I looked back to Captain Enguerrand and Master Olivar and said, “I need to pray.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
I was left alone in the stall. To complete the illusion, I had knelt on the ground, where I had gained a view of the empty jars of pig’s blood lined up along a hidden shelf. I wondered if the Lady was feeling ironic. Or perhaps the message wasn’t intended for me—perhaps the stall’s owner was standing outside, shaking in his boots.
If he was, I had no way of knowing. Only a few hushed voices betrayed the packed square outside, their murmurs barely louder than the stall’s cloth flapping in the breeze. The news that I was praying must have spread. I felt a twinge of guilt at the lie. I was painfully aware of how little time we had and the possibility that I might be wasting it. Thus far, my conversation with the revenant hadn’t been fruitful.
“So there aren’t any places we could use for a ritual?” I asked in frustration, feeling as though we were talking in circles.
“No—I mean that if there are, we’re unlikely to find them in time. We would need to search the entire city. That would take days. Our best bet would be the catacombs, but I wouldn’t want to risk opening any of the grates; we might as well ring a dinner bell for Sarathiel…”
It continued talking, but I was only listening with half an ear, my thoughts churning. It had already explained why we couldn’t create our own ritual site—the same as filing through the shackles, we didn’t have time. Chewing on the inside of my cheek, I stared hard at the cobblestones under my knees. The entire city. Something about that phrase had stuck in my mind.
The entire city…
That was it. The cobbles beneath me, the stones that made up the city’s walls—they were ancient. So ancient they attracted shades, just like the ruin outside my old village.
“What about Bonsaint?” I asked, the idea blossoming in my mind like a bizarre flower, wondrous to behold.
“Bonsaint? The food is average at best. Architecture, mediocre. And don’t get me started on the overpopulation of nuns—”
Frowning, I interrupted, “When we first got here, you said that Bonsaint was built from the ruins of another city, one that stood during the Age of Kings.” I felt its startled pause. “Old Magic must have been practiced there. And they’re the same stones, used over again. That’s why you think our best bet is in the catacombs, right? It’s the old city down there. But the old city never went away. It’s still here.”
“Use an entire city as a single ritual site? That’s… that’s absolutely…” I could tell it wanted to say something like “ridiculous” or “mad,” but it couldn’t. My suggestion held a kernel of possibility.
“But would it work?” I persisted.
“No one with any real knowledge of Old Magic would ever propose such an idea, but only because it would never occur to them to try. A ritual of that scale… the consequences if it failed would be astronomical.” Here the revenant hesitated, and my heart plummeted. “But nothing worse than what Sarathiel will do once it’s recovered,” it hastened to assure me, its voice slightly clipped. “And I wouldn’t get it wrong.”
“Are you sure?” I asked hoarsely, almost shaking with hope.
“Oh, I’m very sure. As I told you before, I’m no amateur. Let’s see. The ritual’s array would need to encompass the whole city, as though it were a very large version of the altar.”
I nodded as though I were following.
“And the runes would need to be spaced at a considerable distance from each other, to avoid exerting too much force on any one location. In the absence of ritual materials, they’ll need to be drawn in your blood—there needs to be an elemental force represented, and blood is one of the most potent—but we can make them small, to avoid using too much…”
My hands curled. I suspected my nails were digging into my palms; I faintly sensed a dull current of pain through my scars. It was as though a fire burning in my heart, banked ever since Sarathiel had escaped, was now flaring back to life. I couldn’t stay still any longer. Without meaning to, I found myself scrambling to my feet.
The revenant said quickly, “Nun, don’t get up, I’m not finished yet—”
Too late. I had already stood and pushed aside the flap. And I couldn’t turn back now: the entire square had been waiting for me to finish praying, and now that I had emerged, not defeated by a lack of answers but vital with purpose, an answering flame of hope was igniting on hundreds of faces.
For once, it wasn’t hard to speak. To the assembled masses, I said, “I need something sharp. Also, can I borrow someone’s horse?”
* * *
As it turned out, I didn’t need the horse right away. The first rune could be drawn in the cathedral’s square, since it was roughly in Bonsaint’s center.
“As I was about to tell you, before you rudely interrupted me,” the revenant said. “Keep walking. We want the very oldest of the paving stones. Yes—stop—right there.”
I halted and clambered down to my knees at the spot it had indicated. Whispers followed my every movement. At first a few people had tried to touch me as I paced around the square, but Charles, Marguerite, and Jean had closed in around me like my own personal guard. I felt the revenant trying to cast its senses toward Mother Dolours, only to give up, thwarted by the shackles. “Just keep praying, you horrible nun,” it muttered. I pretended not to have heard.
My stomach was in knots; I was dreading what came next. I reminded myself that to everyone watching, this wouldn’t look like Old Magic. It would just look like I was drawing a holy symbol. Even so, sweat began to gather beneath my chemise. I still knew that I was about to commit heresy, even if no one else did.
I couldn’t lose my nerve before I even began. I had six more to go; this rune would be the first of seven, spread out to form a city-wide array.
“It will be easy,” the revenant assured me. “I can create an image of the rune inside your mind, and you only need to copy the shape. This one will probably even look familiar to you. It’s a grounding rune, which is very common.”
I hesitated, glancing back at the cathedral. I could no longer see the candles glowing in the window. Scanning the ravens perched on the surrounding rooftops, I detected no hint of Trouble’s white feathers. I couldn’t find the words for what I wanted to ask. But I didn’t need to. The revenant understood.
It said quietly, “You don’t have to be the one to do it.”
I ducked my head, trying to swallow past the lump in my throat. Unable to speak, I nodded.
“Just concentrate on relaxing. No, not like that. You have relaxed before, haven’t you?” It sighed. “On second thought, never mind. Do you remember what it felt like on the battlefield when you gave me control of your arm?”
When that had happened, I hadn’t made a conscious choice; I hadn’t had time to think. It had been an instinctual act, like handing over a tool. Concentrating hard, I tried not to think, sought to find that place of blank acceptance.
When the switch occurred, it wasn’t the same as in the cathedral. I didn’t notice anything strange until my mouth opened and I said, “Charles, would you hand me the knife?” Except I wasn’t the one asking the question. It was the revenant speaking through my mouth.