Trey threw his head back and laughed. He sounded genuinely amused. “What? You don’t think I can face this barghest on my own?”
“I’m saying,” said Arabella, as the barghest grew far too many spines in a ridge down its carapaced back, “that you shouldn’t have to. Because this is all my fault.” Her wounded arm hurt all the more. Black clots moved up to her shoulder, shredding and tearing her aethereal flesh.
He grinned at her, eyes alight with a fire she couldn’t understand. He looked fierce and a little scary and oddly so very young. “I was going to have to face this barghest some time, Arabella. Might as well be now as later.”
The sword blazed in his hand. Grey smoke lay thick around him, then hardened.
With a yelled, “Run, Arabella!”, Trey leapt in to meet the barghest. His sword clashed with the creature’s bladed arms. The two tussled, sprang apart, circled each other.
Arabella cast one look at them and then up to where a swarm of shrikers still hovered above the rooftops.
The barghest and the man closed in again, in white slashes and black blades.
He was a Shield. He was the Shade Hunter. She recalled his practice area in the cellar. She had to trust him.
Her left arm was nearly all black now, and smoking. The stench was foul and acrid. Arabella quivered as the corruption creep-crawled questing tendrils all throughout her.
She had to go. One last glance at the fight, and Arabella turned and ran. God-Father protect him!
The tingle of the wards changed into an acid rush, centered around her hurt arm. Arabella turned sideways, head down, pushing through with her shoulder.
Her clothes had changed again. She wore a linen shift, ragged and frayed at the hem. Her legs were too translucent to make out details, but she knew they’d be covered with welts made by an ash switch.
Her past was breathing down her neck again.
Arabella forced herself all the way to the bottom of the stairs. She lifted a foot to climb.
A curtain of crackling white blazed up in front of her.
Arabella staggered back from the heat of it on her face. She could smell burning; looking down she saw her arm was shriveling.
The purity of the light in front of her terrified her. No spot nor shadow could survive it.
But how much of her would be left once it finished consuming?
Risen Lord, shield me.
Arabella ran through the light.
It hurt, but not like the shriker’s bite. No, this was like being hit by lightning, only it went on for far longer. The light illuminated everything inside of her, searched all. For an eternity, it felt like her mind and heart had been laid bare, every thought and every feeling exposed to a majesty she had never before experienced.
It found every dark clot and speck, touched them all with it gaze. The corruption writhed and shrieked and scorched. It didn’t die easily, and Arabella felt its every struggle.
Even worse was the feeling that the corruption did belong to her, that it was made up of her own petty resentments and careless thoughts. It had gained a toehold in her because she had let it.
Take it away, she begged the light, and pitiless and judging, the light did.
Arabella emerged on the other side, gasping for air she did not need. Her feet sank through stone. The steps rippled under her like the waves of the sea. It took several moments to drag herself up them.
At the top, Arabella stretched out both arms, whole and pearly, in front of her. She turned them this way and that. No corruption marred her substance. With a sigh of relief, Arabella turned her attention to the great oaken door, dark with age and banded with iron.
Best to get it over with quickly. Arabella squared her shoulders and let herself fall through the wood.
For an instant, the compressed weight of ages pressed down on her. All the hymns ever sung in this space tugged at her hearing; the myriad tastes of every prayer—salt and sweet and bitter and sour—slid across her tongue as she entered the cathedral itself.
After all the ferocity and fire, Arabella was taken aback to find the place inside was silent and still, shrouded in night. The ceilings vaulted high above, their carvings and paintings hidden from sight. The cracked uneven floor stretched ahead of her down the nave and to the darkened altar at the very end.
Arabella didn’t think it right for a ghost to approach it. She stole down to the right instead, to the Chamber of Saints.
This odd place, with its nooks and corners and angled walls, was full of dark grey statues. Arabella made her way by memory to that of her own patron saint, Margrethe, who watched over maidens and mothers alike.
She stared up at the worn grey statue on its plinth. The stone itself was magic-imbued marble; it glowed softly, limning the saint’s outstretched arms, simple gown, bare feet, and kind features. Margrethe appeared to be reaching down to her, palms out in welcome. Her smile was young and merry, her glimmering eyes ageless and wise.
She seemed to promise sanctuary, comfort, hope. Arabella’s eyes stung and her throat had closed up. She had given so little thought to her patron saint last autumn, picking Margrethe only because the other debutantes did. Margrethe was the acceptable patron for marriageable girls and young matrons, but looking at the depth of kindness in her stone face, Arabella thought what a disservice she had done to both herself and the saint.
With a choked cry, Arabella flung herself down at the foot of the plinth. She huddled there and prayed, only half-articulated, but with fervor.
Trey found her there not long after. She raised her head as his footsteps rang, sharp and quick, in the silent cathedral. When he entered the Chamber, accompanied by three
