The sun was rapidly rising. I needed cover or I’d soon be visible to the city walls, to sharp-eyed dragons in the sky, and to Jannoula up in the Ard Tower. I doubled my pace down the scrubby hill, then across two lowlying pastures, scattering sleepy sheep before me. Over one last stone wall, across a culvert, the wetlands began, full of dense foliage to conceal me.
I sat in the shadow of an orange beesuckle to see what Alberdt and Glisselda had packed in the satchel. Besides the sword, there was bread and cheese, a pair of sturdy boots, and a change of clothes. I put on the boots at once, then devoured the food. I’d eaten nothing since breakfast in Glisselda’s suite the day before, and not much then.
As I chewed, I considered. I wasn’t confident that Glisselda’s subterfuge would last long; the guards would notice they were watching an empty room, or Jannoula would try to throw Orma in my face again. Jannoula could trace any ityasaari’s mind-fire to my head and speak to me in my garden—she’d done it through Gianni and through Abdo. I didn’t think she would be able to find me that way, but I wasn’t completely certain. If their lines of mind-fire came out of my head like snakes—to which Abdo had so charmingly compared them—could she see them? Could she follow them back to me?
It hit me: What if the way to unbind myself was to release everyone from my garden? The garden hadn’t started shrinking until I’d unbuttoned Gianni Patto. That might be a clue. If the wall was no longer necessary, might it disappear?
Unfastening Gianni and Pende had hurt terribly. I curled into a ball, steeling myself. I had to do this all at once, like jumping into icy water, or I would lose my nerve.
Lars Brasidas Mina Okra Gaios Od Fredricka Phloxia Ingar Gelina Nedouard Blanche Pandowdy Camba. One after the other, in rapid succession, I unfastened the ityasaari from my mind.
And then, lastly—O Heaven, it would shatter me—Abdo.
I flopped back on the damp ground, my arms wrapped around my head, sobbing and retching, grief clamping my heart, my lungs full of needles. I had never felt so empty or alone, all the way to my core. The hole must collapse. I would cave in on myself.
Dragons were already engaging in the pink morning sky overhead. The screams of generals rousing their troops echoed off the walls of the city. I felt dark shadows cross my eyelids.
I opened my eyes just as the invisible hand of St. Abaster’s Trap began batting dragons aside. They fell like birds hitting a window.
The trap was still invisible to me. I had not found the way to release my mind-fire. I had pulled myself to pieces for nothing.
The city blocked my view of the armies on the ground, but I saw endless sky battles as I crossed the swamp toward Abdo’s shrine. Dragons swooped and circled, flamed and grappled, trying to drop their enemies out of the sky or bite off their heads. Through a blaze of autumn leaves, I saw dragons skim along the city wall, setting soldiers and war engines on fire, only to be slammed by St. Abaster’s Trap.
I kept moving, staying under foliage. Around midday, I flopped down upon a mossy hillock under a willow and let myself rest. The percussive thud of scaly bodies hitting the swampland woke me again and again; only the dampness of their landing place prevented their setting the wetland on fire. Smoke curled above the Queenswood, which was drier. In the late afternoon, I awoke when the fighting changed timbre. I squinted at the bright sky. Above me, five young dragons had taken on a much larger specimen.
With a net. The Porphyrian five were alive and biting.
Only when darkness fell did the cries abate and the dragons regroup at their own camps. I wondered how the human armies had fared, how many dead they would gather, a bitter harvest off the plains.
Crossing the wetland at night was perilous business. I mentally thanked Alberdt for the sturdy boots, because I was often up to my knees in muck. My white gown, though I hoisted it up, grew sodden around the hem. I finally called a halt on higher ground and dug through my bag for something drier to wear. I changed into a tunic and trousers and launched myself at the swamp once more.
The northern road ran upon a levee. I scrambled up the embankment eagerly when I found it, glad the going would be easier now. I was almost there. The moon rose, coating my path with silver. I saw the tumbledown shrine at last, and my heart swelled.
I reached the lean-to, sweating despite the chill. I paused near the odd statue, the human figure without features or hands, like a gingerbread man. Its decorative apron fluttered in the breeze. My eyes adjusted to the darkness, but I couldn’t make out anyone in the shadows. “Abdo?” I asked the inky blackness behind the statue, but there was no answer. I knelt, not believing my eyes, and felt around for him. I found his plate and cup, both empty, but no Abdo.
He’d been here just last night. Where could he have gone? Had he finally freed himself of Jannoula and could now move without fear of drawing her attention? That was glorious news, if so, but unfortunate for me. I’d lost my last ally, and I had unfastened him from my mind. How was I to find him?
The irretrievable aloneness settled upon me again.
I don’t know how long I stared at the darkness, or what deep well of stubbornness I drew from to get myself back on my feet, but eventually I wiped my eyes and dusted myself off. The moon had shifted and now shone through a hole in the roof, illuminating the statue’s bald crown. I remembered the odd inscription and knelt, looking for it again.
When he lived, he killed and lied,
This Saint who lies submerged.
The ages passed, the monster died;
I ripen, I emerge.
Saint who lies submerged … the monster … I went cold. I hadn’t known the fate of St. Pandowdy when I’d read that inscription before. What other Saint had been buried alive? Who else had been described as monstrous? Had he been buried in this very swamp, the one I’d been trudging through all day?
My Pandowdy—the giant slug from my garden—lived in a swamp. I’d dismissed the name as a coincidence.
I brushed lichen off the bottom of the inscription, trying to make out the name to be sure. I traced the P with my finger, and the A, all the way to Y. There could no longer be any doubt.
Was there some connection between St. Pandowdy and the scaly swamp slug of my visions? They couldn’t be the same being. Yirtrudis’s beloved had not been so grotesquely inhuman. But … could he have survived being buried? Might he have changed over time? I emerge made me think of a cocoon; what if I’d been seeing some kind of chrysalis?
It was a mad idea. He’d be seven hundred years old.
But if Pandowdy was nearby, in whatever form—worm or cocoon, monster or ancient Saint—was there any chance he could help? Maybe Abdo had glimpsed his mind-fire out there in the swamp and gone looking for him.
Maybe I could follow. I was at a dead end otherwise.
Abdo must have left signs. I hoped I hadn’t spoiled them already by barging in here. I retraced my steps, examining the moonlit road, but saw no tracks. I picked through the tall grass behind the shrine, discerning nothing. The mud had been churned up, but a wild pig might have done that. I was about to give up when my gaze drifted across a fetid pool and I saw them: footprints on the far bank. There were only two, but they were indisputably human and exactly the right size.
They pointed straight into the heart of the fen.