Page 136 of The Rebel and the Rose
‘South. To the Summer Palace.’ At their looks of confusion, he added, ‘The People’s Saint has gone to kill the king.’
Part IV
‘The Age of Kings is at an end,
The time of the saints has come again.
For there to be change, there must be sacrifice.
For there to be peace, there first must be war.’
ANDREAS MONDRAGON RAYERE, THE PEOPLE’S SAINT
Chapter 34Seraphine
In the depths of slumber, where no thought or worry stirred, Oriel found her. The saint’s face was grave, worry pinching the smooth brown skin around her mouth.
‘Hear my voice, Seraphine.’
Sera stared up at the saint, marvelling at her closeness. She was almost real enough to touch, though she didn’t dare disturb the mirage by reaching for her. How beautiful Oriel was, even in her anxiety. How bright her dark eyes shone, the pearlescent beads at the ends of her long black hair swaying in an unseen breeze.
‘There is a wrongness in fate’s tapestry. A thread that does not belong.’ Oriel’s voice grew low and urgent. ‘You must pull it out.’
The saint drew closer, those doleful brown eyes filling upthe world. In them, Sera watched three towers fall, over and over again. She saw a fair-haired man throw his arms wide, gathering up the storm. Claiming all that magic for himself.
Oriel brought her lips close to her ear. ‘You must pull him out.’
She drew back, looking so much older now. Frail, and small, and frightened, in a way that frightened Sera too. ‘Or it will all unravel, and the world as you know it will fall to ruin.’
The words spun round and round, echoing inside Sera’s head.
And the world as you know it will fall to ruin…
Fall to ruin…
Ruin…
Oriel clapped her hands, creating a thunderous crash.
The dream shattered.
Sera woke with a gasp.
Brightness engulfed her. She blinked, trying to clear her vision but the eerie glow remained. It was rolling off her skin. Shining through her bloodstained shirt and glowing underneath the hem of her damp trousers. A cold trickle of air caressed the back of her neck, the scent of brine sticking to the inside of her nose. There was something dreadfully familiar about it.
‘What will unravel?’ Bibi’s voice sounded from somewhere beyond the light. ‘Sera, were you dreaming just now?’
‘Bibi? Is that you?’ Slowly, softly, the light faded, Sera’s magic settling back under her skin. It was dark then, the dimness feathered by distant wall lamps. Just enough of them to illuminate the thick black bars that separated her from Bibi.
Her friend was in the cell across from her, her pale fingers white around the bars, her face pressed against the metal like she was trying to wrench them apart. ‘It’s me.’ She summoned a shaky smile, but the hell of these past few weeks was written all over her face. The natural rosy hue had been drained from her cheeks. Her once bright eyes were sunken, and her beautiful red hair was lank and knotted. ‘You’ve been glowing in your sleep. Murmuring the strangest things about threads and tapestries. I’ve been waiting for you to wake up.’
‘How long was I out?’
‘A day or so. Almost twice as long as Val. She filled me in on everything before dropping off again.’ Shifting to the left, Bibi offered a glimpse of Val, who was sleeping on a bedroll behind her. While they had been confined to the same cell, there were two sets of bars and a narrow passage separating them from Sera. And her magic, she supposed. Unfortunately, someone had had the good sense to confine the resident Saint-maker to solitary confinement. Not that she really knew the first thing about making a saint. At least without scouring a hole in their chest.
Dropping her voice, Bibi said, ‘Whatever Andreas did to her mind has exhausted her. It’s like she’s been wrung out like a dishrag. She’s been trying but she’s not truly herself, Sera. I don’t know how to get her back.’
Sera didn’t have the heart to admit she didn’t know either. And worse, she couldn’t tell what commands the prince had buried in Val’s thoughts, or how they might manifest. Though the reminder of Andreas’s eerie elastic smile jolted Sera back to her senses. And the white-hot edge of her anger. The lastthing she remembered was being at the archway to Marvale, caught in the grip of a failed getaway and kneeling beneath the prince’s fury.
