From afar, there was little that differentiated Saint Ùwuinaëlle’s Cathedral from other, similarly impressive but standard examples of Gothic architecture. The same phantasmagorical imagery clung to her soaring pinnacles and hefty buttresses with curved talon and arched paw—wyverns leering down from their communal perch, baleful chimeras frozen in an eternal saltant attitude, basilisks rearing back to spew their petrifying breath (the irony was not lost on Zephyrin), while the stained-glass rose windows were beautiful enough but undeniably conventional.

As one approached closer, however, the singular nature of the edifice progressively revealed itself. The first elements to attract especial attention were the curious, ivory bones surmounted over and around the entrance’s archivolts—gleaming, singular things, like over-sized tusks extracted from a mammoth afflicted by gigantism. But they were far too ominous, too suggestive of rending and tearing—indeed, that rather than deriving from a mammoth, they had existed so that their owner might prey upon beasts of similar size.

It was then that Zephyrin made the connection between the oft-repeated tale of Ùwuinaëlle, Savioress of Lutesse and bane of dragons, and the serrated teeth gleaming before his eyes. Seemingly, it had pleased the rough men of Gaulyria, his ancestors, to adorn the church built in their heroine’s honor with assorted remains taken from the carcass of her greatest foe. The effect was that as one mounted the steps to enter the building, the seven archivolts radiating outward from the central doors in bands conveyed a vaguely esophageal impression, as though one were about to be devoured by a gaping maw.

Perhaps picking up on an unvoiced collective thought, Master Verénus commented, “I trust you can all hazard a guess why construction for a new cathedral is underway. The building will be composed entirely of purestone, while its design will account for the tastes of our more civilized era. Now, enter in pairs, if you will!”

Mounting the final steps, Zephyrin saw that the doors with their massive wrought-iron hinges were divided by a limestone trumeau depicting an upright Ùwuinaëlle, her hands clasped in prayer as she gazed heavenward; above her representation was a tympanum populated by her celestial cohorts. Zephyrin recognized the more well-known among their number, such as the sword-girt, long mantled Antrustion Martyrs, but time and adverse weather had effaced the defining attributes of the greater part, relegating them to an ambiguous status midway between public celebration and obscurity.

Zephyrin espied sweetly smiling cephalophores, staff-wielding thaumaturgi, and countless anargyres, healing hands extended from their loose, ill-fitting robes; there were emaciated anchorites and anchoresses, palm-bearing virgins, pious matrons, and even an odd stylite, still bearing faint traces of orange paint to replicate the sun-browned countenance of the genuine article, testifying to the days when Gaulyria’s cathedrals had presented kaleidoscopic spectacles of color both inside and out.

As he entered, Zephyrin was first struck by the immense, almost impossibly high vault, then by the darkness of the interior. The contrast with what he had previously known was arresting; while the Crystalline Palace’s chapel was a wonder of luminosity and gorgeously blazing colors, in Saint Ùwuinaëlle’s the shadows grew heavy beneath looming arches and clustered in the chapels and side-aisles, while the cumulative effect of the stained glass windows was softly colorful more than illuminative.

The architecture, too, gave a very different impression. In Elysia, open spaces predominated; the choir was unobstructed, offering a view of the altar and the unfolding of the liturgy. The whole effect was one of lightness and commodiousness, neither of which were on display here. Instead, perhaps reflective of warier Gaulyrian mentalities, standing between observer and sanctuary was a broad, man-height jubé of intricate, sinuous stonework, as if an untamed parcel of the Némoralian Forest had been transplanted and erupted in the cathedral, then petrified over the course of long ages.

Curiously, however, a large central segment was absent, and in this manner at least a partial view of the altar was obtained—and beyond it, of the saint herself, her bones exposed for pilgrims to venerate or onlookers (critical Seaxlanders, primarily) to gratify their curiosity, which latter was fueled by the saint’s remarkable appearance, adorned with a golden crown and studded with gems as she was.

Zephyrin was surprised by this exposition, as there wouldn’t be a major feast until December. Doubting in his ability to deduce the reasoning behind this arrangement, he began listening actively to the cathedral’s rector, who had quickly stridden over to their group upon their arrival and was in the process of enthusiastically outlining the history of the edifice, as well as the innovations which in his estimation were as so many blessings rained down from heaven.

“… so you see, the need for flying buttresses was obviated completely. Yes! Our ingenious ancestors achieved this verticality by means of a literal rib-vault ceiling! Almost every one of the dragon’s bones was used in the construction of the building!”

As Zephyrin and his comrades were given a tour of the cathedral, Zephyrin perceived that workers were hard at work, measuring dimensions and preparing to carry out extensive modifications. “It’s going to be torn down,” Nèreus said knowingly, having taken notice of the activity in the background at the same time as Zephyrin. The rector nodded eagerly. “That’s correct, young sir! The jubé is splendid, of course, but it obscures the view too much; it’s time to let the building breathe—and to let the faithful gaze to their heart’s content!…”

Peering through the crudely made aperture, Zephyrin saw the merits of the man’s argument. The Grand Lanthorn above the altar was fully visible, as was the altar and chandeliers, and the end-of-year rites of illumination celebrated by the cardinal-bishop of Lutesse would surely be a spectacular sight.

“… the altar is of veined marble and the ciborium of porphyry; as for the saint herself, on her head she wears a golden crown with a palm frond motif, while around her neck hangs a violet sapphire pendant. In the palm of her right hand, she holds a miniature gold chandelier enameled with silver, and in her left a gold, diamond-tipped distaff; her right ring finger wears a ruby and her left an emerald; the amber, jasper, and topaz rings are currently on loan to various basilicas, along with the fingers which so ennoble them.”

This last detail was given with a subtle but unmistakable note of displeasure, as by a possessive husband who is glad to see his wife admired, yet is rendered uneasy by onlookers offering too fervent tribute. Master Verénus picked up on the shift in his tone, murmuring sympathetically as the rector pursued his explication.

“Her red velvet robe is wholly inadequate, of course—red! she wasn’t a martyr, for goodness’ sake!—only amaranthine will do! but His late Majesty simply refused to listen...” The priest looked around guiltily for a moment as if the shade of that terrible monarch might be present to overhear, then just as quickly brightened up, the interplay of emotions on his face alternating as abruptly as spring rains with sunshine. “Queen Adelaide did promise to intercede before His Majesty on our behalf, however! She has such a devotion to…”

Zephyrin looked to the altar, where a row of elaborate candelabras was softly burning, then to the saint’s coffin-like golden reliquary, temporarily relocated to the front of it for the construction work, and, one hoped, the veneration of pilgrims and the devout. Even now, almost eight hundred years after her death, her bones emanated a powerful, residual aura, and it wasn’t difficult to imagine how the saint had been able to single-handedly slay a dragon. It must have been an intimidating prospect to stand in her presence during her prime.

“ She is—” here a sigh was heaved—“to my exceedingly acute grief barefoot, for while I would fain see her holy feet shod in slippers of fine silk, as is the custom in Doëndessa, the tradition of our Gaulyrian Church is to leave them exposed, so as to inspire the faithful to call to mind her exquisite poverty and detachment from the mire of this earth.”

“That same mire with which the saint now finds herself so ostentatiously adorned. One hopes she does not resent our enhancement of her natural beauty overly much!” said Master Verénus, his mild remark drawing a smile from the rector. “Would that we had better to offer! But this,” he said, indifferently gesturing behind himself to the golden tomb, studded with diamonds numbering thirty and fifteen-score—“represents the best of our humble means since the passing of the Age of Light, when even the basest gem, the legends affirm, was endowed with such splendor as to outshine our present sun.”

The rector turned to regard the jewel-encrusted skeleton fondly, before adding, “Still, I am sure she forgives us our inadequacies, being cognizant of the humble means at our disposal!”

“Forgives us indeed,” the master said quietly, and for a moment a light flickered in his eyes that Zephyrin couldn’t quite decipher.

Zephyrin rose from his knees, having prayed in unison with the class and offered up the perquisite devotions. As they retraced their steps and made ready to file out of the building, the words Roger had smilingly spoken to him from his bed in the infirmary recurred to his mind.

“I was lookin’ forward ta seein’ the Dragon Cathedral and meetin’ Ùwuina, but I guess that’ll have to wait ‘til next year! Be sure to say howdy for me, Zephyrin!”

Zephyrin paused. He didn’t know much about what would befall the majority of Gaulyrian churches, but rare was the history book that had passed over the fate of the Dragon Cathedral…

Meeting the saint? Roger, you may not get the chance…

Zephyrin turned to cast a last look at the reliquary… and then frowned.

Is that…?

There was no doubt it, that small figure kneeling past the jubé, near the sanctuary, was a student, and judging by his appearance…

“Théander?”

Théander looked up at Zephyrin, who had recrossed the transept to rejoin him. The perpetually surprised-looking boy was wide-eyed, his hands still clasped in a prayerful attitude.

“Théander, what are you doing? Everyone’s already left—”

“It’s for Roger!” Théander whispered urgently. “He couldn’t come, so I’m reciting his share of the prayers…!”

Zephyrin stared blankly, temporarily disarmed by this childish logic. He then gave his head a shake and gently grabbed Théander by the arm. “I’m sure Saint Ùwuinaëlle understands why Roger couldn’t make it today. You don’t need to—”

At that moment, the air in the cathedral changed. The lighting did as well, or so it seemed to Zephyrin; he was indoors, but the effect was comparable to lying in a sun-bathed meadow as a cloud passes overhead—still more, it was like feeling the air pressure drop as one suddenly realizes that, at some point, the birds twittering in their branches have fallen silent, and but for the nervous gurgling of a nearby brooklet, that all the world is hushed in anticipation of some great visitation.

Saint Ùwuinaëlle did not move. She did not move, but the energy around her bones, which had been palpable but invisible, now became tangible and coiled around her resting place. There was a luminance emanating from her body, and if at that moment Zephyrin’s mind inexplicably recurred to Rose for one fleeting instant, it was all the more powerfully seized by the recollection of his encounter with the Goddess.

Zephyrin didn’t avert his eyes, but he was conscious of Théander gaping at his side; whatever was happening, it was an objective phenomenon in the world. It was no figment of his imagination, no vision.

The Slayeress of Dragons was making herself known.