Chapter XXXVII
XXXVII
It was approaching noon when I came to my senses, still kneeling there by Cecile’s pool.
Aha!
Sarmodel’s essence flew wide and fast, a smothering net ensnaring the hagstone’s anima. He drank it to the last.
And then I felt the welcome surge of fresh anima effervescing through my every tissue.
The long journey, the exhaustion of caring for Jacques, the restless night in Chateau d’Ocerne—they were all rinsed away in the roaring tide of vitality.
My skin tightened deliciously over flesh now full and firm.
The hagstone’s anima had a cool, earthy purity, like drinking directly from the naiad’s cascade. 2
Ah, my love, said Sarmodel. That’s better, isn’t it?
I smiled, closing my eyes in bliss. It is indeed. We haven’t fed properly for quite some time.
The garden was peaceful again. In the Mundane world, nothing had changed, but somehow everything was different, too.
Without Cecile’s influence and care, the little enchanted bower she had created would slowly decay.
I was witnessing the final poise of the bloom before it withers; the soft edge of the full moon before it wanes.
I hope that was worth the risk, Sebastian! You realize the Archangel could have discorporated us in there—or worse? my Guest said. And naturally the witch would vex us with her twaddle, even from beyond the grave. If she had something to say, why not just leave a note?
“She had good reason to be cautious with what she knew.” I rubbed my eyes. “Sarmodel, we need to find Jacques. If he was out killing last night, there’s no telling where he’s ended up.”
Why?
“Because Cecile showed us eighteen children, Sarmodel, each older than the last. One for each year of his life. And the last—the nineteenth—was the Beast.”
And?
“It’s him, Sarmodel. The price Dayane asked for saving Antoine was Jacques.
His firstborn.” I stood up, every movement charged with new energy.
“You heard Cecile. She said we were all paying the price for Antoine’s betrayal.
All of this—Jacques’s curse, the violence in Gévaudan—is her vengeance come to pass.
I can think of no other remedy. We must take him to her. ”
It was with renewed vigor, along with no small amount of foreboding, that I mounted my horse and prepared to head back toward the chateau. There was no telling where Jacques might be, or whether he would have returned to himself.
But my search was short-lived.
Jacques d’Ocerne was waiting for me by the fountain in Saint-Julien-by-the-Stream. He was mounted on his new horse, a rosegray gelding from the chateau stables, and he wore a wide tricorne hat, pulled low over his face.
Jacques was a brighter, steadier man this morning and I was almost glad to see him.
Freshly bathed and clean shaven, he was dressed in a sky-blue waistcoat and riding jacket, trimmed with fine gold embroidery.
Under the tricorne, his blond hair was tied at his nape with a black ribbon and he wore smart black riding gloves and boots—very respectable indeed.
It was already a busy morning in the plaza, and he was painfully conspicuous.
“Good morning, Professor. You are looking well.”
“As are you, sir.”
One would almost suspect he’d eaten a nutritious midwife in the night.
“Forgive me for following you—I heard what happened from my mother,” he answered. He swallowed hard, his eyes haunted. “I could not come to Mademoiselle Cecile’s home, I am sorry. Is she truly . . . ?”
“Dead. Yes, I am afraid so, sir.”
“Lord help us.” Jacques swallowed again and passed his tongue across his lips. It was not his fear that he was holding in check. “Was it . . . was it my doing?”
“Sir, there is no point in—”
“Professor, do not lie to me,” he interrupted.
“It happened again, didn’t it? Last night, with Eloise, I almost .
. . I had such terrible dreams, and the voice was talking and talking about Cecile, giving voice to such dreadful impulses.
” He took a deep breath. “Then I awoke this morning in the orchard, with no memory of how I got there and only blessed silence in my head—silence—when there had been no respite from the damned voice for days. Please, I have already killed my dearest friends and I can scarcely bear the remorse—I say again, do not lie to me.”
“Then yes, sir. It is safe to assume you killed her,” I answered simply.
“My God. Professor, this stops now. I am afraid to think what I may do to my wife, or to my family. I will come with you, to Lady Dayane, or to Lord Lucifer himself—wherever you think I must go to be rid of this curse.”
I swore inwardly and gave Jacques a reassuring smile. “I will certainly help you, sir, but I fear you may not understand the full extent—”
Sarmodel twinged in the back of my mind.
What is it? I asked.
Be prepared was all he said.
“Professor? Are you well?” asked Jacques.
There was sudden outcry as a large group of people on horseback entered the square from the west, crossing directly in front of us. Jacques and I were corralled against the fountain as the crowd drew back to allow them passage.
The foremost were military men, more than a dozen well-armed soldiers wearing the yellow sun of Mende. Behind them came a coterie of attendants in red and white ecclesiastical garb.
Church retinue, I remarked, my sense of trepidation growing. I felt supremely exposed; mounted on our horses, Jacques and I stuck out from the rest of the crowd like trees in a field.
My worst fears were confirmed when a herald stopped in the center of the square and sounded a silver trumpet.
“His Excellency, the Most Reverend Bishop of Mende!” he announced.
After a suitable pause, a stocky charger followed him into view, bearing an equally stocky rider. Jacques swore murderously beside me.
Bishop Fontaine of Mende was in poor health.
He had seemed plump and pampered during the Red Winter; now his oxlike frame had a lumpy, sagging aspect and he looked terribly haggard.
One side of his face was livid pink and scarred with an old burn; his eye on that side was nearly completely closed.
Both he and his mighty white horse were conspicuously well dressed in impoverished Saint-Julien.
His bishop’s cassock with its exquisite embroidery was probably worth more than the village he rode through.
Fontaine held his hand high to display his gold-and-amethyst ecclesiastical signet, and he wore his bejeweled golden pectoral cross—dead giveaways that this was a carefully planned entrance. 3
“Take heart, children of God. I have come to return the Lord’s light to Gévaudan, in this dark time.
” The bishop’s voice had lost none of its theatrical timbre in twenty years, and he still wore his placid, sleepy smile.
I despised him, certainly, but you must understand that there was also something beautiful about him, in spite of how much he had deteriorated physically.
The gold, the exquisitely decorated vestments, even his enormous horse—they all combined to make him something more than just a man, something almost otherworldly. The effect was quite breathtaking.
A susurrus of low muttering rolled across the crowd as he rode through.
There were those who genuflected, but others who shook their heads, and others still who made their displeasure clear with audible profanity.
Far from encouraging the people of Saint-Julien, the bishop’s divine splendor verged on an insult.
Nor did the people rejoice for the man who came behind him.
I suddenly found myself open-mouthed and unable to breathe.
I felt the overpowering need to hide, but there was nowhere to go. I do not know if I could have moved in any case; all I could do was stare at him.
Antoine.
1. Known as holy ash, this fine white powder is the transition phase between inorganic matter and Arcane energy.
It is commonly left behind as a residue when a Spirit claims the anima within an object, through dedication or similar ritual.
As previously mentioned, the biological equivalent is plasma.
2. As unspecialized repositories of anima, artifacts like hagstones are readily consumed by even the most rudimentary of Spirits, which is one of the reasons they’re so rare nowadays.
3. No, a clergyman would not normally trot about in his nicest frock with all his jewels on, even when on o?cial business. But it seemed that not even the challenges of riding a horse in a thousandweight of silk and gold were enough to deter the Bishop of Mende from a little theater.