Chapter 2: The Saint Below

Mara hit him.

It was not particularly dignified.

It was also not particularly effective. Her free hand connected with the side of Saint Aurellian's face hard enough to sting her palm. His head turned with the blow.

For one glorious second, the crypt went completely silent.

Then he laughed. Mara stared at him. The sound was low and rough, as though laughter was something his throat had forgotten how to do. His fingers remained wrapped around her wrist.

"Let go of me."

The black eyes lifted to hers.

"No."

Mara hit him again. This time he caught her other wrist.

"Stop doing that."

"Then stop grabbing me."

"You came remarkably close to my face."

"You grabbed me first."

"You screamed at me."

"You were dead."

His mouth twitched. "Was I?"

Mara stopped struggling. The lantern had fallen on its side, but somehow remained lit. Its flame threw crooked shadows across the stone platform and the man chained upon it.

Man.

That seemed like an increasingly generous description. Up close, there was no mistaking his eyes. They weren't merely dark. There was no white at all. No iris. No pupil.

Just black.

Mara had seen eyes like that before. Not on people. On the monsters painted across the cathedral walls. Aurellian followed her gaze.

"Ah."

Mara's heart hammered. "Ah?"

"That's usually when they notice."

"They?"

"The others."

Her fear sharpened into something colder. "The other Keepers?"

Aurellian released her. Mara stumbled backward so quickly that her heel caught the fallen lantern. She nearly went down with it. He watched her recover.

"Graceful."

"You're chained to a table."

"Platform."

"What?"

"This is a platform." He glanced beneath himself. "I have had considerable time to determine the distinction."

Mara stared at him. Three hundred and twelve years. The number arrived in her mind uninvited. Three hundred and twelve years ago, Saint Aurellian gave himself so that our city might live.

She looked at the chains. One disappeared beneath the collar of his black clothing. Another circled each wrist. Others crossed his body and vanished into the stone around him.

He hadn't given himself.

Someone had put him here.

Her stomach turned. "What are you?"

Aurellian's expression changed. Only slightly. Enough. Mara noticed.

"Interesting first question."

"It wasn't my first question," she corrected.

"No. Your first was what they did to me."  His smile returned. "I preferred that one."

Mara bent slowly and picked up the lantern. "Answer me."

"What am I?"

"Yes."

"A saint, apparently."

"You're not funny."

"I used to be."

She lifted the lantern higher. The light caught scars she hadn't noticed before. There were many. Thin white lines disappeared beneath the black cloth at his chest. A thicker scar crossed one forearm beneath the chain. Another curved along his throat.

Seven wounds, the Church said. There were considerably more than seven.

Mara swallowed. "Saint Aurellian died three hundred and twelve years ago."

"So I've been told."

"You can't have been told. You're Saint Aurellian."

"An excellent deduction."

"Stop that."

"Stop what?"

"Answering everything without answering anything," she snapped.

His eyebrows rose. For the first time, he looked genuinely interested.

"What's your name?"

Mara hesitated. Something about giving it to him felt dangerous. Which was ridiculous. The Church already knew her name. Half the city had watched her be selected. Bishop Severin had spoken it before shutting her down here.

Aurellian waited.

"Mara."

His expression went completely still. She noticed that too.

"Mara what?"

"Why?"

"People generally have more than one name."

"You've been alone for three hundred years and you're criticizing modern naming conventions?"

That rough laugh again. This time she was prepared for how much she liked the sound. That was irritating.

"Your surname," he said.

She considered lying.

"Veyne."

Silence. Not the comfortable kind. Aurellian stared at her. The humor vanished from his face so completely that Mara wished it would come back.

"What?"

He said nothing.

"Aurellian."

His eyes snapped to hers. Something had changed. Mara couldn't identify what. Recognition?

No.

That was impossible. She had never met him. She hadn't even existed the last time he'd seen sunlight.

"Veyne," he repeated.

"Yes."

He leaned back against the black stone. "How unfortunate."

Mara's grip tightened around the lantern.

"What does that mean?"

"Nothing."

"That very clearly meant something."

"It means I dislike your name."

"You asked for it," she said incredulously. 

"I've made many mistakes."

"In the last five minutes?"

"In general."

Mara stared at him. He smiled. She decided immediately that she hated that smile. Mostly because it was extremely good.

"How do you know my family?"

"I didn't say I did."

"You heard my name and looked like someone walked over your grave."

"I don't have a grave." The corner of his mouth ticked up slightly. 

"Apparently."

He laughed again.

Mara turned away before he could see the reluctant twitch at the corner of her mouth. This was absurd. She was standing beneath the Cathedral of the Radiant Martyr exchanging insults with the Radiant Martyr.

Her father had been dragged away. She had been imprisoned underground for the rest of her life. And the corpse she was supposed to care for was making jokes. Her amusement vanished.

"Dying."

Behind her, the chains shifted.

"What?"

Mara turned. "You said I was the first one they sent you who wasn't already dying."

Aurellian went quiet.

"What did you mean?"

Nothing. Mara stepped closer.

"The Keepers."

His gaze remained on her.

"What happened to them?"

"They died."

"I know they died."

"Then your education was not entirely wasted,” he said.

"Aurellian."

His name echoed through the crypt.

Something strange happened when she said it.

Not visibly. She felt it. A pressure in the room. A tiny change in the air, as though the enormous chamber had taken a breath. Aurellian felt it too. His head tilted. Mara glanced toward the darkness between the columns.

"What was that?"

"What was what?"

"You felt it."

"Did I?"

"I am going to hit you again."

"You'll have to come closer."

She stayed exactly where she was.

His smile widened. Mara hated him.

Probably.

"Tell me what happened to the other Keepers."

For several seconds, he merely watched her. Then he looked away.

“They came here sick.”

“All of them?”

“Eventually.”

“What does that mean?”

“The first few were healthier than the ones who followed.”

Mara's skin prickled. “You remember them?”

“All twenty-six.”

“Every one?”

Aurellian's expression changed.

“I remember everyone who has ever walked through that door.”

There was no humor in his voice now. Mara looked toward the staircase. One hundred and thirteen steps. Seven locks. An iron door that only opened from the other side.

"How long did they live?"

"Some lasted years."

"Some?"

"Some months."

She swallowed.

"And the last?"

Aurellian's eyes returned to her.

He didn't answer.

Mara stepped closer despite herself.

"The last Keeper. How long?"

His chains made a soft metallic sound as he shifted.

"Long enough."

"For what?"

Again, silence. Mara's frustration flared.

"Do you enjoy this?"

"Enjoy what?"

"Knowing things I don't."

"Immensely."

"At least you're honest about something."

Aurellian smiled. Mara turned away from him. She needed to think. There had to be another exit. The Church couldn't simply throw a person underground and—

Of course they could.

They had.

Twenty-six times.

Mara lifted the lantern and surveyed the chamber properly.

It was larger than she had first realized. The platform stood at its center, surrounded by a circular pattern carved into the floor. Beyond it were columns, alcoves, and several dark passages leading away from the central crypt.

A wooden table stood against one wall.

Shelves.

Books.

Jars.

A washbasin.

A narrow bed. Mara stared at it.

"That's mine?"

"Unless they've finally brought me a mattress."

She ignored him and approached the small living area. There was food. Bread. Cheese. Apples. A pitcher of water. Enough for perhaps two days. Beside it sat folded clothing and several thick candles.

Mara's stomach tightened. "They're coming back."

"No."

She turned. Aurellian was watching her.

"They left food."

"They'll leave more."

"How?"

"There is a compartment in the wall."

Mara found it after a moment. A square iron hatch sat beside the shelves.

"No one comes inside?"

"No."

"Ever?"

"No."

Her throat tightened. She looked toward the staircase again.

"So that's it."

Aurellian said nothing.

"They lock me in here. They send food through a hole in the wall. And I stay here until I die."

"That is the general arrangement."

Mara laughed. It came out wrong. She put the lantern on the table.

"No."

Aurellian's head tilted.

"No?"

"No."

She marched toward the staircase.

"Mara."

She ignored him.

"Mara."

She reached the first step.

"What?"

"Where are you going?"

"Home."

Aurellian stared at her.

Mara pointed upward.

"My father was dragged away by cathedral guards. I would very much like to find out whether he's alive."

"The door is locked."

"I noticed."

"Seven times."

"I can count."

"You can't open it."

"You don't know that."

"I watched twenty-six other people try."

That stopped her. Mara looked back. Aurellian's expression had softened. Not kindness. Something worse. Pity.

She hated it.

"Then I'll be the twenty-seventh."

She climbed.

At step fifty her legs burned. At one hundred, she was furious enough not to care. At one hundred and thirteen, Mara reached the iron door.

She pounded on it.

"Open this!"

Her voice thundered down the stairwell. No answer. Mara hit it again.

"Bishop Severin!"

Nothing.

"I know you can hear me!"

Silence. She pounded until her hands hurt. She screamed for her father. She screamed for the guards. She screamed until her throat burned and the skin across her knuckles split.

Nobody came.

Eventually, Mara rested her forehead against the cold iron. Her breath shook. She would not cry. She absolutely would not cry.

Her father had been afraid. He had known. Whatever happens today, you come home. The memory nearly broke her.

Mara squeezed her eyes shut. "I'm sorry," she whispered.

The door didn't care.

Somewhere far below, metal scraped against stone. Mara opened her eyes. For a moment, she considered staying there, sitting on the top step until someone opened the door.

But Aurellian had said twenty-six others had tried and Mara believed him. She hated that she believed him.

Slowly, she descended. He didn't say anything when she returned. That surprised her. Aurellian simply watched as she crossed the crypt, retrieved the water pitcher, and poured some over her scraped knuckles.

Mara expected a joke.

None came.

"Go ahead," she said.

"Go ahead with what?"

"Say it."

"I don't know what you want me to say."

"'I told you so.' Something smug. You seem talented at smug."

"I have had centuries of practice."

"There it is." His mouth twitched.

Mara wrapped a strip of cloth around her hand.

"Why didn't they kill you?"

The amusement disappeared. 

She looked at the chains. "If the Church wanted you gone badly enough to bury you beneath their cathedral, why keep you alive?"

Aurellian studied her. Mara waited. He could refuse. He could make another joke. He could answer a different question and pretend it was the same one.

Instead he said, "Because they need me."

Mara frowned.

"For what?"

"You already know."

"No, I don't."

"Think."

She hated when people told her to do that.

Mostly because she usually did.

Her gaze moved around the crypt. The candles that burned without smoke. The black stone. The chains. The seven wounds.  Then she remembered Bishop Severin's sermon.

His sacrifice raised the walls that protect us.

Mara went still.

"No."

Aurellian said nothing.

"That's a story."

"Most stories are."

"The barrier was created when you died."

"Do I look dead?"

Mara's mouth went dry.

Outside the walls of Veyr were things children learned to fear before they could properly speak. Creatures in the Black Woods. Things that moved through the Ash Fields after sunset. Things that scratched at the gates during winter.

The barrier kept them out. Everyone knew that. Everyone knew Saint Aurellian's sacrifice had created it. Everyone knew—

Mara looked at the chains again. Not sacrifice. Imprisonment.

"What are they doing to you?"

Aurellian's face became unreadable.

Mara approached the platform. "What are these chains?"

"Chains."

"Thank you. I had wondered."

"Happy to help."

She crouched beside the nearest one.

Symbols had been carved into the black metal. Tiny lines intertwined with one another, so fine she hadn't noticed them before. Mara reached toward it.

Aurellian moved.

Fast.

"Don't."

She froze. It was the first command he'd given her. The humor was gone. So was the laziness. For the first time since opening his eyes, Aurellian looked genuinely alarmed. Mara's fingers hovered inches above the chain.

"Why?"

"Don't touch it."

"Why?"

"Mara."

There was something about the way he said her name.

She withdrew her hand. Aurellian relaxed only slightly.

Interesting.

Mara stood.

"You're afraid of them."

"No."

"You are."

"I am chained to a stone beneath a cathedral." His voice went flat.

"That wasn't an answer."

His black eyes narrowed. Mara smiled despite everything.

"Annoying, isn't it?"

For one long moment, they stared at each other. Then Aurellian laughed. Not the dry little sound from before. He actually laughed. His head tipped back against the stone. The sound filled the crypt.

Mara folded her arms. "Finished?"

"Perhaps."

As he settled back against the stone, the chain around his wrist dragged his sleeve higher.

Mara's smile disappeared.

There were scars along his arm. Dozens of them. Most were pale with age.

One wasn't.

A narrow wound marked the inside of his arm, red and only partially healed. Mara stared at it. Something about the placement bothered her.

Not a wound from battle. Not a wound from the chains. A deliberate cut.

Then she remembered the orb. The thin pool of crimson resting at the bottom of the glass. The way it had climbed toward her hand.

Her stomach turned.

"No."

Aurellian followed her gaze to his arm. He didn't ask what she meant.

Mara looked from the wound to his face. "The blood in the orb."

Silence.

"That was yours?"

"Some of it."

"How?"

Aurellian's gaze dropped to the scar.

Mara understood. "They take your blood."

Aurellian watched her understand.

"The Church?"

"Your Church."

"It's not my Church."

"Good."

She looked again at the scar. "Why?"

He gave her a strange look. "You truly don't know."

"Know what?"

Aurellian said nothing.

Mara waited.

When it became clear he had no intention of answering, her temper flared.

"What do they do with it?"

His gaze drifted toward the staircase.

"Ask them."

"I'm asking you."

"I know."

"Then answer me."

"No."

The word was so simple that for a moment Mara didn't know what to do with it.

"No?"

"No."

"You've spent the last half hour telling me my entire religion is a lie, but this is where you've suddenly discovered restraint?"

Something almost like amusement touched his face. "Perhaps I'm learning."

Mara glared at him.

"Or perhaps," Aurellian continued, "you've heard enough truths from me for one night."

"That's convenient."

"Truth usually is, when you're the one holding it."

Mara folded her arms. "And what exactly do you want me to do? March upstairs and ask Bishop Severin what he's been doing with buckets of saint blood for the last three centuries?"

"I would very much like to watch that conversation,” he said, humor dancing in his eyes.

"Unfortunately, I'm imprisoned underground."

"Yes." His eyes flicked toward the stairs. "We have that in common."

That silenced her.

Mara looked at the chains again. For the first time, she wondered how often they came. Once a month? Once a week? How much blood did they take?

And why?

Aurellian watched the questions form on her face. He smiled. Mara was beginning to hate when he did that.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"You're doing the thing again."

"What thing?"

"The thing where you know something I don't and look insufferably pleased about it."

"I've had centuries to perfect it."

Mara sighed. "You're unbearable."

"So I've been told."

"By the other Keepers?"

His smile faded. Only slightly, but Mara saw it.

Before she could ask, Aurellian shifted against the platform, the chains whispering across black stone.

"What did they tell you?"

"About what?"

"Me."

Mara looked at him.

"What story do they tell now?"

There was something beneath the question. Not amusement. Not anger. Mara thought it might have been dread.

She remembered the statues above the cathedral. Aurellian healing the blind. Aurellian protecting a child. Aurellian standing before the monsters. Aurellian dying.

"They say you were human."

Aurellian's expression didn't change.

"They say you were a holy man. That when the monsters came to Veyr, you stood against them."

Silence.

"That you were wounded seven times."

The faintest movement of his eyes toward the chains.

"That you gave your life willingly."

Something cold entered his face.

"And that your sacrifice saved the city."

The candles flickered. Every single one. Mara stopped. There was no wind.

Aurellian looked past her into the darkness. 

She looked at the fresh scar on his arm. Then at the chains. Then back at him. For three hundred and twelve years, Veyr had called what happened beneath this cathedral a sacrifice.

Mara was beginning to think they had a very strange definition of the word.

Aurellian watched her. "So," he said softly, "now that we've established that your dead saint is alive and your Church is lying…"

He leaned as far toward her as the chains permitted. His black eyes swallowed the candlelight. "Perhaps we can begin again."

Mara didn't move. Aurellian's voice dropped almost to a whisper. 

"Which lie did they tell you about me first?"