Empire of the Vampire

by Jay Kristoff

  —ALFONSE DE MONTFORT

  A Chronicle of the Silver Order

  I

  AUSPICIOUS BEGINNINGS

  “HALF A YEAR had passed since I was sworn as an initiate of the Silver Order, and every day of it, Frère Greyhand had worked me to the fucking bone.

  “As Aaron de Coste had promised, the Gauntlet was the fire in which I was to be forged, or melted to slag. The dance was different every day, and for months on end, I was put to the test by my master, or by ingenious devices built by the Brothers of the Hearth.

  “There was the ‘Thorned Men’—a knot of ever-moving training dummies that could strike you back when you hit them. ‘The Thresher’ was a rotating series of oaken poles, thirty feet off the stone—one slip during a spar meant you’d be nursing broken bones for the rest of the day. The shifting obstacle course called ‘the Scar,’ the speed run named ‘the Scythe’—all designed to make us harder. Faster. Stronger.

  “The sanctus they gave me to smoke every evemass was awaking the beast inside me: the strength, the reflexes, the sharpening of my paleblood senses. I felt like a blade that had been kept in a cold cellar, finally unsheathed in the sun. And yet, I knew I wasn’t as sharp as the other boys around me, and never would be.

  “Frère Greyhand made no mention of my frailblood heritage after the Trial of the Blood, but the taunting from Aaron and his cronies was reminder enough. Initiates at San Michon came and went, stopping days or weeks, then returning to the Hunt with their masters. Many were nobleborn, which made a kind of sense—highbloods usually liked to feed among high society. But in the end, what that meant for me was a constant stream of stuck-up tossers who looked down on me for my birth and my blood. Arseholes, all. I swear, there were more pricks in those Barracks than at a hedgehog’s bachelor feast.

  “When he could, Aaron kept company with a boy called de Séverin—son of an Elidaeni baronne. De Séverin had dark eyes and pouting lips; his face reminded me of a dead fish’s, truth told. Aaron’s other crony was a handsome nobleson, brown of hair and blue of eye. There was a cruelty to his stare—I reckoned the servants in his father’s house would’ve trod carefully around the heir apparent. His name was Mid Philippe.”

  Jean-François blinked. “Mid Philippe?”

  “Emperor Alexandre’s father, Philippe IV, sat upon the Fivefold Throne for twenty years. Some parents name their brats for the famed, in the hope that fame rubs off. There were three Philippes among the initiates. We nicknamed the smallest Lil, the tallest Big, and the one between, Mid.”

  “Ingenious, de León.”

  “There are worse nicknames teenage boys can conjure, believe me. And I heard every one. Of the two dozen initiates I met over those six months, there were only a couple who didn’t treat me like outright shite. Theo Petit, the big sandy-haired lad who’d defended me from Aaron when I first arrived at San Michon, and a wiry Ossian boy named Fincher. Finch had a face like a dropped pie and mismatched eyes, one green and one blue. Didn’t bother me much, but it made the other lads nervous.”

  “Why?” Jean-François asked.

  “Superstition. Some folk believe a blemish like that marks you as faekin. That someone back in your famille line was fucking with the wealdfolk. But I liked Fincher. He was of Voss blood, hard as nails. And he slept with a carving fork under his pillow. Even took it in the bath. Mad as a bucket of wet cats, he was.”

  “Why a carving fork?”

  “I asked the same. ‘Gift from me grammy afore she died,’ he told me, twirling it between his fingers. ‘Real silver, boyo.’

  “But even Finch and Theo weren’t really my friends. They just didn’t outright fuck with me. Every other initiate in the monastery took the same road as de Coste. ‘Peasant.’ ‘Boylover.’ ‘Little Kitten.’ These were the names they called me, Aaron worst of the lot. Porridge in my boots. Shit in my bed. All my life I’d been no one special, and even there, among these chosen of God, it seemed I’d been relegated to the bottom of the pile for what I was. The name itself spoke of weakness.

  “Frailblood.”

  Jean-François nodded. “Hardly an auspicious beginning, de León.”

  “It was nothing to write home about, to be sure. So, even though I wondered about my true father, who he was and how he’d known my mama, I didn’t write home at all. My baby sister Celene sent me a letter every other month, keeping me informed of all that went on at home in Lorson. My little hellion sounded like she was getting up to no good, but I wasn’t in a position to change any of it. I had my own shite to deal with. So, I ignored her.”

  Gabriel shook his head.

  “Shames me to think about it now. But I was young. Young and foolish.”

  “Can it really be true, though? The Black Lion, hero of Augustin, wielder of the Mad Blade and slayer of the Forever King himself … a water-blooded wretch?”

  “Some people are born lucky, coldblood. And some people make their own.”

  “Surely there was somewhere in San Michon you exceeded expectations?”

  “Not at first. I was good with a sword. But only because Papa had drilled me hard as a lad. I liked being in the Gauntlet. I loved learning the hymn of blades Greyhand showed us. Steel never judged me, see. Steel was mother. Steel was father. Steel was friend. But I never walked into anything and found I was simply good at it. The only way I shone at anything in my life was being too much of a stubborn bastard to quit.”

  “You are quite the bastard, de León, I shall grant you that.”

  “I don’t like to lose, coldblood.”

  “The sin of pride serves you well, then.”

  “See, I never understood that. Why pride is looked on as an evil. You work hard at something you’re not born good at? Damn right you should be fucking proud. There’s nothing comes of quitting besides the knowledge you didn’t finish.”

  Gabriel shook his head.

  “It’s only in faerie tales that everything works out for the best with a magik spell or a prince’s kiss. It’s only in storybooks some little bastard picks up a sword and wields it like he was born to it. The rest of us? We have to work our arses off. And we might not ever taste triumph, but at least we dared to fail. We stand apart from those cowards whispering on the sidelines about how the strong did stumble, while never daring to set foot in the ring themselves. Victors are just folk who were never satisfied being vanquished. The only thing worse than finishing last is not beginning at all. And fuck finishing last.”

  The vampire glanced to the night just outside the window, the empire rising beyond. “I’d have thought your kind accustomed to it by now, de León.”

  “Touché.”

  “Merci.”

  “Smartarse.”

  “So after six months, you were not yet a full-fledged ’saint of the Order?”

  “Not even close. I needed to complete two more trials before I’d even finish the bare bones of my aegis.” Gabriel ran his fingertips up his left arm, over the silver tattoos. “This arm got inked after the Trial of the Hunt—presuming you survived. Your other arm would be filled after you’d killed your first horror with your own sword. The Trial of the Blade.”

  “What then, had you earned in the Trial of the Blood?”

  Gabriel pulled down the neck of his tunic, showing a hint of the roaring lion on his chest.

  “That looks like it was painful,” the vampire mused.

  “Didn’t tickle. But as usual, I’d no idea what I was in for the day I got it.” Gabriel shook his head, smiling faintly. “I was so excited the night before, I couldn’t sleep. The inkwork on Greyhand and Abbot Khalid and the other silversaints had always held a fascination for me. But this was to be the first part of my aegis. The first true sign I actually belonged there.

  “As I marched into the great Cathedral of San Michon on findi morn, I saw four figures awaiting me at the altar, bathed in soft light and choirsong. Even beneath her veil, I recognized the scarred, dour face of Charlotte, Prioress of the Silver Sorority. She and th
e sister beside her wore black habits, faces daubed white, red sevenstars painted over their eyes. But the other two figures wore the dove-white robes of novices. The first was short, green-eyed and freckled, a rogue curl of mouse brown escaped from the edge of her coif.”

  “Your Chloe Sauvage, I presume?” Jean-François asked.

  Gabriel nodded.

  “And looking at the girl beside her, I saw dark smoky lashes, a raised eyebrow, a beauty spot beside quirked lips. I realized this was the sisternovice I’d met in the stables the day I chose my horse. The same who’d inked my palm at my first mass.”

  “Astrid Rennier,” the vampire said.

  “‘Remove your tunic and lie upon the altar, Initiate,’ Prioress Charlotte commanded.

  “I did as I was told. Sisternovice Chloe bound me down with leather straps, shiny steel buckles, and I winced at the chill of the spirits she poured on my skin. These four were holy women of the Silver Priory, brides or betrothed of God Himself, and I dared not even glance at them. Instead, I looked to the statue of the Redeemer above. But still, I could feel Sisternovice Astrid beside me, smell the rosewater in her hair, hear the soft whisper of her breath as she ran a straight razor over the muscles of my chest.

  “There was something impossibly intimate about it. Even with other eyes upon us. Her touch was gentle as feathers, the press of her fingertips to my skin had goosebumps crawling over every inch of me. My heart was all a-gallop. And despite my best efforts, I found my blood rushing to a place I’d absolutely no desire for it to be.”

  Gabriel chuckled to himself.

  “You ever get an erection in front of a pack of nuns, coldblood?”

  “Not that I can recall, no.” Jean-François frowned slightly. “Although admittedly, I’ve never found myself in need of one where nuns are concerned.”

  “Well, it’s not ideal. To their credit, if any of the sisters noticed, they were too polite to call attentions. I thought perhaps the thrill of the sisternovice’s touch would fade once Prioress Charlotte began stabbing those needles into my skin. But as I saw Astrid take up a long silver lance, I realized she herself was to do my inking.

  “‘Blessed Michon,’ she prayed, ‘First of the Martyrs, heed this prayer in blood and silver. We anoint this flesh in your name, and offer this boy in your service. May all heaven’s host bear witness, and all hell’s legion tremble. Sweet Mothermaid, give me patience. Great Redeemer, give me strength. Almighty Father, give me sight.’

  “‘Véris,’ the other sisters replied.”

  Gabriel shook his head, sighing soft.

  “The room was filled with choirsong, yet all was silence. We were surrounded by sisters of the Priory, and somehow, completely alone. There was only pain between me and that girl then. Pain and promise. Her breath was cool on my bare and bleeding skin. Her hands warm as firelight as she hurt me, again and again.

  “I’d thought my sevenstar was painful, but it was a honeyed bliss compared to this. Thirteen hours I lay on that altar, bathed in candlelight and pain from the hands of that strange and beautiful girl. It was agony. It was euphoria. And somewhere in the middle of it, both became interlinked. I couldn’t bear another moment. I never wanted it to end. I wanted her to stop, and I wanted her to keep hurting me, some dam of pressure breaking loose inside. Pain had been punishment when I was a boy. But now it had become reward. Bliss in torment. Salvation in suffering.

  “I didn’t realize I was crying until it ended. And Sisternovice Chloe poured a measure of what felt like freezing fire over my bleeding skin, and Astrid Rennier spoke like an angel into my ear.

  “‘This is the hand,

  “‘That wields the flame,

  “‘That lights the way,

  “‘And turns the dark,

  “‘To silver.’”

  The Last Silversaint shrugged. “And then it was done.”

  Jean-François continued writing in his tome, though his eyes flickered to Gabriel’s small and secret smile. “The design is of some importance?”

  Gabriel blinked hard, as if coming back to himself. And slowly, he nodded.

  “The chestpiece of the aegis signifies a silversaint’s bloodline. De Coste had that wreath of roses and snakes, which along with his ability to crawl right on my tits marked him as the Blood of Ilon. Theo and Abbot Khalid both wore the broken shield and roaring bear of the Dyvok. The wolves on Greyhand’s chest were for the blood of Chastain, which explained his affinity with Archer. I’d often thought that falcon could understand when he spoke to it. Turns out, I wasn’t wrong.”

  “And that is why you wear the lion,” the historian smiled. “Your dear mama.”

  “I’d no vampire bloodline to call my own. I knew nothing of my father, nor what my mama had been to him. His lover? His victim? His slave? But whatever uncertainty I had about the vampire who’d sired me, I knew at least I was hers. So I clung to that truth she’d given me as a boy. One day as a lion is worth ten thousand as a lamb. I wore that ink like armor. I worked harder than I’d ever worked in my fucking life, no matter what shit the other boys threw. Not just in the Gauntlet, either. We were expected to master all manner of knowledge—the geography of the empire, catechisms of the One Faith, and tactics of great battles. The banes of the horrors we hunted, the preparation of chymical weapons—black ignis, silver caustic, hellspark, and sanctus most important of all.

  “I’d never been much for schooling. Seraph Talon gave us lessons in the Great Library or Armory, aided as ever by his dutiful assistant, Aoife. The good sister was a patient tutor, and no slouch when it came to the arte of chymistrie. But Talon was a bastard, plain and simple. That damned ashwood switch of his tasted my palms more times than I can remember. My every mistake was met with a bloody thrashing and a creative curse about the shite in my veins or my mother’s virtue. But his punishments only spurred me on.

  “I cut gashes into my heel to remember the ounces of brimstone in a one-pound silverbomb. Each morning, I’d prick the measure of shadeberry for a jigger of angelgrace or the amount of yellowwater in a charge of black ignis into my fingertips with my sword. Every day for four weeks, I plucked hairs to etch the number of hollyroot drops in a dose of sanctus into my mind. Anything, everything I could do to remember.”

  “You plucked hairs from your head to remember a recipe?”

  “Not my head.”

  The historian glanced down at the silversaint’s crotch, one eyebrow raised.

  Gabriel nodded. “Every day for four weeks.”

  “How many hollyroot drops are in a dose of sanctus?”

  “Sixteen,” Gabriel answered immediately.

  “Good God Almighty, de León.”

  “I told you, coldblood. Some people are born lucky. And some people make their own. I’d had nothing ever handed to me, save this curse in my veins. But this was my life now. And if I were to spend it among these hunters in the dark, then I’d damned well be the best of them, or die trying. And my opportunity for the latter finally arrived, after half a year of blood and sweat and silvered ink.

  “A frail summer had been and gone at San Michon, and winter’s chill was in the air. I was training at the Thorned Men, nursing a split lip and cracked cheekbone. Master Greyhand was atop the Thresher, wailing away on Aaron. It was around noonbells when the Gauntlet doors opened wide and Abbot Khalid strode into the training ground.

  “I was in awe of Khalid. Greyhand was a swordsman both sharp and swift, but the abbot was a force of nature. The blood Dyvok flowed in his veins as in Theo’s, and I’d seen him at training, wielding twin two-handed swords, one in each grip. All palebloods were strong, but Khalid was fucking terrifying.

  “He strode into the sevenstar circle, and Greyhand and Aaron leaped down from the Thresher. All three of us bowed in respect as Khalid’s kohled green eyes met our master’s.

  “‘The town of Skyefall has been struck by malady. A wasting sickness none can explain. Mayhaps witchery. A fae curse, or cultists of the fallen. For my part, I smel
l a coldblood’s work. But regardless, our Emperor Alexandre demands answers. Go with God and Martyrs to seek the truth of it.’

  “Greyhand made the sign of the wheel. ‘By the Blood.’

  “Khalid nodded, then glanced to me. ‘Do us proud, Little Lion.’

  “Archer wheeled through the sky above, his shrill call piercing the air. My heart swelled in my chest. After six months of tireless work, I’d finally been deemed worthy to leave San Michon. De Coste’s proud jaw was set. As Khalid spun on his heel, Master Greyhand turned to us. And though his features were stone as always, I thought I caught a hint of a smile in his voice.

  “‘At last, lads,’ he said. ‘We Hunt.’”

  II

  THE FIVE LAWS

  “GREYHAND’S BLADE SCYTHED toward my throat, glinting red in the firelight. With a gasp, I turned it aside, feeling the strength of his blow jar my arm as he sent me tumbling.

  “‘Initiate de Coste,’ he said. ‘When stalking vampires, what is Law the First?’

  “Aaron stepped aside from Greyhand’s strike, countered with a stab of his own. Our master met de Coste’s thrust, locking the lad up and waiting for his answer.

  “We’d been traveling two weeks through Nordlund, and the mining town of Skyefall was but a day’s ride away. We’d camped in the foothills below it, just south of the Velde River. And as was our nightly ritual, before we ate, we earned our fucking dinner.

  “‘Law the First,’ Aaron panted. ‘The dead cannot kill the Dead.’

  “‘Good. What does it mean?’

  “‘We can’t kill coldbloods if we’re killed ourselves, Master.’

  “Greyhand’s boot collided with the boy’s chest, sent him flying back into the corpse of a nearby fir. De Coste struck the trunk hard enough to crack the roots, and the whole tree tilted like a two-pint drunkard. Twirling his blade, Greyhand spoke as if out for a stroll on prièdi.