Chapter 49 Seraphine
Sera was dreaming again.
Or perhaps, seeing was a better word for it.
Saint Oriel stood before her, clad in a billowing white gown, her long black braids falling to her waist. She was beautiful, even with that worried crease between her brows.
There is a wrongness in the tapestry of fate, said the Saint of Destiny.
You must pull it out.
But Sera was so very tired, her slumber like deep and cloying quicksand.
The saint disappeared. In her place, a city sprawled. Sera found herself above it, coasting like a bird on the wind. Dawn whispered over her shoulder, the Verne growing restless beneath her. Gulls shrieked as they fled to the harbour, and, down below, bodies appeared in the grey water.
Farmers. Villagers. Townsfolk. Children.
They floated like petals on the Verne.
The river ran red.
The sky filled with Strix.
The city screamed.
The scene changed as quickly as it had arrived, Fantome tugged out from under her like a rug.
There was a strange toppling sensation and then she was standing in the middle of a cornfield not yet kissed by dawn.
Over weathered barns and thatched roofs, she glimpsed Rose-bearers marching from the Pinetops, their faces illuminated by the flare of their torches.
At the front, Andreas’s golden tresses flickered like a flame.
By his side, a tell-tale glint of silver hair made her heart constrict.
The world spun again, blurring into a canvas of grey clouds. In them she glimpsed Oriel’s dark eyes.
Some saints are for now.
Some saints are for after.
What am I for? Sera’s question echoed back at her.
You are the bridge between the two, Seraphine.
Other figures moved in the clouds. Faces Sera knew from the annals of history, from the paintings and tapestries that hung in the households of Valterre, from statues that stood proudly in museums and cathedrals, in fountains and graveyards, at parks and ports.
First, there was Maud, Saint of Lost Hope, with her weeping blue eyes. She whispered, ‘Take heart, Maker.’
Then Cadel, Saint of Warriors, tall and thunderous in his battle armour, his steel eyes like weapons. He boomed, ‘Have courage, Maker.’
Frederic, Saint of Farmers and Hunters, spoke next. Ruddy-faced and strong-jawed, his words fell as sharp as an axe. ‘Aim true, Maker.’
Then Serene, Saint of Animals, floated to the fore, sharp white teeth glinting as she cried, ‘Fight fiercely, Maker.’
Sera knew Maurius, Saint of Travellers and Seafarers, by his generous beard and weathered face, his voice as calm as the summer sea. ‘Stay the course, Maker.’
Alisa, Saint of the Sick, was soft and pious, the mist like a shroud around her heart-shaped face. ‘Be well, Maker.’
Calliope, Saint of Beauty and Youth, was more ravishing than any of her portraits. Her red lips spanned full and wide as she purred, ‘Listen to your fair heart, Maker.’
Jasper, Saint of Artisans, looked up through his crooked spectacles, as if from his work, and said, ‘See beyond what is obvious, Maker.’
The clouds tugged forth the figure of an old man with curling white hair. Placido, Saint of Peace, with a voice as soft as prayer, murmured, ‘Lead with love, Maker.’
Then Calvin, Saint of Death, was before her, those beautiful green eyes glinting like emeralds. With the slash of a smile, he crooned, ‘Don’t flinch, Maker.’
Sera was surprised when Lucille Versini appeared, an errant slant of sunlight bouncing off her golden hair.
The thirteenth saint had no discernible power beyond curiosity and perseverance yet she sat in the heavens among those who had gone before her, and to Sera said simply this, ‘Thank you, Maker.’
Sera wanted to ask for what? but someone was singing then, and the sound was so beautiful she forgot her disquiet. Celiana, Saint of Song and Poetry, hummed a song of peace, and when it was over, she looked at Sera with hope shining in her eyes, and said, ‘Soar, little dove.’
The clouds blanched white, then gathered into a familiar flowing gown. Sera tipped her head back to find Saint Oriel’s face alone in the heavens. The saint seemed to span the entire sky, her eyes, now golden, shining like twin suns.
There was no grand farewell, no bolstering advice, just three words, uttered low and urgent:
He’s coming, Maker.
Sera woke to a pain in her chest. The thorn there was angry, the skin around it hot and red. It prickled with the truth of what lay ahead. The end was almost upon them. Upon her.
Oriel had parted the mists in her mind to reveal it and now Sera could not hide from the truth. She had one more thorn to earn.
One last part to play.
Andreas Mondragon Rayere had to be unmade.
There was no world in which she would be able to avoid seeing the prince again, smell his saccharine breath on her face, glimpse too close that maniacal gleam in his eye.
To unmake him was to touch him, to tangle together the very threads of their magic in the hope of ripping his out at the root.
The Silver-tongue had travelled too widely throughout the kingdom, bent the minds of far too many to simply pass from this world with a knife in his back. He would leave all his compulsions behind, a legacy she simply could not risk.
Andreas’s note was Sera’s chance to get close enough to do it.
A twist of fate and an unholy risk that felt both reckless and inevitable.
An ending for the prince.
An ending, perhaps, for her.
But a new beginning for Fantome.
She was so lost in the tide of her thoughts she didn’t notice Ransom standing by her dresser until he cleared his throat.
‘You’re back.’ She sat up in bed.
The sun had set, and a slate of grey clouds hung low over the city. The stars were lost to them tonight, the moon turning its back on the Hollows. Perhaps Ransom had chased it from the sky. Even here, in the quiet of their bedroom, shadows spilled from him.
‘Lark is dead.’
‘Oh.’ Relief rushed her. She gripped her blanket to remind herself she was awake. ‘How did it happen?’
Ransom spoke without triumph. ‘We tracked him to an alley at the end of the Hollows, cornered him like a rat. Nadia let him make the killing blow himself. Then we burned his body in a field.’
The Necromancer was gone.
The dead of Fantome could finally rest.
Andreas had lost a saint.
It was good news, hopeful news, but Ransom’s mood was bleaker than ever.
‘I saw your dragon,’ Sera recalled.
‘It was a message for Andreas.’ He raised his hand, and her heart seized at the sight of the pale blue note half crushed inside it. ‘It seems he has a message for you, too.’
There was a note of accusation in his voice.
‘It fell out of Fabian’s fist,’ she said.
‘Were you going to tell me about it?’
‘You were otherwise engaged.’
His eyes flashed. ‘Seraphine.’
‘I don’t know,’ she admitted. ‘I hadn’t got that far.’
He frowned as he looked again at the note. She wondered how long he had been standing there staring at it. Waiting for her to wake up. ‘Andreas wants you to go alone.’
‘I have to get close to him, Ransom. I can’t unmake him unless I touch him. It’s the only way to undo his hold on the kingdom. To win this war.’
He looked to the shadows, his gaze turning vacant. ‘I know.’
There was a world in those two words: worry and fear and rage and anguish, frustration tinged with the dark edge of despair.
‘So you won’t stop me?’
Slowly, he shook his head, an air of defeat coming over him – the realization, perhaps, that what came next was bigger than both of them. ‘But I won’t let you go alone either. I won’t let you be a martyr.’
She didn’t know what to say to that. How to tell him her fate was beyond his wishes. She had seen it in the eyes of the saints, heard it in the whisper of Oriel’s voice. Her role was almost at an end. Her power was almost spent.
But this wasn’t about her. Or him. Or the tenuous thread that bound them to each other.
It was about war, and Valterre, and the fight for everlasting peace.
‘Together, then,’ she offered into the silence.
He dipped his chin. ‘Always.’
She went to him just as the door to her bedroom flew open. Fontaine filled the door frame, looking thoroughly undisturbed by the pool of shadows at her feet.
Sera glared at her. ‘Do you ever knock?’
‘Not in matters of life or death.’
‘What is it?’ said Ransom, stiffening at the look on her face. It was paler than usual, the crevices so deep it was hard to make out her frown.
‘Our spies have sent reports from Merchant’s Way. There’s been an incident.’
Sera’s pulse roared in her ears. ‘What?’
‘A mass drowning,’ she said, grimly. ‘A hundred or so. They climbed the Bridge of Tears when the evening bells rang out. Perched there until the last bell chimed. They didn’t make a sound.
They didn’t even look down. When the last bell tolled, they jumped as one, and let the river swallow them whole. No one swam.’
Sera’s breath swelled in her chest. No one swam. No one even tried. The Verne was slow, the current forgiving. They could have tried.
Andreas told them not to.
She swayed on her feet, thinking of the words in his letter.
Don’t believe me? Watch the Verne.
‘It’s all for me,’ she whispered. ‘He’s showing me he’s not bluffing.’
‘Time is wearing thin,’ said Fontaine ominously, and Sera wondered if the soothsayer had seen the same troubling things she had. Whether Oriel had visited her too.
She raked her hands through her hair, trying to come up with a plan, but she couldn’t think beyond the horror of what had just happened. She was haunted by the image of all those innocent townsfolk spilling into the Verne.
Fontaine stepped back into the hallway. ‘I’ll call a meeting.’ She wagged her cane between them. ‘Just in case you were thinking of handling this yourselves.’
Sera frowned. ‘I don’t want to put anyone else in danger.’
The soothsayer snorted. ‘You’ve been chasing danger since the day you got here. You’ve made your saints, Seraphine. Now, for hell’s sake, use them.’
She took off as abruptly as she’d arrived.
‘She’s right,’ said Ransom, staring after her.
‘She’s always right,’ Sera conceded.
With Andreas’s note in hand, they went to the vault, where they met with the rest of their Order. Nadia did not come, and after what had happened to Lark, Sera didn’t expect her to. But that didn’t mean they didn’t need her, that there wasn’t a vital role yet for the Saint of Spring to play.
Afterwards, Sera went alone to Nadia’s bedroom and knocked on the door.
At an answering grunt she pushed it open.
Nadia was standing by the window. ‘There’s no moon tonight,’ she said distantly.
Edging inside, Sera said, ‘Maybe Andreas has enthralled that too.’
‘I’m sure it’s on his to-conquer list,’ Nadia muttered, tracing a crescent on the window. ‘I missed your urgent meeting. Have you come to evict me?’
‘Do you want to be evicted?’
She pressed her palm against the pane. ‘I just… couldn’t face it.’
The silence was soft, forgiving. ‘I came here for two reasons,’ said Sera. ‘I’m sorry. About your loss.’
Nadia huffed, dropping her hand. ‘You despised Lark.’
‘Well, he was evil.’ Sera didn’t bother mincing her words.
‘He wasn’t always evil,’ whispered Nadia.
‘That’s the part I’m sorry about.’ The shattered dream. Her broken heart.
Nadia turned from the window, revealing the tear tracks on her cheeks. ‘What was the second reason?’
‘Andreas has ransacked Halbracht. Mercure’s spies say the Strix flew north over the Pinetops on the morning of Saints’ Day.
While Lark’s parade was dancing down Merchant’s Way, Andreas was destroying our stores of Lightfire, turning our smugglers to his cause and gathering more Shade for his Daggers.
There’s nothing left for us there. But Tobias has a plan.
A recipe for Lightfire that might save the city. He and Theo worked on it before…’
‘What do you need from me, Sera?’
‘Boneshade.’ It was the plant that gave them Lightfire. The bloom of the oldest grown magic in the kingdom.
Nadia’s brow furrowed. ‘You want me to make Lightfire?’
‘As much as you can in one night,’ said Sera. It was a dizzying request, and time was against them. ‘Could you do it?’
‘Well, I’d been planning to squander these precious next hours moping in my room,’ said Nadia. ‘I suppose this would be a marginally better use of my time.’
Sera blew out a breath.
‘Lark is dead,’ said Nadia. ‘And so is the dream of what we could have been.’ Her voice was stark but there was a sureness to her now, a sense of purpose leaking into the gold of her eyes. ‘I might as well make it count.’
Sera smiled, gladly meeting Nadia on this tenuous bridge of hope. ‘I’ll let the others know.’
‘Someone’d better bring me snacks.’
‘I’ll get on it.’ She turned to go.
‘Sera, wait.’
She stopped in the doorway.
‘What I did tonight with Lark…’ Nadia left the rest of it unsaid: the knife, the blood, the swift goodbye. ‘Will you be able to do it, too, when the time comes?’
Confusion nudged Sera back into the room. ‘What do you mean?’
‘When you face Theo again, will you be able to separate the man he was at House Armand from the soul-eater he’s become?’
The liar. The traitor. The great devourer.
Sera hesitated. ‘I don’t know.’
‘You’d better figure it out, Maker.’ Nadia’s voice hardened to match her expression. ‘The fate of this kingdom depends on it.’
Long before dawn, Sera woke and dressed for war. When she made it downstairs, the other saints were waiting for her. Ransom took her hand, ghosting a kiss across her knuckles.
Val was standing by the door with Caruso, who was carrying Fatebringer.
Then there were Tobias and Paola, both bleary-eyed after staying up all night, working on the Boneshade plants Nadia had managed to cultivate.
The front garden was thronged too. The rest of the Order of Flames, carrying satchels full of liquid Lightfire. And an assembly of almost one hundred Cloaks, crossbows slung on their backs. Ready to go to war for Fantome. For peace.
Anouk arrived at the same time as Sera, casually devouring a cinnamon bun while Mercure and Fontaine waved them off.
As the Orders poured out of House Armand and marched through the slumbering Hollows, Sera felt the warm hand of fate on her shoulder, steering her towards the dawn.
She prayed it would be kind to them.