Chapter 7 Dreamweed
DREAMWEED
Iheard the solemn toll of the cathedral’s enormous bells long before we reached the giant spectral building.
Built from the same limestone that characterized Lutessian architecture, the cathedral loomed over the north side of the city.
Before the war, it had been owned by the city and was open for all citizens to explore and enjoy.
Now, it had been reclaimed by the theocracy, and it was the centre-point from which the Church operated.
The archbishop of Lutesse, now the most powerful man in the city, reigned from the sharp spires of the cathedral’s flèche.
At first glance, the building itself was beautiful.
It was certainly one of the most impressive pieces of architecture within the city, with its colourful stained glass, flying buttresses and menacing stone gargoyles.
But upon closer examination, the scenes depicted within the artwork of the stained glass and the reliefs carved into the facade were violent and bloody.
The Scion iconography, a mighty fist holding a handful of seven arrows dripping blood, was everywhere, and the message was clear.
We are watching. God is watching. Obey or perish.
We entered through the heavy oak doors at the front of the cathedral.
I had never been inside before, despite spending so many years living in Lutesse.
I was struck first by the cloying scent of incense.
It was too sweet, with slight notes of citrus and smoke.
It invaded my senses and ignited a dull ache behind my eyes.
Seff placed a firm hand on my lower back and began to steer me toward where we would be seated.
I didn’t know where to look. The vaulted ceiling seemed impossibly tall.
Rows of wooden pews stretched down the length, extending endlessly.
There were even more depictions of violence and shows of strength on the walls inside.
Bloody battles, great judgement being meted from above, wrathful messengers of a wrathful god reigning down fire and brimstone.
It was impossible to look away. But Seff didn’t stop or slow his pace to let me take it all in.
We made our way through the entranceway, footsteps echoing in the cavernous space, and then down the rows upon rows of wooden pews that led to the altar.
The viscount stood, a menacing presence at the front of the congregation.
A thin, frail looking woman was kneeling at the pew beside him.
Her head, bowed low in prayer, was covered with a delicate lace veil that draped down to skim the tops of her bony shoulders.
A moderate gust of wind could have knocked her over. Seff’s mother.
“Seff. Glad you could join us.” Erik de Barras held out a large hand to his son. A muscle ticked in Seff’s jaw; the pressure to impress this man must have been overwhelming.
“And Saphira, right?” The viscount turned to me, getting my name wrong on purpose. He knew damn well what my name was. And I wasn’t going to play his games.
“Seraphina, yes. Nice to see you again.” To my own credit, I didn’t waffle, holding the gaze of this man who had insulted me so thoroughly.
“Right. Well, I hope you’re feeling better.
” His face twisted in a sneer as he waved a hand toward his wife.
“The viscountess.” She turned her face toward us then, revealing hollow cheekbones and dull eyes, set within a narrow bony face.
It was like the viscount had sucked out her very life force, leaving behind a shell.
I gave her a warm smile even as horror twisted my gut, but she just nodded and returned to her prayers.
Seff’s hand on my back, a reassuring presence, pushed to direct me into the pew.
I slid in to sit beside the viscountess, but Seff nodded wordlessly toward the kneeler.
I was instantly uncomfortable but knelt anyway.
Seff beside me did the same, bowing his head in prayer.
The viscount walked away, toward the rear of the cathedral.
I wasn’t sure what to do. I didn’t pray.
Never had. I didn’t even know if I believed in the God they worshipped in this church.
If he existed, he had never done me any favours.
So I took the opportunity to drink in the scenery.
The image of seven arrows held in a strong male fist was everywhere.
Seff had once explained that each arrow symbolized one of the cardinal virtues as well as one of the deadly sins.
The ominous knell of the enormous pipe organ began, and a solemn procession made its way down the middle aisle of the cathedral.
Three small boys dressed in white robes were followed by the viscount, who had donned the ceremonial robes befitting his position as a deacon of the Church.
Deacons were almost as well respected as the priests.
They held almost all of the same privileges, with the exception of being able to hear confession and provide absolution.
In this new theocratic state, they were also able to perform arrests and order executions if it was a crime that fell under the jurisdiction of the Church—crimes like heresy or witchcraft.
It was a powerful position. As a viscount and a deacon, Seff’s father was an extremely powerful man in this city.
I wondered if he would have been so well respected if the people in this church had seen how he was behaving at Montmartre, under the influence of so many Death in the Afternoon cocktails.
The archbishop of Lutesse followed the viscount.
He wore gaudy robes of crimson trimmed with intricate gold filigree, the fist of Scion splayed in gold across the front.
He was medium build and height, with sallow skin.
What was left of his hair was dark and plastered to his shiny head with some kind of grease or oil.
His nose was long and hooked, and his jowls hung down around a weak chin.
The archbishop walked slowly, eyes straight ahead, his expression dour and serious.
It was not a joyful start to the ceremony.
Seff’s mother bowed her head in supplication as he walked past our pew.
The Mass itself made me feel very much like an outsider.
Everyone seemed to know what to do and when: what words to answer, when to stand, when to kneel.
The singing was the most shocking to me.
It was so… soulless. The organ was haunting and beautiful, filling the cathedral up to the top of the vaulted ceilings with a deep vibration.
But the congregation singing hymns? It did not stir anything in me.
It sounded more like the droning of bees than music.
This was how they worshipped their God? I started to tune things out and got lost looking up at the soaring ceiling, the sun filtering through the brilliant colours of the stained glass.
The light glinting off the gilded accents on the altar.
Finally the archbishop finished a long reading from the scripture and allowed the congregation to sit while he began a more informal sermon. My attention snapped back to him.
“Parishioners. Faithful citizens of Lutesse. We are under attack. The One True Faith is under attack,” he began, jowls quivering as the archbishop finally found some fire in that monotonous voice of his.
“As I’m sure many of you saw in the news today, an infamous heretic and terrorist perpetrated a horrific violent act in broad daylight, just yesterday.
Our sister church was vandalized. Our brother in the Lord, Pere Laurent, is dead,” he went on, describing the attack that I read about in the paper. My stomach turned leaden.
“The perpetrator has not yet been apprehended. And if he is not taken into custody, he and his followers will continue to run rampant in this city, this country and across the continent, until we, the faithful, put a stop to it.” My mouth went dry. What was he implying?
“This terror attack is horrendous. And the perpetrators will pay with their lives. But in this city, we the faithful are also fighting a war that is not so overt as this blatant act of terror,” the archbishop continued on as light from the stained glass windows bounced off his shiny head.
“There is an undercurrent of liberal secularism in this city that threatens our way of life, our values and our children.”
Several people from the congregation murmured in approval. Sweat beaded and prickled in my palms as he spoke. Was it warm in here?
“Though the rest of the continent is embracing the One True Faith, here in Lutesse, many would have you believe that you should be an ‘artist,’” he said, using air quotes, “or a performer. They would turn our daughters into harlots and fornicators. They want them drinking and dancing, and listening to jazz music at clubs instead of at home, having children, taking care of their families. Our sons, they would have become homosexuals. We, as a people of righteous faith, must remember that there is no place for that in a truly good and just society. We must work together to stamp out the spread of liberalism, feminism and secularism.” His voice rose, stronger and stronger as he listed several words I would have used to describe my own lifestyle.
I shifted uncomfortably on the hard pew, remembering that my own father had died trying to fight against what was being preached here.
Beside me, Seff’s mother nodded fervently. And I found that not only were my palms itching, but my underarms, the backs of my knees and the soles of my feet were all prickling with sweat.
On my other side Seff was mostly still, but I thought I saw his head nod, almost imperceptibly.