Chapter 30 Seraphine
After the uproar in the cloakroom, Sera went alone to the library.
Her mind was galloping like a racehorse.
She couldn’t shake the image of Theo’s face when she’d touched him, how his magic had tried to take a bite out of hers.
It was like the roar of Ransom’s fury when he’d pulled that blade of steelfire, intent on ending Theo’s life.
Every day, the beast in him prowled closer to the surface, devouring the tender parts that made him Bastian.
It was her fault. Her makings. She had changed them both, stamped them with a darkness they couldn’t escape. Now she would have to bear her fear and love them despite it, praying to all hell they didn’t kill each other.
Fontaine was sitting by the window in her usual armchair, smoking her pipe. ‘I assume the cloakroom is still standing,’ she remarked, her gaze remaining on the sky over the forest.
‘Just about.’
‘I expect Paola to replace those windows.’
‘I’ll let her know.’
‘I suppose you’ve come up here to brood.’
‘I thought the library would be deserted.’
A wry glance. ‘No you didn’t.’
Sera swallowed her protest. Part of her had been hoping to run into the soothsayer.
Taking a long drag of her pipe, Fontaine peered at her through a ring of smoke. ‘You’re wondering if it’s all going the way it’s supposed to.’
Damn, she was good. ‘Ransom and Theo almost killed each other just now. Their magic… it’s so dark.’
Fontaine snorted. ‘We’re not making rainbows here, Seraphine. The kingdom is at war. What did you expect?’
‘I don’t know.’ She raked her hands through her hair, feeling deflated. ‘Aren’t saints supposed to be good?’
‘What does that have to do with anything? Is the night evil, just because it lacks the light?’
She frowned. ‘I’m talking about death magic. Soul-eating.’
‘If you ask me, some souls deserve to be devoured.’
Not helpful. ‘How can we fight for peace if we don’t even have it under our own roof?’
Fontaine flicked her gaze back to the window, where a shadow moved over the distant trees. ‘To fight for the same thing, you must all want the same thing.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘It is intent that decides the flow of one’s magic. And the worth of their soul.’
Sera slumped into the armchair opposite her. ‘My head is in such a fog.’
Fontaine plucked her tarot from the windowsill. ‘Care for some clarity?’
‘Last time I drew a card from your deck, I ended up in the king’s prison.’
‘I remember,’ said Fontaine, fondly. ‘You drew the Rose. Which, by the way, you never returned to me.’
‘I suppose I was too busy trying not to die. You might have saved me a lot of time if you told me what the card actually meant.’
‘And deny you the opportunity of blowing the dust off your brain?’
‘Was I supposed to guess that I had the innate ability to make saints from my own blood?’
Fontaine shrugged. ‘I suggest starting with a single thought. Then see where it takes you.’
‘Well, I suggest speaking plainly for once,’ Sera groused.
‘I speak the words Saint Oriel tells me to.’ Fontaine’s gaze was withering. ‘And it seems it’s true what my ancestor says: beware, indeed, the thorns of Valterre’s rose.’
The blood drained from Sera’s face. The vine on her leg stung with new vengeance, making her squirm in her seat. Fontaine watched her closely.
Did she know about the thorns?
No. It wasn’t possible.
Was it…?
‘For every petal, there is a thorn,’ said the soothsayer like she could hear the rattle of Sera’s thoughts. ‘For every boon, a cost.’
Sera’s throat dried out.
‘And when the last petal falls, there will bloom no more. Only thorns.’ She cocked her head, the crevices in her face deepening. ‘Do you understand, Seraphine?’
A hard swallow. ‘Not really.’
Yes, you do.
‘No power is infinite. Be careful how you spend yours.’
‘I didn’t ask for this.’ The words flew from her before she could stop them. ‘I don’t want to be a Maker.’
Fontaine considered her. ‘What do you want?’
‘To rest,’ Sera admitted, feeling pathetic. ‘Just… to rest.’
‘So rest,’ said Fontaine, blowing another ring of smoke. ‘Rest and see what happens to the kingdom while you do.’
Her gaze shifted away, the prick of light in those large dark pupils hinting at a tunnel that stretched far beyond this day. This life.
‘What have you seen?’ asked Sera. ‘What do you know?’
‘Only that blood is too often the cost of peace,’ she said, distantly. ‘And not all shares are equal. We each have our own destiny, Seraphine, but some weigh heavier than others. Such is the pendulum of fate.’
Sera stewed on her words.
‘I hear music,’ said Fontaine in that same faraway voice.
‘What?’
‘I dream of music. Pipes and fiddles.’
‘Right…’ Feeling even further from the clarity she had been seeking, Sera sank deep into her armchair, watching the smoke rise above Fontaine’s head. It smelled unusually sweet today.
She closed her eyes and sleep came. In the quiet of the library she dreamed of music, of pipes keening through the mists of her mind and Oriel’s shadow moving just out of reach. Sera danced and danced, and when she woke, her feet ached.
She raked her hair back, glancing at the clock on the wall. She’d been out for over an hour. The smoke was gone and so was Fontaine.
There was a tarot card in her lap. A parting gift from the old crone.
Sera flipped it over.
The Dove.
A bird soared under a new sun. An arrow pierced its breast, staining its feathers red.
And still it flew.
On and on, towards the dying light.
Fontaine’s voice echoed. Blood is too often the cost of peace.
She tucked the card into her back pocket, the thorns prodding at her as she stood up. Her magic was wide awake now, a familiar heat gathering in her chest.
There is more to do, Maker.
War was coming and she could not afford to blink. Fontaine was right… some destinies weighed more than others, and it was too late to outrun hers. She would pay her cost, in the hope that it would bring victory. And beyond that, peace.
Such is the pendulum of fate.
With magic crackling under her skin, and the fate of Valterre sitting on her shoulders, she went in search of Tobias. He was down in the garden, skimming stones across the pond.
His face fell as she approached. ‘Please don’t tell anyone I’m out here. I don’t want to sweep up any more glass.’
‘Actually I have something else in mind.’ Her magic lurched, like it was reaching for him through the bars of her ribcage.
Steady on.
He blinked. ‘Your eyes are gold.’
She smiled. ‘Are you ready, Tobias?’
Stones tumbled from his fist as he ploughed towards her. ‘Born ready!’
They went together to her room.
As the sun surrendered the last of its light, and Saints’ Day loomed, Sera plucked at a thread in the grand tapestry of fate and made another saint.