‘How long will I be gone for?’ she asked.
Ezra moved closer. The hem of his robes brushed the stone floor with a faint whoosh. He gathered her hands in his. His touch, warm and solid, familiar enough to make her heart ache, steadied her immensely. ‘As long as it takes, my dear girl,’ he said. ‘As long as it takes.’
4
Jude
The oncoming storm chased Jude inside.
His footsteps clattered on the tiles in the main hallway, tracking mud with every step. Much had changed in the eight years he had called Ánhaga home, though sometimes he still felt a jolt of childlike fear walking the halls alone. Especially nights like tonight, when the storm sought entrance through the cracks in the stone and rain battered the windows. He’d need to wrangle the ancient mop from the cupboard, scrounge up a bucket and—
Jude stopped.
A letter sat on a low table by the door. Even from a distance, his name stood out starkly black on the envelope.
Elden, his grumpy housekeeper of the past three years and keeper of the kitchen, hadn’t mentioned any post arriving this morning. Jude hadn’t received a letter in eight years, at least not one addressed directly to him.
He approached it slowly, trepidation settling in his stomach.
There was only one place it could be from. Only one hand tight on his throat.
Jude picked it up, ignoring how his fingers trembled. The envelope was pristine, unmarked by rain and travel. His name was scored precisely across the front, the familiar contour of the sigil just as damning.
The cupped hands and sun of the Abbey.
The Abbey which, until his fifteenth year, had been the only home he had ever known. His grip crumpled the sharp edges of the expensive vellum, and his heart felt like a slow-to-start fire, reluctant to pump blood down the lengths of his limbs. Steeling himself – he refused to flinch, even if they weren’t watching – he ripped open the envelope.
His lungs caught between breaths.
In a handful of sentences, his forgotten existence turned on its head.
The Abbey was sending an iconographer. One they were considering for the lead position, apparently–a woman called Maeve. Something about the name sounded familiar… perhaps they had been at the Abbey together, but he no longer remembered. It didn’t matter either way. She was coming to paint an icon.
Something Jude couldnot, in any circumstance, allow to happen.
Hatred surged up in a vicious lash. Both for her, and the Abbey that haunted his every step, looking for some new way to control him. They wanted to ensure he kept to himself, holding himself in check. Alone and abandoned.
And to send an iconographer, of all people… there had to be a reason they wanted an updated icon of him – an exiled saint. Why send her now?
He reread the letter. Underneath the prickling rage and the raw vulnerability that he refused,refused, to acknowledge was the smallest spark of something he was too pessimistic to call hope. An inkling, maybe – grey instead of black.
Over the past year, Jude had been picking at what allowed the Abbey and its insidious band of elders to hold the reins to his magic, to all the saints’ abilities.
It had started with a book he’d found shoved behind a shelf in the dusty confines of the library:Iconography and the Saints. Despite the title and the fact it had so clearly been hidden, thegold-dusted fingerprints on its spine had piqued his interest. Whoever Ánhaga belonged to before Jude had taken up its tenancy had read the book and left their mark behind.
The cramped text within had confirmed something he’d long suspected – the icons were how the Abbey controlled the saints they so dutifully brought up and sent into exile. His last icon had been painted just before he left. If its power was growing weak with age… a new icon of him would allow the Abbey to renew their hold on him.
And if,ifthe iconographer succeeded, if a renewed icon of Jude was made—
The Abbey’s connection to him would be restored. All the measures he’d taken to protect himself and his memories… gone. He wasn’t sure he had the strength to fight his way free yet again.
Jude pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes until lights popped and flashed behind his lids. Memories swam at the furthest recesses of his mind, begging for entry in honeyed voices. A familiar pang of worry wormed its way into the tender space between his ribs, growing stronger with each ragged inhale. He rubbed the spot with the palm of his hand, feeling the rise and fall of his chest.
But.But.
That damning thread of hope.
The book hadn’t told him how the elders accessed the magic held in the icons, nor how to restore the memories and magic to the saints they were stolen from.
