Shadow Scale: A Companion to Seraphina(147)

I glanced around. Abdo was certainly not here, but then the creature seemed to have no eyes. He saw mind-fire—or the lack of it—but how? With his mind? Maybe it was hard to judge distances.

“You aren’t … St. Pandowdy from the Age of Saints?” I asked, still looking around in case Abdo stepped out from behind a shrub.

Am I not? The ground pulsed rhythmically. Was he laughing? Some have called me Saint. My mother called me All Ugly. I have lain here for centuries.

A breeze rustled the yellowing witch hazel leaves above me and chilled me through my wet clothes. This creature was truly ancient; it was difficult to fathom. I managed to say, “I need your help.”

I don’t think so, he rumbled.

“Pandowdy!” I cried, for he seemed about to submerge. “A lot of people and dragons are going to die. Jannoula wants—”

I know what Jannoula wants, he said, lolling in the water. But how do you think I can help, Seraphina? Shall I come to your city and kill her?

I didn’t see how he could do that—he seemed to have no limbs—but he was a living Saint from the Age of Saints. That had to be worth something.

He was answering his own question: Humans, dragons, Saints. Geologic eras. They come and go. I am done with killing. Time does the job for me.

“I don’t need a killer,” I said, thinking quickly. “But maybe an ally, a voice of authority. Someone to convince the armies to stand down until Jannoula can be …”

I see, he growled. You’ve come for the peacemaking Saint, not the murderous monster. Alas, that works no better: I never asked to be a Saint. I was never good at it. Do you really suppose anyone would believe I—all gruff and muddy—was anything special? That they’d listen?

“I don’t know what else to try,” I said, my voice heavy with frustration. “I can’t seem to release my powers, and I can’t stop Jannoula alone.”

The breeze carried a tang of smoke from the Queenswood. The monster bobbed in his pond like some moldy tortoise. You’re right, he said at last, you can’t do it alone, which is why it’s peculiar that you take such pains to be alone. Your fortress is cleverly constructed, but you have outgrown it. When I grow too large, I shed my skin. This is why I have lived so long, Seraphina. I’m still growing.

“So you’re not going to help,” I said, unable to keep the bitterness from my voice.

I already have, he said. You seem not to have noticed.

A pearlescent gray was growing in the sky behind the mountains. Another day of fighting would soon begin. I tried one last tack despairingly: “St. Yirtrudis is my psalter Saint. I’ve read her testament; I know what you were to each other. If ever you loved her, I beg you in her name—”

He thrashed in the water, emitting a rumble so low it was not a sound but an earthquake. The ground bucked, yanking my feet from under me, and I landed hard on my hip in the mud.

I told you, he roared, I am no Saint!

“You’re a monster, retired from killing,” I said waspishly. “I know.”

You do not know. You cannot begin to know, he thundered. His voice seemed to echo off the very mountains, and yet I was sure it sounded only in my head. When you have lain in mud for six hundred years, perhaps you can claim something resembling knowledge.

I pushed myself back to standing, my breath hard and ragged. I had nothing else to say to the creature. My impious father might have shrugged and knowingly asked when the Saints ever lifted a finger for anybody.

This one wouldn’t even consent to be a monster.

I had to find a way to be monster enough for both of us.



I walked away from him, despairing and out of ideas. I’d lost Abdo’s trail, the armies would be awake and at each other’s throats again soon, and I was wet and miserable. The last was the only one I could do anything about at the moment. I found a fallen log to sit on and opened the satchel Alberdt had sent with me to see if he’d thought to pack dry stockings.

He hadn’t. Instead, I found a little parcel wrapped in cloth, the birthday present Kiggs had handed me what seemed like an age ago. It must have fallen out of the sleeve of my white gown when I’d changed clothes.

It was my birthday, I realized with a start. I unwrapped the gift with trembling fingers. He’d said the thought would have to count, but at first I couldn’t tell what he’d been thinking. The prince had given me a gilt-framed round mirror the size of my palm. What was I to do with this? Check my teeth for spinach?

The frame had words engraved in it. The moon was sinking behind the western hills, stealing my light away, but I finally discerned Seraphina along the top, and I see you along the bottom.

I see you.

I laughed and then I wept. I could barely see myself in this tiny mirror, my mind-fire was shut off from the rest of the world, and Jannoula had taken everything I hoped for and twisted it to her own purposes. It was all wrong, all backward, and I couldn’t even see my way clear of it to …

An idea was beginning to form. It was all backward: Saint, Counter-Saint. Was there a way to reflect her light back at her?

I fished in my bag for the gown I’d changed out of. Its hem was filthy, but it would look sufficiently white in the morning twilight. I pulled it out hand over hand and then drew out the sword. It wasn’t a very long sword, but it was going to have to do.

I had exactly one idea, and it involved reaching the center of the battlefield before either side struck. With the sword in one hand and the damp, clingy gown in the other, I walked and then ran. I’m no runner, but months of riding and travel had increased my endurance. Once I came to the road, it was smooth going, my squelching boots notwithstanding.