Shadow Scale: A Companion to Seraphina(28)

After a quick word with Moy, Josquin led us through the sunny streets toward the riverside, the likeliest place for a church dedicated to the Lady of Waters. The Eight quarreled merrily about whether to turn upstream or down, until Nan cried out and pointed. The church was north, upstream, in sight.

As we approached, I noted that the facade was like nothing I had ever seen, a cacophony of helical columns, curly stone acanthus leaves, Saints in carved niches, gilded shells, and twisted marble ribbons. It was too busy to be beautiful, at least by Goreddi standards.

This church has wiggly eyebrows, said Abdo, tracing the undulating cornices in the air. And fish.

St. Fionnuala brings rain, I said. Hence the watery facade.

The inside also dripped with ornamentation, made more bearable by semidarkness; candlelight reflected off gilt surfaces on the ceiling, columns, and statuary. Only Josquin, Abdo, and I entered, so as not to overwhelm the priest. Our boots upon the marble floor made the vaulted chamber ring with echoes.

My eyes adjusted, and then I saw, illuminated with indirect sunlight, the mural above the altar. Josquin caught his breath and whispered, “Santi Merdi!” St. Fionnuala gazed steadily back at us, her eyes clear and compassionate, her magnanimous face unearthly and yet solidly real. Her pale green hair flowed past her shoulders, becoming a river at her feet. Her gown was shimmering water flowing over abundant earth. She seemed about to speak; we stood stock-still, as if awaiting her utterance.

“Benevenedo des Celeshti, amini!” said a voice to our right, making us jump. A tall, stooped priest emerged from the shadows, his white beard and robe catching the light eerily. St. Fionnuala’s waves in gold filigree adorned his mantle.

Josquin piously kissed a knuckle, like we do in Goredd. I followed suit. Abdo didn’t bother, but bounded up to examine the contents of a clay dish the priest held in his knobby hands.

“Yes, you should try those,” said Josquin, smiling at Abdo’s quizzical look. Abdo took what appeared to be a snail-shaped pastry, sticky with syrup. “Santi Fionani’s shells,” Josquin explained. “Quite a delicacy in the Pinabra.”

Abdo took a bite, his eyes bulging. He swallowed and took another bite, his mouth puckering. Phina madamina, you should try one, he said. No questions. Eat. He plucked a sticky roll off the dish and shoved it into my hands. The priest beamed and said something in Ninysh. Josquin nodded, watching my face as I bit into the pastry.

It wasn’t sweet. It tasted bitterly, fiercely, unmistakably of pine.

I didn’t dare spit it out. Abdo gave up trying to hold in his silent laughter; Josquin and the priest exchanged a few amused words. “I told him you’re Goreddi,” said Josquin. “And he told me you have no cuisine worth eating in Goredd.”

“Pine buns are cuisine?” I tried to scrape resin off my teeth with my tongue.

“Get used to that flavor. It’s all over the Pinabra,” said Josquin, grinning at me.

“Ask him about his muralist,” I said crossly, gesturing at the painting.

Josquin conferred quietly with the priest. The last of my pine bun somehow ended up under the altar; I’m sure it made some church mice happy. I clasped my sticky hands behind my back and examined the mural closely. The painter had signed her name in the bottom corner: Od Fredricka des Uurne.

I waited for a lull in the conversation, then pointed out the signature to Josquin.

“Od is a title from the archipelagoes. It means ‘great,’ ” said Josquin. “She’s a modest sort, clearly. She’s been commissioned to paint a Santi Jobirti next, as you thought. It’s at Vaillou, quite deep in the forest. You’ll be eating pine a long time.”

I rolled my eyes at Josquin, bowed respectfully to the priest, and kissed my knuckle toward Heaven. Josquin left something in the offering box.

Outdoors, noon glared unbearably off the river and the plastered walls. There was only one step down from the church door, and we all stumbled over it, even Abdo.

Is Vaillou very far? Abdo asked.

Josquin said it’s deep in the forest. I take that as a yes, I said. Why?

Abdo shielded his eyes with one hand and pointed east across the river with the other. Because I see an ityasaari’s mind just over there. Not far away at all.





We pursued this unexpected mind-fire, crossing the stone causeway over the wide, shallow river. Abdo rode ahead, the Eight close on his heels, chattering excitedly together. “They’re intrigued by his ability to see minds,” Josquin interpreted for me. “They think it would be useful.”

It would be useful to me as well; I tried not to feel sour about it, but turned my own mind toward who this might be. Not the painter. Had we stumbled across hermetic Glimmerghost?

The neighborhoods across the river were more village than town, not as dense, well kept, or paved as those in western Meshi. The houses looked hastily built. “The miners live on this side,” Josquin explained, pointing to men trudging homeward, coated head to toe in yellow sulfur dust. We passed the miners’ taverns and grocers. Their dogs ran in semi-feral packs, chased by their wholly feral children.

Abdo led us past the village, off the main road, and up a sandy track into the pines. Between the tall trees and the low shrubs, there was no middle layer of foliage. I could see a long way through the endless colonnade of plumb-line-straight reddish brown tree trunks. The soil showed yellow between gnarled roots.