The Shadow Saint

by Gareth Hanrahan

  He pushes through the crowd over to him.

  “Berrick!”

  The little man looks up in alarm. “Let’s not use names,” he says quickly, tugging the hood of his cloak down to conceal his face, but he pushes a stool out for Terevant to sit down.

  Oh, death, thinks Terevant. Perhaps the little man is undercover.

  “It’s nice to see you again,” says Berrick. “And though the wine isn’t as good, the company is, ah, welcome.” His breath smells strongly of alcohol. He’s several glasses ahead of Terevant.

  Terevant follows Berrick’s lead. He can’t hide his Haithi military uniform, but he hunches over as best he can, shuffles his sword under the table, so that not every passer-by will take notice. He’s not the only soldier in here–a few at the bar are Guerdon navy, probably attached to some demonstration of the city’s defence forces.

  “Half of Guerdon must be here,” says Terevant, gesturing at the crowds.

  “Only half? I’ve never seen such a mob.” Berrick does seem overwhelmed. “Not even in my dreams. I dream of Guerdon often, lately.”

  “It’s full of life,” agrees Terevant. “Especially the New City.”

  “I’ve never been. To any part of it, that is. They don’t let me go there.”

  “Who doesn’t?”

  “In the army, when they give you orders, did you ever question them?” asks Berrick.

  “It depends on who’s giving them, and why. In battle, you don’t hesitate, because that gets people killed. Other times… well, there are ways of questioning an order without disobeying it. Spirit of the instruction versus the letter, that sort of thing.”

  “I suppose the virtue there is that one’s orders are very clear. Go here, do this, shoot that thing.” Berrick scratches his prominent nose.

  “Dig a latrine, watch that wall. Oh, and wait. That’s the big one. Waiting for something to happen.”

  Berrick swirls the wine around his glass. “But the intent is clear. You know what you’re supposed to be doing, even if you don’t always know why.”

  “I guess.” Terevant shifts awkwardly on the stool.

  “I don’t think it matters if I question my orders. Things are going to happen whether I agree or not.”

  “Berrick, you can tell—” Terevant’s interrupted by an alarmingly tall man in a long coat, who throws a pair of pamphlets onto the table. “Vote for Kelkin and the IndLibs!”

  “Friend, you sow your seeds on stony soil here,” replies Berrick, showing a Keeper rosette. The tall man sneers and shoves a pamphlet into Berrick’s wine glass before stalking off.

  Berrick fishes the paper out of his glass. “If I could, I’d have stayed a wine seller, I think. I like telling people about good wine. But we all have our commandments.” He stands. “I shall see you again, when we have other commandments to obey.”

  “Is Lys here?”

  “She’ll be watching.” Berrick stands, lingers a moment. “It was good to share a last drink.” And then he turns and walks away, pulling his bright green cloak around his shoulders despite the heat, tramping down the hill to the main field. His heavy tread reminds Terevant of a condemned criminal going to the gallows.

  Terevant has his own obligation. It’s nearly time to bring the sword. He has another drink to calm the buzzing in his head. A fourth for the Ninth Rifles, in memory of the lads who fell and rose and fell again at Eskalind.

  He’s finishing the fifth when they call him back to the Haithi pavilion.

  At four o’clock, they’ll hold the Blessing of Flowers. Eladora checks the clock yet again. Just over an hour to go.

  The blessing is the one fixed point of the Festival. Everything else is ad hoc, or pushed around, or competes with six other events. Various IndLib events that Eladora carefully scheduled have been moved or cancelled. One rally ended up getting timetabled opposite a demonstration by the navy, so the IndLib tent was almost empty, Ogilvy speaking to twenty snoozing greybeards. He’s hoarse now, from trying to shout over the sound of explosions and rifle fire from outside.

  Her volunteers are phantasms. If she doesn’t keep them under constant surveillance, they vanish off to the amusements or just stand around staring.

  It’s worse than herding undergraduates.

  Alic’s son Emlin has proved surprisingly diligent. When Eladora offered to take the boy along, it was out of charity. Emlin came out of the carnage of Severast–he deserves to see some wonders that aren’t the work of monstrous mad gods. Gratifyingly, Emlin seems fascinated by everything, even mundanities. Whether it was helping out in the back tent, where Kelkin and a few other IndLib leaders worked the guild masters for donations, or walking the avenues handing out pamphlets, Emlin is always wide-eyed, drinking everything in.

  She’s tried, over the course of the day, to engage him in conversation about his life in Severast, or his father, or anything, but the boy is evasive. Through diligent excavation, Eladora manages to get a few details out of him–he went to some sort of religious boarding school, he stayed with an Aunt Annah and Uncle Tander while Alic was at sea. When he doesn’t want to talk, he finds something to busy himself with. His elegant, long-fingered hands stacking flyers, tidying things away. And always alert, always listening.

  Eladora remembers her own visits to the Festival, when she was younger. Her mother would always take her and Carillon. Invariably, Carillon would slip away and vanish for hours, and Silva would drag Eladora to the great open-air prayer field of the Kept Gods. Silva would pray angrily there until the watch found Cari. When they were young, Cari would normally be found asleep in some corner, or sitting under the counter in a sweet shop being fed treats by an indulgent stall keeper. In her later years, the watch would drag Cari back by the ear, and accuse her of pickpocketing or fighting or trying to climb the frame of some tower or aerial railway.

  Eladora’s own memories of the Festival are mostly of standing in the full glare of the blazing summer sun, trying not to faint while her mother and the rest of the congregation prayed. Hearing, distantly, the joys of the rest of the Festival. It got worse after Carillon left; instead of coming here, to the main festival outside Guerdon, Silva took to attending a much smaller Blessing of Flowers up in the mountains run by a Safidist sect. No merriment, no big fairground full of delights, just a raging bonfire and endless prayers, begging Mother of Flowers to take her faithful as vessels for her power. Bloody-footed pilgrimages over the mountain to the little village where Saint Aleena of the Sacred Flame had gained her blessing.

  It’s nearly three o’clock. Kelkin’s supposed to give a speech at three, taking advantage of the crowds gathering for the Blessing of Flowers. The IndLib pavilion’s emptying out already, the party members leaving to push through the crowds down to the middle field. Eladora and Emlin are the last in this part of the tent, tidying away papers and dragging heavy tables over to the side–there’ll be a reception here later, after Kelkin’s speech. Eladora’s been to similar affairs before, and is already plotting her escape routes from drunken, lecherous old goats who think that because she’s part of Kelkin’s circle she has a liking for old men who used to be someone important.

  Suddenly Emlin makes a quiet yelping noise in his throat and ducks behind a trestle table.

  “Don’t be afraid, child.” Silva’s voice. Eladora turns, sees her mother there, dressed in the brown robes of a lay helper of the Keepers. The old woman leans heavily on a cane, but she seems healthier than she did three weeks ago at the dinner. “Come out.”

  “L-leave him alone,” snaps Eladora, positioning herself between her mother and the table. “What do you want?”

  “I thought I might find you here in this den of sin,” says Silva. “Drawn to false idols. Oh, the evil runs thick in our veins. Only the fires of Safid can burn us clean.” She puts down the cane, then shuffles around to one end of the table. “Your grandfather would be so proud of you. Kelkin’s handmaiden. His whore.”

  The long tables are so heavy that together Elad
ora and Emlin can only drag them across the floor. Silva shoves the table one-handed, flinging it over to the side of the tent. A few other IndLibs at the far end of the tent look around in confusion; Eladora waves them away.

  “And what are you?” hisses Silva as she exposes Emlin. “There’s a stench about you. Let me see.” Silva raises her hand, which suddenly blazes with its own internal light, a fiery reddish-golden glow that burns deep within. The bones of the old woman’s hand black against the flames. With her other hand, Silva rips down the ties of the tent flap and lets it fall down, blocking the sunlight from outside. Suddenly, the only light source in this part of the pavilion is that burning hand, and it throws huge dancing shadows against the canvas walls.

  Silva’s shadow is crowned with flowers of fire, cloaked in storm.

  Emlin’s shadow, as he crawls away across the floor in terror, seems to have eight thin spindly legs. Some divine contamination.

  Silva grunts and grabs her cane from the table. The flames from her hand run down the stick like water, setting it alight. She advances towards Emlin.

  “Mother, stop.” Eladora grabs Silva’s arm, but it’s as futile as grabbing the door handle of a carriage to stop a whole steam train moving.

  “Abjure the unclean one! Abjure the weaver of lies!” demands Silva as she advances on Emlin. The boy writhes on the floor like he’s pinned there, his limbs flailing. “I shall know if you lie! Abjure him!”

  Horrified, Eladora puts herself between Silva and the boy again. “Stop!” Silva scowls and brushes her out of the way. Her cane has become a blazing sword. Emlin curls into a ball, hiding his face from her wrath.

  “ABJURE HIM!”

  Silva thrusts the flaming sword towards Emlin, pressing the searing metal to his skin. He shrieks as the sword burns him, and shouts something in a language Eladora doesn’t understand.

  “Mother, stop!” Eladora slaps her mother in the face, as hard as she can. It’s gratifyingly effective–the flames go out, the sword is a cane again, and Silva’s sent staggering. The tent seems to spin around both of them; somewhere, in the distance, Eladora hears thunder smashing across the sky. Saint Storm’s voice, the Keepers call it.

  Emlin crawls away across the floor, whimpering, cradling his burned hand. Then, absently, as if she’s wiping away a speck of dirt, Silva leans down and brushes her hand over Emlin’s blistered flesh. Another miracle–his wounds are healed in an instant, leaving only a patch of reddened skin.

  “He… he is…” Silva’s leaning heavily on her cane again, swaying back and forth as if about to faint. The cane smokes. “And you–you too. You…” She’s drooling a little now, her face slack. “Carillon. You’ve seen her.” Silva’s voice is strange, and again Eladora has the sickening impression of something speaking through her mother.

  “Yes–in the New City. She saved my life.”

  “Treacherous false friends. But the path to the true gods is a thorny one.”

  Silva totters forward and takes Eladora’s hand with shocking gentleness. “Oh, do you remember going up into the mountains, dear, and over the hills to Saint Aleena’s shrine? The sunlight like bright knives, flaying the skin from the world and showing you what matters. Salvation for our family. Salvation for our city. Oh, my child, we’re so close.” Silva embraces Eladora, liver-spotted arms with bones of steel closing around her like a cage. Eladora freezes.

  The tent flap opens again to reveal Mhari Voller. She hurries over, strokes Silva’s arm, whispers to her. “Silva Duttin, dear Silvy, you mustn’t go running away from me. You see the gods so clearly, you’ll fall over your feet. Come along now, you need to get ready. Remember, it’s the Blessing of Flowers today, and you’re needed to serve.” She ushers Silva out of the tent, glancing back with worried eyes at Emlin. There’s a russet torrent of people outside–other lay Keepers in robes identical to Silva’s marching by, chanting and singing hymns as they proceed down to the Festival field. Voller gives Silva a gentle push, and Silva totters into the crowd, joining the procession. Instantly, she adds her voice to the chorus, and it’s beautiful, like the music of a great church organ rising up in harmony.

  Eladora hurries over to tend to Emlin. The boy’s shaking, and he pushes her away when she kneels down next to him. “I’m all right,” he mutters. His wounds have vanished so quickly that Eladora’s unsure of what she saw.

  “Let me see,” she insists, but he jerks away from her and bounces to his feet like he’s being pulled up by invisible strings.

  “I’m fine,” he insists. He wipes his face on the shoulder of his shirt, spits, and then suddenly he’s smiling again.

  Her occasional assistant Rhiado sticks his jug-eared head into the tent. “Kelkin’s speech. It’s time.”

  The damn speech. She has to go, much as she’d like to stay and watch over Emlin. Eladora beckons Rhiado in. She hands him a few coins, and asks him to take Emlin away and take care of him. Buy him whatever she wants. Get a healing salve. The boy’s recovery is suspiciously swift, thinks Eladora, and she makes a note to talk to Alic about his son. If he has a lingering spiritual taint from the Godswar he could be a danger to everyone around him. He’ll be sent to Hark if the watch catch him.

  She finds Voller waiting at the door of the tent.

  “Lady Voller, if you’re going to appoint yourself my mother’s keeper, then please keep her from assaulting my assistant.” Starve her, Eladora’s tempted to say, lock her away in a gilded cage. Keep her docile, because who knows what she’ll do with that terrible strength. Do to her what the Keepers are supposed to do to their gods.

  “She wanted to see you. She worries about you–I hear that Effro has you clambering around the New City, endangering yourself.”

  “Her concern is touching.”

  “It’s genuine. She doesn’t… You’re seeing her at her worst, Eladora. You upset her, and she loses control. It’s because she sees you so rarely. If you saw one another more, she wouldn’t be as highly strung.”

  “I must walk down for Kelkin’s speech.” Eladora picks up her own bag. The leather’s scorched–Silva’s flaming cane must have brushed against it. Nothing inside seems to be damaged–a few folders of IndLib documents, her notebook, her coin-purse, the broken hilt of Aleena’s sword that Sinter gave her, that terrible Bone Shield novel.

  “Is something wrong?” Voller hovers over her, peering over her shoulder. Eladora snaps the bag shut.

  “No, it’s all fine.”

  The Bone Shield reminds her of her brief meeting with Terevant Erevesic earlier. He had a copy of Sacred and Secular Architecture– and not just any copy, but her copy. During the Crisis, she’d fetched that book from the university library and ended up carrying it around the city. The book illustrated the reconstruction of Guerdon after the war with the Black Iron Gods three hundred years ago. Showing how the reconstruction had built over the scars, burying temples and sealing off dungeons sacred to the monstrous deities of the past. The last time she’d seen the book had been in a safe house run by Sinter. She recalls reading it, losing herself in study, to avoid thinking about her predicament. Hiding in the bedroom, while outside assassins slaughtered everyone else in the house.

  How had the book followed her out of that nightmare? Hunting her, like it had grown legs and crawled out of the past, pages smeared with blood.

  Everything goes dim and distant. The sun in the sky seems to press down on her, like it’s inside her skull, scorching her brain. Eladora’s distantly aware that she’s doubled over, retching. The festival ground spins around her. Voller’s there, clucking, holding back her hair as Eladora vomits. Some passers-by jeer, laughing at the woman.

  “It’s all right, dear.” Voller produces a handkerchief, wipes her mouth. “I always get nervous before a big speech, too, even if I don’t have to say a word. You wrote some of Kelkin’s, I know.” She produces a small silver flask and hands it to Eladora. “Wash your mouth out with this. It’s a medicinal tonic, wonderful stuff.”

  E
ladora takes a mouthful from the flask, half chokes on it, then takes a second gulp.

  “Also, gin,” admits Voller.

  Voller thinks her nervousness is due to Kelkin’s speech But the election is her balm. It’s wonderfully petty and grounded. Hearthfires and gravestones, streets and wards, nitpicking legal arguments. Everything’s about the here and now, not about gods and monsters. This is something else.

  “I must go to the speech,” says Eladora again, and stumbles down towards the Festival ground. She’s so dizzy she has to lean on Voller’s arm as they go.

  CHAPTER 26

  One of the Haithi guards finds Terevant in the beer tent, and tells him his presence is required at the pavilion. The Lady Lyssada has arrived. Terevant follows the guard out. He can hear the murmur of the vast crowd in the distance, and the droning of the Keeper priests. The laneways between the tents are much less crowded than they were an hour ago. Everyone’s gone down to the centrepiece of the Festival of Flowers.

  Almost everyone. Daerinth’s waiting for him outside the tent, along with a few clerks from the embassy. The former prince dismisses the clerks and shuffles alongside Terevant as they walk to the pavilion. It’s cruelly hot. Daerinth is a withered weed, scorched by the sun.

  “This is unseemly.” Daerinth fusses at Terevant’s uniform, scowls at the alcohol on his breath. “Mercifully, there are few witnesses, but word will get back through those treacherous dogs at the Bureau. Spies are worse than fishwives for scandal. Idiot.”

  Terevant’s drunk enough to find the old man’s anger amusing rather than insulting. “I think Lys will understand.”

  “I had a cousin once,” whispers Daerinth as he fixes the clasp on Terevant’s cloak, “who brought shame on the family. Rhaen, her name was. We shipped her off overseas, but she came back. Sent her to the academy, and she was expelled.”