I plunged into cold water, bubbles exploding from my throat in a soundless scream. I choked on the stink of river mud, desperate for air, unable to breathe. Slippery waterweed tangled around my ankles, drawing me downward; and as I sank into the depths, my pulse throbbed in my ears, growing slower and slower….
I yanked my hand back. The torrent of sensation faded immediately, replaced by the cheerful crackle of the fire and the warmth of my dry robes. I focused on the desk, willing nothing to show on my face. The box contained a saint’s relic. I could almost picture it inside: an ancient, moldering bone nestled in a bed of velvet, seething with ghostly energy. I guessed that the entity bound to it was an undine, the Second Order spirit of someone who had drowned.
Now I understood. We were being tested on our ability to sense relics. The priest had been able to eliminate the other girls so quickly because to them the box seemed completely ordinary, just as most people touched Saint Eugenia’s shrine and felt only lifeless marble. No wonder that first novice had looked so confused.
“There’s no need to be afraid. It can’t hurt you.” He leaned forward. “Just hold your hand in place, and tell me what you feel. Be as detailed as possible.”
Now he seemed tense with suppressed energy, like a well-bred sighthound trying not to show its excitement over the presence of a nearby squirrel. I thought back to his exchange with Sister Lucinde and felt a quiet knell of foreboding. He seemed very sure now that I was worth his time, though he hadn’t before, not when I had first sat down.
Slowly, I stretched my hand over the box again. This time, I was able to keep the room in focus as the undine’s drowning agony lapped against my senses. “I don’t feel anything,” I lied.
“Nothing? Are you certain?” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him brush his fingers across his onyx ring. “You can be honest with me, child.”
“I—” That was all I managed to get out before I snapped my mouth shut on the rest. I had almost told him the truth.
Worse, I would have enjoyed telling him the truth. A reassuring warmth filled my stomach at the thought of doing what he wanted, of being virtuous and good—and obviously, that wasn’t like me at all.
The ring’s stone glinted like a beetle’s shell in the candlelight. The polished black gem dwarfed even Mother Katherine’s large amber cabochon. Earlier, he had called himself a confessor. A cleric’s rank was determined by the type of relic they wielded, and each granted a different ability depending on the kind of spirit bound to it. It wasn’t difficult to guess what power this one commanded.
Careful not to let my understanding show, I met the priest’s eyes. I had never liked doing that; it didn’t come naturally to me. I hated trying to figure out the unspoken rules about how long you were supposed to look and how often you were supposed to blink. I always got it wrong. According to Marguerite, I tended to overcompensate by staring into people’s eyes too directly, which made them uncomfortable—only she hadn’t put it in those words, exactly. She had been crying a lot at the time.
“I’m certain,” I said.
Impressively, the priest didn’t react. If he was surprised or disappointed, I couldn’t tell. He only said, “Very well. Let’s continue.” He moved the first box away and slid a different one across the desk.
This time, when I put forth my hand, a miasma of sickness enveloped me: the smell of stale sweat, sour breath, and unwashed linens. My breath rattled in my chest, and a foul taste coated my tongue. My limbs felt weak, as brittle as sticks arranged beneath a heavy coverlet.
Third Order, I thought. Most likely a witherkin—the soul of someone who had died of a wasting disease.
Unlike the revenant in the crypt, it didn’t seem conscious of its imprisonment. Neither had the undine. That would be a useful observation to share with the priest, I caught myself thinking; he might be impressed by my insight, my ability to sense a Fifth Order spirit….
I pinched myself on the thigh. “Nothing,” I reported flatly.
He smiled, as though my uncooperativeness pleased him. When he slid a third box toward me, I thrust my hand over it quickly—and paid for my mistake.
Flames roared around me, licking at my skin. Embers swirled through the suffocating, smoke-filled darkness. And there was the familiar heat, the pain, the stench of burning flesh—the mindless terror of a death by fire.
I flung myself away from the desk. When my vision cleared, I found that my chair had skidded an arm’s length across the floor, and my fingernails were sunk into the wood of the armrests.
“An ashgrim.” He rose from his seat, his eyes glittering with triumph. “The same type of spirit that possessed you as a child.”
The smell of scorched meat still lingered in my nose. I locked my jaw and sat in defiant silence, my breath shuddering in and out. He couldn’t claim that I had passed the evaluation if I admitted nothing.
“There’s no need to pretend, Artemisia. I know everything about you. It’s all right here in the ledger.” He came around the desk to stand above me, his hands folded behind his back. “I will admit, I initially had my doubts that your story was true. Most children don’t survive possession, especially not for the length of time described in your entry. But those who do are often known to demonstrate an extraordinary talent for wielding relics. Terrible though it is, being forced to practice resisting a spirit’s will at such a young age does yield results.”
When I refused to meet his gaze, he sank down on his heels, putting our faces level. I saw for the first time that his eyes were a luminous shade of emerald-green, the color of stained glass pierced with light. “You sensed that it was afraid of fire, didn’t you?” he breathed. “That was why you burned yourself. It was your way of subduing it, preventing it from harming anyone else.”
Before, I had mistrusted the priest. Now I despised him: his beautiful face, his uncalloused hands, every inch of him unmarked by hardship—exactly the type of person I never wanted to become.
He didn’t seem to notice the intensity of my hatred. He wouldn’t; I had been told that all my facial expressions looked more or less the same. When I still didn’t answer, he gracefully rose and paced back to the desk, his black-robed figure straight as he began to pack the relic boxes in a satchel.
“Nearly anyone can master a relic binding some common First or Second Order wraith. The sisters are proof enough of that. But your talent is in a different realm entirely. I have no doubt that you are destined for great things. In Bonsaint, you will be trained to wield—”
“I’m not going to Bonsaint,” I interrupted. “I’m going to stay in Naimes and become a nun.”
He stopped and stared at me as though I’d spoken gibberish. Slowly, a look of astonished disgust crept across his features. “Why would you ever want such a thing?”
I didn’t bother trying to explain. I knew he wouldn’t understand. Instead, I asked, “To be accepted into the Clerisy, wouldn’t I need to have passed the evaluation?”
He gazed at me a moment longer; then a condescending, almost bitter smile tugged at his mouth. “The sisters warned me that you might deliberately try to fail. The true test wasn’t your ability to read the relics. It was whether you were strong enough to resist mine.” My eyes went to his ring. “A relic of Saint Liliane,” he explained, with another brief, unpleasant smile. “It binds a Fourth Order spirit called a penitent, which grants me the power to draw truth from the lips of the unwilling, among… among other things.” Briskly, he tightened the satchel’s buckles and turned to leave. “Fortunately, the matter isn’t up to you, and the Clerisy must be alerted as quickly as possible. I will have the sisters collect your belongings. We leave for Bonsaint tonight.”