Vespertine (Vespertine #1)(97)

My head was pounding, my stomach a sour knot of terror and fury. An image assaulted me of the city going up in a pillar of silver flame, the soul of every soldier and cleric and civilian in Bonsaint extinguished like candles, blazing so brightly that even the holy sisters in Chantclere would turn their eyes northward in fear. No one would be able to touch us then—not the Clerisy, not Sarathiel. My fingers tightened on the pew’s back until the wood splintered.

Once, I had believed that this was what the revenant wanted. Now I felt the trembling in my arms and knew that it was afraid. I wasn’t sure what to do, but I reached out anyway—a silent offer to take over again, like an extended hand. The revenant hesitated. Then, in a grateful rush, it withdrew.

The next breath that I drew in was a breath at my command. Experimentally, I tried turning my head to look at the clerics on the balcony, and my body obeyed.

Their expressions of dread turned to confusion. A ripple of relief passed through the cathedral. They could no longer sense the revenant.

“They can’t sense Sarathiel, either,” the revenant said, its presence inside me a roiling tangle of emotions. “It’s hiding itself. It will try to impersonate the priest.”

Nearby, the Divine had succeeded in drawing Leander to his feet, though he was still leaning heavily against her. “Confessor Leander is unharmed!” she called out. “He will—he will recover from the attack. Bring the shackles of Saint Augustin, quickly. Artemisia of Naimes—” She broke off, listening as Leander murmured something against her breast. Then she finished, “Artemisia cannot control Saint Eugenia’s relic.”

I wondered what he had said to her—or rather, what Sarathiel had said to her. Clerics scattered at once to do her bidding.

In the following hush I grew aware of a dull, muted rumble, like the crashing of surf against a distant shore. It was coming from the candlelit crowd gathered outside the cathedral’s doors. Their movements were restless, threatening to press inside. They were beginning to chant a word. At first I couldn’t make out what it was, but a familiar cadence emerged as more voices joined in and the rhythm strengthened, thrumming through the chapel like a pulse.

“Artemisia. Artemisia. Artemisia.”

The wind shifted direction, blowing in a gust of night air that smelled of smoke and sweat and the wild places beyond the city, untouched by humankind. And with it came a dangerous energy, the unleashed violence of a building storm. I felt it prickling across my skin; I could almost taste it. The hair stood up on my arms.

“Artemisia. Artemisia! Artemisia!”

“Close the doors!” ordered the Divine, wide-eyed.

Guards scrambled to obey, dimming the noise to a muffled thunder. The bar fell into place with a reverberating thud that reminded me of the day the thralls had attacked in Naimes. Then, the doors hadn’t succeeded in holding back the Dead. I wondered if they would hold back the living now.

I didn’t dare try speaking to the revenant. There were too many people watching me; they might see my lips move. All of them ignorant of how close they were to death, trapped inside the cathedral with an unbound Fifth Order spirit. I felt as though I were an open flame held aloft beside dry kindling. One wrong move could ignite everything.

The Divine worriedly touched Leander’s cheek, smoothed back his hair. He tolerated this for a moment, then looked at me. No—it looked at me. Leander’s face appeared the same, but something dead and ruined and ancient gazed out from within his eyes. He stepped toward me, the Divine clutching at his arm.

“We must not kill her,” the Divine whispered. “You promised there would be no more killing. What did you do to my sacristan? When I moved the casket’s lid for you—”

Leander’s expression was implacable, serene. “One life. That was all I required. And he was old, Gabrielle. I could sense his strength ebbing—he wouldn’t have lived out the winter. He would have made the sacrifice himself if he had known the truth.”

“That I am your destined vessel,” she said, her face lighting.

“It is the Lady’s will,” it agreed tranquilly.

“Very well. But we won’t harm Artemisia.”

“Of course not,” Sarathiel soothed. “We only need Saint Eugenia’s relic, and then she will no longer be a danger to you.” It turned to me. “Give me the reliquary.”

“I don’t have it.”

Sarathiel regarded me with mild surprise, as though it hadn’t expected me to prove capable of speech. “Where is it?”

“I don’t know.”

With the Divine anxiously looking on, he began to search me—it did, I reminded myself, as Leander’s elegant hands smoothed down my tunic, lifted my hair as though it were an animal’s tail to check beneath. This was just Leander’s body, a vessel, his mind locked away as a prisoner inside. I wondered if his consciousness was buried too deeply to be aware of what was happening, or if he was watching, feeling every touch.

Sarathiel finished and stepped back. It didn’t appear angry or disappointed to have not found the reliquary. A trembling lector returned with the shackles, made his obeisance to the Divine, and then stared at me uncertainly. I obviously wasn’t what he had expected of Artemisia of Naimes. I wondered what he had envisioned—someone older, or more beautiful.

The chain had been removed, but they were unmistakably the shackles I had worn in the harrow. While the cuffs had been left warped and scorched by my escape, they still appeared functional. I instinctively stiffened, prepared to resist.