Every lover turns pale in the presence of his beloved.
When a lover suddenly has sight of his beloved, his heart beats wildly.
He who is vexed by thoughts of his love eats little and seldom sleeps.
The true lover believes only that which he thinks will please his beloved.
Love can deny nothing to love.
In desperation, the Most Esteemed Surgeon had begun to forgo sleep, to refuse eating, as though he could trick his soul into believing it had found its matched half. But this only left him tired and hungry and no closer to sating his soul with love.
Yet…perhaps.Perhapsthere was still some hope. His gazedidkeep wandering back to the girl. Ninian. He had thought at first it was merely the unexpected strangeness of her eyes. But could it not, he wondered, be love? He had not felt his heart flutter. He would have to ask Truss and Mordaunt if they noticed his face growing pale. Perhaps theseedof love was here, and he would have to tend it, coax it out of the earth, protect it from harsh winds and bitter frosts and trampling feet until it flowered to its fullest. Could that, he wondered, be love? The steady and patient hand?
Before the Most Esteemed Surgeon could wrestle further with these questions, the crowd of girls and women parted. There was some disquieted murmuring, gazes turning to the ground. And then two members of the Dolorous Guard marched through the cleared path and right to the base of the Most Esteemed Surgeon’s crate.
Their faces, mostly disguised behind the grates of their helmets, revealed nothing. One of them said, “We have been looking everywhere for you.”
“Why?” the Most Esteemed Surgeon asked.
“There is a grave matter of state,” he said. “The Exarch has been found dead.”
Dead.The word floated up like a cold plume of smoke. It chilled the Most Esteemed Surgeon’s blood. For a moment, he could not speak.
At last, he managed, “How? Was it…a natural expiration?”
The guards glanced between themselves.
“It appears to be so,” one said. “But the prince calls for your judgment. There are many questions to be answered and many decisions to be made.”
Slowly, the Most Esteemed Surgeon nodded. He reached up and, with the sleeve of his robe, patted his brow. Then he looked across the crowd of women again, feeling so terribly alone.
“Let us go, then,” he said. Truss and Mordaunt helped him down from the crate. “And you, girl. Ninian. Come with us.”
The Exarch’s body lay face down upon the floor of the chapel. His limbs were splayed; even his fingers extended as far as they could reach, as though he had been dropped from a great height and landed flat on his belly, killed the moment of impact. His gray robes were pulled up around his hips, baring his thighs and his buttocks. The life had only recently gone out of him. His veins still bulged with bluish blood, vast, spidery networks of them, like the mold in a crumbly wedge of cheese.
But it was clear immediately what had arrested his life. The Most Esteemed Surgeon’s gaze traveled down to the Exarch’s right calf—or at least what remained of it. An enormous, currant-colored pustule had erupted through his skin. Where the tumor was exposed to the air, it had turned an ashy, putrid black, like the crushed wick of a candle. The innards of the tumor so strongly resembled jam that the Most Esteemed Surgeon caught himself envisioning a knife slicing through the jellied red, then scooping and smearing it onto a crust of bread.
Truss and Mordaunt were enlivened by this, so different from the dull, quotidian deaths they ordinarily oversaw. They whispered to each other, eyes growing bright with glee. At their side, Ninian clapped a hand over her mouth to muffle a squeak of horror. Her face drained of color, and the Most Esteemed Surgeon felt a twinge of chagrin. Not because he had frightened her, but because he feared that no true love of his could be so stricken at the sight of a corpse. His mate would have to be hardier than this.
“Well, obviously he is dead,” said the Most Esteemed Surgeon. “Pity. On Seraph he could have lived fifty more years, at least.”
The Seraphine were not immortal and certainly not immune to disease, though the close pulse of Seraph’s power extended the length of their lives. The Dogaressa herself was two hundred. She had seenthe erection of the winged lion statue and watched it turn mossy and green with time.
“Perhaps so,” said Liuprand.
The prince stood in the doorway of the chapel. From behind his large body, light streamed in, the only light that could repress the darkness of the chamber, chasing the shadows to the farthest corners and the highest vaults of the ceiling. Not a single candle flickered against this immense blackness. They all had been extinguished and burned down to their ends, leaving only a waxy film behind, which dripped off the altar in frozen suspension like icicles on eaves.
“I have no further wisdom to give,” said the Most Esteemed Surgeon. “He is dead. A tragedy, I suppose, if I did not believe he had long been vainly awaiting his ascent to heaven.”
The prince’s eyes narrowed. He was truly a beautiful man; the most virile and refined blood of Seraph. Along with his new bride, they made quite an appealing pair, if one could suppress prejudice against the native people of the island.
“I do not need your wisdom in this matter,” Liuprand said. “I merely wish to know whether you advise performing the desecration.”
Surprise jerked his head upward. The Most Esteemed Surgeon glanced askew at Truss and Mordaunt. Though they knew better than to speak, a single look shared between them communicated their shock. And Ninian’s brow furrowed, her hand still pressed over her mouth.
“He is Seraphine,” the Most Esteemed Surgeon said at last. “The last holy man who remained on this heathen island. You would subject him to such ignominy, as no such Seraphine has been subjected before? The bones of your mother and grandmothers and grandfathers were returned to Seraph and buried there beneath the earth.”
“Death is an inherent state of ignominy. He perished on Drepane. His corpse should be dealt with according to the articles of the Covenant.”
