“I will petition Saint Sevastian,” Bernardita said. “You must be aware he may not answer.”
Aracelle nodded. “Thank you, Abbess.”
Standing, Bernardita waved Veronica forward. “Go home, Duchess. I will send word once I’ve returned.”
Bernardita didn’t watch the duchess leave. She went into the cathedral and, ignoring the monks adjusting the pews to fit more in, strode to the far end. Mauricio was at the altar, directing the placement of the vestments. He fell into step beside Bernardita when she nodded to him.
“I saw you meet with the duchess,” her Prior murmured as he opened the door behind the altar for her. “How did it go?”
“About as well as you could expect.” She waited until the door was closed, leaving them alone in the narrow corridor.
“I feel so sad for her. To lose Sol so soon after Selestino...”
“Hmm. But at least we have an heir, eh, Mauricio.” She headed down the corridor.
Mauricio had to trot to catch up. She was short, but she never dawdled when there was something to do. Even lanky Sol had had to work to keep up with her.
“What do you mean by that?” he asked as they came to a stairwell.
“If someone was naturally suspicious, wouldn’t they have to wonder at the timing of Sol’s death? He’s given us a Deleon heir and now he’s gone.”
“But who would that benefit?” Mauricio clattered along behind her down the steps. “Sol was the only Deleon of suitable lineage to take the throne without question. There hasn’t been any unrest in the Second Estate about the rulership in a long time.”
Stopping abruptly, Bernardita turned to her Prior, eyebrows raised.
Staggering to a stop, he saw her look and shrugged. “Disregarding the grumblings about Aracelle being de Ibarra, of course. The Deleons haven’t managed to annoy anyone sufficiently to warrant a bloody coup.”
“No, and perhaps that’s the issue.” Bernardita continued on. “Have you thought any more about Valdes?”
“Naturally, though I still can’t reason why the vote went against Princess Alegria.”
“Neither can I.”
“Does that have anything to do with Sol’s death?”
At the bottom of the stairs was another corridor, this one heading back under the cathedral. Bernardita stalked down it, the flickering light of Mauricio’s torch casting her dancing shadow before her.
“I’m not sure,” she said.
“What are we doing down here, Bernardita? I thought we weren’t going to talk to her again.”
Bernardita swallowed a surge of dread. “We aren’t. Aracelle asked me to talk to the saint about Sol. She doubts that he’s dead.”
“Then why come this way? It would have been quicker to descend through the main entrance to the tomb.” But even as he said it, he understood. “You wish to keep the saint’s response a secret.”
If she’d entered the tomb through the mausoleum in the middle of the cloister, all who saw her would have waited for the words of the saint to be relayed in a sermon. Yet, as she neared the cell with the reinforced door, she wondered if being seen wouldn’t have been preferable.
Bernardita did her best to not falter as she neared the cell. Behind her, Mauricio took a fortifying breath.
In spite of her dread, they passed the door without incident.
Further on, they came to another cell. Bernardita reached into her robe and withdrew a small key on a chain she always wore around her neck. She unlocked the cell and they stepped in, closing and locking the door behind them.
It was an empty room and as far as Bernardita knew, had never housed a prisoner. None of her predecessors would have risked a demon discovering the secret doorway. Only recent use let Bernardita find the lever as quickly as she did. She pushed on the specific stone and the hidden door opened up without a sound.
Mauricio handed over the torch. He lit his hand on fire for his own needs as she stepped through the door into the hidden passage way. When it closed behind her, she was alone in a small circle of firelight, the cold of the earth pressing in all around her.
It was a short walk this time, ending in a ladder reaching upward. Gripping the end of the torch between her teeth, Bernardita hauled her portly frame up the ladder, wondering which Abbot designed this secret route into the tomb and how he justified making the elderly climb a ladder.
Thankfully, it wasn’t a long climb, but did necessitate a careful juggling of flaming torch and heaving against the heavy grate in the floor of the tomb. She made it without dropping the torch this time, scrambling out of the narrow opening, cursing that same ancient Abbot for his lack of foresight. Surely it had been a man as no female would have discounted the ample curves of another woman when making a secret entrance.
Panting, Bernardita sat on the marble floor of the tomb for a moment, catching her breath. “Are you listening, you old scoundrel? You better be because I don’t exert myself like this for just anyone.”
Hauling herself to her feet, she walked around the room, lighting the lamps from the torch. When the dim light settled down, she stood for a moment, considering the tomb.
Carved deep into the rock of the promontory he died on, Saint Sevastian’s tomb was not as ostentatious as Bernardita’s childhood dreams had made it. Again the practicality of life had overridden the dreams of youth. When chiselling a room out of solid rock, it was hard to make it grand or entirely suitable to house the remains of a man who had single-handedly killed an entire race of creatures.
It was fifteen feet square, a near perfect cube, and lined with polished marble that glittered in the lamp light. Decorative columns nestled into the corners. In one wall was the official entrance, a gated arch at the base of the spiral staircase leading down from the mausoleum directly above. Opposite the entrance was the reliquary, three niches set into the wall holding Saint Sevastian’s relics—his dagger, the five pointed star of Luz he’d worn and the tip of the dragon’s tail they’d found embedded in his chest when he died.
Between them, was his body.
It rested in a stone coffin on a marble altar. Unadorned except for the carved impression of the saint on the lid.
Bernardita studied the likeness of her saint, the man she’d dreamed about for so long before finally coming to his tomb and seeing him.
He hadn’t been particularly tall, nor short, neither skinny nor fat, but he’d been handsome. A broad forehead, wide eyes over a straight nose and a sensuous mouth, high cheekbones and waves of curling hair. He looked peaceful in his sleep, the fine etching of long lashes across his stone cheeks. In his hands, the sculptor had put a dragon claw. Bernardita didn’t like it, not wanting the imagined saint of her youth to lie forever with a reminder of what he’d done.
“Hello, Sevastian,” she said softly, touching his stone face. “Are you awake today?”
Flipping a series of catches along the side of the coffin, Bernardita gripped the cold, brass handles of the lid. It was heavy but the makers of the coffin had inserted weights to help it be lifted. Old mechanisms within the stone groaned but it rose smoothly and clicked into an upright position.
Exposed, the preserved body of Saint Sevastian looked little like his stone reflection on top. Wrapped in a decaying robe, he was no more than dried, brittle skin stretched over a skeleton, yellowing bones poking through torn tissue here and there. Wisps of dark hair shifted on the stone pillow, moved by Bernardita’s breath. A faint waft of the preserving oils and balms reached her nose, an underlying hint of saltwater making her smile.
“You old rogue,” she whispered. “Please speak to me or I won’t come to see you for a long time.”
With gentleness born of deep respect, Bernardita curved her hand to the shape of his head, her fingers stroking the remains of his hair. Closing her eyes, she waited.
He rose quickly, a faint surge of warmth against her hand and then a soft, fleeting touch within her mind.
“Greetings, Bernardita.”
She s
miled. “Hello, Sevastian.”
The sense of him within her moved fast, touching here and there, reading her thoughts and emotions, then he pulled back.
“You are troubled.”
“Yes. Is there anything you can tell me about Duke Sol Lasaro Deleon Delarosa de Roque? Does he reside within the Shadows?”
The touch of Sevastian drew away. The warmth under her hand cooled. She fought the threatening depression. Talking with the saint was an uncertain thing. There had been times when she’d spent hours with him, receiving his wisdom on several matters, and other times when he hadn’t responded at all. Occasionally, he would simply break contact for no reason. It was those times Bernardita dreaded, wondering if she had angered or disappointed him.
The warmth returned. “I do not know.”
Relieved he hadn’t abandoned her, she tempered it with disappointment.
“She knows.”
A chill rolled down her spine. She.
“Please, Saint Sevastian,” Bernardita whispered, knowing he would hear her words no matter how soft they were. “Is there nothing you can tell me?”
“The Immortal Soldier has awoken.”
“Yes, you told me already.” She didn’t add he’d also sent Bernardita to her that time as well.
But he was gone, this time for good. His bones were cold, his voice silent.
Stepping back from the coffin, Bernardita stared at him, confused. It would have been better had he not spoken. At least she wouldn’t be left contemplating another visit to that particular cell.
Bernardita closed the coffin, extinguished the lamps, picked up the torch and left the way she’d entered. Back with Mauricio, she told him what Saint Sevastian had said. He suggested ignoring it, but they both knew that was unwise. You ignored your saint at your own risk. Even if following his words put you at risk.
The walk back to the cell was both interminably long and far too short. She had too much time to think and not enough time to prepare. Yet when she faced the door, a calm came over her. It was the peace she felt when her saint directed her, an acceptance that he who walked with Luz would always work to protect what the Light had created. Even if it meant trafficking with demons.
The key for the cell was kept by Mauricio on a chain around his neck. He gave it to Bernardita and she set it in the lock, listening for any sounds from the cell. There was nothing. Mauricio gave her a part worried, part encouraging look and she turned the key.
Bernardita entered first, Mauricio following with the torch. The light spilled into the dark room ahead of them, somehow losing the warmth of its orange glow as it touched the grey stone inside, leaching across the floor like encroaching decay. Only once they were both fully inside, the door closed behind them, did the light reach the cell’s occupant.
She was chained to the far wall, a dirty, torn shift hanging from her narrow shoulders. Arms little more than skin draped over bone lifted up from her sides, her wrists imprisoned far apart. Hands with thin fingers dangled from the steel cuffs. Her long legs—like those of a filly or deer—were still against the wall, her small feet resting comfortably on the floor. Fox-red hair fell in greasy tangles over her shoulders. With a face long and pointed, she wasn’t pretty but there was a natural symmetry in her features that was beautiful, enforced by the odd yellow shadings to her eyes.
She watched them with a predatory stillness that sent a shiver through Bernardita’s shoulders.
“You have returned.” Her voice was soft, almost masculine, and she spoke with a hesitancy, as if unsure of the language.
Determined to not show her uneasiness, Bernardita spoke firmly. “I have another question for you.”
The demon tilted its head and Bernardita shivered. The gesture was meant to be quizzical but the absolute lack of expression left it cold, unreal.
“If I cannot answer your question, will you take me to the Room of Mirrors?”
The nature of the demon didn’t allow for joy or sorrow or fear. Though the creature had mentioned the ultimate trial of the inquisition several times, Bernardita couldn’t work out what she thought of it. Bernardita wasn’t an enthusiast for the inquisition, unlike some of her peers. Guillermo in particular rarely had spare cells beneath his cathedral, and though the numbers of accused were less in Ibarra, Morales was said to be an exacting tester of those handed over to her. Given her recent experience, Bernardita had to wonder if any of her fellow Abbots had ever confronted a true demon.
This one had been found near Montserra, wandering dazed and weak through the mountains, naked, voiceless, utterly compliant toward the hunters who found her. She was handed over to Sir Chavira of the Royal Constables, who’d assumed her to be a victim of abuse. He’d taken her into his own house, his wife had tended her. When the Knight failed to report for duty the following day, constables had gone to his house. Chavira and his wife were dead, brutally murdered in their bed. The demon had been found in the rear yard, covered in blood, calm and waiting. She hadn’t protested being chained or put into a cell.
Within hours of taking custody of her, Bernardita was convinced she was a true demon. This wasn’t some traumatised woman shocked into uncaring numbness. She wasn’t suffering any sort of illness, either of the body or the mind.
The first few tests of the inquisition had drawn no response from the demon. If cut, she bled but it quickly stopped. If burned, her skin blistered and blackened, but rapidly healed. She showed no pain, no fear, enduring it all with calm acceptance that unnerved those testing her. She wouldn’t answer direct questions about her nature, never once admitted to being a demon, but when asked where she’d come from, she answered, “I remember running.”
The only interest the demon showed was in the Room of Mirrors. In the past, Bernardita had only to mention the Room of Mirrors and the suspected demon more often than not would break. There were many rumours about the Room, stories of the horrors discovered within it. A human sent into the Room of Mirrors was never the same after they emerged. As far as Bernardita knew, the Room hadn’t been used in at least a century, but the fear of it lived on in the minds and hearts of the people. The threat of the Room was enough to end most investigations.
In this case, it hadn’t. At mention of the Room, the demon had asked to be sent into it.
Acquiescing to the demands of a suspected demon was not part of the inquisition, so Bernardita had ignored it. Yet as they worked through the tests and failed to find the least human response in the woman, Bernardita had grown convinced the request had been more than bravado.
The woman was a demon; and she wanted to get into the Room of Mirrors.
“You will answer my question,” Bernardita said grimly. “Saint Sevastian has assured me you know the answer.”
The demon’s head straightened. Bernardita had learned early in their strange relationship mention of the saint was the quickest way to get answers from the demon. She didn’t know why as the creature showed no emotional reaction to mention of the saints or Luz, had no physical response to any of Saint Sevastian’s relics. All Bernardita knew was if Saint Sevastian said the demon knew something, then the demon knew it.
“Duke Ibarra de Ibarra sent word that Duke Sol Lasaro Deleon Delarosa de Roque’s dirigible exploded two nights previous. Is this true?”
Mauricio made a soft sound in his throat and Bernardita realised the mistake she’d made.
“It is true,” the demon said.
Meaning only it was true such a message had been received. It was the greatest pitfall in talking to the demon. You had to be as specific as possible.
“Did Duke Sol Lasaro Deleon Delarosa de Roque’s dirigible explode?” she asked, using his whole name to avoid confusion.
“Yes.”
“Was Duke Sol Lasaro Deleon Delarosa de Roque on board when it did?”
“Yes.”
It was Mauricio who asked, “Is Duke Sol Lasaro Deleon Delarosa de Roque dead?”
The demon tilted her head again, as expressionless as alw
ays. Her odd yellowish eyes seemed to glow in the torchlight. “Duke Sol Lasaro Deleon Delarosa de Roque no longer walks the earth.”
Bernardita’s stomach sank. She didn’t know why she’d been expecting any different. There had been no doubt in Duke Ibarra’s message.
She turned, urging Mauricio to the door. The door was unlocked and Mauricio was stepping out when the demon spoke again.
“Another walks in his place.”
#
After the sermon, Bernardita returned to her position by the sacristy. The sun had long since set, a new moon taking its place over the water of the bay. The fishing boats had returned to shore, the trawlers sitting at anchor like giant water-beetles. Against the silvery light the dragon-ship remained on the horizon, a silent sentinel. She looked down at the waters just beyond the point of the promontory, wondering if the last dragon was still there, or if time and tides had moved its remains away.
She needed to talk with Mauricio. They had to decide what to do with the knowledge the demon had given them.
Leaving behind her secluded spot, Bernardita stepped onto the covered pathway of the cloister and headed for Mauricio’s room. Before she got there, a page hurried toward her, bowing as she came to a gasping halt.
“What’s the rush, child?”
“Your worship, I have a message from the palace. Duchess Aracelle wants you to know she’s been summoned to Ibarra City. Duke Alamar de Ibarra wishes her to cast a vote on a petition left hanging by Duke Sol’s death.”
Bernardita thanked the page and sent her to the refectory for a meal.
Bristling at Alamar’s audacity—summoning Aracelle, expecting she have the authority to stand in Sol’s place—Bernardita hurried on. It seemed she wouldn’t have the luxury of pondering the demon’s meaning. Decisions had to be made now.
Chapter 24
A cough wracked David’s body. He rolled over, hacking so hard his whole body hurt. Something solid lodged in his throat, making his neck convulse painfully. The object moved, turning so it jabbed even harder into his soft tissues. His stomach rolled, clenched and surged upward. Partly digested food and bile was forced up and out, taking the hard object with it. Torn throat burning from the acid, David heaved himself onto his back, gasping for air.
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