I abandoned my bucket and joined her on the bench. She didn’t say anything else or even open her eyes. We sat in silence, listening to the breeze rustle through the dry leaves and rattle the hedge. Dark clouds scudded above the convent’s walls. The air smelled heavy with rain.
“I’ve never sensed them,” I said finally. “Your relics.”
She held out her hand. The gems shone against her papery skin: a tiny moonstone almost identical to Sister Iris’s, a cloudy sapphire with a chipped facet, and the largest, an amber oval that captured the light, illuminating small imperfections within. They were mere decoration for the real treasures: the relics sealed away in compartments beneath. Cautiously, I touched the amber and felt nothing but a smooth, ordinary stone.
“The spirits’ auras become dimmer when the rings are sealed,” Mother Katherine explained. “This doesn’t affect our ability to draw them forth, but it makes the relics much more comfortable to wear.”
She was regarding me with one keen blue eye, and at that moment she didn’t seem frail at all. I remembered little of the night of the exorcism, but I would never forget the feeling of her prayers tearing through my body, drawing the ashgrim forth in a wrathful whirl of smoke and silver embers. The sisters later told me that it had taken all night, and when she had finished, she hadn’t reached for her dagger. She had merely lifted one hand and destroyed it with a word.
“A tooth of Saint Beatrice,” she went on, tapping the moonstone. “This is the relic I use to sense nearby spirits. It may only bind a shade, but I find it is often the humble relics that prove the most useful.” Next she touched the chipped sapphire. “A knucklebone of Saint Clara, which binds a frostfain. It has weakened over time, but its power does help ease the chill in my bones on cold winter nights, and for that I am very fond of it. And this one…” She ran her fingers over the amber stone. “Well, let’s just say I can no longer wield it as I once could. I’m afraid that when the relic’s strength outmatches the person wearing it, there is a danger of the spirit overpowering its wielder. Have I satisfied your curiosity, child? No? If you wish to learn more, these are all things that you can study in Bonsaint.”
She said that last part pointedly, with a twinkle in her eyes.
It was a waste of time trying to hide anything from Mother Katherine. At first that had terrified me. I had been convinced that if she could see into my soul, she would decide I wasn’t fit for the convent and send me back home. But she hadn’t, and then one day a skittish goat had come to the barnyard, beaten by its former master. After I finally succeeded in coaxing it to eat from my hand, she had asked me if I blamed the goat for all the times it had bitten me and whether I thought we should give it back. I’d gotten so angry I had almost bitten her in turn. Then she had given me a knowing smile, and I hadn’t been afraid of her after that.
Now I felt a hand on my braid, stroking it much as I had once patted the goat. I wasn’t sure I liked it, but I also didn’t want her to stop. “I don’t believe you would have found Bonsaint as terrible as you imagine,” she said. “But if you wish to stay in Naimes so badly, perhaps that is the Lady’s will. She may well need you here instead of there.”
I opened my mouth to deny this, but Sophia’s shouting interrupted me.
“Mother Katherine! Mother Katherine!” She was pelting across the garden, her robes rucked up around her knees. “Artemisia,” she added, skidding to a halt beneath the arbor. Trouble’s beak poked from the folds of her robes.
Mother Katherine made a show of taking in the dirt and scratches on Sophia’s brown legs, her lips pursed to hide a smile. “Have you been climbing again, child? You know that is not allowed.”
Sophia looked unrepentant. “There are soldiers coming up the road,” she gasped. “Can I help Artemisia tend to their horses? I can carry buckets of water, and straw to rub them down. And bring carrots—” She stopped at the look on Mother Katherine’s face.
“Are you certain of what you saw? Soldiers? How many?”
Sophia gave me an uncertain glance, as though I might have an explanation for Mother Katherine’s sudden urgency. “They have armor on,” she answered, “and there are a lot of them—enough to fill up the road. Stop that,” she said to Trouble, who was worrying at her robes with his beak. Then she released him with a shout, falling back from his beating wings.
“Dead!” he cawed, wheeling above us.
The rest of the convent’s ravens erupted from the rooftops in a thundering black cloud. “Dead! Dead! Dead!”
Mother Katherine was standing, touching her moonstone ring. “Sophia, Artemisia, into the chapel. Now!”
I had never heard her use that tone of voice. The shock of it propelled me from the bench. Sophia’s trembling hand sought mine, and we ran.
The chapel’s bells had begun to ring, the space between each toll clamoring with the harsh cries of ravens. Sisters joined us on the path leading to the central courtyard, where everyone was streaming up the cobbled hill to the chapel, clutching their robes against the wind. The air carried by the storm smelled of damp earth, and around me the sisters’ faces were blanched with fear.
The moment Sophia and I reached the chapel, gloom swallowed the convent. A sudden needle of cold stung my scalp, then my cheek. Dark spots bloomed on the cobblestones.
“Go,” I said, releasing Sophia’s hand. She tried to argue, but a sister took hold of her and dragged her inside, lifting her from the ground when she struggled.
I clambered onto the tumbled stones of the ruined inner wall that had once surrounded the chapel, dragging away handfuls of ivy until the lichgate came into view below. It was twice a man’s height, its black finials rising skyward like a row of spears. Figures milled on the other side: shying horses, the bulky shapes of armored men.
I had never seen soldiers before. Boys with the Sight were raised in monasteries, and most went on to become soldiers or monks. Only some, like the priest, rose high within the Clerisy’s spiritual ranks.
A curtain of rain swept forward, hammering mist from the cobblestones, but I didn’t move. I watched through a blur of rain as one man threw a rope up over the finials and yanked on it to draw the loop taut. His movements were jerky and strange. Behind him, a horse whinnied shrilly, struggling to free itself; it had been tied fast to the ends of the ropes. And more horses ahead of it, forming a chain.
I barely felt the downpour soaking my robes. What I was seeing didn’t seem possible. Surely, I thought, the consecrated iron would hold—but the lichgate was meant to protect us from spirits, not the brute strength of living men.
There came a distant crack, and the horses lunged forward. The lichgate groaned. Its finials warped, bowing outward. At first I thought the gate would resist, that it would bend but not break, but as its shape deformed, there came an agonized shriek of metal, and it twisted free from the hinges securing it to the wall. It toppled forward in one piece, like a lowered drawbridge. Within seconds its bars were trampled into the mud.
Soldiers poured into the convent. They set upon the granary, their swords hacking and battering with inhuman strength. The door splintered. As they rushed inside, one man paused to look toward the chapel. His eyes shone silver through the rain.
“Everyone is accounted for, Mother Katherine.” Sister Iris’s voice, behind me.
Heedless of the cold rain trickling down my back, I clung watching as though I had rooted to the stone. A gentle grip took my arm and drew me away. Down from the wall, into the chapel. Mother Katherine.
We must have been the last to enter, because the doors groaned shut behind us and the floor shuddered as the heavy bar fell into place. The pounding of the rain receded to a muffled drumming. The chapel’s warmth enfolded me, but gooseflesh still pricked my body. Mother Katherine surveyed the huddled mass of girls and women, faces ashen, wet hair plastered down.
“The soldiers are possessed.” My robes dripped onto the carpet. “Aren’t they?”
She squeezed my arm. “Wait here. I will ha
ve need of you.”
I obeyed, gripped by a sense of unreality as she herded the youngest novices toward the altar, then instructed the lay sisters to pray and light incense. Led by Sister Iris, the Gray Sisters drew their daggers and formed a defensive line. I didn’t think it would help much. The sisters weren’t equipped to battle living thralls, Clerisy soldiers wearing armor and wielding swords.
In my mind’s eye, I saw the pews hacked to kindling. The cloth torn from the altar, flames licking at its fringe.
Mother Katherine returned holding a lit taper. She briefly shut her eyes. Then she nodded, confirming something to herself. Sorrow shadowed her face as she passed me the candle. “Artemisia, I have a task for you. You must descend to the crypt and alert Sister Julienne. She will know what to do.”
Wordlessly, I set off along the aisle. A numb blankness filled my mind as I hurried past the tall stained-glass windows adorned with images of spirits and saints, their tranquil faces downcast. Somewhere, a young novice wept and a sister tried to comfort her. Whispered prayers rose and fell around me.
“Goddess, Lady of Death, Mother of Mercy, give us strength….”
“Our flesh may be weak, but our hearts are as iron in service to Your will….”
“Lady, do not forsake us. Please, do not forsake us….”
My candle’s flame stopped wavering and stood perfectly still. All around the chapel, the rest of the candles did the same. Hairs stood up on the back of my neck. The Lady was listening to our prayers.
But that didn’t mean She would save us. She couldn’t—She relied on mortals to carry out Her will in the physical world. Whether we lived or died was up to us, and maybe She had come so we wouldn’t die alone.
I reached the banded door set into the wall of the transept. As I lifted my sodden robes to descend the stairs, I felt a dull throb of hope in my chest. Mother Katherine must be planning to call upon the relic of Saint Eugenia. Sister Julienne—had she been trained to wield it? I had never paused to wonder whether her life of privation and solitude was in pursuit of a higher purpose.
Underground, the prayers faded along with the distant pounding of the rain. Smoke swirled from the depths to twine around my shoes, eddying with every footfall. My steps echoed from the walls.
“Sister Julienne?” I called.
A faint, sucking gasp wafted up the stairwell like a draft.
I raced around the final bend—and froze. The lid had been shoved from Saint Eugenia’s sarcophagus. A soldier lay slumped against it, a sister’s misericorde protruding from his throat, the wound bubbling forth a pink froth of blood. Dead, or dying. How had he gotten inside?
The collapse. The opening had been filled, but the foundation was still awaiting permanent repairs. The rain must have washed the passage out again.
Another gasping breath disturbed the crypt’s silent, stifling air. I rushed around the slab to find Sister Julienne sprawled on the flagstones, clutching a small jeweled box. As I bent over her, she struggled to open her eyes. Blood had soaked through her robes, leaving them a sheet of shining crimson.
I dropped the candle and pressed my hands to her stomach, where the sword wound gaped. Hot blood welled between my fingers. “Stay awake, Sister Julienne. Just a little longer. I’ll bring the healers.” Even as I spoke, I recognized the futility of those words. No healer could help Sister Julienne now.
Her eyes sprang open. Swiftly as a striking adder, she seized my wrist. Her fingers were deathly cold. “Artemisia,” she rasped. “Take the reliquary.”
The box. I forced myself not to recoil. Its gilded surface sparkled with opals, fiery glints of color showing through the smears of blood. “Take it where?”
Her clouded eyes sought mine, wandering and unfocused, as though she saw through me to another plane. “We have guarded Saint Eugenia’s relic for three hundred years. It cannot fall into the grasp of the unliving. They know that the revenant cannot be freed, only destroyed. Thus they seek to destroy it. It is our greatest weapon, and without it we have no defense.”
“I don’t understand,” I said. “Should I take the reliquary to Mother Katherine, or do you mean that I should—run, escape with it from the convent?”
“No,” she croaked. My shoulders slumped with relief. I couldn’t imagine fleeing, abandoning Sophia and the others to die, even if staying here meant dying with them. But what she said next dashed my relief on unforgiving stones. “I pass my duty on to you, Artemisia of Naimes. You must take up the relic of Saint Eugenia. This is the Lady’s will.”
The crypt suddenly seemed far away. Black spots swarmed my vision, and ringing filled my ears. “I haven’t been trained,” I heard myself say, my voice eerily calm to my own ears. “I don’t know how.”
“I’m sorry,” Sister Julienne whispered. Her eyes sank shut. “Goddess have mercy on us all.” Her hand slid from mine to fall limp on the ground.
For a long moment I couldn’t move. My thoughts turned gray and crawling. Then I remembered everyone in the chapel above, afraid, waiting, helpless. I doubled forward, bunching handfuls of my robes in unfeeling fingers.
I wasn’t in the habit of praying alone. I recited the sisters’ prayers out loud every day along with everyone else, but that was different, easier than coming up with my own words. I could barely talk to people; trying to talk to a goddess seemed like a bad idea. But I needed to know.
Lady. Please, if this is truly Your will, give me a sign.
Two things happened at once. There came a knock of metal against stone, and something cool and hard touched my knee. The reliquary had tumbled from Sister Julienne’s slack grip and had fallen against me, candlelight glinting in the opals’ depths.
Simultaneously, barely an arm’s length away, the soldier’s corpse exhaled. Mist poured in streams from his eyes and nose and mouth, gathering into a shape that hovered in the air above him. He had died, and the spirit that had possessed him was exiting his body. As soon as it re-formed, it would attack.
I had no more time to think, to hesitate, to doubt. The Lady had answered me—not once, but twice. Swallowing back bile, I took the reliquary and pried its latches open.
FOUR
For a heartbeat, nothing happened. The inside of the reliquary was lined with crimson velvet, so old that it had worn smooth and dark in places and reeked suffocatingly of dust. Saint Eugenia’s finger bone was slotted into a groove in the velvet, blackened as though by fire. I saw no evidence of the revenant bound to it, and more unsettlingly, felt nothing.
I was starting to wonder whether there was something I was supposed to do, a ritual to perform or a blessing to recite, when mist boiled upward from the bone and my world exploded into pain.
Sometimes, I sat on the dormitory’s roof before dawn to watch the bats return from the countryside. They roosted in the chapel’s bell tower by day, and just before sunrise they descended upon it in enormous flurrying clouds of black. That was what it felt like to take the revenant into my body—as though its essence funneled into me in a whirling, shrieking cloud, flashing dark behind my eyelids and battering the inside of my rib cage with a thousand wings. It was too much. I couldn’t contain it all.
A scream tore from my throat. Convulsions overtook my body. Through red streaks of agony, I felt my spine arching and my heels gouging the floor. Inside me, something howled, and my own thoughts disintegrated before the onslaught. My fingers twitched, then curled into claws.
I hadn’t thought it would feel like this, like being possessed again, a thousand times worse than the ashgrim. I remembered what Mother Katherine had said in the garden. I wasn’t a match for a high relic; the revenant was trying to overpower me.
I couldn’t let it. I forced a resisting arm downward inch by inch to reach for my misericorde. I wrenched it free from its sheath and pressed the flat of the blade against my wrist.
My skin sizzled where the consecrated metal touched. The dagger fell from my nerveless fingers and I collapsed, relieved, as the revenant’s power s
hrank back. But spasms still racked my body, and I couldn’t do much more than twitch and gasp against the flagstones.
That was when I heard the voice.
“Get up, human.” The rasping command came from everywhere and nowhere, slithering between the spaces of my thoughts. “Do you want to die? Get up!”
I wondered if I had lost my mind. Spirits weren’t supposed to be able to talk. Even while possessing me, the ashgrim had only expressed itself through simple urges, flashes of rage and hunger that I’d barely been able to tell apart from my own desires. Most of the time, it hadn’t even felt like a separate entity. But I remembered, touching Eugenia’s effigy, how different the revenant had felt compared to the less powerful spirits—
“If you don’t get up, I will make you. I’ll tear your mind apart, if that’s what it takes.”
Yes, it could speak. I heard myself laugh, a horrible mirthless croak.
“What’s wrong with you?” the voice hissed. “Are you mad? That’s just what I need, a deranged nun for a vessel.” And then, “Move!”
From somewhere inside me, the revenant pushed. I rolled over in time to see a spirit’s ghostly claws rake through the air where my face had been a moment before. Instinctively, I reached for my misericorde.
“No,” said the revenant. “Not that. Take the dead soldier’s sword.”
The sword lay within reach. Staggering upright, I eyed the heavy length of steel. “I’ve never—”
“That doesn’t matter. Pick it up. Now!”
I wasn’t about to start taking orders from a spirit, but I sensed movement nearby and knew I couldn’t hesitate. I lunged for the weapon, only to stumble an extra step forward when it proved impossibly light in my grasp, almost weightless. Normally my hand’s weakened muscles wouldn’t be able to grip something this heavy securely enough to use it in combat, but that didn’t seem to impede the revenant.
“Turn,” it commanded.
I pivoted, trying not to overbalance again. The spirit flowed toward me as a boiling mass of vapor, becoming more defined the nearer it grew. I made out a lopsided face, the features melted like wax, its eyes febrile sparks of light in sunken sockets. A feverling.
Vespertine Page 4