Page 144 of The Dragon and the Dove

The gilded edge winked at him, gold like the blood of the saints.

She set it on the bench. ‘All these years, the tarot has only ever surrendered one card for you. Over and over again, no matter how the deck shuffles, it’s the same telling. For the boy. For the Dagger. For the saint. It remains so even now.’

Ransom stared at the card on the bench. It was face down.

‘It does not match what I see before me.’ She canted her head. ‘So, tell me, Bastian, who is lying… the voice of destiny in my ear or the man who brewed the dragon that nearly devoured this city? The man, who clings to the same shadows that have been eating away at him for ten years?’

It was not for him to answer. He didn’t know the answer. His thoughts were on a different kind of darkness. A question shoved itself onto his tongue, and before he could stop himself, he said, ‘Tell me, diviner, how much do you really know of the future?’

‘Too much.’

He swallowed thickly. ‘Am I going to lose her?’

She frowned. The quiet was so loud he heard the rush of his own pulse in his ears. ‘Tell me,’ he begged.

But she sighed and shook her head, pleading ignorance. He thought she was done with him then, but as she pottered back towards the cathedral, she tossed a parting remark over her shoulder. ‘I think the better question is, Bastian, are you going to lose yourself?’

He waited until she was gone, then he went to the bench with embarrassing quickness just like she knew he would and turned the tarot card over.

It read: THE DREAMER.

It showed a boy looking towards the faraway moon, his head tipped back as though to take it all in. There were no lurking shadows or skyborne monsters. Just a sky full of stars. And light, so much light, shining down on him.

It was a card of hope. Of life and untold possibility.

Not this endless leaching dark, this troubling ache in his soul.

On the steps of Our Sacred Saints’ Cathedral, Ransom fell to his knees and wept.

Chapter 40 Seraphine

TWIN TERRORS: BEWARE THE DRAGON AND THE STONE DEMON

The throne of Valterre is up for grabs, and the saints are ravenous to claim it. Indeed, this new crop of so-called Blessed Ones are a far cry from their forebears.

Take heed, and beware the Silver-tongue’s promises, the Order of Flames warned us. But it was not the Silver-tongue Saint who dragged terror through the streets on Saints’ Day.

While the prince’s soldiers, carrying banners of peace, danced merrily down Merchant’s Way, the Order of Flames showed their true nature. As the Dove’s Song rose above the city, a fearsome dragon blotted our sky. A thing of shadow and death, with wings so wide they snatched the sunlight.

This murderous weapon was brewed by the former Head of the Order of Daggers Ransom Hale. He sits at the right-hand side of Seraphine Marchant, self-confessed Saint-maker and Head of the Order of Flames.

She, who once saved this city with Lightfire.

She, who promised it would never fall into darkness again.

She, who looked on with impassivity as his dragon swooped down on the innocent folk of this kingdom.

And at his side marched a Stone Demon, who brought with her an army of golems dredged from our river. Blank-eyed giants who, under the direction of their gleeful mistress, tore down the taverns and shopfronts that have stood proudly along Merchant’s Way for centuries.

I ask you now, Order of Flames, where has your gift of Lightfire gone? Your promises of protection and peace? Where is the goodness that once streamed from the hearts of our Blessed Saints? Is this chaos the fault of our new Chosen Ones or the Maker herself?

Perhaps it is poison, and not Lightfire, that runs in her veins.

To the good and fair folk of Fantome, I ask you this: who will revolt against these Saints of Terror? Who will defend—

‘You can stop reading now, Madame Mercure.’ Ransom’s voice was curt. He stood with his back to the drawing room, staring out at the Hollows. Rain lashed against the windows, adding to the souring mood.

‘Gleeful?!’ fumed Anouk, snatching the morning’s penny papers from her and flinging them into the fire. ‘I was not acting gleeful!’