“I welcome you,” Silas called warmly to the crowd. “As She does. I welcome Her, as you do.” She gestured to her left. “The New Maiden.”
Sabine ascended the steps. The new angle offered her a pleasing perspective: The crowd below her was united by hope. Sabine’s trajectory from Harborside girl to reincarnated deity was proof that a person born to nothing could one day achieve greatness. She was proof that the New Maiden had kept Her promise to return, proof that goodness and righteousness prevailed amidst the uncertainties of life.
It did not matter if Sabine did not feel like the New Maiden. To them, she was.
That knowledge gave her the confidence to speak.
“Citizens of Velle,” Sabine shouted, and the crowd roared in response, “friends from afar, I welcome you today, to this place where I was made, where you witnessed me call forth the darkness and then banish it. I am as She was—as She shall always be. The New Maiden’s word”—Sabine paused as Silas cleared her throat pointedly, then adjusted—“my word is a light in that darkness. Trust in me, for my promises are always fulfilled. Follow me, for I will brave the first step down every path. Depend on me, for I am yours.”
For hours after her remarks, Sabine was surrounded by a clamoring throng. None were willing to leave without a personal blessing from the New Maiden, and by the time the city’s square had emptied, the sun hovered on the horizon. Pink and gold painted the sky as night crept nearer.
Sabine and Silas returned to Harborside in silence, save for the squawking of seabirds and the shouting of dockhands. The bishop was well attuned to the New Maiden’s mood, never asking for more than Sabine could give. A rarity these days when everyone wanted something from her.
Harborside came alive when the stars began to wink down from above. Silas and Sabine walked the crowded cobblestone streets, past boisterous taverns and raucous gambling dens. Boarded-up buildings were plastered with flyers, the salt from the sea curling the corners of the parchment.
“A day of virtue, an evening of vice,” the bishop noted solemnly, as they passed the open door of a gambling hall. Inside, Sabine spotted a familiar face, confounding in this context. Tal had exchanged his Loyalist reds for an ensemble of black. His hands were busy folding a piece of parchment.
His presence was unsettling. There was no reason for him to wander the seedy underbelly of Harborside, and certainly not without the protection offered by his Loyalist uniform. Sabine nearly called his name, but just as before, Tal’s head jerked in her direction without prompting.
Their eyes met, and again, a chill slithered down Sabine’s spine. Tal’s mouth twisted into a nearly imperceptible frown. This time, he looked away first, furtively sliding the scrap of parchment into his pocket before vanishing into the crowd.
Sabine hardly noticed when they arrived at the front door of her family’s apartment, so flummoxed was she by Tal’s presence in her neighborhood.
“Well done today, Maiden,” Silas said, gently untangling her from her reverie. “You shone as brightly as I expected.”
“Thank you, Silas.” Sabine offered the bishop a modest smile. It was quite the compliment, coming from someone who had been committed to the New Maiden’s word longer than Sabine had been alive. Still, she was not entirely certain she deserved it.
She bid the bishop good night and pushed her way inside. She took no more than two steps before sinking to the floor with exhaustion, ready to sleep on the hard wood, no pillow or quilt required.
“All right there, Bet?” Her younger brother sounded amused.
“Fine, thanks, Artur,” she mumbled, not bothering to open her eyes.
“Bet, get off the floor,” Katrynn said. “If you’re hungry, I made soup. It’s mostly broth, but—”
“Sabine.” It was the use of her real name that finally caused her to open her eyes. Her family was gathered around the table, expressions grim. Sabine sat up straight, exhaustion forgotten.
“What’s the matter?”
“Why don’t you come sit.” Orla Anders patted the empty chair beside her.
“What’s happened?” Sabine spun through endless horrible scenarios. “Is it Da?”
Artur produced a piece of parchment, folded several times over, nearly identical to the one Tal had pocketed. “Found this on a craps table in the Faceless Fox this afternoon.” He passed the document over to his sister.
On the page was a penciled portrait of a moth, the insect’s body bulbous like a maggot, its wings outstretched and spotted, antennae pointing up. Why depend on Her, the poster read, when you could shine with Him?
Sabine didn’t need to wonder who He was. Sebastien. The Second Son, twisting words from the New Maiden’s own sermon to mock her.
“The posters are all over,” Artur continued, voice pained. “On building walls, at the bar, in the toilets, even.”
In the hands of her least favorite Loyalist, too, if her suspicions were correct.
“He’s coming,” Sabine said flatly. It wasn’t a question. The words Brianne spoke in her incense-clouded bedroom floated again to the forefront of Sabine’s mind. He will hold the faithful in His iron grip, and Velle will fall at His feet. “This isn’t a warning.” She swallowed thickly. “It’s a promise.”
The apartment was silent as a cemetery.
“I don’t like this, Sabine,” Orla Anders said. “Not one bit.”
Sabine tried to smile, but her cheeks ached with the effort. There were no words of comfort to offer her mother.
“You should take this to the queen,” Katrynn suggested. “Elodie will know what to do.”
“No.” The word was too loud amidst the fretful quiet of the tiny room. Her family frowned at her dismissal. “The queen has plenty on her plate,” Sabine backtracked quickly. “She doesn’t need another thing to worry about. Not until we have a better sense of the threat.”
Her family’s troubled expressions indicated they did not agree. But Sabine held fast. As the New Maiden, she could not allow herself to appear undermined already, not when Elodie had established herself as a generous, competent queen. Sabine wished to be a twin pillar, not a drain on the crown’s resources. She was the head of the Church now. This was her problem, no one else’s.
“I wonder why a moth.” Sabine’s mother frowned down at the page. “They’re pests. Leave holes in all my best sweaters.”
“Because they fly?” Artur suggested. “They can ‘rise above’?”
Sabine stared down at the sketch, unease brewing in her stomach. She’d never paid much attention to the pesky insects fluttering uselessly in the dark, desperately seeking flames.
Understanding dawned on her. “It’s because moths are drawn toward light.” The Second Son’s light.
It was a credo diametrically opposed to her own. Where the New Maiden urged her followers to uncover the brilliance within, the Second Son claimed He shone bright enough alone.
