I’d been nocturnal so long that by noon I was no longer functioning well. They let me nap in a command tent; the field cot felt like the comfiest bed I’d ever known.
I awoke midafternoon to the sound of dracomachists training in a nearby pasture, but didn’t get up right away. Before I entered Lavondaville, I needed as much information as I could gather about the Ninysh ityasaari, Lars, and Jannoula. Had she finally gotten her hooks into Blanche and Nedouard? What was she doing with them?
I steadied my breathing, spoke the ritual words, and entered my … well, I still thought of it as a garden, no matter how it had withered and shrunk. The place hadn’t changed since the day I’d called each avatar by name. The sky still sagged, propped up by Jannoula’s cottage and the trees of Pandowdy’s swamp. The denizens lay in a line on the lawn, inert as dolls. Tending the garden took no time now; I walked in and counted.
I located doll-Nedouard. If Jannoula had gotten her hook in him, she could easily find out that I’d looked in on him. I would have to be careful not to reveal anything sensitive. I didn’t think she could tell where I was, but she’d guess I was near. The visit itself would raise her suspicions. I didn’t see what choice I had, however; I couldn’t go in guessing.
I took doll-Nedouard’s tiny hands in mine and braced myself for the terrifying vortex of consciousness, but the vision didn’t suck me under quite like it usually did. It felt distant and false, like I was peering through a spyglass.
My vision-eye hovered at ceiling level, looking down; that was normal, at least. I saw a narrow, whitewashed room with simple wooden furniture. The beaked plague doctor, below me, fetched a kettle from the hearth, its handle wrapped in a handkerchief against the heat. He poured steaming water into a pewter basin on the table, and then unbuttoned his shirt. His caved-in chest and bony shoulders were paved with silver dragon scales. He wrung out a cloth, wincing as it scalded his fingers, and began to clean his scales.
I watched him some moments, pondering the paradox of reaching inward to look outward. I spoke to Nedouard in my head: Good afternoon, friend.
“I thought I felt you watching,” he said, wringing out his washcloth gingerly. “I must admit, I prefer your approach to hers. It’s less intrusive.”
I didn’t have to ask whom I was being contrasted with. Jannoula got to you at last. I’m so sorry. How did it happen?
The old doctor dabbed at his shoulder; steam rose off his speckled back. “Blanche was hit first. She tried to fight, which caused her terrible pain. She raided my store of poppy tears, wanting to die, but missed the dose and became very ill.
“So I said, ‘Blanche, I can give you a more effective poison, if that’s what you want, or you can stop fighting Jannoula for now, and I’ll help you find another way out.’ ”
I shuddered at his matter-of-factness, but Nedouard merely opened the unguent pot beside the pewter basin, took up a horsehair paintbrush, and began slathering salve onto his scales.
Surely I would know if Blanche had died. Surely the bit of mind-fire I had taken into my garden would dissipate.
Nedouard continued, “Blanche took my advice, for what it was worth, and when the Saint—as Jannoula calls herself—came knocking on my door, I welcomed her in.”
Why would you do that? I asked, horrified.
He was silent for a moment as he oiled his scales. “I’d hoped,” he said at last, buttoning his shirt, “that I might find a way to free Blanche from the inside, but I don’t have the requisite mental abilities. The best I can say for myself is that I’m so boring and cooperative that Jannoula pays little attention to me. There are plenty of others drawing her energies elsewhere.”
He pulled a leather satchel from under the table. “I can’t free anyone with my mind, but I still have some hope of influencing her. Maybe she can be reasoned with, talked into releasing everyone. To that end, I’ve been studying her mental state. I’ve never met anyone like her. She’s missing some basic qualities—empathy, caring—but she mirrors them to manipulate people. I’d hoped to find a way toward rehabilitating her, but she’s so broken.…” He shrugged bleakly.
You don’t think she can be? I asked. I did not even want to entertain that idea; if she couldn’t be saved, then my guilt was preserved for the ages, like an ant in amber.
“That’s not exactly it,” he said. “It’s that the more hurt she causes, the less I want to save her. Some days I argue with myself about the true meaning of my physician’s oath. Is a net good near enough to no harm?”
He had been rummaging in his bag as he spoke. He pulled out a vial and swirled its oily contents meaningfully. “Can I bring myself to poison her? So far the answer is no, but it’s my conscience in the balance against Blanche’s ceaseless pain, Dame Okra’s truncated personality, and the comatose old priest.
“When Jannoula made Gianni throw Camba down the stairs, I was close to killing her,” he whispered. “So close. I wish I weren’t such a coward.”
I could barely find my voice. Did you say Camba?
He apprehended my tone at once. “Oh, Seraphina,” he said, his shoulders slumping sorrowfully. “You wouldn’t have heard. The Porphyrians are all here. Everyone but Abdo.”
This news upset me so much that I dropped his tiny avatar like a hot ember and the vision winked out. I was on my knees in the mud of my minuscule garden, gasping for breath.
The Porphyrians hadn’t intended to come. They would have resisted. I felt sick, thinking how Jannoula must have accomplished this.
But why wouldn’t Abdo be here, and did “comatose old priest” refer to Paulos Pende? The dream came back to me, wherein I thought I’d seen Abdo dive from a wagon and Pende fall down dead. Had it been more vision than dream? I wasn’t sure whether to seek out the answer with eagerness or dread.
I would surely attract Jannoula’s notice, but I had to look in on everyone. I had to see for myself where everyone was and what Jannoula had done to them. I started with the white-haired Porphyrian singer, stubby-limbed Brasidas, taking up his avatar and letting my eye look out upon the world. He was in a place I recognized from my student days, the Odeon of St. Ida’s Conservatory, giving a public performance. The seats were packed with astonished townspeople; his eerie voice filled the domed hall.
I lingered a moment, entranced by the beauty of his singing, then recalled that he was not the only one I needed to check on. I forced myself onward and found Phloxia the lawyer in St. Loola’s Square, standing on the base of the statue and speaking in a thunderous voice. Her crowd was even bigger than Brasidas’s. The sinking sun tinted her face an orangey bronze.
“You are right to wonder, Lavondaville!” she cried, her enormous mouth wobbling. “If the Saints were half-dragons, why did they write such fiery polemics against dragons and half-dragons alike? Why didn’t they tell us what they were?”
Around her the crowd murmured, echoing her questions, their faces intent.
“The Saints did not record their origins because they were afraid,” Phloxia announced. “They were strangers in this land. Goredd appreciated their help, but memory is short and suspicion runs deep. Who among you has not felt bias in your hearts toward those who were different? The Saints bore the burden of human prejudice every day.
“They forbade interbreeding because they did not want another generation of ityasaari to suffer as they had suffered. They were trying to take mercy on the future, but we see now that this was an overreaction. Half-dragons are not the monsters you were led to believe, but Heaven’s own children.”
Phloxia’s speech was as enthralling as Brasidas’s music. She must have been formidable in the Porphyrian courts of law. But where had she learned Southlander theology, and what was she doing? Preaching? Was this how Jannoula made converts?
As I began to withdraw from the vision, something across the square caught my eye: a three-story mural, unfinished but recognizable, of St. Jannoula herself. The eyes, in particular, were huge, green, and so kindly the heart within me melted a little. The painter was nowhere to be seen, but I had no doubt whatsoever who she was.
Then I was off again, after Mina the winged warrior. She was drilling with the city garrison, instructing them in the use of two swords. She whirled, a silvery cyclone of death, a mesmerizing dance of pain, another half-dragon showing what marvels our kind were capable of. Jannoula had a finger in every pie she could think of, it seemed.
I looked upon Lars and found him on the city wall, supervising the fine-tuning of a trebuchet. Blanche was with him, a cord tied from her waist to his like an umbilical cord. Was it to keep her from harming herself? My heart ached for her.
I checked in on Gaios next and found him walking down Castle Hill toward St. Gobnait’s cathedral with his sister, Gelina, Gianni Patto, and Jannoula. All four wore funereal white, and only then did I realize that the others had been wearing white as well. Was this Jannoula’s chosen color? She hadn’t been raised Goreddi; it would hold no morose associations for her.
Citizens waving flags and flowers had gathered along both sides of the street as if this were a daily parade route. Gaios and Gelina smiled gloriously, waving at the gawking crowds, walking with the confidence of strength, the beauty of youth and athleticism. Hulking, claw-footed Gianni, whose pale hair had begun to grow back like a corona, slumped along at the back, keeping the crowds from coming too close. He looked thoroughly spooked by the cheering citizenry, and I felt a pang of pity.
Between the twins, basking in their glow, walked Jannoula. She spread her arms as if to embrace the entire city. She mimed pulling the people’s love toward herself, crushing it to her breast, washing it over her head. She looked like she was swimming slowly through the air.
I had kept quiet, careful not to draw Gaios’s attention, but he must have felt me holding his hand in my mind. He swatted at the air as if he were bothered by bees. Jannoula looked at him and narrowed her green eyes.
I let him go. I’d seen enough.
I took the hands of Camba’s little avatar and braced myself for whatever might come.
From the ceiling of a palace corridor, I saw Ingar. His square spectacles gleamed; his round face beamed with the same vague cheer as when I’d first met him, under the influence of a Saint. He shuffled slowly up the airy corridor, pushing a wheeled chair.
I did not immediately recognize the tall Porphyrian in the chair, but it was Camba. Her hair had been shaved off—a punishment inflicted by Jannoula, I assumed. She was dressed in a plain white surplice that fit her poorly, and both her ankles were bandaged.
Gianni had thrown her down the stairs, Nedouard had said.
Camba raised one hand, and Ingar stopped the chair, still smiling vapidly. She looked around and behind, craning her long neck, but they were alone in the hallway.
Camba half whispered, “Guaiong.”
Instantly Ingar’s countenance changed, congealing and sharpening into the expression he’d worn in Porphyry. He glanced around, leaned forward, placed his hands on Camba’s shoulders, and said quietly: “What is it, friend? Are you in pain? Is she hurting you again?”
Camba’s head was as bald as Ingar’s now; her brown ears, stripped of ornaments, were perforated with a line of tiny holes. She reached up and grasped Ingar’s pale hands tightly. “Seraphina is looking upon me in her mind. You remember what Pende said: she has a bit of our light. I want her to see that we’re still fighting, that we haven’t given up.”
Ingar smiled wryly at Camba, his eyes full of sadness, kindness, and something more. “I’m not sure my pathetic attempt at a mind-pearl counts as fighting,” he said. “I don’t know how many times it will work. If you can hear me, Seraphina, come back soon.”
I spoke to Camba at last: I hear you. I’m coming.