I swallowed, sweeping the lantern’s light around, seeing the room’s contents anew. The light fell on a silver reliquary shaped like a hand, the base decorated with seed pearls to resemble the edge of a lace sleeve. I had heard of a reliquary like that—the one containing the hand of Saint Victoria. Rarely for a saint, she had left a whole hand behind intact, its withered skin and fingernails still attached. According to legend, it bound a fury so violent and maddened that no one could control it after her death.
This wasn’t a treasury. It was a room where dangerous things, forbidden things, were locked away.
I tore my gaze from the glittering objects before I could recognize anything else. Leander had left with a piece of parchment. I went over to inspect the books, setting my lantern down nearby. They were piled together in a heap, a tangle of chains securing them to the shelves.
The wealth they represented was staggering. The scriptorium in Naimes had only a handful of books like these, with leather covers and gilt flashing on their spines. Most had been scrolls or sheafs of sewn-together parchment. I had learned my letters by copying them, stooped over a desk trying to force crabbed shapes from my scarred hands under Sister Lucinde’s patient instruction. To have been exiled down here, left in a haphazard pile despite their worth, these books had to be brimming with heresy.
Shiny fingerprints marked the dust on the covers. It wasn’t hard to identify the volume Leander had handled. When I lifted it, its chain rattled unexpectedly loudly in the silence, and I froze; but after a moment’s waiting, I heard no answering sound from the corridor outside.
I could tell even in the dim light that the book was old. Its cracked, flaking cover showed patches of fabric beneath the leather, and when I opened it, it smelled as musty as the inside of Saint Eugenia’s reliquary. But to my surprise, it wasn’t filled with unsettling diagrams or dark incantations. It seemed to be a list of items.
Year of Our Lady 1154, I read. A gold-plated candelabra, fashioned in the shape of lilies, set with three rubies and eight sapphires, gifted to the Cathedral of Bonsaint by the Archdivine. I turned the pages, frowning. More descriptions of precious objects awaited me, relics and paintings and altar cloths embroidered with thread of gold.
“This is a record of treasures bequeathed to the cathedral.” What was it doing down here? I flipped onward until I came to the empty space where the missing page had been, the vellum cut near the binding.
“Interesting,” the revenant said. “I think the priest might be looking for an artifact.” It hesitated. “Nun, do you remember what I told you about the shackles in the harrow?”
“You said they were Old Magic,” I said cautiously.
“I wasn’t lying to you. Those were Old Magic runes. You know them as holy symbols, but there’s a simple explanation.”
My stomach dropped. Even though I had anticipated this, some small part of me had still hoped the revenant wouldn’t try to mislead me. I kept my voice calm, betraying nothing. “Go on.”
“In the immediate aftermath of the Sorrow, your Clerisy hadn’t banned Old Magic yet.” I felt it choosing its words with care, as though picking its way around unseen traps it might trigger if it wasn’t careful. “At that point, you understand, it wasn’t officially ruling over Loraille. When the humans weren’t busy dying, they were all arguing with each other about what should replace the monarchy. Then, of course, there were saints popping up everywhere, and the Clerisy was practically drooling over how quickly it was rising to power—”
“Get to the point,” I interrupted. “What does this have to do with Old Magic?”
“Fine, since you’re asking so nicely. The truth is, a number of Old Magic artifacts were used in the war to battle spirits. I faced them from time to time.”
I tried to envision that—Old Magic being unleashed side by side with the saints on battlefields. Instinctively, I shook my head in denial. Nothing I had read about the War of Martyrs mentioned anything like that. But people had been dying by the thousands to the swarms of newly risen spirits, facing impossible odds. If they had been sufficiently desperate…
When the possessed soldiers had attacked Naimes, if there had been an Old Magic artifact capable of holding them off—saving everyone…
“That’s how I know about dreadnoughts,” the revenant continued. “They couldn’t do much against unbound revenants, granted, aside from tickle us a little—but I can’t emphasize enough how distracting it is to have someone tickling you in the middle of a battle. It completely spoils the mood.”
I studied the dreadnought. If that mace were consecrated, it could tear through spirits like cobwebs. But it wasn’t consecrated. It couldn’t be. Old Magic was anathema to the Lady; it had destroyed the order of Her creation. It couldn’t coexist alongside Her blessing. Could it?
There was an easy way to find out—I could touch the armor. Then I would know.
I looked at the dreadnought. I didn’t move.
“You’re rambling again,” I said hollowly.
“Some might call it rambling. Others might call it a valuable firsthand account of one of the most important events in—fine, stop!” I had started to reach for Saint Victoria’s reliquary, which was definitely consecrated. The revenant continued sourly. “After the War of Martyrs, amid all the confusion and death, it seems likely to me that the origins of many Old Magic artifacts were forgotten and their power instead attributed to the Clerisy. Those shackles, for example, were probably stored in a crypt somewhere as the sacred manacles of Saint Mildred the Hideous or similar.”
I saw an obvious flaw in its logic. “Not everyone could have died. Someone must have known what they really were.”
“Certainly, but were they going to say to the other humans, ‘These shackles are capable of subduing a revenant, but oh well, the Clerisy has decided that they’re evil, so let’s destroy them’？ Of course not. Humans are stupid, but not that stupid. So the humans who knew the truth kept the knowledge to themselves. And over time…”
“Everyone forgot,” I finished slowly. “Old Magic runes gradually became seen as holy symbols.” That was where the revenant was headed with this, and to my unease, I found myself lacking a convincing counter-argument. We were taught that holy symbols were the Lady’s divine language, their secret meanings revealed to the minds of the saints as shapes etched in sacred fire. This explanation had satisfied me as a novice; now it seemed somewhat weak. But I wasn’t ready to trust the revenant’s explanation, either. I ventured doubtfully, “So you believe an Old Magic artifact like the shackles might have ended up among the cathedral’s treasures, and Leander’s searching for it.”
“Yes.” It sounded relieved. Perhaps it had been worried I would have a crisis. “Without the missing page, we can’t know for certain. But it seems very likely.”
Regardless of whether the revenant was spinning clever half-truths or lying outright, the fact remained that Leander was looking for something. It didn’t have to be an artifact. He could be searching for a powerful Fourth Order relic, like Saint Victoria’s hand. His penitent was useful, but it couldn’t do everything.