Beside the plot where we grew our vegetables, our convent had a small ornamental garden. Roses bloomed there in the summer, their overgrown blossoms nearly burying the garden’s half-crumbled statue of Saint Eugenia. This time of year, the hedge around it turned brown and the leaves began to fall. Thus I caught a glimpse of someone inside as I passed. It wasn’t a visiting pilgrim; it was Mother Katherine, her downy white head bent in prayer.
She looked frail. The observation swooped down on me without warning. Somehow, I hadn’t noticed how old she’d gotten—it was as though I had wiped the dust from a painting and seen it clearly for the first time in years, after ages of simply forgetting to look.
“Artemisia, child,” she said patiently, “are you spying on me? Come here and sit down.”
I abandoned my bucket and joined her on the bench. She didn’t say anything else or even open her eyes. We sat in silence, listening to the breeze rustle through the dry leaves and rattle the hedge. Dark clouds scudded above the convent’s walls. The air smelled heavy with rain.
“I’ve never sensed them,” I said finally. “Your relics.”
She held out her hand. The gems shone against her papery skin: a tiny moonstone almost identical to Sister Iris’s, a cloudy sapphire with a chipped facet, and the largest, an amber oval that captured the light, illuminating small imperfections within. They were mere decoration for the real treasures: the relics sealed away in compartments beneath. Cautiously, I touched the amber and felt nothing but a smooth, ordinary stone.
“The spirits’ auras become dimmer when the rings are sealed,” Mother Katherine explained. “This doesn’t affect our ability to draw them forth, but it makes the relics much more comfortable to wear.”
She was regarding me with one keen blue eye, and at that moment she didn’t seem frail at all. I remembered little of the night of the exorcism, but I would never forget the feeling of her prayers tearing through my body, drawing the ashgrim forth in a wrathful whirl of smoke and silver embers. The sisters later told me that it had taken all night, and when she had finished, she hadn’t reached for her dagger. She had merely lifted one hand and destroyed it with a word.
“A tooth of Saint Beatrice,” she went on, tapping the moonstone. “This is the relic I use to sense nearby spirits. It may only bind a shade, but I find it is often the humble relics that prove the most useful.” Next she touched the chipped sapphire. “A knucklebone of Saint Clara, which binds a frostfain. It has weakened over time, but its power does help ease the chill in my bones on cold winter nights, and for that I am very fond of it. And this one…” She ran her fingers over the amber stone. “Well, let’s just say I can no longer wield it as I once could. I’m afraid that when the relic’s strength outmatches the person wearing it, there is a danger of the spirit overpowering its wielder. Have I satisfied your curiosity, child? No? If you wish to learn more, these are all things that you can study in Bonsaint.”
She said that last part pointedly, with a twinkle in her eyes.
It was a waste of time trying to hide anything from Mother Katherine. At first that had terrified me. I had been convinced that if she could see into my soul, she would decide I wasn’t fit for the convent and send me back home. But she hadn’t, and then one day a skittish goat had come to the barnyard, beaten by its former master. After I finally succeeded in coaxing it to eat from my hand, she had asked me if I blamed the goat for all the times it had bitten me and whether I thought we should give it back. I’d gotten so angry I had almost bitten her in turn. Then she had given me a knowing smile, and I hadn’t been afraid of her after that.
Now I felt a hand on my braid, stroking it much as I had once patted the goat. I wasn’t sure I liked it, but I also didn’t want her to stop. “I don’t believe you would have found Bonsaint as terrible as you imagine,” she said. “But if you wish to stay in Naimes so badly, perhaps that is the Lady’s will. She may well need you here instead of there.”
I opened my mouth to deny this, but Sophia’s shouting interrupted me.
“Mother Katherine! Mother Katherine!” She was pelting across the garden, her robes rucked up around her knees. “Artemisia,” she added, skidding to a halt beneath the arbor. Trouble’s beak poked from the folds of her robes.
Mother Katherine made a show of taking in the dirt and scratches on Sophia’s brown legs, her lips pursed to hide a smile. “Have you been climbing again, child? You know that is not allowed.”
Sophia looked unrepentant. “There are soldiers coming up the road,” she gasped. “Can I help Artemisia tend to their horses? I can carry buckets of water, and straw to rub them down. And bring carrots—” She stopped at the look on Mother Katherine’s face.
“Are you certain of what you saw? Soldiers? How many?”
Sophia gave me an uncertain glance, as though I might have an explanation for Mother Katherine’s sudden urgency. “They have armor on,” she answered, “and there are a lot of them—enough to fill up the road. Stop that,” she said to Trouble, who was worrying at her robes with his beak. Then she released him with a shout, falling back from his beating wings.
“Dead!” he cawed, wheeling above us.
The rest of the convent’s ravens erupted from the rooftops in a thundering black cloud. “Dead! Dead! Dead!”
Mother Katherine was standing, touching her moonstone ring. “Sophia, Artemisia, into the chapel. Now!”
I had never heard her use that tone of voice. The shock of it propelled me from the bench. Sophia’s trembling hand sought mine, and we ran.
The chapel’s bells had begun to ring, the space between each toll clamoring with the harsh cries of ravens. Sisters joined us on the path leading to the central courtyard, where everyone was streaming up the cobbled hill to the chapel, clutching their robes against the wind. The air carried by the storm smelled of damp earth, and around me the sisters’ faces were blanched with fear.
The moment Sophia and I reached the chapel, gloom swallowed the convent. A sudden needle of cold stung my scalp, then my cheek. Dark spots bloomed on the cobblestones.
“Go,” I said, releasing Sophia’s hand. She tried to argue, but a sister took hold of her and dragged her inside, lifting her from the ground when she struggled.
I clambered onto the tumbled stones of the ruined inner wall that had once surrounded the chapel, dragging away handfuls of ivy until the lichgate came into view below. It was twice a man’s height, its black finials rising skyward like a row of spears. Figures milled on the other side: shying horses, the bulky shapes of armored men.
I had never seen soldiers before. Boys with the Sight were raised in monasteries, and most went on to become soldiers or monks. Only some, like the priest, rose high within the Clerisy’s spiritual ranks.
A curtain of rain swept forward, hammering mist from the cobblestones, but I didn’t move. I watched through a blur of rain as one man threw a rope up over the finials and yanked on it to draw the loop taut. His movements were jerky and strange. Behind him, a horse whinnied shrilly, struggling to free itself; it had been tied fast to the ends of the ropes. And more horses ahead of it, forming a chain.
I barely felt the downpour soaking my robes. What I was seeing didn’t seem possible. Surely, I thought, the consecrated iron would hold—but the lichgate was meant to protect us from spirits, not the brute strength of living men.