Vespertine

by Margaret Rogerson

  I couldn’t remember the rest. The story that I had rehearsed with the revenant slipped from my mind as the sacristan stooped closer, his spidery fingers brushing over the moonstone pendant.

  A tickling, crawling sensation washed over me, as though tiny insects had been released to skitter over my skin, searching for a way inside. I struggled not to react. Only a Sighted person would be able to feel the effects of the relic. But the revenant had reached its limits—I felt its knot beginning to fray. Any moment now the sacristan would sense something. And out of the corner of my eye I saw the raven ruffle its feathers, preparing to deliver a pronouncement.

  A loud, harsh caw broke the spell. It hadn’t come from the raven on the sacristan’s shoulder, but rather from somewhere behind me. Mirrored in his giant moonstone, I glimpsed a flash of white pinions.

  He looked up, frowning. At the same time, a decisive voice said, “That isn’t her.”

  A horse’s hoof thudded against the bridge. My gaze wavered up to Captain Enguerrand, who was looking down at me in turn with no trace of recognition.

  “Move along,” he said, already glancing past, as though I were of no more interest to him than the dozens of other pedestrians crammed onto the bridge.

  I ducked my head and obeyed, shouldering past the people in my path, barely registering their protests in my urgency to reach solid ground. A jumble of ropes dangled threateningly above as I passed into the dripping, echoing shadows of the gatehouse.

  My first impression of Bonsaint wasn’t a favorable one. As soon as I emerged from the gatehouse’s darkness, color and sound whirled around me like a spinning top. My stomach heaved, and I blindly stumbled to a gutter and threw up. I crouched there for a long moment with my eyes squeezed shut.

  I smelled urine, the sour stink of spilled ale, and pastry frying in grease. Around me, dogs barked. Children laughed, shrieking as they ran past. Vendors shouted about hot pies and fresh cold mussels straight from the Sevre.

  The other half of the clamoring voices sounded completely nonsensical to my ears. I briefly panicked before I realized that I was hearing different languages. Sarantian, and perhaps Gotlandish. Gotland had fallen in the Sorrow’s aftermath and was now an uninhabited wasteland to our northeast, overrun with spirits. The Gotlanders who had survived the cataclysm now thrived in Loraille’s cities, with entire districts given over to their language and trade.

  Sarantia had escaped the worst of the Sorrow by collapsing the mountain pass that connected it to Loraille. Once our closest ally, it now traded with us only by sea, wary of risking overland contact. Nevertheless, the shared history between our two nations was such that many people in Loraille had varying degrees of Sarantian heritage, evident in their brown complexions and dark, wavy hair.

  Now that I was listening properly, I could identify the lilting cadence of Sarantian without doubt. I could read it passably, since some of our convent’s texts were written in it, but here it was being spoken too quickly for me to follow.

  Cautiously, I shaded my face against the sun and opened my eyes.

  I was in a square larger than the grounds of my convent. The shops that crowded its sides were each as tall as the chapel—high, narrow buildings of stone and white plaster, whose tiled roofs and chimneys stretched so far toward the sky that following them upward made me list sideways and almost fall before I caught myself against the gutter. I averted my eyes from the spires beyond, which soared even higher, the flocks of ravens flapping around them as tiny as gnats.

  The bustling view below wasn’t any safer to behold. I focused on the statue of Saint Agnes that stood at the center of the square, her feet strewn with offerings of wilted flowers. Beggars crouched around its base, holding out bowls for alms. A smaller statue of Saint Agnes stood in the cemetery in Naimes, erected over the grave of a pilgrim. Her familiar marble countenance was the closest thing to a friend that I was likely to see in Bonsaint.

  My heartbeat gradually calmed. I was trying to work up the balance to stand, feeling like a sailor recently deposited onshore, when a voice above me said, “Are you all right?”

  Unmistakably, the question was addressed to me. I longed for my life in Naimes, where the only new people I’d had to meet had been corpses. I spat to clear my mouth and looked up into a pair of curious brown eyes.

  Eyes that I recognized. They belonged to the young soldier who had slapped Priestbane’s flank and told me to run. Now he had his helmet tucked beneath his arm, revealing a handsome, brown-skinned face and a tousled head of black hair.

  My stomach plummeted. I braced myself for recognition to dawn, but his expression didn’t change. He didn’t know who I was. He must not have seen my face beneath the hood.

  “The captain sent me,” he went on, speaking a little more slowly, as though I might have difficulty following. I gathered that the way I was looking up at him didn’t inspire confidence. “Captain Enguerrand, that is, the captain of the city guard. We’re supposed to bring everyone who’s sick or injured to the convent so Mother Dolours can have a look at them.” He glanced around, then knelt beside me in a confiding pose, his bent arm resting casually on his knee. “The captain said to mention there’s a sanctuary law at the convent, which means that for as long as you stay there, you’re under the abbess’s protection. He thought it might make you feel better.”

  I knew about the sanctuary law; it applied to every convent in Loraille. Famously, it had once been used to shelter the scholar-turned-heretic Josephine of Bissalart from burning at the stake. I stared at the soldier, trying to figure out what a normal person would say. In the end I bent over and vomited again, which seemed like a better alternative to speaking.

  “Oh, sorry,” he said, and leaned over me to look. “At least nothing’s coming up. You must not have eaten in ages.”

  “Stop looking,” I ground out.

  He grinned unrepentantly. “Well, you’re definitely sick,” he said, sounding very cheerful about it. He jammed his helmet onto his head and stood at attention. In an authoritative voice, he declared, seemingly for the benefit of passersby, “Madam, I have no choice but to escort you to the convent.”

  Going with him didn’t necessarily seem like a good idea. Some of the sisters would be carrying relics. I wished I could consult the revenant, but at the moment it was queasily sloshing around in my head like a stunned fish in a bucket, occasionally rolling belly-upward. I didn’t think it was going to have anything useful to say for a while.

  Captain Enguerrand had saved me twice now. Both times, he had been aided by Trouble. Maybe it was foolish to believe that the Lady had sent Trouble to help me, but that was all I had to go on. If this was what Captain Enguerrand thought I should do, then I would do it.

  I tottered to my feet, shaking my head in refusal of the soldier’s offered arm. Then I ended up grabbing it anyway when I made the mistake of looking up. The riot of motion and color in the square hadn’t grown any less overwhelming since I had last seen it. I thought I might be sick again.

  He gave me a knowing look. “Your first time in a city, isn’t it? I’ve seen that expression before. Where are you from?”

  “Montprestre,” I muttered, releasing his arm. I would stand out less if I claimed I was from Roischal, but my story would quickly unravel if anyone began asking questions. Meanwhile, I could probably get away with lying even if I was unlucky enough to meet another person from Montprestre. Mostly, the province was known for having a lot of goats.

  “That explains it,” he said sympathetically. “Well, you’ll get used to Bonsaint eventually. In the meantime, keeping your eyes on the ground might help. My name is Charles, by the way.”

  “Anne,” I returned, doggedly trailing after him as he set off across the square. If he said anything else, I didn’t hear it. I hadn’t been prepared for how painful it would be to use my old name again. The sound of it echoed cruelly in my head, conjuring up memories of ropes around my wrists, the musty stink of the shed. I should have chosen something els
e. Francine, or even Marguerite.

  To my relief, Charles didn’t seem to notice that I was behaving oddly. The helmet had already gone back beneath his arm. Several times, I caught him glancing at his reflection as we passed a stall and artfully rearranging his tousled hair. This resulted in no difference that I could perceive, but nevertheless a girl carrying a basket of flowers blushed and smiled at him as he passed.

  He led us onto a narrow, winding avenue where stalls crowded the cobblestone lane. Steam hissed from a nearby booth, followed by the rhythmic clanging of a hammer. Heat billowed across the street as a man drew a red-hot lump of metal from a forge.

  “Consecrated steel amulets!” the vendor shouted. “Protect yourself from the unseen! Effective against wights and ghasts of every order!”

  I frowned, giving his stall a closer look. Dozens of pendants hung glinting from the awning. Melted down from Clerisy horseshoes, I guessed, and almost wished the revenant were fit to comment, just so I could hear its scornful reaction. Pieces of consecrated steel that small would barely deter a shade.

  Another vendor’s voice drew my attention. “The crossbow bolt that struck Artemisia of Naimes, miraculously recovered from the battlefield! Just a single copper pawn to touch it and receive her blessing! Guaranteed to heal wounds, guard against blight, restore imbalanced humors!”

  For a moment I barely believed what I had heard. But then a different voice declared, “Splinters of wood from the holy arrow, stained with Saint Artemisia’s own blood! The genuine article! Buy a piece for only five pawns!” He glared across the street at his competitor.

  I stared in disbelief at the long lines crowding each of these stalls. Then anger boiled up in my chest, stopping me dead in the middle of the street. Charles walked a few paces ahead before he noticed I had lagged behind, and hurried back.

  “What’s wrong?” He took in the direction of my gaze and scoffed. “Unbelievable, isn’t it? I hear they’re dipping so many splinters of wood in pigs’ blood that the butchers are starting to run dry. That’s just the way things are, I suppose. Do you know they’re already calling it the Battle of Bonsaint? Like something from the War of Martyrs. Oh,” he added suddenly, standing on his toes to see farther down the street. “Come on, we need to get out of the way.”

  There was some sort of procession coming down the narrow lane. That was all I managed to grasp before Charles drew me aside into an empty stone doorway. The rest of the foot traffic did the same, squeezing between stalls or into alleys. Charles briefly glanced upward as he shuffled to make room, and I nearly joined him before I caught myself. Shades clotted the top of the archway like old cobwebs, their grasping hands and contorted faces swirling in and out of view. Shades that Anne of Montprestre shouldn’t be able to see.

  “I saw it happen, you know,” Charles said. I felt a jolt of alarm, but when I glanced at him sidelong, he wasn’t looking at me. He was gazing in the direction of the stalls, his expression far away. “I was there on the battlefield, fighting. I saw her—Artemisia of Naimes. I even touched her horse.”

  “What did she look like?” I asked warily.

  “Beautiful,” he said, his eyes shining. “Like the Lady Herself, surrounded by silver fire. The fairest maiden I’ve ever seen.”

  He definitely hadn’t seen me, then.

  I was starting to wonder how long we were going to be stuck in this doorway together when I felt the revenant stir, feebly clawing at me for attention.

  “Nun,” it hissed. “Watch out. Relics…”

  A hush had fallen over the street. In the newfound quiet came the chiming of bells and the haunting rise and fall of voices harmonizing in a sacred chant. Gooseflesh pricked my arms. I pressed my back against the stones as a slow-moving procession of white-robed priestesses came into view, their veiled faces downcast, gently swinging silver censers. Pearl rings gleamed on their fingers. As incense fogged the street behind them, the shades lurking in the shadows mingled with the smoke and dispersed.

  They had to be orphreys, priestesses who devoted their lives to purification. Their undine relics allowed them to submerge themselves in sacred pools for hours on end to prepare for cleansing rituals like the one they were currently performing.

  And they weren’t alone. At the end of the procession, six knights carried a litter. The parted curtains showed glimpses of a woman within, resplendently robed in silk and brocade. A miter rested atop her head, heavily embroidered with gold. Onlookers touched their foreheads in reverence as she approached.

  It was the Divine. To my eyes she appeared no older than she had in Naimes four years ago, though her age was difficult to tell for certain. With her hair pinned up beneath her miter and her delicate features caked with white maquillage, she looked more like a painted wooden doll than a person. Her many relics completed the effect—rings on every finger, an amber pendant at her breast, and a jeweled scepter across her lap, encrusted with diamonds.

  My gut clenched as the litter drew level with the archway. The smoke that curled from the censers burned my throat and stung my eyes. If the Divine happened to be using any of her relics, I doubted that the revenant would be able to hide itself in its current condition. But as I waited, holding my breath, her white face didn’t turn. She was speaking to someone on the other side of the litter, their identity concealed by its frame. Whoever it was, it was clearly someone she admired. Gone was the air of loneliness that had haunted her in Naimes. Her wide eyes looked eager, even devoted. Tension bled from my body as the litter moved past, until its changing angle revealed the figure walking alongside.

  Leander.

  His gaze was fixed on the Divine. If he moved his eyes even a fraction, he would see me standing in the doorway beside Charles. I knew I shouldn’t stare, in case doing so alerted him to my presence, but I couldn’t look away.

  He looked unwell. One of his hands was resting on the side of the litter as though conscientiously helping guide it forward, but there was a subtle strain in his pale hand and rigid posture that suggested he was instead using it for support as he walked.

  Now that he was no longer traveling, he wore his full confessor’s vestments. I could see why he hadn’t donned them on the road. The elaborate silver stole draped over his robes would have gotten dirty in the countryside, the matching cincture likewise. The robes themselves were identical save for a silver oculus embroidered at his throat just below his collar, bright against the black fabric, framed by the stole on either side—whose pattern, I realized, depicted interlocking chains.

  I wondered how many people he had hurt yesterday to have strained himself so badly. How many more he would hurt pursuing me, if he found out I was still alive. Though he had to be in pain, his expression was as calm and remote as a carved saint gazing piously down from a vault, untouched by the suffering below. His holy-seeming composure made him appear more the Divine’s equal than her subordinate.

  The litter passed around a bend, vanishing out of sight behind a group of stalls. I loosed a breath as the eerie chanting faded, replaced by the voices of the vendors hawking their wares.

  But I felt the revenant’s attention following the procession long after the traffic resumed and Charles led me back out onto the street. It remained strangely alert as we wound through the noise and stink of the city beyond, my eyes fixed on the cobbles.

  “I need to tell you something,” it said finally, “but you have to promise not to react.”

  I glanced at Charles, then dipped my chin in a nod.

  “I’ve figured out where the smell of Old Magic is coming from in this city. Nun, it’s been right in front of us all along. It’s coming from the priest.”

  ELEVEN

  I haven’t smelled Old Magic this powerful since the Sorrow,” the revenant continued, sounding almost excited by the development. “He positively reeks of it. He must have resumed practicing it upon his return to the city. He didn’t smell of it on the road.”

  So much for not reacting. I almost tripped over a cobbles
tone. I waited until a cart rattled past to speak, watching Charles out of the corner of my eye. “Why didn’t you notice yesterday after the battle? I thought you said you were paying attention.”

  “Through your senses. I wasn’t using my own. But I assume he smelled of it then, too. It’s the same scent that I detected from beyond the walls, and on every spirit we’ve fought since Naimes.”

  I forced myself not to glance over my shoulder, a useless reaction; Leander had long ago passed from sight. “How is he doing it?” I managed. “Why?”

  “Don’t ask me. If I could read humans’ minds, I wouldn’t have ended up trapped inside a little girl’s finger bone. You’re the one with the meat brain. Why don’t you take a guess?”

  “But—”

  “We’ll have to speak later, nun. We’ve nearly reached the convent.”

  I opened my mouth to ask how it knew, but frustratingly, it had already gone. I looked up to discover that we had entered an older, quieter section of the city, the buildings constructed uniformly of the same plain gray stone and the cobblestones worn nearly smooth underfoot. The daylight hadn’t dimmed, but I felt as though a shadow had fallen over the street. A chill hung in the air that hadn’t been there before.

  I wondered if this was how Loraille had felt before the Sorrow. There must have been rumors, whispers. A sourceless darkness. A nameless fear.

  Charles led me around a corner, and the convent’s moss-speckled walls came into view. They looked like they had once stood outside the city, only to be later absorbed by Bonsaint’s sprawl. The lichgate stood open, its gateway wide enough for two corpse-wagons to pass abreast, and refugees were being helped inside: some walking unaided, others limping with an arm draped over a companion’s shoulders. One lay swathed in blankets, carried on a makeshift litter—their single exposed arm appeared dead, purple from shoulder to fingertip with blight. Sobs and moans of pain filled the air.

  As we approached the gate, a sound drew me from my thoughts. A hostile whispering was emanating from inside the convent, like a group of sisters feverishly reciting litanies under their breath. Though it grew louder and louder the nearer we drew, no one else seemed aware of it. I glanced at Charles, but he only gave me an encouraging smile, oblivious.