Vespertine

by Margaret Rogerson

  “Sit, my child.”

  I obeyed, grateful for my perpetually blank expression. I was used to being called “child” by white-haired Mother Katherine, but the priest couldn’t be any older than twenty, almost of an age with us novices. That explained the giggling.

  He looked up. “Is something the matter?” he inquired, in a cold and imperious tone.

  “Forgive me, Father. You’re the first man I’ve seen in seven years.” When he only stared at me, I clarified, “The first living man. I’ve seen plenty of dead ones.”

  His eyes narrowed, taking me in afresh, as though I were something unidentified that he had just scraped off the bottom of his shoe. “The correct way to address me is ’Your Grace.’ I’m a confessor, not an abbot.” The ledger snapped shut with a clap, sending dust motes swirling through the air. “Artemisia,” he said, disapproval clear in his voice.

  “It isn’t my birth name, Your Grace. Mother Katherine chose it for me when I arrived at the convent. It’s the name of—”

  “A legendary warrior,” he interrupted, looking slightly annoyed. “Yes, I am aware. Why didn’t you provide your birth name?”

  I didn’t want to answer. I wasn’t prepared to tell a stranger that I didn’t want my name because the people who gave it to me hadn’t wanted me. “I wasn’t able to,” I said finally. “I didn’t speak for more than a year after I came here.”

  The priest leaned back, studying me unreadably—but to my relief, he didn’t ask any more questions. Instead, he drew a silk handkerchief from his robes, which he used to select a small, intricately carved wooden box from a stack on the side of the desk. He briskly slid it between us, as though wanting to get this over with as quickly as possible, and I saw my reflection ripple across the mirrored inlay on its surface: white as a corpse, a draggled-looking black braid draped over one shoulder.

  “You may find the evaluation’s format strange at first, but I assure you, it’s a very simple process.” His voice sounded bored, tinged with irritation. “All you must do is hold your hand over the box, like so.” He demonstrated and then withdrew, watching me.

  I didn’t understand how this could be a real test. I suspected he might be mocking me. Warily, I extended my left hand, ignoring the way his gaze sharpened at the sight of my scars. As my fingers neared the box, the air grew colder, until suddenly—

  I plunged into cold water, bubbles exploding from my throat in a soundless scream. I choked on the stink of river mud, desperate for air, unable to breathe. Slippery waterweed tangled around my ankles, drawing me downward; and as I sank into the depths, my pulse throbbed in my ears, growing slower and slower….

  I yanked my hand back. The torrent of sensation faded immediately, replaced by the cheerful crackle of the fire and the warmth of my dry robes. I focused on the desk, willing nothing to show on my face. The box contained a saint’s relic. I could almost picture it inside: an ancient, moldering bone nestled in a bed of velvet, seething with ghostly energy. I guessed that the entity bound to it was an undine, the Second Order spirit of someone who had drowned.

  Now I understood. We were being tested on our ability to sense relics. The priest had been able to eliminate the other girls so quickly because to them the box seemed completely ordinary, just as most people touched Saint Eugenia’s shrine and felt only lifeless marble. No wonder that first novice had looked so confused.

  “There’s no need to be afraid. It can’t hurt you.” He leaned forward. “Just hold your hand in place, and tell me what you feel. Be as detailed as possible.”

  Now he seemed tense with suppressed energy, like a well-bred sighthound trying not to show its excitement over the presence of a nearby squirrel. I thought back to his exchange with Sister Lucinde and felt a quiet knell of foreboding. He seemed very sure now that I was worth his time, though he hadn’t before, not when I had first sat down.

  Slowly, I stretched my hand over the box again. This time, I was able to keep the room in focus as the undine’s drowning agony lapped against my senses. “I don’t feel anything,” I lied.

  “Nothing? Are you certain?” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him brush his fingers across his onyx ring. “You can be honest with me, child.”

  “I—” That was all I managed to get out before I snapped my mouth shut on the rest. I had almost told him the truth.

  Worse, I would have enjoyed telling him the truth. A reassuring warmth filled my stomach at the thought of doing what he wanted, of being virtuous and good—and obviously, that wasn’t like me at all.

  The ring’s stone glinted like a beetle’s shell in the candlelight. The polished black gem dwarfed even Mother Katherine’s large amber cabochon. Earlier, he had called himself a confessor. A cleric’s rank was determined by the type of relic they wielded, and each granted a different ability depending on the kind of spirit bound to it. It wasn’t difficult to guess what power this one commanded.

  Careful not to let my understanding show, I met the priest’s eyes. I had never liked doing that; it didn’t come naturally to me. I hated trying to figure out the unspoken rules about how long you were supposed to look and how often you were supposed to blink. I always got it wrong. According to Marguerite, I tended to overcompensate by staring into people’s eyes too directly, which made them uncomfortable—only she hadn’t put it in those words, exactly. She had been crying a lot at the time.

  “I’m certain,” I said.

  Impressively, the priest didn’t react. If he was surprised or disappointed, I couldn’t tell. He only said, “Very well. Let’s continue.” He moved the first box away and slid a different one across the desk.

  This time, when I put forth my hand, a miasma of sickness enveloped me: the smell of stale sweat, sour breath, and unwashed linens. My breath rattled in my chest, and a foul taste coated my tongue. My limbs felt weak, as brittle as sticks arranged beneath a heavy coverlet.

  Third Order, I thought. Most likely a witherkin—the soul of someone who had died of a wasting disease.

  Unlike the revenant in the crypt, it didn’t seem conscious of its imprisonment. Neither had the undine. That would be a useful observation to share with the priest, I caught myself thinking; he might be impressed by my insight, my ability to sense a Fifth Order spirit….

  I pinched myself on the thigh. “Nothing,” I reported flatly.

  He smiled, as though my uncooperativeness pleased him. When he slid a third box toward me, I thrust my hand over it quickly—and paid for my mistake.

  Flames roared around me, licking at my skin. Embers swirled through the suffocating, smoke-filled darkness. And there was the familiar heat, the pain, the stench of burning flesh—the mindless terror of a death by fire.

  I flung myself away from the desk. When my vision cleared, I found that my chair had skidded an arm’s length across the floor, and my fingernails were sunk into the wood of the armrests.

  “An ashgrim.” He rose from his seat, his eyes glittering with triumph. “The same type of spirit that possessed you as a child.”

  The smell of scorched meat still lingered in my nose. I locked my jaw and sat in defiant silence, my breath shuddering in and out. He couldn’t claim that I had passed the evaluation if I admitted nothing.

  “There’s no need to pretend, Artemisia. I know everything about you. It’s all right here in the ledger.” He came around the desk to stand above me, his hands folded behind his back. “I will admit, I initially had my doubts that your story was true. Most children don’t survive possession, especially not for the length of time described in your entry. But those who do are often known to demonstrate an extraordinary talent for wielding relics. Terrible though it is, being forced to practice resisting a spirit’s will at such a young age does yield results.”

  When I refused to meet his gaze, he sank down on his heels, putting our faces level. I saw for the first time that his eyes were a luminous shade of emerald-green, the color of stained glass pierced with light. “You sensed that it was afraid of fire,
didn’t you?” he breathed. “That was why you burned yourself. It was your way of subduing it, preventing it from harming anyone else.”

  Before, I had mistrusted the priest. Now I despised him: his beautiful face, his uncalloused hands, every inch of him unmarked by hardship—exactly the type of person I never wanted to become.

  He didn’t seem to notice the intensity of my hatred. He wouldn’t; I had been told that all my facial expressions looked more or less the same. When I still didn’t answer, he gracefully rose and paced back to the desk, his black-robed figure straight as he began to pack the relic boxes in a satchel.

  “Nearly anyone can master a relic binding some common First or Second Order wraith. The sisters are proof enough of that. But your talent is in a different realm entirely. I have no doubt that you are destined for great things. In Bonsaint, you will be trained to wield—”

  “I’m not going to Bonsaint,” I interrupted. “I’m going to stay in Naimes and become a nun.”

  He stopped and stared at me as though I’d spoken gibberish. Slowly, a look of astonished disgust crept across his features. “Why would you ever want such a thing?”

  I didn’t bother trying to explain. I knew he wouldn’t understand. Instead, I asked, “To be accepted into the Clerisy, wouldn’t I need to have passed the evaluation?”

  He gazed at me a moment longer; then a condescending, almost bitter smile tugged at his mouth. “The sisters warned me that you might deliberately try to fail. The true test wasn’t your ability to read the relics. It was whether you were strong enough to resist mine.” My eyes went to his ring. “A relic of Saint Liliane,” he explained, with another brief, unpleasant smile. “It binds a Fourth Order spirit called a penitent, which grants me the power to draw truth from the lips of the unwilling, among… among other things.” Briskly, he tightened the satchel’s buckles and turned to leave. “Fortunately, the matter isn’t up to you, and the Clerisy must be alerted as quickly as possible. I will have the sisters collect your belongings. We leave for Bonsaint tonight.”

  “No.” I watched him pause with his hand on the doorknob. “If I’m able to resist your relic, you can’t force me to tell the truth. How will you prove to anyone that I passed?”

  He had gone very still. When he answered, he spoke quietly and with deadly calm. “It would be my word against yours. I think you’ll find that my word is worth a great deal.”

  “In that case,” I said, “I suppose it would be embarrassing if you brought me all the way to Bonsaint, only for the Clerisy to discover that I’m completely mad.”

  Slowly, he turned. “The sisters will confirm your soundness of mind. In writing, if necessary.”

  “Not if it’s a new development. Everyone already knows there’s something wrong with me. It wouldn’t be hard to pretend that the shock of confronting an ashgrim during your evaluation was the final straw.” I lifted my eyes to meet his gaze. “Alas, it seems that the reminder of my past simply proved too much.”

  I wondered how long it had been since someone had last defied him. He flung the case aside and took several great strides toward me, his eyes like poison. I thought he might strike me. Then he visibly mastered himself.

  “I take no pleasure in this,” he said, “but you leave me without a choice. Know that this is for your own good, child,” and he clasped his hand over his ring.

  At first I felt nothing. And then I gasped. A crushing pressure gripped my heart, my lungs. After a dazed moment I realized it wasn’t a physical force but an emotional one, a despairing, ruinous guilt. I wanted to collapse to the floor in misery, to weep and beg the priest for forgiveness, even as I knew I was undeserving of redemption—undeserving even of the Lady’s mercy.

  The penitent.

  I clenched my teeth. I had resisted his relic before, and I could do it again. If he wanted me to crawl on the ground and repent, I would do the opposite. Painfully, I stood, fighting against every joint; and then I lifted my head to meet his eyes.

  The relic’s influence evaporated. He stumbled a step back, grasping at the desk for balance. He was panting, regarding me with a look I couldn’t interpret, a lock of golden hair fallen loose over his forehead.

  There came a loud pounding on the door. Before either of us could react, it swung open, flooding the room with daylight. The person who stood on the threshold wasn’t Sister Lucinde, but rather a terrified-looking young page, clutching a folded missive.

  “Confessor Leander,” he stammered. “Urgent news, Your Grace. Possessed soldiers have been sighted in Roischal. Your aid is requested—”

  The priest recovered enough to yank the parchment from the page’s hands. He unfolded the letter and scanned its contents, then clapped it shut again, as though whatever he’d read had stung him.

  I had never heard of Clerisy soldiers succumbing to possession. The priest’s face had gone bloodless white, but not with surprise, or even shock; he looked furious at the news. He breathed in and out, staring straight ahead.

  “I am not finished with you,” he said to me. He ran trembling fingers through his hair to put it back in order. Then, in a swirl of black robes, he stalked out the door.

  THREE

  None of the sisters said anything to me, but they had to know I’d done something, even if they didn’t know what. I kept my head down for a few miserable days, dazed with lack of sleep and dreading going back to the dormitory.

  Marguerite had a wealthy aunt in Chantclere who sent her letters and drawings of the city’s latest fashions, or at least used to—the letters had eventually slowed and then stopped without explanation. For years, she’d kept them tacked to the wall above her bed so she could look at them every night. I returned to our room after the evaluation to discover that she had torn them all down. Standing in the pile of crumpled parchment, she had looked at me with accusatory red-rimmed eyes and declared, “I would rather die than spend the rest of my life in Naimes.”

  Over the next couple of nights, her weeping kept me awake until the bell rang for morning prayers. I tried talking to her once, which turned out to be a terrible idea; the results were so harrowing I slunk off to spend the night in the stable, grateful that I couldn’t inflict emotional trauma on the goats and horses—I hadn’t managed it yet, at least.

  Then more news arrived from Roischal, and no one was thinking about the evaluation any longer, not even Marguerite. As the first cold rains of winter seeped into the convent’s stones, whispers filled the halls like shades.

  Everything would seem ordinary one moment, and then the next I’d hear something that tipped me off-balance: novices in the refectory, heads bent together, whispering fearfully about a sighting of a Fourth Order spirit—a rivener, which hadn’t been seen in Loraille since before we were born. The next day I crossed the gardens where the lay sisters were tearing up the last shriveled autumn vegetables, and I overheard that the city of Bonsaint had raised its great drawbridge over the Sevre, a measure it hadn’t taken in a hundred years.

  “If the Divine is afraid,” whispered one of the sisters, “shouldn’t we be, too?”

  The Divine of Bonsaint governed the northern provinces from her seat in Roischal, whose border lay only a few days’ travel to the south. Kings and queens had once reigned over Loraille, but their corrupt line had ended with the Raven King, and the Clerisy had risen from the Sorrow’s ashes to take their place. Now the divines ruled in their stead. The most powerful office was that of the Archdivine in Chantclere, but according to rumor, she was nearly a hundred years old and rarely extended her influence beyond the city.

  Newly ordained, the current Divine of Bonsaint had once traveled to our convent on a pilgrimage to Saint Eugenia’s shrine. I had been thirteen then. Locals had turned out in bewildering numbers to see her, strewing spring wildflowers across the road and climbing the trees outside the convent’s walls for a better view. But what had left the greatest impression on me was how young the Divine had looked, and how sad. She had seemed subdued on her walk to th
e crypt, a lonely figure lost in splendor, her attendants lifting her train and holding her elbow as though she were spun from glass.

  I wondered how she was faring now. As far as I could tell, the worst aspect of the unfolding situation in Roischal was that no one knew what was causing it. Spirits hadn’t attacked in numbers like this in well over a century, and in the past it had always happened in the wake of obvious events like plagues or famines or a city ravaged by fire. But this time there wasn’t a clear reason, and even the Clerisy didn’t seem to have an explanation.

  The day that disaster reached Naimes, I was on my way back from the convent’s barnyard, hefting an empty bucket of slops. After an incident in the washing room when I was eleven, the sisters didn’t entrust me with any chores that might injure my hands. That day, I had scalded myself with lye and not told anyone—at first because I hadn’t been able to feel it and then because I hadn’t seen the point. I still remembered how, when at last someone had noticed the blisters, everything had gone quiet and the sisters had given me shocked looks that I didn’t understand. Then one of them had shouted for Mother Katherine, who had taken me away to the infirmary, her touch gentle on my arm. Ever since, I had been assigned work with the animals.

  Beside the plot where we grew our vegetables, our convent had a small ornamental garden. Roses bloomed there in the summer, their overgrown blossoms nearly burying the garden’s half-crumbled statue of Saint Eugenia. This time of year, the hedge around it turned brown and the leaves began to fall. Thus I caught a glimpse of someone inside as I passed. It wasn’t a visiting pilgrim; it was Mother Katherine, her downy white head bent in prayer.

  She looked frail. The observation swooped down on me without warning. Somehow, I hadn’t noticed how old she’d gotten—it was as though I had wiped the dust from a painting and seen it clearly for the first time in years, after ages of simply forgetting to look.

  “Artemisia, child,” she said patiently, “are you spying on me? Come here and sit down.”