The Saint Below

Chapter One

The Choosing

The first bell rang while Mara Veyne was elbow-deep in somebody else's blood. She stopped scrubbing. The water dripped from her fingers as she looked up, blowing a strand of her brown  hair from her eyes.

Around her, the laundry continued its morning rhythm. Water sloshed against stone. Brushes scraped linen. Steam crawled up the walls and gathered on the ceiling in fat droplets that occasionally surrendered to gravity.

Nobody spoke. The bell rang again, low, slow, deep enough that Mara felt it through the washbasin beneath her hands. Mrs. Fallum dropped a sheet.

"No," she whispered.

Mara looked toward the narrow windows running along the top of the laundry wall. Outside, Veyr had gone quiet. It shouldn't have been possible.

Nearly fifty thousand people lived behind the city's black walls, and most of them seemed determined to make as much noise as possible while doing it. Merchants shouted from the market before sunrise. Carriage wheels rattled over cobblestones. Factory whistles screamed from the southern quarter. Cathedral bells marked every hour as though the citizens of Veyr might otherwise collectively forget that time existed.

But this bell was different.

The Choosing Bell.

It rang a third time.

Mrs. Fallum made the sign of the Radiant Martyr across her chest. One by one, the other women followed. Mara didn't. She pulled her hands from the pink water instead.

"Already?" she asked.

Mrs. Fallum stared at her.

"Don't say it like that."

"Like what?"

"Like it's tax day."

"I dislike tax day."

"Mara."

"Fine."

She dried her hands on her apron. Thirteen years. Had it really been that long?

Mara had been eleven during the last Choosing. She remembered her father shutting every window in their house even though it had been oppressively hot. He'd drawn the curtains and told her they were staying inside.

She remembered thinking it was exciting, a secret holiday. Her father hadn't shared her enthusiasm. Mara understood why now. Somewhere in Veyr, somebody had just heard that bell and realized their life might be over.

The fourth toll rolled through the city.

Then the fifth.

Seven in total.

One for each of the sacred wounds suffered by Saint Aurellian before his martyrdom. At least, that was what the Church taught. Mara had never understood why a man stabbed seven times had needed to be buried in chains.

She'd asked once. Her catechism teacher had made her copy the Litany of Humility fifty times. Mara still didn't know the answer.

The final bell faded.

Nobody in the laundry moved. Then the ordinary noises of Veyr slowly returned. A cart rattled somewhere outside. A dog barked. Someone farther down the street began shouting about fresh onions. The world had apparently decided it could continue.

Mrs. Fallum picked up the fallen sheet. "Cathedral square at noon," she said.

Mara groaned. Mrs. Fallum glared at her. 

"What?" The older woman snapped.

"Everyone has to attend."

"You say that like I made the rule."

"You enforce rules you didn't make with remarkable enthusiasm."

Mrs. Fallum slapped the wet sheet onto the table.

"Keep talking and I'll volunteer you myself."

That earned a few nervous laughs.

Mara smiled. "Imagine their disappointment."

Nobody laughed at that. Her smile faded. Right. Apparently jokes about being selected as Keeper were unacceptable on Choosing Day.

She returned to the basin.

The blood had already begun clouding the water again.

By eleven, every road in the Candle District was flowing toward the cathedral. Mara went home first.

Their house stood crookedly between a candle maker and a woman who sold questionable medicines from her front window. It was small, permanently cold in winter and unbearably hot in summer, and one corner of the kitchen had been sinking for as long as Mara could remember.

Her father was waiting inside. He wasn't dressed. That was the first thing she noticed. Corren Veyne was sitting at the kitchen table in his work clothes, staring at nothing.

"You're going to be late," Mara said.

He looked up sharply. For one strange moment, he seemed surprised to see her.

"Mara."

"Unless you've discovered a secret exemption from mandatory public worship."

He stood so quickly his chair scraped backward.

"You're not going."

She stopped.

"What?"

"Stay here."

"Dad."

"Lock the door. Don't answer it."

She studied him. His face had gone gray. Not worried. Terrified.

The humor disappeared from her voice. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"You're doing an impressive impression of something."

"Mara."

"Why shouldn't I go?"

He looked toward the window. People streamed past outside.

"It's crowded."

"That's your reason?"

"You're always complaining about crowds."

"I complain about everything. It's one of my defining qualities."

He didn't smile. That frightened her more than anything else.

Mara stepped closer. "Dad."

He reached for her.

His hands closed around her shoulders.

"Listen to me."

She went still.

"Whatever happens today, you come home."

"What do you mean, whatever happens?"

"You come home."

"You're scaring me."

His fingers tightened. Then someone knocked on the door. Corren flinched. Actually flinched. Mara looked toward it. Three measured knocks.

Her father whispered something. She almost didn't hear.

"No."

Another three knocks.

"Corren Veyne?"

A man's voice.

"By order of the Cathedral, all households are required to attend the Choosing."

Mara looked at her father. His eyes had closed.

"Dad?"

The knocking came again. Corren released her. Something seemed to leave him when he did.

"Go upstairs."

"What?"

"Now."

"Why?"

"Mara, for once in your life, please don't ask me why."

That did it. She stared at him. Her father had never spoken to her like that. Not once.

He crossed the room and opened the door. Two cathedral guards stood outside. Mara recognized neither. Their black uniforms were immaculate. Silver suns gleamed at their throats.

"Corren Veyne?"

"Yes."

"Your household hasn't departed."

"My daughter is ill."

One guard looked past him, directly at Mara. She was still wearing her work dress. Still standing in plain sight.

Brilliant.

The guard raised an eyebrow. Mara coughed. It was not convincing. Her father closed his eyes. The second guard consulted a small book.

"Corren Veyne. One daughter. Mara Veyne. Twenty-four years."

The first guard looked at her again.

"Both of you are required."

"She's sick."

"Then the Saint may bless her."

"I don't need blessing," Mara said.

Her father turned.

"Mara."

"What? I don't."

The guard's expression almost became a smile.

"Cathedral square. Noon."

They left.

Corren remained in the doorway long after they'd disappeared into the crowd. Mara came beside him.

"Tell me."

He said nothing.

"You know something."

"No."

"You are an atrocious liar."

"Mara—"

"Why are you afraid of the Choosing?"

Everyone feared it, of course. But this was different. Her father looked at her as though she were already gone. He lifted one trembling hand and tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear.

"You look like her today."

Mara froze.

He had never said that before.

Not once.

Her mother existed in their house as an absence. No portrait. No letters. No stories. Only a name.

Elara.

Mara swallowed. "Like who?"

Her father seemed to realize what he'd said. "Get your coat."

"Dad."

"We're late."

"Like who?"

He walked away. Mara watched him, then she reached for her coat.

The Cathedral of the Radiant Martyr stood at the highest point in Veyr. It could be seen from nearly anywhere in the city.

White stone towers rose above the surrounding rooftops, their surfaces veined with gold that caught the afternoon light. Seven spires surrounded the central dome. Atop each stood a carved figure of Saint Aurellian.

Aurellian healing the blind.

Aurellian protecting a child.

Aurellian standing before the monsters beyond the wall.

Aurellian dying.

Mara had always thought the statues looked nothing alike. The Church insisted they depicted the same man. Apparently sainthood did strange things to one's nose.

Today, black banners hung from every tower. Thousands filled the square. Mara and her father were forced to stop at its edge. There was nowhere else to go.

The crowd spread from the cathedral steps all the way into the surrounding streets. Everyone had dressed in mourning colors. Mara looked down at her brown coat.

"Apparently I missed the dress code."

Her father didn't respond. He hadn't spoken since they'd left home.

Seven priests emerged from the cathedral. The crowd fell silent. Behind them came Bishop Severin Vale.

Mara had seen him before, though never this close. He was older than she'd expected. Silver threaded his dark hair, and the heavy white-and-gold robes made him look smaller rather than grander. 

He didn't resemble the frightening men from Church paintings. He looked like someone's kindly grandfather. That made Mara distrust him immediately.

Severin raised his hands.

"Children of Veyr."

His voice carried impossibly far.

"Three hundred and twelve years ago, Saint Aurellian gave himself so that our city might live."

The crowd answered automatically.

"His blood is our salvation."

Mara's father didn't speak. She noticed.

"His sacrifice raised the walls that protect us."

"His blood is our salvation."

"His suffering drove darkness from our gates."

"His blood is our salvation."

Mara mouthed the words. Her father's hands were shaking.

"Every thirteen years," Severin continued, "one among us receives the greatest honor Veyr can bestow."

Mara glanced around.

Nobody looked honored.

"A soul is chosen to descend into the sacred crypt and tend our beloved Saint until death."

Until death. A polite way of saying forever. Keepers didn't leave the cathedral. They didn't write home. They didn't receive visitors. Once the cathedral doors closed behind them, they effectively ceased to exist. Mara had always wondered why anyone called that an honor.

"The Keeper tends his eternal flame. Washes his sacred body. Maintains the rites that preserve the barrier. And above all—" Severin placed one hand over his heart. "—ensures that Saint Aurellian is never alone."

Mara almost laughed. It was such a ridiculous sentence. The man was dead. He had been dead for three centuries. If loneliness remained a problem after three hundred years of decomposition, the Church had much larger theological issues.

Her father's hand suddenly found hers. He squeezed painfully hard. Mara looked at him.

"Ow."

"Don't let go."

"What?"

"Promise me."

"Dad—"

"Promise."

She stared. "I promise."

On the cathedral steps, seven children appeared, each carried a silver bowl.

The Choosing had begun. Mara knew the ceremony. Everyone did. For thirteen years, names of eligible citizens were collected by the Church.

Men.

Women.

Rich.

Poor.

Anyone between twenty-one and forty-five who had not taken holy orders and had no dependent children. The Church insisted the selection was divine. Mara suspected God had suspiciously good bookkeeping.

The seven bowls were placed before Bishop Severin. He reached into the first.

The square held its breath.

He removed a strip of white parchment.

"Alistair Ren."

A gasp somewhere in the crowd. A young man was escorted forward.

Second bowl.

"Beatrice Harrow."

An older woman began crying.

Third.

"Jonas Reed."

Fourth.

"Maribel Dane."

Fifth.

"Thomas Wren."

Sixth.

"Lydia Corr."

Six people stood on the cathedral steps. One bowl remained. Mara felt her father's nails digging into her hand.

"Dad."

He stared at the final bowl.

"No," he whispered.

Bishop Severin reached inside.

Mara's father squeezed her hand a little tighter. She could feel how he shook. Mara's blood went cold. The square became very quiet.

Bishop Severin was holding the seventh parchment. He hadn't opened it. His gaze traveled from the parchment to Corren. Slowly, his eyes moved from Corren—

to Mara.

Recognition passed across his face. Not confusion. Recognition.

Mara stopped breathing. Her father saw it too.

"No."

Bishop Severin unfolded the parchment. He looked down. Then directly at Mara.

"Mara Veyne."

The world disappeared beneath the sound of her father's scream.

There were procedures after that. Mara remembered almost none of them, except one. 

All the people chosen came forward and were taken up to the raised stage. Nobody looked happy to be chosen for this “honour”. If anything, they looked scared. Mara herself was terrified and it took everything in her to keep calm. 

They brought out a beautifully decorated orb filled with a meager amount of red liquid. Mara thought it might be blood, but from who, she didn’t know. They directed them one at a time to place their hand on the sphere. They called them in the order they were chosen. 

Alistair Ren was the first to be called. As much as he seemed to be trying to hide it, the young man looked absolutely terrified. Mara recognized him. He worked near where she did. He always seemed timid and quiet. 

He shook as he placed his hand on the orb. Everyone watched, uncertain as to what was supposed to happen. Everyone looked at each other when nothing happened, then to the bishop. 

Bishop Vale said nothing, just indicated for Alistair to step back. Mara looked for her dad in the crowd and saw the worried look on his face.

“Beatrice Harrow,” was called next.

It was the same as before. Beatrice came up, a middle-aged woman who almost seemed to look like this truly was an honour. Mara could see how her hands shook the same as Alistair’s. There was fear in her eyes the same as the rest of them that turned to confusion when she touched the orb and nothing happened once more. 

Jonas Reed was next. He was a friend of her father’s. He looked into the crowd desperately. Mara followed his gaze and saw his wife standing with her younger siblings. What would they do if he was chosen? 

Jonas took a deep breath before placing his hand firmly on the orb. He squeezed his eyes closed for a moment before opening them and allowing himself to look upon his fate. Nothing happened. He stepped back. 

Maribel Dane was nearly in tears. She was dressed in a lavish black dress and her hair was immaculate. Anyone could be chosen, Mara remembered, no matter their station. Maribel placed her hand on the orb quickly and when nothing happened, removed her hand and stepped back before anyone could instruct her to do so. 

Thomas Wren didn’t step up at first when his name was called. His eyes were blown wide open in terror. A couple of the priests had to step up and grab him and force his hand on the orb. Thomas flailed and started shouting about his bakery and his engagement to Antonin. 

The blood sloshed around slightly because of his movement and they ordered him to be still. Like a frightened deer, he froze. Nothing happened within the orb. He was allowed to step back, shaking like a leaf.

Lydia Corr was called. She was the most composed of all of them, approaching the orb stone-faced. She placed her hand on the orb slowly. Nothing happened. They told her to step back. 

With every person who placed their hand on the orb, Mara would look at her father. He looked increasingly worried as nothing happened. 

Then it was Mara’s turn. At first, nothing happened. Then the blood stirred. Slowly, impossibly, the thin pool of crimson began creeping up the inside of the glass toward her hand.  She immediately removed her hand but it was too late. 

They saw. 

She looked to Bishop Vale. He wasn’t smiling anymore. For the briefest moment, he looked not triumphant, but afraid. 

She quickly looked at her father and saw the panicked expression on his face. He started screaming and running toward the stage.

“No! You can’t have her!” He screamed and he ran towards Mara. 

Mara attempted to run to him but the priest next to her held her shoulder. Tears welled up in her eyes as she watched her father struggle through the crowd to get to her. 

“Nooo!” 

His eyes were wild. He pushed and ran and was almost there when two guards caught him and tackled him to the ground. The crowd gasped and looked on. Many had understanding looks on their faces but none made an attempt to help Corren. 

The guards picked him up by the arms and dragged him away. Mara had no clue where they were taking him and tried again to get to him but the hands that held her were strong and unmoving. She could only hope he would be okay.

Someone escorted her forward quickly. They sent her to a room to get dressed in ceremonial robes with a maid. She dressed in silence in robes that weren’t much different from the bishop’s own white and gold ones and then was immediately brought back out. Someone put white flowers in her hands. They paraded her outside through the crowd. 

People touched her shoulders as she passed.

"Bless you."

"Thank you."

"The Saint keep you."

"Such an honour."

Mara wanted to ask whether any of them wanted the honour instead.

Her father was gone. It hurt.

Bishop Severin kissed her forehead.

His hands were warm.

"Do not be afraid."

Mara looked at him.

"I'm not."

It was a lie. He seemed to know.

"Saint Aurellian has waited a long time for you."

Something about the sentence made her stomach tighten.

"For me specifically?"

The bishop paused, only for a heartbeat, then he smiled.

"For his Keeper."

Mara filed the hesitation away. She was becoming increasingly certain that everybody around her knew something she didn't.

And she hated nothing more.

They washed her hands with rosewater. They braided small ceremonial braids into her short, wavy hair. They removed her shoes.

Apparently Saint Aurellian objected to footwear.

Nobody explained why.

Mara could only think of her dad and where they had taken him. She really needed his warm hugs and kind words of encouragement right now. 

By sunset, Mara stood before a door beneath the cathedral. Not a ceremonial door. Not gold. Not carved with saints and angels. 

Iron.

Old iron.

Seven locks ran down its center.

Bishop Severin stood beside her. Six priests waited behind them. Mara looked at the locks.

"Why does a tomb need seven locks?"

Nobody answered. She looked at Severin.

"Bishop?"

"The traditions surrounding Saint Aurellian are ancient."

"That's not an answer."

One of the priests frowned.

Severin merely smiled.

"No. It isn't."

Interesting.

He unlocked the first lock. Then the second. By the seventh, Mara could hear her own heartbeat. The door opened inward. Cold air touched her face.

Beyond lay a stone staircase descending into darkness. A priest handed her a lantern.

"How far?"

"One hundred and thirteen steps," Severin said.

"You counted?"

"Many have."

"But nobody comes back."

Silence.

Mara looked down the staircase.

"Right."

She lifted the lantern. Severin touched her shoulder.

"When you reach the bottom, you'll find everything you need."

"For how long?"

He didn't answer. Mara laughed once. It sounded terrible.

"Right."

She stepped through.

"Mara."

She turned.

For the first time, Severin's kindly expression had disappeared. Something else had replaced it.

Fear.

"Whatever you hear below," he said, "remember that Saint Aurellian loves this city."

Mara stared at him.

"What exactly am I going to hear?"

The iron door slammed shut. Locks turned.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Six.

Seven.

Darkness swallowed her. Mara stood alone.

"Fantastic."

Her voice echoed down the stairs as she started counting.

One.

Two.

Three.

By thirty, her legs were aching. At sixty, she began noticing marks carved into the walls. At eighty, the air changed. Warmer. Metallic.

At one hundred, she smelled roses. At one hundred and thirteen, the staircase ended.

Mara raised the lantern and forgot how to breathe.

The crypt was enormous. Columns disappeared into darkness overhead. Hundreds of candles burned without smoke along the walls.

And at the center of the chamber stood a black stone platform. Someone lay upon it.

Saint Aurellian.

Mara had seen thousands of images of him. None were correct. He wasn't blond. That was her first absurd thought. Every statue in Veyr showed golden curls. The man before her had hair so dark it seemed blue beneath the candlelight.

He wasn't dressed in radiant white. He wore black. And he didn't look dead. That was considerably more concerning. His skin was pale, but not corpse pale. His lips still held color. His hands rested at his sides.

He looked asleep.

Mara approached slowly.

"Saint Aurellian?"

Nothing.

"Obviously," she snorted.

She brought the lantern closer. He was beautiful. Annoyingly so. Not the soft, holy beauty of the statues. His face was sharper. Older somehow, despite appearing young. Mara noticed something near his throat.

Metal.

She moved the lantern. A black chain disappeared beneath his collar. Another encircled his wrist. Mara walked around the platform.

Seven.

There were seven chains. Each ran from Aurellian's body into the stone floor. Mara's mouth went dry. The Church paintings had omitted those too. She remembered the iron door.

Seven locks.

Seven chains.

Seven wounds.

"What did they do to you?"

His eyes opened.

Mara screamed.

The lantern hit the floor. Darkness lurched across the crypt.

A hand shot out. Cold fingers closed around her wrist. Mara couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't think.

Two eyes stared up at her. Not blue, as every painting claimed. Black. Entirely black. The dead saint smiled and when he spoke, his voice was rough from three hundred years of silence.

"You're the first one they've sent me who wasn't already dying."