“If you listen closely, you can still hear Her crying,” the girl said, holding up a hand to invite Sabine’s silence.
Sabine listened intently. At first, all she could hear was the rhythmic shifting of the water sloshing against the shoreline. But the longer she listened, the more deeply she focused, the clearer she could make out the sobs.
Her chest tightened, familiarity flooding her senses. It was the sound not just of the New Maiden’s sadness, but of Sabine’s, too. Judging by the redheaded girl’s expression, she recognized that sound as well.
“Which do you think came first,” Sabine asked, “sadness, or the New Maiden?”
The attendant considered her question. “Sadness has always been.” She looked up at the clouds, which hung heavy, threatening rain. “I think that part of Her power, part of Her gift, really, was holding it for us all.”
But Sabine had often seen tears streaking the cheeks of Her most devout worshippers. “You think the New Maiden saved you from sadness?”
The attendant shook her head. “You misunderstand.” She smiled softly. “I think She made sure that when it was our time to feel sadness, we did not do so alone.”
A lump formed in Sabine’s throat. She had never considered her impact in such a way. Perhaps the feelings she had once perceived as weakness were, in fact, a comfort. A way to offer connection to others when they suffered their own heavy hearts.
“Thank you,” Sabine whispered, a ray of light breaking through the clouds to glitter against the water. “Truly.”
“It is the least that I can do, Maiden.” The attendant smiled before departing, robe fluttering behind her.
When Sabine turned away from the shore, her vision was still dotted with sparks of light. She scrubbed her hands against her eyes, hoping to clear her view. But one glittering dot stayed, sparkling up through the silt. Sabine knelt, using her thumb to clear away the dirt. A gold coin stared up at her, unique in shape, with hammered edges and a smooth face.
She turned it over in her hand. On the back were three numerals: VII.
Sabine turned the coin again to its blank face. The gold shimmered even in the tiny shred of sunlight the morning offered. She could not believe they had missed it the day before. The coin was a sign, encouragement from above. Sabine was not alone. This was not yet finished.
Before any others could meaningfully devote themselves to her, Sabine needed to prove herself to them. Being a leader meant setting an example. And so she sank her hands in the earth and again began to dig, energized by serendipity and a stranger’s kindness.
The silt was cool between her fingers, tiny grains wedged themselves beneath her nails, landing on her lips, scratching at her eyes. She ignored all offers of assistance, waved away ladles of water and bowls of stew. She did not need sustenance today. Not when she had momentum.
By the time Katrynn and Brianne emerged from their tent, Sabine was up to her ears in soil.
“Bet?” Her elder sister stared down at Sabine with concern. “What are you doing?”
“I’m nearly there,” Sabine panted, grasping another handful of dirt.
“And where might there be?” Brianne looked pointedly at her own pit, which was nearly three times the size of Sabine’s.
Before she could answer, Sabine’s hand struck something sharp, and she hissed through the pain. A bright stripe of blood bloomed across her palm. She held her right hand aloft as she excavated the offending item carefully with her left.
It was a shard of earth-red clay, striped with the same gold sheen of the coin. It was slightly rounded—like a jug or a vase—and clearly shattered. Sabine scraped off the sand that stuck to the shard. To Katrynn’s horror, she sniffed it. The faintest odor of alcohol clung to its pores, as though it had once held a spirit or wine. Sabine placed the clay carefully beside the coin.
“Offerings,” Genevar said, confirming her suspicion. Sabine looked up, the skin on the back of her neck aching with obvious sunburn. She had not noticed the Archivist join the crowd of observers.
“From her followers?”
“From her Favoreds.” Genevar indicated the coin. “That is a token the Maiden forged, for Her Seven. Ruti wrote of them.”
The surrounding crowd was quiet, and once again, Sabine could hear the faint strains of sadness coursing through the Lower Banks.
The artifacts were proof Sabine was inching toward even more momentous discoveries. It was only now that she welcomed assistance from the onlookers. And so it was that Her altar was excavated by the residents of the Lower Banks, the New Maiden’s second coming by their side.
Tal
Tal had not expected Sabine. With Brianne, the plan of attack was clear. Tal would usurp René as head of the Church, install Elodie on the throne, and ensure that the New Maiden remained suspended in sleep for all eternity. It was effortless, to line up the pieces and watch them fall into place.
But when Sabine called forth the darkness in the city square, Tal began to squirm. The girl was a stranger, but her power left a familiar tang on his tongue. It tasted of saline and starlight.
Sinister machinations were afoot. Tal’s heart urged him to protect Elodie from it all. So, when Sabine’s shadow rushed toward him, fangs bared, ready to strike, Tal offered himself up to the darkness, and the shadow accepted his sacrifice.
At once, impossible pain. Every ounce of emotion Tal had carefully released slammed right back into him. He was again a trembling child at the mercy of his father’s hands. A lovesick adolescent, forced to stew in his unrequited adoration. Worse—the Second Son’s voice, which had once been a guiding light, now began to hiss.
Foolish to believe you could ever escape me, it said. Foolish to think you would ever be free.
This was not Sebastien, for his savior could never be so cruel. No, this darkness had come from the New Maiden, which meant She was using Her unwieldy emotions to undo His rightful teachings. It was just as the Second Son had warned: The New Maiden brandished emotion like a weapon.
The dark-haired girl on the cobblestones below would be His undoing unless Tal silenced her.
He concocted a plan to infiltrate her trust. All went as intended, save for a single hitch: The closer Tal grew to Sabine, the more she felt like home.
He had not intended to find comfort in her. The breadth of her feelings was off-putting, her earnestness irritating, her kindness exhausting. Yet there was a connection between them. Something precious. With Sabine, Tal was seen, was known, just as he had been with the Second Son.
You are allowing yourself to be corrupted, the darkness hissed at him. To compensate for his occasional weakness, Tal’s sermons became more charged. He would stop at nothing to turn Velle’s favor away from Sabine. To prove to Sebastien that he was a worthy executor of His legacy. To make Elodie see how brittle the New Maiden truly was.
The intimacy the queen shared with the New Maiden was a dagger in his back. But the blacksmith’s son was now well-versed in healing. Like Sebastien had taught him, Tal sucked the poison from his wound and spat the venom out.
