“She was a victim, you said. What happened?” Mark asked.
“After I determined the priest’s guilt, Cerena was freed from his dominion and paid recompense. Because it was early during my time with the Vigil, and I still had the energy for such, I checked on her a few times over the years. Amazingly, though I am not aware the priest asked for such, it seemed she forgave him and moved on. She married and had children and lived to the end of her days.”
“And the priest?”
Pellin nodded. “He also lived to the end of his days.”
“Doesn’t everyone?” Mark said.
Despite himself, Pellin laughed. “It’s an old phrase that means someone has lived a long life. I don’t know that the priest enjoyed it so much, though he might have been grateful for it. I never saw him again. The Archbishop kept him under penance until the day he died, working alone in the fields near Cynestol.”
Mark nodded in satisfaction. “It’s strange to think she’ll have the chance to relive her life centuries after it happened.”
If only, Pellin thought.
Chapter 5
Pellin watched the girl, breathing shallowly and still bound to the chair, his heart grieving what he had done. “She will wake at any moment,” he said to Mark. “It is difficult to say just what her reaction will be. To her own eyes, she will certainly look different than she remembers. Blindfold her, and have a gag ready. We don’t want to draw any more attention than we have to.”
Mark nodded as he took from his bag the cloth that all of the urchins carried to shield their eyes from lamp and daylight before going out to steal at night. He tied it firmly over the girl’s eyes and waited. “How many times has this been tried?” he asked.
Pellin stepped into the river that comprised his own long life, panning for those memories. “In the lore of the Vigil, it’s been recorded at least a dozen times, though it’s certain that it has been attempted more often. Those who hold the gift of domere are no less human than anyone else. We have no desire to commit our failures to pen and parchment.”
“Has it ever worked?” Mark asked. He kept his gaze on the girl.
“No,” Pellin whispered.
His apprentice nodded slightly, his face somber. “Is there a prayer you could offer for her?”
He shook his head, though Mark still hadn’t looked away from the girl. “There is nothing in the liturgy that covers circumstances such as these.”
“Is it possible to surprise Aer?” Mark asked.
“No.”
“Then He knew this would happen?”
“Yes.”
“Then there must be some prayer you can offer for her that He will hear,” he said, his face tight.
“And do you believe He cares?” Pellin asked.
“Who can speak for Aer?” Mark said. “But I care.”
A knot formed in Pellin’s throat that refused to loosen. “Perhaps this will suffice.” He raised his hands and recited the Exordium, the preface to each liturgical prayer in the church. Afterward, he lifted his voice, both in benison to the girl and in pleading to the threefold one. “Into your hands, O Aer, we commend this one, and we plead that where she found disease, she will find healing. Where she found hatred, she will find love. Where she found sorrow, she will find joy.” He paused, knowing Mark would remember every word. The boy would test events against the words of his prayer, but Pellin had committed himself to this. “And where this poor soul found death, Aer, we pray she shall find life.”
Mark turned at last from his contemplation of the girl. “That sounded like the prayer for the dead.”
He nodded, knowing Mark would recognize it, expecting no less. “I changed it to something more appropriate.”
“Thank you. I used to hear that prayer in Bunard whenever one of the urchins died, mostly in the winter. The priests always rushed through it.” He shrugged, but something savage worked its way free from his indifference. “It was cold, and there was no reason for them not to. No one stood in attendance, and the priest couldn’t know I was there, hidden in the shadows.”
A sound came from the chair, like the softest mewing of a kitten. The girl lifted her head first, then tried to move her arms. A grunt, the prelude to struggle, sounded low in her throat. Mark darted forward to untie the ropes around her arms and legs. Allta drew his sword, the whisper of steel against leather soft in the room
Her head swiveled toward the sound.
“Do you know your name?” Mark asked.
She shook her head at first, then cocked it to one side. “Ce . . . Ce . . . Ce . . .”
“Your name is Cerena,” Mark said.
The girl nodded, and for an instant, improbable impossible hope flared in Pellin’s chest.
But then her legs twitched and she raised her arms, one trailing the other in uncoordinated jerks to rip the blindfold from her eyes. She held her shaking hands in front of her face, settling for an instant before the momentary expression of calm fled and her visage crumpled. She gasped, drawing breath to scream, but Allta was quicker. He placed a cloth infused with somnal syrup over her nose and held it there until her limbs went slack.
“Is this what happened before?” Mark asked in a small voice.
Pellin sighed, nodding. “Her memories of Cerena’s physical body, no matter how close to her own, aren’t hers, and her mind cannot reconcile the difference.”
“You ended up killing them all, didn’t you?”
He didn’t bother to dodge the accusation or offer the claim that others had made the decision to create the dwimor and that he had only tried to heal them. Mark probably wouldn’t care. He was certain he didn’t care himself. As Eldest of the Vigil he carried the responsibility of past decisions as well as his own. “Yes, usually
