Chapter 2
E ven though I’m hidden deep in the thicket of shadows, the High Ecclesian’s gaze finds me easily, sizing me up the same way a butcher might behold a pound of flesh to be carved and cut. “You are Ophelia Foundling, betrothed to Renault Amadeus, yes?” the High Ecclesian demands when I say nothing, Their body straight as an arrow.
My palms are so damp my cane nearly slides from my grasp. Wisps of incense trickle out from the Spine, wiping away the taste of rot lingering on my palate.
“Yes,” I manage, finally forcing myself a step or two away from the wall.
“Then,” the High Ecclesian replies, “with Us. At once.” For a moment, Their large hand reaches out for me, gold-washed plate armor clinking like bones. At the last second, They seem to change Their mind and turn on Their heel, stalking back through the doors into the Cloisters’ Spine.
My heart races rabbit-quick. Wistfulness unfolds in me like an old letter, its creases brittle. I want so badly to think the High Ecclesian is here because of the statue’s tears, because Carina is mistaken, because my Sainting is true. I cross the threshold, the whitewashed doors swinging closed behind me.
More foolishness—it is the Twelve, not the High Ecclesia, that verify new Saintings. And even if a Saint did choose me, the noble mortal men that sit at that powerful table—including Renault’s father—would certainly test my claim in every way possible.
Any hope of miracles I dare to harbor withers and dies as my eyes adjust to the candlelit gloom of the Spine. The main corridor that runs up the center of the Cloisters is devoid of its usual morning bustle; instead, it’s still, silent, grave-like. More Holy Guard than I’ve ever seen inside the city’s gates—even during Sepulchyre attacks—line the wide, long passageway. Their ranks are tight, shoulder-to-shoulder. The sun streams through the arched stained-glass ceiling far above my head, branding strange shadow-shapes onto their bronze armor.
My mouth goes dry, unease burrowing deeper into my bones. It’s impossible not to feel like the Holy Guard is watching me, memorizing my every move to report back to their commander—the man who accused me of goetia and nearly destroyed my life.
I fix my gaze on the hem of the High Ecclesian’s storm-colored vestments and force myself to follow. My cane rings out too loudly on the gold-veined marble; normally I move through the Spine invisibly, hidden by the servants on errands and the cooks wheeling in bounties of vegetables and the novices going about their work.
Where is everyone? What happened while I was in the garden—while I was entirely occupied with selfish thoughts of my own salvation?
I eye the roiling stormfront of the High Ecclesian’s vestments, wondering if I dare to voice the questions aloud. I’ve never even spoken to one of Them before. They are the most holy, the most sacred of us all, closest to our Lord. They are willing to forsake Their names and identities to become part of one body, one blood, in order to serve the First Son. What could They possibly need from someone like me?
“Foundling,” the High Ecclesian calls over Their shoulder, coming to a halt by an archway that leads off the Spine and deeper into the Cloisters. “You will follow.”
I freeze, unable to close the distance, a garden mouse spotted by one of the ospreys that roam Lumendei’s cliffsides. Have all of Renault’s efforts to sway the Twelve failed? Have more false claims of goetia been leveled against me? Despair digs hooks into my skin, feeling for all the world like fingers around my throat.
At a wave of the High Ecclesian’s hand, the Holy Guard blocking the archway part like molten bronze, and They disappear into the shadow. Tears spear the backs of my eyes, but I push them away. I owe it to Renault to present myself as well as possible, even when terror leaks into my veins like poison.
And so I slip through the gap in the Holy Guard, unsettled by the sound of their steps as they close the opening behind me, an impassable wall of bronze. I push away the thoughts of how their commander boxed me in, cornered me, in much the same way with his false accusations. I shove the feeling down and force myself forward.
Inside the archway, the High Ecclesian awaits me, unnaturally motionless in a way that makes my chest tight. An attollo hovers in the empty space beyond Them. Its platform is a wide, flat gold disc surrounded by an intricate enclosure of stained glass. Without acknowledging me, the High Ecclesian boards the attollo. I swallow hard, unease beating panic-laden wings in my chest.
I’ve never ridden an attollo before. Besides having no need to access the restricted chambers of the Cloisters, the attollo’s enchantments only obey those who work the Mysteries—salt in the wound.
Fearing a rebuke from the High Ecclesian, I step onto the attollo, unnerved by the way the platform bobs slightly under my weight. I clutch the basket of yarrow tightly to my chest. Maybe I should’ve put it down earlier, but where, and how , with the High Ecclesian’s vestments tearing across the marble floors like a stormfront, beckoning me to keep up or be drowned in the floodwaters?
A single crisp word leaves the High Ecclesian’s mouth, and then we’re descending. My stomach bottoms out, nausea curling up in my intestines. I keep my gaze trained on the platform beneath my feet. The surface is engraved with a depiction of the First Son defeating the leaders of the Sepulchyre, driving them into the sea. The sight of my Lord steadies me; He would surely not lead me astray.
By the time the attollo comes to a stop, we’ve descended deep into the belly of the Cloisters—farther than I thought we’d tunneled into Cathedral Hill. A marble archway and small chamber await me, lit by dancing candles that line carved alcoves. The High Ecclesian sweeps past, Their vestments brushing my battered work boots. My face reddens. I don’t even know what awaits me, and I am so hopelessly disheveled in an undyed gardening apron and my loose, well-worn linen dress that was perhaps green once—looking not at all like a bride of the House Amadeus.
I step off the attollo, wincing at how loudly the click of my cane echoes against the stone walls. The air down here is thicker, laced with moisture, vaguely musty. The ever-present scent of incense is gone, a jarring absence. The High Ecclesian leads me through a vestibule—lined with more Holy Guard, their eyes shadowed beneath their helms, though I swear I can feel them watching—and then to a shimmering golden gate, which an ornate skeleton key on Their chatelaine unlocks.
They beckon me into a seemingly endless hallway, candelabras stationed every ten feet or so, the candles doing little to beat back the gloom, though I can see we are not alone in this subterranean chamber. Instead of the Holy Guard, Knights of the Host are stationed along the marble walls that gleam ghostly in the glow of the candelabras. I dig my fingernails into the handle of my yarrow basket and glance to my left. More golden gates heavy with welded sigils greet me, humming with Mysterium so powerful it makes my bones rattle.
Of course. How could I have been so foolish? We are in the Vincula—the Host’s underground prison. I realize all at once that I will probably never leave this place, never see the sunlight or the gardens or feel the sea spray on my face.
Three fortnights ago, I made the mistake of rejecting the marriage proposal of Sergio Quintus, the Holy Guard’s esteemed commander. I am afraid of him, afraid of the stories the chambermaids tell about him, afraid of his brutish behavior, which I’ve seen more than once on Feast Days.
But he made his proposal publicly, and when I refused, many men—including his own guards—rushed to mock him. Me, a crippled foundling with no House, refusing a commander who’d dragged himself out of the muck of the Lower Wards and brought so much glory to our Lord.
Even in my gentle refusal, I was good and sweet and kind, doing my best to be the perfect Host woman. As I always am, as I have been for more than thirty-something anni. And yet, how easy it was for Sergio to claim I’d used goetia to bewitch him.
Sorrow burns in my throat as I watch the High Ecclesian speak with the knights in hushed tones. The resulting trial proved me innocent—or so I thought. My hands shake so badly I almost drop the basket of yarrow. Clearly something has changed. Why else would a lowly foundling healer like me be in the Vincula—lured here by a High Ecclesian, no less?
The Ecclesian finally turns toward me in a sweep of storm-gray, the embroidery on Their chest glinting in the candlelight. Doom presses down on me, heavy as a millstone, and I scramble to brace myself.
“There was an attack earlier this morning,” They say in that low, unsetting hiss. My heart skips a beat as I watch Their long, armored fingers move like a spider across the tangle of keys on Their chatelaine. They pluck one, its surface blackened with patina. “We took the Lupa Nox.”
My mouth goes dry as my mind spins, desperately trying to keep up. I gather myself, trying to understand, thoughts moving sluggishly as fear grips me, slowing everything to half-moments. One of the most feared warriors of the Sepulchyre has been taken alive—but what does that have to do with me ?
“Blessed One,” I begin, keeping my gaze trained on the ground, my head reverently bowing, “how can I be of service?” Coaxing my tongue into uttering such simple words takes an undue amount of energy. I want to scream, I think, to cry, to beg.
But I do not. Instead, I will do whatever the High Ecclesian asks. No—more than that. I will do it perfectly . I cannot fail. I cannot bring more shame onto Renault’s House. I cannot give the Saints further reason to spurn me. And after Sergio’s accusations, I cannot permit a single mistake. I fight for a deep inhale as the chamber’s ceilings seem to press closer, suffocating me.
“The Lupa Nox,” the High Ecclesian replies, the snick of the lock unlatching punctuating Their words, “requires a competent healer for her injuries.” Their low, ageless voice rings out in the Vincula, and I can feel Their gaze on me, even from beneath the storm-gray hood. “No one Sainted can do this work. She could too easily twist their Mysterium, poison their God-granted magic. There need not be a repeat of the Sundering.”
Beneath my linen overdress, a sweat breaks out across my skin despite the cool, damp air of the Vincula. I dare not move a single muscle.
“We need a simple mortal like yourself,” They continue. “Heal her with your common means—your plants and your bandages. No more. Despite her sins, she need not suffer.”
Silence blooms in the Vincula, limned in bloated, damp air.
“That is all you require of me?” I ask finally, dark spots swarming my vision.
“Yes,” the High Ecclesian replies, toneless. “For now.”
I let out a long breath that’s embarrassingly audible. The anxiety roiling in my stomach quiets—so this has nothing to do with the goetia accusations. In fact, it seems the High Ecclesian’s command honors my competency as a healer. And of course my Church would provide care even for a captive enemy. It is our Way of Light, part of what I love so much about my people. Even though the Sepulchyre have done nothing but attempt to destroy the city of Lumendei for so many anni, we persist—and we turn the other cheek, always.
“Understand this is an honor,” the High Ecclesian says, the pitch of Their voice slinking into a growl. “You are to be a member of the great House of Amadeus. Prove yourself worthy.”
“Yes,” I say with a shaky nod. “Of course. Thank you for this honor, Fair One. Please, just show me what needs to be done. I am but a vessel of the Church.”
The High Ecclesian leans away as if examining me. I feel Their eyes roving, searching for a weakness—and I know better than anyone that there are so terribly many to choose from. I set my jaw. But I can do this. I can heal without the Mysteries, a skill most don’t bother to learn, considering all that can be done with a Saint’s gifted power.
Then the High Ecclesian turns, quick as a shadow, and with a flick of Their armored wrist, the golden gate guarding the Lupa Nox creaks open. I take a deep breath, desperately trying to prepare myself for what is to come: the Beast of the Sepulchyre, the warrior who has cut down so many of our soldiers, who charges into battle wearing a silver helm fashioned into the open, waiting jaws of a wolf. I have no defenses against a thing of such destruction and ruin.
But I follow the High Ecclesian. I have no other choice.
I slip through the gate into a large room. The only light comes from the wall sconces, creating long shadows that stretch across the space. There are no windows, and the floor is made of hard-packed, well-swept dirt. In the center of the room there is a rough-hewn table, a little taller than my waist.
And upon it lies the most beautiful creature I have ever seen.