Chapter 51 Maeve
Maeve
The young woman wrenched away from under Maeve’s hands, her hood slipping free to reveal wide, glazed eyes and a half-open mouth as she spun back to face the altar.
‘No—’ Maeve cried, reaching for her wrist. To do what, she didn’t know.
None of her words seemed to break through the Abbey-induced stupor, no matter how desperately she begged or how ardently she promised that what they were feeling, what they were seeing, were all lies, all manipulation. All that mattered was the intercession. All that mattered was the saint.
Maeve drew her eyes upwards, and there he was.
Jude knelt on the altar with hands palm-up on his thighs and face pointed towards the ceiling.
Beside him, Ezra leaned down to whisper in his ear.
The hatred she felt at the sight of her former mentor was strong enough to nearly launch Maeve into the crowd.
Her fingers itched to wrap around his neck.
They were running out of time.
As soon as the Call began, it wouldn’t be long until the crowd pulled Jude off the altar.
She raced to the back of the basilica to where Felix was splashing a kerosene-soaked towel onto the lowest row of icons.
The air felt clammy on her skin, the heady smell of the oil fogging her senses.
At Felix’s urging, Maeve dipped the proffered towel into the barrel and splashed the oil up as high as she could.
Would it be enough? She had seven – no, six – matches. How many did Felix have?
Suddenly, the basilica fell silent.
Dropping the towel, Maeve turned to look.
Atop the altar, Ezra raised his hands high above his head. ‘Blessed pilgrims, acolytes, and elders. The glory of the Abbey has seen fit to reward your piety today. We have a saint amongst us.’
The crowd pulsed with manic energy, moulding their voices to the thrumming boom of the organ. Drummed up and frantic with devotion. Hundreds of people filled the space.
It was exactly as she’d feared.
She spun back to Felix. ‘How long until we light it? Will the icons catch fast enough?’
Felix splashed the oil on the next row of icons. A metallic clang sounded above the voices as she was gearing up to repeat her question. The cover had fallen off the centre of the rose window. Soon, Jude would raise his hands.
‘Felix? How long?’ she repeated.
‘Minutes. Maybe less once we start lighting the matches. You have them, yes?’
Her mind froze, stalling out before it sped forward—‘You didn’t bring any? I have…’ she pulled out the matchbox, dumping them into her palm. ‘Six.’
Felix said nothing as he stared down at her cupped palm, the matches so small, so inconsequential next to the hundreds of icons before them.
His throat bobbed as he carefully collected three of them.
‘The elders keep the altar matches locked away. I couldn’t…
couldn’t get any. It was lucky I even found the kerosene barrel. ’
Her breath escaped her in a rush. ‘Okay,’ she whispered. ‘Okay. Well. We’ll have to do our—’
The volume behind them pitched suddenly louder, the change so abrupt Maeve’s hands clutched convulsively into fists. Both she and Felix swung around to look. The crowd had breached the confines of the chancel to surround the altar. Ezra was no longer standing atop it.
And neither was Jude.
‘Where is he?’ Maeve shouted above the melee. ‘Where did he go?’
‘The crowd has him,’ Felix said. Sweat beaded on his dark brown skin. ‘This fire had better start quickly, or…’ he shook his head, levelling Maeve with a bleak look.
She didn’t want to put a voice to the words rolling around in both of their heads. If the crowd had Jude, they wouldn’t be satisfied with his clothing or touch alone.
They’d want his blood.
Forcing her panic down, Maeve turned back to the icons and strained to splash kerosene up as high as she could.
Icons stretched a dozen rows high, all of various sizes and age.
They’d never be able to get the oil on all of them.
Even more, how would they guarantee the fire would reach the highest icons as quickly as they needed?
Felix drew the first match to the lowest icon. It lit quickly, but the fire remained small and contained as it ate away at the canvas, stopped from spreading by the expanse of stone wall between each framed icon. His matches were small, the flame barely more than a spark that quickly petered out.
They needed something bigger.
‘You stay here and keep lighting the icons,’ Maeve shouted. She gestured towards the door and the hall beyond. The guards were still there, but she had to try something. ‘I’m going to look for a torch. And see if I can convince people to leave.’
Felix wiped his forehead with his sleeve, nodding. ‘Hurry, Maeve—’
She spun on her heel and shoved through the crowd. It was like facing a solid wall of bodies. She redoubled her force, making for a gap between two pilgrims. ‘Go!’ she cried. ‘Leave – it’s going to burn. You need to leave!’
Her voice was lost beneath the crowd. No one even looked at her. Hopelessness mixed with the panic. She had to push forward, to accomplish what she’d set out to do, and pray that when the smell of the smoke became too strong to bear, the crowd would finally come to their senses and run for safety.
An elbow jammed painfully into her ribs, forcing her deeper into the crush. Then, from between two bodies, a hand shot out to grab her wrist. Nails scratched against her skin. She wrenched away, but they held fast.
‘Enough, Maeve. Enough.’
Ezra stood like a stone in a fast-moving river.
His grip on her wrist was like a vice, squeezing, burning. The crowd shoved them closer, and despite Maeve’s best efforts to free herself from his touch, she found herself face-to-face with her former mentor. He gazed at her like she was little more than a thorn in his side.
He was far from the altar, far from Jude. Almost to the door. Was he planning on fleeing? Did he know they planned to burn it all?
Suddenly, a high-pitched scream echoed above the din, rapturous and frenzied. A scream of gratification. The crowd had what they wanted. They had Jude in their grasp.
‘Let go of me,’ Maeve snarled, pulling back hard enough that her shoulder ached in protest.
‘You’re not going to reach him,’ Ezra said, redoubling his grip. He was close enough for her to see the whites around his pale irises. Around his neck, the relics swung. She wanted to rip them off and smash them beneath her boot. ‘Leave. For your own safety.’
His voice dripped with condescension, and Maeve couldn’t stand it. Every time he’d belittled her talents, brushed off her pleas for conversation and reassurance, made her feel small, was suddenly impossible ignore, and dammit – she’d had enough.
She reared back and drove her forehead directly into Ezra’s nose. It broke in a spectacular splash of blood. His cry of pain was lost beneath the singing. Off-balance by the blow, he stumbled back, releasing her arm to cover his face. The crowd swallowed him up in a fast-moving crush of bodies.
She didn’t stick around to see if he’d get back up.
Blinking against the dizzying ache the blow had provided, Maeve stumbled towards the door.
Guards stood on either side of it, scanning the crowd.
One of them turned to speak with a woman, her head covered by a pale grey hood.
The other remained vigilant. Her steps hitched, mind racing for something to say so they’d let her pass.
A commotion sounded behind her, louder than the jeers that had come before it. The smell of smoke abruptly sharpened, becoming thick and pungent in her nose. She spun to look, hoping to see the wall of icons fully engulfed or the flames spreading to the pews.
At first, she was distracted by the dozens of people finally fleeing the basilica in waves. Screams filled the air, more frightened than the euphoria that had preceded it.
Then, her gaze locked on the source of the panic – a figure cutting through the crowd with two burning torches in his upraised hands. His mouth was screwed up in pain and anger as he ran, a desperate cry filling the air.
Elden.
Before she knew it, he launched the first of his flaming torches high into the air.
It struck the middle row of icons with a ragged crash.
White-hot flame immediately overtook the painting, spreading quickly to its neighbours.
Elden held his other torch to the end of the silk cord linking the rows of icons together.
The entire rope lit up, urged on by kerosene.
Maeve ran towards it.
All the icons were burning. Smoke blossomed in a heavy, acrid plume. Sparks hit the tapestry on the wall next to it, and soon, it was engulfed in flame, too. Her eyes streamed with smoke and tears.
Bethan hadn’t seen a thread of gold in her dream like Jude had described. She’d seen the wall of icons linked in a rope of pure white fire. She’d dreamed the Abbey burning.
Elden’s chest rose and fell in ragged breaths. ‘It’s done,’ he said, voice hoarse. ‘It’s done.’ His eyes shifted to the crowd behind her as a fresh wave of tears slid down his cheeks. He swayed where he stood. ‘Look.’
She turned.
The sight took her breath away.
People were falling to their knees in waves, hands covering their ears. Their eyes were glazed, bodies shaking as pain wrote itself onto their faces. Next to the wall, Felix knelt with his head bent towards the floor. Neither Jude nor Ezra was anywhere to be seen.
Maeve took a hesitant step forward.
The world flashed gold.
Agony shot through her head. It grew and grew until finally, overcome, she toppled to her knees. She placed her forehead between her hands and screamed as her brain tried to force its way from her eye sockets, her nose, her mouth.
Her thoughts liquefied, slipping like water through her hands the harder she tried to hold onto them, like someone had cracked open her skull and poured burning coals into it. She slammed her palms on the ground, begging, praying, for it to stop.
It went on and on and on.
Memories slipped in, one after the other, too quick to focus on just one.
Maeve, running by the sea, holding her sister’s hand and laughing, kicking up saltwater as they went.
She was thirteen now, giggling with a friend as they read an illicit book in the back corner of a shop.
Fourteen, seeing anger on Ezra’s face as he pulled back his hand and slapped her across the jaw.
She saw Jude, a young man, standing before her and smiling.
She saw him hold out his hand, a paper-wrapped biscuit nestled in his palm.
Jude, his head bowed over a notebook, scribbling fervently before angling it towards her to read. Jude, smiling. Jude, crying.
Jude, Jude, Jude.
Maeve came back to herself with a gasp.
The pain had stopped.
Jude.