The members of our Ninysh escort, despite Josquin’s protestations to the contrary, were not entirely sanguine about accompanying half-dragons. They concealed their feelings behind their professionalism, for the most part, but the longer we traveled, the more slips I began to notice. Once I noticed, I couldn’t unsee.
Some of the Eight made St. Ogdo’s sign if Abdo or I came too near. It was a subtle gesture intended to ward off the evil of dragons, just a circle made with thumb and finger. At first I thought I’d imagined it. The soldier saddling our horses seemed to make the sign over the beast’s withers, but when I looked straight at him, he wasn’t doing it. One soldier may have made it over her heart after I spoke to her, or did she have an itch?
Then there was the day Nan bought a bundle of barley twigs—slender, crunchy breadsticks, which Abdo loved—and Abdo reached right in and took three. Two of our soldiers, who had ridden up eagerly, now hesitated, reluctant to take any. Finally one of them made St. Ogdo’s sign, as unobtrusively as he could. Abdo saw it and froze mid-chew; he’d spent enough time in Goredd to know the gesture.
Nan saw the sign and went incandescent. She flung the remaining barley twigs to the ground, leaped from her horse, and pulled her comrade headfirst off his. She went at him, fists flying. Moy had to break it up.
Nan ended up with a split lip, but she’d given the other fellow a black eye. Her father imposed some kind of discipline on them both; I didn’t have enough Ninysh to understand, but Josquin paled. Nan seemed not to care. She returned to us, patted Abdo’s horse, and said huskily, “Do not take zis to heart, moush.”
Moush, meaning “gnat,” was her nickname for Abdo. Abdo nodded, his eyes wide.
I was the one who took it to heart.
I could not be completely comfortable now. It galled me to play my flute in the evenings. Josquin noticed the change, but if he fathomed the cause, he gave me no indication. “You’re a herald, not a circus bear,” he said one evening. “You can say no.”
But I didn’t say no. Playing flute was the one thing I knew could make people see a human, not a monster.
The eastern mountains came into view over the course of a week. I mistook them for a bank of clouds at first. As we traveled nearer, I discerned snowy peaks and a dark forest spreading at their feet like a stain. The legendary Pinabra.
We arrived in Meshi two days later. It stood at the border of the forest, along a river that divided the plains from the pines, western produce from eastern timber and ore. The crenellated turrets of Palasho Meshi rose at the center of town. The baronet was one of the more important Ninysh lordlings, supplying two crucial ingredients for pyria: sulfur and pine resin. We would be imposing on his hospitality for the night.
It was near noon, however, when we passed the city gates. Too early to call in at the palasho. “Let’s go to St. Fionnuala’s and ask the priest about his mural painter,” I suggested to Josquin.
After a quick word with Moy, Josquin led us through the sunny streets toward the riverside, the likeliest place for a church dedicated to the Lady of Waters. The Eight quarreled merrily about whether to turn upstream or down, until Nan cried out and pointed. The church was north, upstream, in sight.
As we approached, I noted that the facade was like nothing I had ever seen, a cacophony of helical columns, curly stone acanthus leaves, Saints in carved niches, gilded shells, and twisted marble ribbons. It was too busy to be beautiful, at least by Goreddi standards.
This church has wiggly eyebrows, said Abdo, tracing the undulating cornices in the air. And fish.
St. Fionnuala brings rain, I said. Hence the watery facade.
The inside also dripped with ornamentation, made more bearable by semidarkness; candlelight reflected off gilt surfaces on the ceiling, columns, and statuary. Only Josquin, Abdo, and I entered, so as not to overwhelm the priest. Our boots upon the marble floor made the vaulted chamber ring with echoes.
My eyes adjusted, and then I saw, illuminated with indirect sunlight, the mural above the altar. Josquin caught his breath and whispered, “Santi Merdi!” St. Fionnuala gazed steadily back at us, her eyes clear and compassionate, her magnanimous face unearthly and yet solidly real. Her pale green hair flowed past her shoulders, becoming a river at her feet. Her gown was shimmering water flowing over abundant earth. She seemed about to speak; we stood stock-still, as if awaiting her utterance.
“Benevenedo des Celeshti, amini!” said a voice to our right, making us jump. A tall, stooped priest emerged from the shadows, his white beard and robe catching the light eerily. St. Fionnuala’s waves in gold filigree adorned his mantle.
Josquin piously kissed a knuckle, like we do in Goredd. I followed suit. Abdo didn’t bother, but bounded up to examine the contents of a clay dish the priest held in his knobby hands.
“Yes, you should try those,” said Josquin, smiling at Abdo’s quizzical look. Abdo took what appeared to be a snail-shaped pastry, sticky with syrup. “Santi Fionani’s shells,” Josquin explained. “Quite a delicacy in the Pinabra.”
Abdo took a bite, his eyes bulging. He swallowed and took another bite, his mouth puckering. Phina madamina, you should try one, he said. No questions. Eat. He plucked a sticky roll off the dish and shoved it into my hands. The priest beamed and said something in Ninysh. Josquin nodded, watching my face as I bit into the pastry.
It wasn’t sweet. It tasted bitterly, fiercely, unmistakably of pine.
I didn’t dare spit it out. Abdo gave up trying to hold in his silent laughter; Josquin and the priest exchanged a few amused words. “I told him you’re Goreddi,” said Josquin. “And he told me you have no cuisine worth eating in Goredd.”
“Pine buns are cuisine?” I tried to scrape resin off my teeth with my tongue.
“Get used to that flavor. It’s all over the Pinabra,” said Josquin, grinning at me.
“Ask him about his muralist,” I said crossly, gesturing at the painting.
Josquin conferred quietly with the priest. The last of my pine bun somehow ended up under the altar; I’m sure it made some church mice happy. I clasped my sticky hands behind my back and examined the mural closely. The painter had signed her name in the bottom corner: Od Fredricka des Uurne.
I waited for a lull in the conversation, then pointed out the signature to Josquin.
“Od is a title from the archipelagoes. It means ‘great,’ ” said Josquin. “She’s a modest sort, clearly. She’s been commissioned to paint a Santi Jobirti next, as you thought. It’s at Vaillou, quite deep in the forest. You’ll be eating pine a long time.”
I rolled my eyes at Josquin, bowed respectfully to the priest, and kissed my knuckle toward Heaven. Josquin left something in the offering box.
Outdoors, noon glared unbearably off the river and the plastered walls. There was only one step down from the church door, and we all stumbled over it, even Abdo.
Is Vaillou very far? Abdo asked.
Josquin said it’s deep in the forest. I take that as a yes, I said. Why?
Abdo shielded his eyes with one hand and pointed east across the river with the other. Because I see an ityasaari’s mind just over there. Not far away at all.