by Jay Kristoff
“‘My name is Frère Greyhand. And I will speak to your master.’
“Five minutes later, we stood in a grand parlor, holding glasses of chocolat liqueur. The walls were decorated with fine art, and an ornate suit of plate armor stood guard over a grand shelf of books. De Coste looked perfectly at ease. Unimpressed, even. But I’d never seen wealth like this in my life. This man’s ashtrays could have fed ma famille for a year.
“Greyhand had unlaced his collar, removed his travel-worn tricorn. As ever, I was struck by how cold our master’s features were. I fancied if I touched his face, he’d feel not like flesh, but stone. Still, I watched him like a hawk, soaking in all he did and said. This was the Hunt, I realized. And more than anything, I wanted to be a hunter.
“‘Initiate de Coste,’ he murmured. ‘When the master of the house arrives, I want you ready to use the gifts of your blood. If tempers flare, keep them dampened. If good cheer is required, provide it.’
“‘By the Blood, Master.’
“‘Initiate de León…’ Greyhand glanced at me then. My heart sinking as I realized a frailblood had nothing special to offer here. ‘Don’t touch anything.’
“The parlor door opened, and a portly man entered with sparse ceremony. He was in his early forties, well fed and well heeled, an ornate green alderman’s sash across his chest. But despite the noble fashion of the time, he wore no wig. His hair was disheveled, tied back in a thin, greying tail. He had the eyes of a man who had forgotten what sleep tastes like, his shoulders bent by some hidden weight.
“Behind him came another gent, a little younger. He wore black vestments and a stiff red collar, signifying the cut throat of the Redeemer. Thick dark hair was cut in a short bowl, and the sigil of the wheel hung about his neck. Skyefall’s parish priest, I guessed.
“Our master removed his gloves, offered his hand. ‘M. de Blanchet, I am Frère Greyhand, brother of the Silver Order of San Michon.’
“As the alderman took his grip, Greyhand pressed his tattooed palm atop the man’s hand. Touching him with the silver, I realized. Testing him for corruption.
“‘The pleasure is mine, Frère,’ the alderman said, his voice thin as paper.
“‘These are my apprentices,’ Greyhand nodded. ‘De Coste and de León. We are here by imperial command to investigate rumor of a malady among the godly people of Skyefall.’
“‘Thank the Mothermaid,’ the priest breathed.
“‘It is true, then? This town is afflicted?’
“‘This town is accursed, Frère,’ the alderman spat. ‘A curse that has already plucked the brightest flowers from our garden. And now, threatens all we have left in this world.’
“The priest placed a comforting hand on the alderman’s shoulder. ‘M. de Blanchet’s wife, Claudette, is taken ill with the sickness. And his son…’
“De Blanchet broke, as if his face were splitting at the seams. ‘My dear Claude…’
“‘Have strength, M. de Blanchet,’ the priest counseled.
“‘Have I not shown the strength of titans, Lafitte?’ he snapped, pushing the priest’s hand away. ‘The strength a father must conjure to put his only son in the ground?’
“De Blanchet slumped on a velvet lounge, head low. Greyhand turned on the young priest, cold green eyes flickering to the silver wheel about his neck. ‘Your name is Lafitte?’
“‘Oui, Frère. By grace of God and High Pontifex Benét, I am priest of Skyefall.’
“‘How long has your parish suffered this malady, Father?’
“‘Young Claude passed just before the feast of San Guillaume. Almost two months ago.’ Lafitte made the sign of the wheel. ‘Precious child. He was only ten years old.’
“‘He was first to die?’
“‘But not the last. At least a dozen of the town’s finest have fallen since. And I hear rumor from the poorer quarter. A wasting sickness sweeping the riverside.’ The young priest pressed his lips thin. ‘I hear other whispers also. Of folk gone missing in the night. Of witchery and shadows. I fear this town is accursed, good Frère.’
“‘And now Mme de Blanchet is afflicted?’
“‘As if heaven has not tested me enough,’ the alderman whispered.
“‘Take us to her,’ Greyhand ordered.
“De Blanchet and Père Lafitte led us up a winding stairwell in the estate’s heart, and though I tried to pay heed only to Greyhand, the opulence of that place struck me hard. Famine had cut the Nordlund to ribbons in the years after daysdeath. Whole communities had been destroyed, cities flooded with farmers and vintners and the like—folks whose livelihoods had wilted and rotted when the sun failed. It was only Empress Isabella’s request for her husband to open the imperial granaries that had saved the people in those years before we found our new normal. Through it all, this man had lived like a lord, surrounded by objets d’art and polished mahogany and grand rows of unread books.
“But for all his wealth, it hadn’t been enough to save his son.
“We arrived at double doors, and de Blanchet hesitated. ‘My wife is not … properly attired for company.’
“‘We are servants of God, M. de Blanchet,’ Aaron replied. ‘Have no fear.’
“I heard the inflection in de Coste’s voice, saw a predator’s gleam in his pale blue eyes—the gift of the Blood Ilon. The Ilon were known as the Whispers among kith society, and their ability to influence the emotions of others was unparalleled. Aaron had inherited the same from his vampire father, and as he spoke, de Blanchet’s face slackened. With a murmur of assent, the alderman pushed through the doorway, and with a nod to de Coste, Greyhand followed, with me on his heels.
“A roaring fireplace cast a ruddy glow in the room. Glass doors opened onto a stone balcony, but the curtains were almost closed. Marble mantelpiece. Gold trim. I smelled sweat, sickness, and dried herbs. And resting on a mountain of pillows in a magnificent four-poster bed, was a woman who looked on the verge of death.
“Her skin was waxed paper, thin breast rising and falling swift as a wounded bird’s. Though the boudoir was uncomfortably warm, her nightshift was laced to her chin, blankets piled atop her. She shivered in her sleep.
“Greyhand crossed the room, pressed the sevenstar upon his palm to her sallow brow. The woman moaned loudly, but her eyes remained closed.
“‘How long has she been such?’
“‘Seven nights,’ de Blanchet replied. ‘I have tried every tincture. Every cure. And yet, each day my Claudette worsens, as did our Claude. I fear my wife soon shall follow our son to the grave.’ The alderman looked skyward, his shaking hands in fists. ‘What sin is mine that you would pass this measure unto me?’
“Greyhand lit a posy of dried silverbell and placed it on the mantelpiece, murmuring a prayer and watching it burn. Reaching into his bandolier, he dashed handfuls of metallic powder on the floor around the bed, studying the patterns.
“‘What is that, Frère?’ the priest asked.
“‘Metal shavings. Faekin leave footprints no cold iron will touch. Tell me, M. de Blanchet, have you noticed the shade of your fires tilting toward blue near midnight? Milk souring in the morn perhaps, or cocks crowing as the sun sets?’
“‘… No, Frère.’
“‘An abundance of lowborn beasts about the manor? Black cats, rats, or suchlike?’
“‘Nothing of the sort.’
“Greyhand pursed his lips. I knew he was eliminating possibilities—witchery or the fae or servants of the fallen. ‘You will forgive me, monsieur. But I must examine your wife. I fear this may be uncomfortable to watch. I understand if you wish to wait outside.’
“‘I will do no such thing,’ the alderman replied, standing taller.
“‘As you like it. But I warn you not to interfere with my examination.’
“Aaron sidled up to the alderman, spoke comforting words. Again, I saw that predatory gleam in his eyes, and de Blanchet’s resolve melting. Not for the first time, I found myself envious of my fellow pale
bloods. The power their fathers had given them. Control over beasts. Mastery of men’s minds. And there I stood, with little to do save stare.
“Greyhand turned to Madame de Blanchet and opened the neck of her nightshift. The alderman tensed, Père Lafitte frowned, but neither spoke protest as Greyhand prodded the woman’s throat. Finding nothing amiss, he inspected her wrists, muttering softly.
“I stood by one of the balcony doors, and as much as I wished to study Greyhand, it seemed improper to gawp at a sleeping woman in her nightwear. I cast my eyes to the floor. And there, between my boots, I spied a tiny, dark spot on the wood.
“‘Master Greyhand…’
“He turned from the bed, saw me pointing.
“‘Blood.’
“Greyhand nodded, slipped his gloves back on. And with no further ceremony, he took hold of the woman’s nightshift, and tore it open.
“Father Lafitte cried protest, and the alderman stepped forward. ‘Now see h—’
“‘I am here by order of Emperor Alexandre himself,’ Greyhand snapped. ‘If the nature of your wife’s affliction is such as I fear, it may be that I can save her life. But not without risk to her modesty. So decide now, monsieur, which you hold more dear!’
“De Coste patted the alderman’s arm. ‘All is well, monsieur.’ And bristling with rage, de Blanchet stood down. It was a testament to Aaron’s craft that the man hadn’t already rebelled—if someone had stripped my wife half-naked in front of me, I’d be breaking their fucking skull open.
“‘Initiate de León, bring that light closer.’
“I did as Greyhand commanded, holding a lantern above Madame de Blanchet. Parting the ruined nightshift, he began inspecting the woman’s sallow, naked body. But as soon as he placed one gloved hand on her breast, the alderman finally broke.
“‘This is an outrage!’
“Aaron seized de Blanchet’s arm. ‘Calm yourself, monsieur.’
“Père Lafitte stepped forward, ‘Please, Frère, I must insist—’
“I turned to the priest, warned him to be still. The alderman shouted for his servants, and the room descended into chaos before Greyhand’s bellow split the air.
“‘HOLD!’
“Our master looked to de Blanchet, his voice dark with loathing.
“‘Come see, monsieur.’
“De Coste released his grip, and straightening his coat with an indignant huff, de Blanchet stalked to his wife’s bedside. Greyhand pointed as I held the lantern high. And there, in the dark flesh of Madame de Blanchet’s right nipple, we saw small, twinned scabs.
“‘There are more between her legs,’ Greyhand said. ‘Hard to spot. But fresh.’
“‘Plague sores?’ the priest whispered.
“‘Bite marks.’
“‘What in the name of Almighty God…’ the alderman breathed.
“‘Did any visitors come to Skyefall around the time your son fell ill?’
“The alderman’s eyes were fixed on those tiny wounds in his wife’s flesh, sheer horror on his face. Greyhand snapped his fingers for attention.
“‘Monsieur? Were there visitors?’
“‘This … th-this is a mining town, Frère. We have visitors constantly…’
“‘Anyone strange that young Claude might have come into contact with? Wanderers, or traveling performers? The kind of folk who come and go with ease?’
“‘Certainly not. I’d never allow my son to mix with suchlike. I … I believe he spent time with the Luncóit boy while his mother conducted her affairs on the outskirts. He was a little older than Claude, but a fine lad of good breeding.’
“‘The Luncóit boy,’ Greyhand repeated.
“‘Adrien,’ the alderman nodded. ‘His mother was come to Skyefall to survey a claim farther down the Godsend. She is from an old prospecting famille in Elidaen. She spent most of her time surveying the land around the town, and thus, Adrien kept Claude’s company while his mother worked. Marianne, her name. A fascinating woman.’
“The young priest folded his arms, his face darkening.
“‘You did not find her so fascinating, Father?’ Greyhand asked.
“‘I … I am being uncharitable,’ Lafitte said. ‘I admit I never met her.’
“‘Not even at holy services?’
“‘She worked, even on prièdi,’ he said, obviously displeased. ‘Though she had time aplenty for soirees and suchlike, she never attended mass.’
“Greyhand looked de Blanchet square in the eye.
“‘Where did you bury your son, monsieur?’”
IV
HOUSE OF THE DEAD
“‘DE COSTE, DE León, we three will check the tombe de famille,’ Greyhand said. ‘If the boy has Become, he is only a fledgling. But he may not be alone by now, and even young, he is still deadly. Keep your heads, and remember the Five Laws.’
“We’d returned to the stables to fetch our horses, and my heart was pounding like I’d just been at spar. The de Blanchet tomb stood in the heart of the Skyefall necropolis, and with a few hours until sunset, Greyhand had decided to investigate. We’d no true idea if little Claude was responsible for the dark predations upon his mother, or the other deaths around town. But removing him from the list of suspects was the next sensible step.
“Greyhand took a spiked flail with a long silver chain from his saddlebags. ‘If pressed, keep your swords sheathed. If he’s Become, I want this boy caught, not killed.’
“‘To what end, Master?’ de Coste asked.
“‘Perhaps it’s naught.’ Greyhand glanced to the dark sun, now sinking toward the mountains. ‘But the name Luncóit means raven child in old Elidaeni.’
“‘The sigil of the Blood Voss is a white raven,’ I murmured.
“‘As I say, perhaps nothing. But perhaps this Marianne has a dark sense of humor.’
“Greyhand took a phial from his bandolier, coating his hands and face and rubbing down his leathers with the chymical concoction inside. As he passed it to de Coste, I saw the glass was marked with a wailing spirit.
“Ghostbreath, I noted. To mask our living scent from the Dead.
“I busied myself with my gear—black ignis and phials of holy water. I checked that my wheellock was loaded, then took the chymicals de Coste passed me. Aaron slung a length of silver chain about his chest along with his bandolier. He seemed to stand a touch taller, wrapped in his black leathers with a gleaming sevenstar at his breast. If I didn’t know better, I’d have said the spoiled little prick almost looked like a vampire killer.
“‘Let’s away.’ Greyhand mounted his horse. ‘Sunset waits for no saint.’
“Skyefall was a town of tiers and levels, with richer folk living up the hillside and the poorer down the slopes. The necropolis lay in the lower end, close to the towering cathedral. We cantered through grey fog, past scowling townsfolk and a few trundling wagons. As we crossed one of the old stone bridges, I imagined the rivers to the north, the coming wintersdeep, the armies of the Forever King. Wondering what role San Michon was to play in stopping him, and if I’d be a part of it.
“The cathedral was a circular spire of marble on the edge of a shallow cliff. The doors were bronze, crafted with eerie reliefs of angels battling the fallen. Great bells rang in the belfry, Archer calling out in answer as we followed a winding road to the cliff base, and at last, found the entry to Skyefall’s houses of the dead.
“As was custom, two archways led into the necropolis—one facing west for the dead, the other, which would usually face east, for the living. Large reliefs were carved into the stone—human skeletons with angels’ wings, and the Mothermaid holding the infant Redeemer. Wrought above the entrance were words from the Book of Laments.
“I AM THE DOOR ALL SHALL OPEN. THE PROMISE NONE SHALL BREAK.
“I tried to keep my nerves steady as we dismounted. Greyhand closed his eyes, one hand outstretched toward the necropolis. I wondered at his game, but in a few minutes, my answer appeared in the form of several mangy
rats. They emerged from the shadowed stairwells leading to the crypts, snuffling and blinking in the fading daylight.
“‘Fairdawn, little lords.’
“My master knelt on the cold stone and offered the vermin morsels from one of his pockets. Again, I felt that stab of envy, watching him commune with those beasts. The Blood Chastain was a curse, but still, it must have been a kind of wondrous to speak to animals of earth and sky. I patted Justice, giving him a swift hug and wondering what it would be like to know something of his mind. Something of where I’d come from.
“‘What tidings, little lords?’ Greyhand asked. ‘What troubles?’
“The boldest rat, a fat fellow with a missing ear, chittered angrily. Greyhand nodded in sympathy, like an old friend griping over a mug of mulled wine.
“‘A sad tale. We shall mend it presently.’
“Our master stood, and the rats scampered back into the gloom. ‘They speak of darkthings in the crypts. Wrongthings.’ Greyhand shook his head. ‘Even the lowest of God’s creatures recognize the evil of the Dead. But it seems there are more than one.’
“‘How many?’ I asked.
“‘They’re rats, boy, not bookkeepers. They only know one and more than one.’
“Greyhand nodded to himself, now certain: Coldbloods were at the heart of the disease afflicting this town. I felt a warm thrill in my belly as my master drew a phial of sanctus from his bandolier, tipped a dose into his pipe. In San Michon, on the road, we took the sacrament at dusk, a routine part of our daily prayers. But we were given only the smallest taste to keep our thirst quelled.
“Greyhand was measuring a heavy dose. Obviously expecting trouble.
“He lit his flintbox, offered the pipe to de Coste. I watched the lordling breathe in, his every muscle stretching taut. Exhaling a cloud of scarlet, I saw that Aaron’s teeth had grown long and sharp, his eyes flooding blood-red. It was my turn next, and the dose hit me like a warhammer to my chest, setting all my blood afire. Greyhand took the unholy sacrament last, finishing the pipe and breathing it down, his whole body trembling. When he opened his eyes, they were the color of murder.
