Maybe the iconographer would know.
She, who formed the icons, who knew of the power between artist and subject… was it too much for him to wonder if she’d share her knowledge? If the Abbey hadn’t sunk its claws in deep enough to keep her from seeing the truth amidst the lies?
He crumpled the letter as the feeble flame of hope began to wane.
She was an iconographer. Fully trained. Deeper in the Abbey’s clutches than he’d ever been, comfortable in its hold. The danger far outweighed the potential of breaking himself free. Of curing himself of the Abbey’s grip on his magic, a poisonous taint that turned it into something that wasn’t his own. Of running as far as he could from the Abbey and ensuring they could never touch him or his magic again.
Maybe then his life would finally be his own.
Jude had done what was needed when he agreed to leave the Abbey. He’d donned the title of saint just as they asked. A perfect fucking icon for anyone looking for something to pray to.
And still, it wasn’t enough.
‘What else can I do?’ he whispered to the house, voice cracking on the syllables.
He forced a slow breath in between his teeth. In and out, in and out, until the rapid fluttering of his heart settled. The Abbey suddenly remembering his existence couldn’t be anything but a threat to the fragile peace he’d managed to forge for himself. Redemption couldn’t be something he still hoped for.
Itcouldn’t.
He smoothed the letter back out. His focus landed on the iconographer’s date of arrival.
Two days from now.
Jude shoved his letter into his pocket and made for the front door. He couldn’t stay here, cooped up like a man in a cell. Not tonight. If he had anywhere else to go to that wasn’t the housetheyhad sent him to, that’s where he would go. But he didn’t. There was nowhere he would be safe from the Abbey, nowhere they wouldn’t find him. Every cyclical worry and half-suppressed fear chased him outside like a shadow he’d never outrun.
He’d run once, and he could do it again. Forever, if that was what it took.
He strode towards the entry gate, palming the back of his head to protect against the whip of winter cold. Short hairs tickledthe skin between his fingers. He’d kept it shorn close to his skull for eight years, never allowing it to grow long enough to grab.
Flickers of memories coloured the backs of his lids.
Blood and iron and salt. The edges of his vision glinted metallic. He’d need to visit his library and sate the magic inside him before she arrived – but not tonight.
Jude only allowed one thought to find harbour as he ran for the neighbouring village of Oakmoor. He wanted to get completely and utterlysloshed. Forgetting had never been a problem for him, but tonight, he wanted his thoughts free of anything but the bottom of a cup.
He kept his head down and his feet moving as he entered the town. Consisting of only two major streets, though even that was being generous, Oakmoor was shabby and startlingly poor, its population dying out with every passing year. It was almost empty this time of night, which suited him perfectly. He didn’t want to be recognized. Not when he had one stop to make before the blessed oblivion of the pub.
Too soon, the village shrine stared back at him.
It was small enough that he could wrap his arms around it and pull it free from the wall if he tried. Other villages had churches and cathedrals, grand places of worship with room for hundreds, but Oakmoor only had the shrine. Small and forgettable, though not to Jude.
The base was carved wood, the saint’s visage above worn by time and clawing, desperate fingers. Frost turned the metal luminescent in the moonlight. A slot was cut in the base for coin. Something to urge the prayer along, or some other brainwashed claim they liked to spew to the poor souls who still believed.
He blinked back the gold, the murmur of memories knocking against the back of his skull.
Hollow eyes watched him turn and walk away.
He was glad he made the stop. He needed the reminder that the Abbey wasn’t returning to his life – they’d never left. Thearrival of the iconographer would simply be a step closer. Jude tucked his hands into his pockets, squeezing his nails into the soft meat of his palms until the rolling mess inside him quieted.
He rarely visited Oakmoor, fearful of the Abbey’s long-fingered reach. They would know if he tried to weave himself into the community, of that he was certain. Abbey members visited often enough – to collect the shrine’s coins, to sell pilgrim’s tokens, to preach in the streets. Tucked away in a wild corner of patchwork towns and surrounded by the bleak moors of the Wold, it was an easy place to be forgotten.
But they hadn’t forgotten him, a needling voice whispered. Why else would they be sending the iconographer?
Jude made a vicious promise to himself – he wouldn’t think of the Abbey anymore tonight, even if it took a whole bottle of whisky to achieve it.
The bell above the pub’s door chimed his entrance. The smell of burning peat and souring pints filled his lungs. He’d been coming here for a little under two years, ever since Elden convinced him leaving his cage was not only possible but could be good for him.
Still, he never quite got the sense he was welcome. The bar was small, with squat windows and walls decorated with clumsy paintings and tacked-up village notices. A handful of patrons were tucked around tables, nursing pints and glasses of indeterminable liquid. Jude quickly scanned the space for the old woman who usually kept him company during his visits, but even she was absent that night.
