Larsa had stopped just inside the narthex. The day’s grayness dulled the mystical hues of the sanctuary’s stained glass. In the dimness, the vaulted ceiling, already suggestive of an elaborate ribcage, looked distant and dusty. Representations of past church leaders, some sculpted as they appeared in life, others as skeletal as they must be now, stared down in judgment from columned aisles. Fortunately, none immediately sprang to life to shout down condemnations, thus preserving the pious murmur of parishioners and shuffling acolytes.
“Which way?” Larsa asked brusquely.
I took the lead. “Follow me.”
My heart lurched at the flash of crimson. A neglected pair of candles backlit the red of a temple inquisitor, waiting in a nearby prayer alcove. I recognized him, but didn’t know him personally—one of Mardhalas’s students, but not the High Inquisitor herself, as I’d momentarily imagined. He nodded as our eyes met, watching as we passed.
He hadn’t been praying.
I looked back after a few steps more. The inquisitor was walking away, crossing the sanctuary toward the south wing—where the clergy’s senior residents quartered. My heart didn’t quite settle back into its usual comfortable place.
Larsa followed my look. “What?”
“Nothing. But let’s get this over with quickly.”
More so than glory or love, birth and death occupy the minds of the living regardless of race, age, nation, or creed. It also occupies their pens more than any other topic, as evidenced by Maiden Choir’s three floors of books and records. Iron railings twisted into steep spiral stairways, clinging only tenuously between whole floors sagging under the weight of bookshelves. Several priests—mainly those aged enough to be absolved of daily chores—bent over the main floor’s long wooden desks, suffering uncomfortable benches as they pored over yellow pages or marked fresh parchment with fine lines. A slightly elevated desk rose at the back of the room, where the assistants of the cathedral librarian made themselves available to facilitate official requests.
Fortunately, any request made by an ordained priestess was considered official enough. For records, we were pointed toward a small door nearly hidden between stacks of thick reference volumes.
The room was so cluttered I had no sense of its actual size. I felt as though I were breathing through a handful of dusty pages, the walls mostly hidden by workbenches, shelves, and pegboards cluttered with bookbinding tools and fabrics. Past the workspace, rows of old and poorly repaired shelves bowed under the weight of tightly crammed white and black folios, each marked with a concise row of stamped numbers—year, month, volume.
Larsa pulled a black tome from the nearest shelf, flipping it open to reveal a spectrum of yellowed pages. “What are these?”
“Death records.” I laid a respectful hand upon a shelf of spines. “Many are copies from civil and family records, but the majority are created here with reports from local graveyards and whatever other details we can piece out.”
She flipped though idly, the pages wildly inconsistent in size, color, and quality. “Why?”
“To honor them, to note their lives and their passing. Think of these as books of gravestones.”
She looked at me with raised eyebrows and closed the folio. “That’s morbid.”
I shrugged. “‘Morbid’ suggests unhealthy. We don’t fixate on death, we celebrate it.” I pointed to the book next to the one she was replacing. “And not just death. The white ones are birth records.”
Larsa scanned the stacks. “The black ones are thicker than the white ones.”
“Yeah. People are quick to note deaths and mourn passings, but life isn’t celebrated nearly as reliably.”
She gave a little hum as she moved deeper between the rows. “It would have been 4657.”
“What?”
“The date we’re looking for.” She didn’t look back. “Will hospice files be in with the births or deaths?”
“No, they’ll be different, if they’re on these shelves at all.” I headed down the row next to her, scanning the spines.
It was several minutes before a thin folio sailed through a gap between the shelves, fluttering open and smashing its pages upon the floor. I frowned.
“Something like that?” Larsa’s voice came from the adjacent aisle.
I retrieved it, doing what I could to flatten the crinkled pages. It was bound like the death records, but was thinner, with a date stamped in gray. Inside, the records varied: lists of symptoms, treatment methods, feeding schedules, all roughly organized by patient name and admission date, though the system was by no means consistent. These were definitely notes from the lamentation.
Having an example of what one compilation looked like made finding its siblings easier. It wasn’t long before we were riffling through records for the year 4657. That period alone spanned multiple shelves, with some months occupying multiple volumes. Larsa started at the beginning of the year, I from the end, pulling volumes, thumbing through the flaking pages, reshelving them in something close to order. Fortunately, it didn’t take long.
“‘Kindler, A.,’” I read aloud. “‘Admitted 18 Lamashtan, 4657. Exhaustion. Malnutrition. Physical abuses.’”
The file wasn’t long—nothing compared to some of the repeat patients or unfortunates unfit for life outside institution walls. Only nine pages with the admitting sheet, the record compiled the notes of multiple councilors and nurses, most written in tight, nearly illegible hands. Certain words rose amid the scrawl, made obvious by their repetition: nightmares, paranoia, nyctophobia, uncooperative.
At my intrigued hum, Larsa snatched the file. I held tight, fixing her with one of the patiently bemused looks I recalled from many a seminary instructor. Not interested in actually provoking a fight over common courtesy, I released the book to her as soon as I was sure she’d noted my irritation.
Her own annoyance cooled as she took the collection and verified its contents. “This is what Trice wanted.” She snapped the folio closed and folded it under her arm. “Let’s get back.”
We left the records room and not an eye rose to acknowledge us as we passed through the library proper. Normally there were limitations on what books might be taken from the collection, by whom, and for what purposes. I didn’t expect anyone would miss such a specific record, but I quietly promised that I’d see the file back to its proper place.
Obviously eager to leave, Larsa strode ahead of me, retracing our steps through the airy temple passages, strident despite the gaze of sculpted souls that followed us from every column and rib of the vaulted corridors. She didn’t seem at all unnerved by the grim decor. Perhaps already being half-dead dispelled some of the mysteries of death. Perhaps she’d simply seen worse.
We passed back into the sanctuary and Larsa halted. The solemn sound of murmured prayers and soft footsteps were gone, replaced by agitated muttering and the rustle of robes. Several of my brothers and sisters had gathered in the nave, acolytes and my fellow priests in the somber shades of the priesthood, but grim crimson flashed among them.
“Sister Losritter.” High Exorcist Mardhalas’s voice rose above the assemblage, laced with sardonic sweetness. “I’ve heard there’s a new convert you’d like to introduce.”
The crowd parted. Mardhalas was attired just as she’d been the previous night, her bloody robes open over a chain shirt and an array of tools designed to hasten the end of Pharasma’s enemies. Her silver holy symbol shone bold and bare. Had she not changed since the asylum, or had she prepared for another exorcism?
I stepped past Larsa, swallowing the ball of tension rising in my throat. “High Exorcist. I regret to say you’ve been misinformed. The accuser is here on a matter of state, not spirit.” Murmurs rose and several heads lowered at the mention of Larsa’s title. “Though I think I might be convincing her to consider her soul’s final condition.”
Links of chain slithered across one another as Mardhalas approached. “An agent of the crown?” She stopped almost on top of me, staring t
hrough me at Larsa. Any courtesy evaporated. “Prove it.”
With calm disinterest, Larsa produced a dark iron badge. It was similar to Ustalav’s national crest, which united black antlers, a pointed tower, and sixteen red stars upon a field of Pharasmin purple, yet all the stars had fallen except for one, which alighted upon the tower’s high window.
Mardhalas barely looked at it before turning to me. “Escorting an agent of the court is above your station, Sister Losritter.”
She was right. I opened my mouth, hoping a defense would spill out.
“I requested Miss Losritter’s assistance,” Larsa interjected. “My time is short and the matter is beneath the high clergy’s concern. This seemed the most expeditious course.”
“Is your matter of such great secrecy that it demands theft from our library?” Mardhalas’s eyes fixed upon the folio slung under Larsa’s arm.
“It’s not my place to advertise the will of the crown. I assured Miss Losritter that the records would be returned undamaged. As a dutiful citizen, she has trusted me to uphold my word.”
“It was my intention to inform the high priestess as soon as the accuser has no further need of me.” I tried to sound as sincere as possible. “But I’m lucky to find you here, High Exorcist, so one of the cathedral’s elders can grant her blessing.”
Mardhalas’s eyes narrowed on me. Her reputation for distinguishing lies and extracting confessions was infamous, both within Maiden’s Choir’s walls and beyond. I hoped I hadn’t pushed my luck.
“Why her?” The question summed up the inquisitor’s estimation of me.
“We both had business at Havenguard. She was on hand and proved useful.” Larsa glanced at me. I don’t know if she saw something in my face or if she spoke honestly, but she added, “I won’t require her assistance much longer. Till the day’s end at the latest.”
Mardhalas frowned. “What assistance do you still need? I’m sure one of our more experienced sisters would be better suited to your work.”
“Sister Losritter will be fine, thank you. I don’t wish to advertise the crown’s business any more than necessary.”
The inquisitor’s stare made her suspicion clear. It passed from Larsa back to me. “She already has her claws in you then, Sister?”
My heart lurched. She knew. “High Exorcist, I don’t …” My lie was plain.
Rather than condemning me, she leaned toward Larsa, her whisper loud enough for only the three of us to hear. “I smell what you are. Agent of the crown or not, I look forward to putting you back on the right side of death.”
Larsa didn’t blink and didn’t lower her voice. “Thank you for your courtesy, High Exorcist. I look forward to it.” She stepped around the inquisitor and headed for the door. “Please join me, Miss Losritter.”
With a deferential bow, I hastily followed.
“Sister,” Mardhalas called after, “I have spoken to the high priestess on your behalf once already today. Now I will a second time. She wishes to speak with you … should you ever rejoin us.”
I turned back to her. What was that last comment? What did she think I’d done? My eyes felt suddenly wet. Mardhalas, and behind her several of my sisters, stared, their eyes as cold as the statues around them. I blinked tightly, made a quick bow, and followed Larsa from the sanctuary.
“You’ve given me a new reason not to bother with religion,” Larsa said, climbing onto the wagon.
I gave a polite little laugh, focusing on untying the anxious mare.
Several moments later, when I pulled myself onto the driver’s bench, Larsa was watching me.
“That was about to be worse than it was,” she said.
I nodded.
“They knew about me?”
“I …” I’d tripped over this topic once already, trying to be sensitive about Larsa’s state. “I don’t think so. Mardhalas did. I think she wanted to be dramatic—to unmask you.”
I clicked to the horse and set the cart in motion. I felt like I was fleeing—probably because I thought I was.
“Unmask me? How?”
“By announcing to the others that you’re a dhampir.”
“Why would she need to? You’re all Pharasmin priests. I figured nearly everyone we passed in there noticed.”
“Why—no. Not at all.” I looked over, just enough to give her a glimpse of my surprise. “Most probably didn’t. Certainly when we met I wouldn’t have.”
“Wouldn’t have?” She matched my surprise.
“Doctor Linas told me in the chapel. That’s the only reason I even knew. If she hadn’t, I probably wouldn’t. Even when Lady Thorenly went into hysterics.”
I steered the horse across the Waiting Yard, hastening it out of the cathedral’s shadow, imagining some acolyte might race out to fetch me at any moment, so long as we remained within its shade. I could feel Larsa’s frown.
“My parentage doesn’t seem to matter to you,” she finally said.
“No.” I didn’t think about it, just answered. It was mostly honest.
“But it does to your High Exorcist.” If there was any emotion in her voice, I didn’t hear it.
“More than it should.”
“Why?”
“I suppose it’s complicated. More complicated than it should be.” I sighed. “The goddess teaches that life follows a never-ending spiral, a river that begins in the unknowable, then passes through the gateway of birth, the challenges of life, and the mystery of death, inevitably flowing back to the goddess so she might direct each soul to its place in her design, continuing the spiral into the ages. Thus deviations from the goddess’s plan are, to her and her servants, not just abominations, but blockages, dangerous to the entire river’s continuation.”
I didn’t mean to start sermonizing, but it seemed natural—comfortable, despite feeling like I’d just been exiled from the church. Larsa wasn’t watching, but she was listening. “Blockages,” she repeated.
“The church teaches that the undead are corruptions of Pharasma’s plan. Maybe more like stagnant points in the river, where souls become obsessed with life and so don’t continue in the stream. All of the goddess’s priests, and to an even greater degree her inquisitors, are dedicated to freeing souls that become stuck at the transition between life and what lies beyond. The Lady’s will is clear on this matter, but there are debatable nuances.
“Many take a particularly rigid view of the goddess’s will. If undeath is an abomination, then so anything touched by the undead must be unclean. By that reasoning, the goddess demands we destroy not just the undead, but anything associated with them. There is a measure of prudence in this, but as with any rule there may be room for exceptions.”
Larsa leaned onto her knees, pulling down her hat’s brim as we emerged into the sunlight. “Exceptions, like the living offspring of the dead?”
I didn’t immediately answer. Many among my faith wouldn’t call a dhampir an exception.
Larsa took my silence’s meaning. “I see.”
“It’s … difficult. For many of my faith, it’s all philosophical. They only know about spirits and undead things from their readings. There’s a mathematical simplicity to their judgment, but ultimately it doesn’t matter to them. The closest they’ll ever come to a vampire is in midwinter stories, and many probably have never even heard of a dhampir.”
She looked over. “Your High Exorcist noticed, and likely so did whoever fetched her.”
“They’re trained to. They see sin in everyone, and in almost everything. Most Pharasmins wouldn’t even think to note the sharpness of someone’s ears and teeth. Even if they did notice such a peculiarity, though, I doubt they’d leap to vague stories of half-vampires. You’re hardly a common lot. The inquisitors, though, they’re suspicious of everything.”
Larsa nodded. “Good, then. I’m not used to people just noticing. Especially as many as have today.”
“Try not to worry about it. Except for obviously walking corpses, most of my order would have to rely
on the goddess’s power to identify a vampire. I’m sure they’d never guess that you’re one.”
“I’m not.” There was a shortness in her voice. I though I’d offended her again, but then she saw fit to explain. “There are vampires—the full-bloods—the old, greedy things from storybooks. Then there’s their spawn, their tools and playthings. They’re like full-bloods, turned through death and draining, but they have only a fraction of a true vampire’s power. Sometimes they get loose. When they do, most act little better than stray animals, hunting where they shouldn’t and endangering their betters. Tracking and getting rid of those feral things makes up a good bit of my job.”
She hesitated, and I thought she might leave it there. “Then there are dhampirs. We’re the sad stories that vampires tell, born from unions between vampires and humans. We’re cursed with their hunger, but lack their power, trapped between life and undeath. And when full-bloods are forced to accept that we’re not just stories, they certainly don’t call us vampires.
“But we’re also not humans. So we’re neither—we’re nothing.”
I spared a look over at her. She was intent on the pages in her lap. “That’s one of the saddest things I’ve ever heard.”
A dismissive humph was her only response.
Moments passed. The cart pulled onto the cobbles of the city street. I resisted the impulse to look back at the cathedral, just in case someone was trying to catch up to us.
Eventually, Larsa gave a mean little snort. “So how would your exorcist ‘unmask’ me?”
“Many like Mardhalas only see in black and white. Sadly, some of my sisters might not see any difference between you and—I’m sorry to say—some shuffling zombie.”
“And you do?”
The comment surprised me. I couldn’t blame her, though. She didn’t know me or how I’d been raised. One of my order’s heads had just threatened her. Why wouldn’t she be suspicious?
“I don’t.” I thought a moment longer. “I know you don’t have any reason to believe me, but from what I’ve seen so far, you’d make a poor story—even for vampires to tell. You’re just a person.”
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