Shadow Scale: A Companion to Seraphina(34)

Below, everyone had settled in for a light supper. Josquin sprang up to hold the bottom of the ladder steady; I took his hand and leaped down onto the carpet of pine needles. “She’s not coming,” I said loudly, preempting the inevitable questions.

“Sit. Eat,” said Josquin gently, directing me toward Abdo. “You look shattered.”

Nan handed me bread and cheese, her brows drawn in concern.

“That crooked mountain to the east,” I said, nodding thanks. “How long would it take to get there?”

“Three days’ ride,” said Moy, sitting up straighter. “It’s called Pashiagol, the Mad Goat’s Horn. I grew up in its shadow.”

“There isn’t time for a detour,” said Josquin, darting his gaze between us. “Dame Okra said six weeks; you have a tight schedule in Samsam.”

“I know, but there’s an ityasaari on that mountain,” I said. “I hadn’t realized he was Ninysh.”

“If we ride hard, we might make it in two,” Moy piped up. “Then you’re only four days behind schedule. You can make that up in Samsam, I should think.”

Josquin threw up his hands. “As long as you don’t leave me to bear my cousin’s wrath alone,” he said, “I am at everyone’s service. Let us detour through Donques.”

I started in on my bread, surprised at how hungry I was. Abdo sidled closer and leaned his cheek against my shoulder. I met his canny gaze.

You’re disappointed, he said.

Chastened, more like, I said, picking a pine needle off my cheese. I see where I was lying to myself.

He nodded gravely and shifted his eyes toward the monastery. She’s going to be all right. Her soul-light is strong and prickly as a hedgehog, like Dame Okra’s. Perhaps this couldn’t be helped. Anyway, one Dame Okra at a time is enough, don’t you think?

He was trying to make me laugh, but in truth, I would gladly have gathered a thousand Dame Okras, had they but consented to come.





After two days’ hard riding over increasingly steep terrain, we finally reached the village of Donques, on the flank of the crooked mountain. My garden’s wild man, Tiny Tom, lived in a cave somewhere nearby. He was eight feet tall with clawed talons for toes; surely he didn’t come near the village. We would stay at the local palasho and spend a couple days combing the surrounding mountainside.

When I’d reported my failure with Od Fredricka, I’d mentioned the proximity of Tiny Tom. “You should go after him,” Glisselda had said, “but don’t forget that you’re due in Fnark, in Samsam, by St. Abaster’s Day. Can you still make it if you detour through Donques?”

“Josquin says so,” I replied, but I was a little disconcerted. There was St. Abaster again, as if he were following me.

Of course, there was no guarantee of finding the Samsamese ityasaari even if I made it to Fnark in time. If an extra day in Donques ensured that I could bring an ityasaari home, I would insist that we stay. Tiny Tom seemed like a bird in the hand.

As we rounded the last turn of the switchback trail, we saw the villagers of Donques out en masse. The men wore fine embroidered smocks and hats; the women had braided ribbons into their fair hair and given the children a quick spit polish. The whole village was resplendent; the gold, orange, and crimson flag of Ninys flapped from every peaked rooftop, and the window boxes overflowed with pink and yellow blooms.

The crowd was following an ox-drawn wagon far ahead of us, festooned with bright ribbons and garlands of flowers, carrying a statue draped in gauzy fabrics. Beside me, Moy grinned. “It’s Santi Agniesti. She’s our patroness here. Makes good cheese.”

The citizenry were following the statue up the road at a funereal pace. At the sound of our horses, the crowd parted to let us pass. Are we part of the procession? asked Abdo. Without waiting for my answer, he stood upon his saddle, holding the reins one-handed with confident subtlety. He smiled down at the gaping villagers, waving his skinny arm and blowing kisses. He did a standing backflip on the saddle; the crowd gasped and then applauded lightly.

“Is this all right?” I asked Moy, but I could tell by his grin he was loving it.

“My cousins are all here somewhere; they’ll enjoy this show. But be careful, moush!” he called, using Nan’s nickname for Abdo. “Don’t fall on your head.”

Abdo batted his eyes like innocence incarnate, then gripped the front of his saddle and lifted his legs into a handstand.

“Santi Merdi!” boomed Moy, laughing. “I should tie you to your horse.”

Abdo made it a one-handed handstand.

The village’s market square was packed with people. Santi Agniesti’s cart veered off toward her rosy chapel, painted with murals of birds, cows, and alpine flowers, but the crowds lingered among food stalls, merchants’ booths, and puppet shows. “The palasho is up the road to our left,” Josquin called, but our party had come to a grinding halt. Moy exclaimed joyously, dismounted, and was mobbed by people clasping his hands and slapping his back. Moy tossed small children into the air and kissed their foreheads.

Nan rode up to where Josquin and I were waiting. “Cousin, cousin, cousin segonde,” she said, pointing at villagers as if counting off. “How you say … oncle.”

“You’re not leaping off your horse to greet them?” I asked.