Empire of the Vampire

by Jay Kristoff

  “‘What’s your name?’ I asked, bewildered at his beauty.

  “‘His name is Justice.’

  “Turning, I saw the sisternovice had spoken, furious now. But before I could ask what I’d done to earn her ire, the prioress’s voice cut the air. ‘Sisternovice Astrid, be silent!’

  “‘I will not.’ Her drawings spilled as the girl stood, and I saw every sketch was of this same horse. ‘Why should this peasant have Justice’s keeping? I—’

  “The girl’s words were cut off by the prioress’s slap.

  “‘How dare you take tone with me,’ Charlotte glowered. ‘A sister of the Silver Priory owns no goods. She covets no earthly possession. And she obeys her betters.’

  “‘I am not a sister of the Silver Priory,’ the girl spat, defiant.

  “I winced as the prioress brought the girl to her knees with another slap, her scarred face twisting as she snarled, ‘Continue with this insolence, and you never will be!’

  “‘Good! I never wanted to be here!’

  “‘That much is plain! But there are two places in this world for a bastard daughter, Astrid Rennier! Before God’s altar on her knees, or in a brothel on her back!’

  “An awful still settled over the stables. Astrid stared up at the prioress, furious. I looked to Khalid, but one glance told me he wouldn’t intercede. So, fool that I was …

  “‘I beg pardon,’ I said. ‘If the horse belongs to the good demoiselle—’

  “‘She is no demoiselle,’ the prioress spat. ‘She is a sisternovice of the Silver Priory. She owns nothing, save the cloth on her back. She deserves nothing, save the punishment she is due. And unless you wish to share it, you would do well to mind your tongue.’

  “‘Stand down, de León,’ Khalid commanded.

  “I looked to the abbot, uncertain. The prioress reached into her sleeve and drew out a leather thong tipped with a short spur of iron.

  “‘Beg God’s forgiveness,’ she commanded the girl.

  “The novice only glared. ‘I beg for nothi—’

  “Her words became a strangled cry as the thong landed across her back.

  “‘Beg it, whorechild!’

  “The girl lifted her head and spat in fury. ‘Fuck you.’

  “A gasp rang out among the novices. I was astonished at the hate in the girl’s eyes, bewildered at her stubbornness. But more and most, sickened at the violence being done to her. I knew what it was to suffer a beating like that. I knew the courage it took to bear it without a sound. The strap fell six more times, and still, the girl refused to yield. So finally, fearing she wouldn’t beg until it killed her, I begged instead.

  “‘Prioress, stop, please! If punishment must be meted—’

  “Strong fingers took hold of my arm, so hard I winced. Turning, I found Abbot Khalid behind me. ‘This is not your place to speak, Initiate.’

  “‘Abbot, this is cruelty beyond—’

  “His grip tightened, so hard I could feel my bones groaning. ‘Not. Your. Place.’

  “I felt a cur. My mouth gone sour and my belly turned cold. But with that crushing hold on my arm, and only a boy after all, I dared not speak again. Charlotte kept striking, the scars on her face turning a livid red with her rage. My stomach churned as those awful cracks rang in the stillness. And finally, like anyone would have, the girl broke.

  “‘Godsake, stop!’

  “‘Do you beg the Almighty’s forgiveness, Astrid Rennier?’

  “Crack.

  “‘Oui!’

  “Crack.

  “‘Beg, then!’

  “‘I’m sorry!’ she screamed. ‘I beg God forgive me!’

  “The prioress finally eased back, her voice like ice. ‘Get up.’

  “I looked on helpless as the weeping girl took a moment to gather her strength. And then she struggled upright, arms wrapped about her. I glanced among the sisternovices and saw fear of the prioress in their eyes. Fear of God above all. There was only one who seemed truly concerned—the tiny girl with green eyes and freckles, who looked at Astrid with the same pity I felt in my own heart. But Prioress Charlotte clearly felt none.

  “‘You will learn your place, whorechild. Do you hear me?’

  “‘O-oui, Prioress,’ the girl whispered.

  “‘That goes for all of you!’ Charlotte rounded on her charges, fervor flashing in her eyes. ‘You are promised to God now. You will serve him and his Church as faithful wives should. Or you will answer to me, and hell itself!’

  “The woman glowered at me as if inviting reply. But though the words roiled behind my teeth, Abbot Khalid still held my arm. And so, I stayed mute.

  “‘My apologies for the unseemly display, Abbot,’ Charlotte said, lips thin.

  “‘Unnecessary, Prioress,’ Khalid replied. ‘The sheep that stray are prey for wolves.’

  “‘Just so.’ The thin woman nodded curtly at the Testaments quote, turned to her novices. ‘Come along then, girls. We shall spend the day in silent contemplation. Sisternovice Chloe, assist Sisternovice Astrid.’

  “The small freckled girl nodded, helped her fellow novice collect her things. Astrid’s hands were shaking. She met my eyes briefly—a clouded, fleeting glance stained with tears. It was only when they were out of sight that Khalid released his grip on my arm.

  “‘A strong will shall serve you well on the Hunt, young brother,’ he said softly. ‘And a good heart shall prove a shield against the perils of the dark. But if ever you question my orders again, I will drag you to the wheel and flay the skin right off your back. You are a servant of God. But you are my soldier now. Do you understand?’

  “I looked into Khalid’s eyes to see if he was angry, but his voice was matter-of-fact, his stare steady. The Abbot of the Ordo Argent didn’t rage. Didn’t raise his voice. It was at that moment I learned a true leader didn’t need to.

  “‘Oui, Abbot,’ I bowed.

  “Khalid nodded, as if the matter were already forgotten. Looking to the gate the sisters had left by, he murmured, ‘Prioress Charlotte is a godly woman, devoted to the Almighty and Mothermaid. And if she is of a temper this day, you must forgive her. Mass this eve will be painful for you, youngblood. But for most of us, it will be agony.’

  “‘Why? What happens at mass this evening?’

  “‘Someone dies, de León.’

  “Khalid heaved a sigh, and stared out into the cold.

  “‘A good man dies.’”

  VIII

  THE RED RITE

  “AS THE FEEBLE sun set, I was ushered to the Cathedral by the song of mighty bells.

  “Figures were answering the call from around the monastery, and I was struck by how few there were. Half a dozen silversaints, perhaps a dozen apprentices, workmen and servants and sisters of the Silver Sorority. But ascending the Cathedral’s steps with Aaron de Coste beside me, I still had goosebumps on my skin. No matter how old or empty it appeared, I could sense the sanctity in this place. And stepping inside, I found my breath stolen from my lungs.

  “The Cathedral was carved of dark granite, circular like the sigil of God’s Holy Church. As was tradition, two pairs of great graven doors were set in its walls—one in the east, for the dawn and living, and one in the west, for dusk and the dead. Graven pillars rose up to the dome, taller than the grandest trees, and the space was softly lit by the same glass globes that hung from the Armory ceiling. Many of the windows were under repair, but those uncovered were breathtaking. Dark light struggled through the great sevenstar window in the façade, casting dim rainbows on the floor. Wooden pews were arranged in concentric circles around a stone altar at the building’s heart, and above it hung a great marble statue of the Redeemer upon his wheel. His hands were bound, back flayed open, throat cut ear to ear.

  “Upon that altar sat a brazier, and a glass bowl filled with bubbling silver liquid. Before it sat a single silver chalice.

  “I’d no ken what the brazier was for, but every god-fearing soul knew the Grail. Like every o
ther church in Elidaen, this was only an imitation, of course. But while that chalice was present in the room, so too was the Redeemer’s spirit. And I swear, I could feel it.

  “Despite the Cathedral’s size, there were only four dozen at mass. Baptiste Sa-Ismael sat close by, along with three others who were certainly fellow blackthumbs. My master, Frère Greyhand, knelt in the front row among a handful of men in silversaint garb. They were dour-faced and black clad, and each seemed a living legend to me. But I noticed many were mutilated somehow; wrists absent hands and faces missing eyes. At the end of their row sat a silversaint with lank greying hair. I saw he was rocking softly, back and forth. His stare was deeply bloodshot, his face carved with lines of pain.

  “The air was filled with ghostly music, angelic and beautiful. I saw sisters of the Silver Sorority in a loft above, clothed in black, singing all in unison. Their voices made my skin tingle, the beauty of their song filled my chest with ancient fire.

  “From a spiral stair below the floor, Abbot Khalid ascended to the altar. He was clad in black robes, the scars in his cheeks twisting his lips into that odd forever smile. As he lifted his hands, I saw silvered ink on the dark skin of his forearms—Sanael, the Angel of Blood, a weave of swords and doves, the Mothermaid holding the infant Redeemer.

  “‘I am the word and the way, sayeth the Lord,’ Khalid intoned. ‘By my blood, the sinner shall find salvation, and the penitent, the keys to my kingdom eternal.’

  “All in the Cathedral answered ‘Véris’—the customary reply of congregation at mass. It was an old Elidaeni word, meaning A truth beyond truth.

  “‘We welcome a new brother into this, your house, oh Lord.’ Khalid looked right at me. ‘His birth, an abomination. His life, a transgression. His soul, bound for perdition. But we beseech you, give him strength that he might overcome the misdeed of his making, and stand tall against this endless night.’

  “‘Véris,’ the brothers replied.

  “The altar bell rang. I could feel the very breath of God upon my neck.

  “‘Gabriel de León,’ Khalid commanded. ‘Approach.’

  “I looked to Master Greyhand, and he nodded once. Making the sign of the wheel, I found myself standing before that brazier and the bowl of silver liquid atop it.

  “Six figures ascended the stair, bathed in the soft, warm light from those globes above. Prioress Charlotte stood at their fore, followed by three women in black habits, silver-trimmed. Their heads were veiled in lace, faces powdered white, crimson sevenstars painted over their eyes. But the two figures following wore novice white, their faces uncovered and unadorned.

  “As they took up places at the altar opposite me, I recognized both from the stables that afternoon. The first was the tiny lass with the green eyes and freckles—Chloe, I remembered she’d been called. The second was the beautiful raven-haired girl who’d been beaten by the prioress for her disobedience. Her dark eyes once more meeting mine.

  “Astrid Rennier.

  “I watched Sisternovice Chloe unroll a leather satchel embossed with the sevenstar. A host of needles was arrayed within, long and gleaming in the honeyed light.

  “‘As he gave to the Redeemer upon the wheel,’ Khalid said, ‘we pray God gives you strength to endure the suffering of nights to come. For now, we grant you a taste.’

  “I looked to the abbot, wondering what he meant.

  “‘Place your left hand upon the altar,’ he commanded.

  “I did as I was bid, placing my hand on the wood. It was only when Sisternovice Chloe gently turned my palm upward that I understood what was happening. She wiped a cool cloth over my skin, and I smelled strong, sharp spirits. Astrid Rennier dipped a needle into the metallic liquid bubbling atop the burner. And looking into my eyes, she spoke, echoed by the other sisters around her.

  “‘This is the hand,

  “‘That wields the flame,

  “‘That lights the way,

  “‘And turns the dark,

  “‘To silver.’

  “Astrid stabbed the needle into my palm. The sensation was sharp and bright, but brief, and I flinched only a little. Looking down, I saw a tiny spot of blood and silver etched into my flesh. Prioress Charlotte leaned close to inspect the needlestroke, gave a curt nod. I drew breath, swallowed hard. Thinking the sting hadn’t been all that bad.

  “Astrid stabbed my palm again. And again. By the twentieth prick of the needle, discomfort had become pain. And by the hundredth, pain had become agony.”

  Gabriel shook his head, staring at the star tattooed on his left palm.

  “It’s a strange thing, being marked so. The hurt becomes delirium. The brief relief between each needle stroke seems both heaven and hell. My stepfather beat me like a dog on his bad days. But I’d never felt anything like the pain I knew at Astrid’s touch. It was … incandescent. Like I stood outside my body, watching through a fever dream.

  “I didn’t know how I’d manage it. And still, I knew this was a testing—the first of many. If I couldn’t endure a needle, how was I to face the monsters of the dark? How was I to avenge my sister, defend God’s mighty Church, if I couldn’t win through this?

  “I tried to concentrate on the choirsong, but heard it only as a dirge. I closed my eyes, but felt only dread at not knowing when the next stroke might fall. And so, I looked to the Redeemer above.

  “They’d flayed him alive, the Testaments said. Priests of the old gods, refusing to accept the One Faith—they hung him from a chariot wheel and scourged him with thorns, burned him with fire, then cut his throat and cast him into the waters. He could have called on his Almighty Father to save him. Instead, he accepted his fate, knowing it would be the catalyst that united this Church and spread his word to every corner of this empire.

  “By this blood, shall they have life eternal.

  “And now, that empire stood imperiled. That Church under siege by the deathless Dead. So, I looked up into his eyes, and I prayed.

  “Give me strength, brother. And I will give you everything.

  “I couldn’t tell you how long it took. By the end, my palm was a bleeding, fucking mess. But Astrid finally leaned back, and Chloe poured burning spirits onto my skin. And through the boiling haze, I saw it, etched in my palm; the mark of the Martyrs, in silver ink.

  “A perfect sevenstar.

  “‘Frère Greyhand,’ said Khalid. ‘Approach.’

  “Master Greyhand made the sign of the wheel and stepped forward.

  “‘Do you vow before Almighty God to lead this unworthy boy in the tenets of the Ordo Argent? Do you vow before San Michon to be the hand that guides, the shield that protects, until his damned soul stands strong enough to protect this realm himself?’

  “‘By the Blood of the Redeemer,’ Greyhand answered. ‘I vow it.’

  “Khalid turned to me. ‘Do you vow before Almighty God to commit yourself to the tenets of our Order? To overcome the vile sin of your nature and live a life in service to God’s Holy Church? Do you vow before San Michon to obey your master, to heed his voice, to be guided by his hand until you stand sainted yourself?’

  “I thought of the day my sister came home. Knowing that among this brotherhood, within this holy order, I’d find the strength to stop such horror from ever happening again.

  “‘By the Blood, I vow it.’

  “‘Gabriel de León, I name you initiate of the Silver Order of San Michon. May the Almighty Father give you courage. May the blessed Mothermaid give you wisdom. May the One True Redeemer give you strength. Véris.’

  “I met the abbot’s eyes, and my whole body tingled with pride as his lips twisted a little further in his cutthroat smile. Greyhand gave a small nod—the first sign of approval he’d bestowed since saving me in Lorson. My head felt light, the pain now a benediction. But through that haze, I felt more at peace than I’d ever been.

  “Greyhand returned to his place, and I walked beside him. A bell rang, signaling the congregation should rise. The sisters and novices a
round the altar bowed their heads. Khalid turned his eyes to the stained-glass window of the Martyrs.

  “‘From brightest joy to deepest sorrow. We beg you bear witness, blessed Michon. We pray you, Almighty God, to open the gates of your eternal kingdom.’ His eyes fell on the greying silversaint at the end of our row. ‘Frère Yannick. Step forth.’

  “The choir had fallen silent. I watched the man clench his jaw, lift his gaze to heaven. Frère Yannick’s face was gaunt, sleepless lines carved around bloodshot eyes. Beside him, a younger, sandy-haired lad squeezed his hand, pale with grief—another apprentice, I realized. And drawing a deep breath, Yannick stepped forward before Abbot Khalid.

  “‘Are you ready, brother?’ Khalid asked.

  “‘I am ready,’ the man replied, his voice like cracked glass.

  “‘And are you certain, brother?’

  “The silversaint looked at the sevenstar in the palm of his left hand. ‘Better to die a man than live a monster.’

  “‘To heaven, then,’ Khalid said softly.

  “Yannick nodded. ‘To heaven.’

  “The choir took up their song again, and I recognized the hymn sung at funeral masses; the grim and beautiful ‘Memoria Di.’ Khalid walked up the Cathedral’s western aisle. Frère Yannick drifted behind like a man sleepwalking. One by one, the rest of the congregation followed, out through the doors of the dead to the courtyard beyond. I dared not speak and break the awful sanctity I could feel in this moment. But Master Greyhand knew the questions in my head.

  “‘This is the Red Rite, Little Lion,’ he whispered. ‘This is the fate that awaits us all.’

  “We formed up in the courtyard, watching Abbot Khalid and Frère Yannick marching onto the stone span I’d seen earlier—the one de Coste had named ‘Heaven’s Bridge.’ I saw the wheel on the balcony’s edge, looking out over the drop into the river far below. And a part of me knew then, what was coming.

  “‘We are the children of a terrible sin,’ Greyhand murmured to me. ‘And eventually, that sin corrupts us all. The thirst of our fathers lives inside us, Little Lion. There are ways we can quell it for a time, that we might earn our place in the Almighty’s kingdom. But eventually, God punishes us for the sacrilege of our making. As palebloods grow older, we grow stronger. But so does the immortal beast that rages within our mortal shell. The terrible thirst that demands to be slaked upon the blood of innocents.’