Shadow Scale: A Companion to Seraphina(125)

I shuddered at his matter-of-factness, but Nedouard merely opened the unguent pot beside the pewter basin, took up a horsehair paintbrush, and began slathering salve onto his scales.

Surely I would know if Blanche had died. Surely the bit of mind-fire I had taken into my garden would dissipate.

Nedouard continued, “Blanche took my advice, for what it was worth, and when the Saint—as Jannoula calls herself—came knocking on my door, I welcomed her in.”

Why would you do that? I asked, horrified.

He was silent for a moment as he oiled his scales. “I’d hoped,” he said at last, buttoning his shirt, “that I might find a way to free Blanche from the inside, but I don’t have the requisite mental abilities. The best I can say for myself is that I’m so boring and cooperative that Jannoula pays little attention to me. There are plenty of others drawing her energies elsewhere.”

He pulled a leather satchel from under the table. “I can’t free anyone with my mind, but I still have some hope of influencing her. Maybe she can be reasoned with, talked into releasing everyone. To that end, I’ve been studying her mental state. I’ve never met anyone like her. She’s missing some basic qualities—empathy, caring—but she mirrors them to manipulate people. I’d hoped to find a way toward rehabilitating her, but she’s so broken.…” He shrugged bleakly.

You don’t think she can be? I asked. I did not even want to entertain that idea; if she couldn’t be saved, then my guilt was preserved for the ages, like an ant in amber.

“That’s not exactly it,” he said. “It’s that the more hurt she causes, the less I want to save her. Some days I argue with myself about the true meaning of my physician’s oath. Is a net good near enough to no harm?”

He had been rummaging in his bag as he spoke. He pulled out a vial and swirled its oily contents meaningfully. “Can I bring myself to poison her? So far the answer is no, but it’s my conscience in the balance against Blanche’s ceaseless pain, Dame Okra’s truncated personality, and the comatose old priest.

“When Jannoula made Gianni throw Camba down the stairs, I was close to killing her,” he whispered. “So close. I wish I weren’t such a coward.”

I could barely find my voice. Did you say Camba?

He apprehended my tone at once. “Oh, Seraphina,” he said, his shoulders slumping sorrowfully. “You wouldn’t have heard. The Porphyrians are all here. Everyone but Abdo.”





This news upset me so much that I dropped his tiny avatar like a hot ember and the vision winked out. I was on my knees in the mud of my minuscule garden, gasping for breath.

The Porphyrians hadn’t intended to come. They would have resisted. I felt sick, thinking how Jannoula must have accomplished this.

But why wouldn’t Abdo be here, and did “comatose old priest” refer to Paulos Pende? The dream came back to me, wherein I thought I’d seen Abdo dive from a wagon and Pende fall down dead. Had it been more vision than dream? I wasn’t sure whether to seek out the answer with eagerness or dread.

I would surely attract Jannoula’s notice, but I had to look in on everyone. I had to see for myself where everyone was and what Jannoula had done to them. I started with the white-haired Porphyrian singer, stubby-limbed Brasidas, taking up his avatar and letting my eye look out upon the world. He was in a place I recognized from my student days, the Odeon of St. Ida’s Conservatory, giving a public performance. The seats were packed with astonished townspeople; his eerie voice filled the domed hall.

I lingered a moment, entranced by the beauty of his singing, then recalled that he was not the only one I needed to check on. I forced myself onward and found Phloxia the lawyer in St. Loola’s Square, standing on the base of the statue and speaking in a thunderous voice. Her crowd was even bigger than Brasidas’s. The sinking sun tinted her face an orangey bronze.

“You are right to wonder, Lavondaville!” she cried, her enormous mouth wobbling. “If the Saints were half-dragons, why did they write such fiery polemics against dragons and half-dragons alike? Why didn’t they tell us what they were?”

Around her the crowd murmured, echoing her questions, their faces intent.

“The Saints did not record their origins because they were afraid,” Phloxia announced. “They were strangers in this land. Goredd appreciated their help, but memory is short and suspicion runs deep. Who among you has not felt bias in your hearts toward those who were different? The Saints bore the burden of human prejudice every day.

“They forbade interbreeding because they did not want another generation of ityasaari to suffer as they had suffered. They were trying to take mercy on the future, but we see now that this was an overreaction. Half-dragons are not the monsters you were led to believe, but Heaven’s own children.”

Phloxia’s speech was as enthralling as Brasidas’s music. She must have been formidable in the Porphyrian courts of law. But where had she learned Southlander theology, and what was she doing? Preaching? Was this how Jannoula made converts?

As I began to withdraw from the vision, something across the square caught my eye: a three-story mural, unfinished but recognizable, of St. Jannoula herself. The eyes, in particular, were huge, green, and so kindly the heart within me melted a little. The painter was nowhere to be seen, but I had no doubt whatsoever who she was.