the infirmary, revived from the brink of death. She was right—she wasn’t suited for the life of a nun. That had been obvious from the moment I’d met her. But then why had the Lady given her the Sight? Why give it to the man on the stage? And what kind of future awaited her now? These questions troubled me long after we left the stage behind.
I recognized one of the streets we took on our way to the square; it was the narrow, winding avenue where the procession had passed my first day in Bonsaint. Now it was lined with stalls selling festival food. A puppet show occupied the archway that Charles and I had crammed into, the Raven’s King puppet wailing in cowardly despair as the puppeteer pelted him with cloth ravens. Children’s laughter rang in my ears.
Suddenly, the festival’s bright colors seemed garish. The good cheer felt artificial, as though everyone had to keep celebrating, or else the horrors of the countryside would darken their doors. Sister Lucinde had once claimed that nothing bad ever happened on a high holy day. Soon I would find out whether she’d been telling the truth.
“Nun, we’re getting closer to the ritual site. I think the pull is coming from that building in the distance. The one with the spires.”
I followed the tug on my gaze to a collection of spires rising above the rooftops, their shapes nearly lost in the glare of the late-afternoon sun. They were the same spires I had been dizzied by upon my entrance to Bonsaint. Standing still for a moment, I felt it too—the insistent tug of the invisible string urging me in that direction.
Charles noticed me looking. Squinting, he shaded his eyes with his hand. “Have you seen the cathedral yet?”
“The what?” I asked stupidly.
“The Cathedral of Saint Agnes. It’s the second biggest in Loraille, after Saint Theodosia’s in Chantclere. There are seven spires, one for each high saint. Anne?”
The realization had hit me like a bucket of cold water. The cathedral’s sanctuary. The seven tall shapes in the vision had been stained-glass windows; the white plinth below them….
Leander was conducting his rituals at the altar.
I should have realized it earlier, but the idea was so profane I could barely wrap my head around it even now.
“Anne?” Charles repeated, concerned.
“I forgot!” Marguerite exclaimed loudly. “How could I forget? Anne always gets sick when she eats mushrooms.” She grabbed my sleeve and turned me around, mouthing, What’s wrong?
“I’ll tell you later,” I muttered. There wasn’t anything we could do about it now, and Charles was hovering, looking concerned. At least I didn’t have to fake my unhealthy pallor.
I saw the effigy first as we neared the square, a straw figure towering high above the crowd, its face shaped into a rough approximation of human features and the top of its head worked into a crown. The low sun lit it gold against a windy sky torn with clouds. As a representation of the Raven King, it was intended to look sinister, but something about this one’s appearance made my skin crawl. In Naimes, the effigy we used was only about the size of a novice. It had always struck me as looking a little forlorn, as though it knew the fate that awaited it. This one looked like it was waiting to be worshipped.
Charles whistled at the sight of it. “That’s the biggest one yet.”
The ravens had already gathered, numbering in so many hundreds that they looked like a living black cloth draped over the rooftops. They flapped and croaked above the crowd, animated by the excitement in the air.
The buildings’ chilly shadows fell over us as we entered the crowd. Without everyone catching sight of Jean and hastily moving out of our way, I wasn’t sure how we could have gotten through. People were packed into every inch of space, even perched on the statue of Saint Agnes in the center of the square, laughing and eating festival food, pointing at the ravens.