Vespertine
Page 35
The Lady had let me keep the revenant. But what if She had done so not in answer to my prayers, but for reasons of Her own?
Before, I had compared Her plans to a game of knights and kings. Now I imagined the checkered board growing vaster, stretching far into shadow. The game piece carved into Sarathiel’s likeness knocked over by an unseen hand. The shape concealed behind it gliding forward from the dark.
Something occurred to me that I had never considered before. If the Lady was playing a game, a great game, a game of life and death, then who was Her opponent?
I shivered and tried my best to banish the image from my mind.
“There’s something I’ve been wondering,” I said, eager to change the subject. “The first humans who got possessed, the ones who went on to become saints; they weren’t all strong enough to control unbound spirits, were they? They couldn’t have been. At least some of them must have fought with their spirits the same way I do.”
“Yes,” the revenant said, after a long, ancient-feeling pause. “They were our friends.”
“Then does that mean we’re—”
“You had better not push it, nun. I can possess you whenever I want. I could do far worse than make you murder someone. I could make you try on hats.”
Up on the battlements, where no one could see me, I smiled.
We sat together as the sky slowly brightened to the color of milk and the flurries dwindled, revealing the monastery’s thatched roofs dusted in white. Monks began to stir, dim gray shapes shuffling along with bowed heads as they attended to their morning prayers. I was considering returning to my room when I caught sight of new activity below. A pair of horses had been led into the courtyard; their reins were being handed over to a tall, hooded brother who walked with a slight limp, dressed for travel. One of the horses was white, and the other dapple-gray.
I flew down the stairs and through the twisting alley that led to the courtyard, intercepting the brother on his way to the stable. By the looks of it, he had planned to lead Priestbane to a stall before departing the monastery on his own horse. He drew to a surprised halt when I appeared, but did nothing to discourage me from laying my hand on Priestbane’s neck, who turned his head, blowing hay-scented breath against my face.
I distantly noticed that the monk wasn’t one of the brothers I recognized. He was too tall, too slender, his posture too elegant. Then he said, “I didn’t think you would be awake,” and drew back his hood.
It was the first time I had seen Leander since that day in his chamber. He looked ghostly draped in a monk’s woolen robes instead of his tailored confessor’s vestments, their rough weave emphasizing the cold, saintly beauty of his face and the ethereal white of his hair. He didn’t appear quite real, as though he had stepped from a scene in a tapestry.
He surprised me by passing me Priestbane’s reins. “I thought you might as well have him. He’s already yours, as far as the masses are concerned.”
“You mean—”
“I’ve left the contract of ownership with the brothers. You only need to sign it. I doubt you’ll ever have need of it, but better to make the transaction official.” Dryly, he added, “I wouldn’t want anyone to accuse you of horse theft.”
Words had vanished from my head like birds taking flight. I couldn’t think of how to answer. I stroked Priestbane’s mane, acutely aware of Leander watching. His gaze was intent, as though he was studying my face, tucking a final memory of me away.
“Why are you dressed as a monk?” I asked, hoping to jar him from his strange mood. I assumed he held monks in as much contempt as nuns; he couldn’t possibly feel comfortable borrowing a Gray Brother’s spare clothes.
His answer pierced me like an arrow. “I’ve decided to take my vows,” he said. “I’m leaving Roischal to study with the brothers of Saint Severin.”
It was the last answer I expected. The brothers of Saint Severin were famous for producing illuminated manuscripts of exquisite beauty, at the cost of growing stooped and half-blind before their time. I tried to picture Leander among them, leaning over a desk with his white hair glowing in the candlelight, swirls of color coming alive beneath his brush. A quiet life, one in which he would hurt no one.
During my moment of distraction, he had mounted his horse. He was already turning, a hand lifted in farewell. “Goodbye, Artemisia.”
Holding Priestbane’s reins, I watched him ride away between the stone buildings, a solitary figure fading into the drifting white. When he vanished, a sense of loss struck me like an unexpected blow. I shouldn’t have stood in silence; I should have said something in return.
Then an odd coincidence tickled the back of my mind. Something Sister Iris had said once, when our convent had been lent a manuscript from the brothers of Saint Severin. A minor, seemingly insignificant detail: that the brothers devotedly followed Josephine of Bissalart’s techniques in the creation of their manuscripts. In my mind’s eye, I saw a lantern’s light glimmering over the revenants’ unearthly, gilded forms.
Again, I felt the Lady’s hand hovering. And in that moment I was seized by the same fierce certainty that I had felt charging into the Battle of Bonsaint—this time a certainty that Leander wasn’t gone forever. One day, the Lady’s plans would bring us together again.
Priestbane stamped a hoof, mouthing eagerly at the bit. Wind rushed from the valley like an invitation, lifting my hair, tugging at my robes. I took hold of Priestbane’s mane and scrambled onto his bare back.
Both the monks and the revenant reacted with alarm as Priestbane charged through the monastery in a snorting clatter of hooves. “Nun!” “Lady, wait—” But I was already cantering away, their protests lost to the wind. A startled flock of ravens burst cawing from the walls, and among their flickering black bodies I thought I made out a familiar white shape rising into the sky, winging away toward the mountains. Filled with thoughtless joy, I turned Priestbane to follow.
THE HIERARCHY OF SPIRITS
FIRST ORDER
THE ORDER OF THE INNOCENTS
Shade
Wisp
SECOND ORDER
SOULS LOST TO THE FORCES OF NATURE
Gaunt—Death by famine
Frostfain—Death by exposure
Undine—Death by drowning
Ashgrim—Death by fire
THIRD ORDER
SOULS LOST TO ILLNESS AND DISEASE
Feverling—Death by fever
Witherkin—Death by wasting
Wretchling—Death by flux
Blight wraith—Death by blight
Plague specter—Death by pestilence
FOURTH ORDER
SOULS LOST TO VIOLENCE
Rivener—Death by battle
Fury—Death by murder
Penitent—Death by execution
White vicar—The spirit of a slain cleric
FIFTH ORDER
THE SEVEN REVENANTS
Cimeliarch the Bright
Architrave the Dim
Cahethal the Mad
Oremus the Lost
Sarathiel the Obscured
Malthas the Hollow
Rathanael the Scorned
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I wrote this book during Covid isolation, at a time when, like many people, I felt like Artax drowning in the Swamp of Sadness, the most depressed I’d ever been in my life (which is saying something), slowly losing my facility with language, chipping away at draft after draft that read as though it had been written by a dismal AI or a committee of bewildered space aliens nervously attempting to mimic human behavior. That is to say, this book was very hard to write and I owe a considerable debt of gratitude to everyone who put up with me during it.
Firstly, I need to thank my agent, Sara Megibow, who is an eternal beacon of light and dragged me out of the swamp many times. Secondly, my wonderful editor, Karen Wojtyla, who waited with great compassion and forbearance as I crept piteously toward my deadlines like a horrible Sméagol. And all the marvelous people at S&S
who work so hard normally, and had to work even harder on Vespertine because of our tight schedule: Nicole Fiorica, Bridget Madsen, Elizabeth Blake-Linn, Sonia Chaghatzbanian, Irene Metaxatos, Cassie Malmo, Chantal Gersch, Emily Ritter, Anna Jarzab, Caitlin Sweeney, Nicole Russo, Mandy Veloso, Penina Lopez, and many others whose names I don’t know, but who deserve a lifetime supply of gourmet chocolate for their tireless efforts behind the scenes.
Next I must thank my family and friends, who tolerated an astonishing amount of bizarre behavior as I deteriorated into a primordial ooze-like state—particularly my mom and dad, without whose support I never would have become an author, and also would have died of scurvy. And my dear friends Jes, Rachel, and Jamie, who helped me brainstorm important parts of the book, as well as Ashley Poston, for her much-needed kindness and advice.
I wouldn’t be here today without the support of independent booksellers. I would like to thank everyone at my local indie Joseph-Beth, the first bookstore to feature in my childhood memories, and still my favorite bookstore today. I am also deeply grateful to bookseller Nicole Brinkley, who reached out to me at a time when I desperately needed help.
Last but not least: my profound thanks to Charlie Bowater, the phenomenally skilled artist who illustrates my covers, and hasn’t yet appeared at the stroke of midnight to claim my soul, which I owe her. Truly. It’s in the contract.
More from the Author
Sorcery of Thorns
An Enchantment of Ravens
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
MARGARET ROGERSON is the author of the New York Times bestsellers Sorcery of Thorns and An Enchantment of Ravens. She has a bachelor’s degree in cultural anthropology from Miami University. When not reading or writing she enjoys sketching, gaming, making pudding, and watching more documentaries than is socially acceptable (according to some). She lives near Cincinnati, Ohio, beside a garden full of hummingbirds and roses. Visit her at MargaretRogerson.com.
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Margaret K. McElderry
Simon & Schuster, New York
ALSO BY MARGARET ROGERSON
An Enchantment of Ravens
Sorcery of Thorns
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Text © 2021 by Margaret Rogerson
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Rogerson, Margaret, author.
Title: Vespertine / Margaret Rogerson.
Description: First edition. | New York : Margaret K. McElderry Books, [2021] | Series: Vespertine | Audience: Ages 14 up. | Audience: Grades 10–12. | Summary: When her convent is attacked by possessed soldiers, Artemisia defends the Gray Sisters by awakening the revenant bound to a saint’s relic, even though she runs the risk of being possessed permanently by the powerful ancient spirit.
Identifiers: LCCN 2021020743 (print) | LCCN 2021020744 (ebook) | ISBN 9781534477117 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781534477131 (ebook)
Subjects: CYAC: Dead—Fiction. | Spirit possession—Fiction. | Relics—Fiction. | Saints—Fiction. | Magic—Fiction. | BISAC: YOUNG ADULT FICTION / Fantasy / Dark Fantasy | YOUNG ADULT FICTION / Ghost Stories | LCGFT: Novels.
Classification: LCC PZ7.1.R6635 Ve 2021 (print) | LCC PZ7.1.R6635 (ebook) | DDC [Fic]—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021020743
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021020744