by Jay Kristoff
“‘Gabriel, stand aside!’ Chloe cried, pulling me back.
“I shrugged off her bloody hand and glowered at the sister, her surcoat and blade spattered with gore. But she had eyes only for the boy. I saw Dior press his hands to the rents in the priest’s throat, his eyes wide and wet with tears.
“‘Seven Martyrs, he’s finished, boy. Let the man die in p—’
“‘Shut the fuck up!’
“Dior’s arm was still bleeding, his neck too, and the boy smeared the blood from his own wounds onto his palm. And as I watched, he pressed that crimson hand to the gaping hole in Rafa’s throat, and my heart fell still. Because I swear by God and Mothermaid and Redeemer too, at his bloody touch, that wound stitched itself closed.
“‘Chloe…’ I whispered.
“Dior scrambled across the snow, Saoirse removing her grip from Bellamy’s throat. The soothsinger’s lips were pink with froth as the boy slicked his palm with his own blood again and pressed it to those awful wounds. And just as with the priest, I stood amazed as the gashes knitted closed before my eyes, not a scar nor scratch in their wake.
“‘Bellamy?’ Dior whispered, desperate. ‘Can you hear me?’
“The young soothsinger still seemed weak, skin sheened with sweat. But his breath came easy and his eyes shone, and he pressed a bloody hand to Dior’s.
“‘M-merci, M-monsieur Lachance.’
“‘Great fucking Redeemer…’ I breathed.
“I looked to Rafa, sitting up in the snow. The old man was shaking, robes drenched red. But still, he was hale and breathing, where a heartbeat ago he’d been almost a corpse.
“‘Y-you asked me … where my God was, Chevalier de León.’
“The priest looked to Dior and managed a bruise-blue smile.
“‘And there he is.’”
VIII
FROM HOLY CUP
“‘WHAT IN THE name of the Father, Mothermaid, and all Seven Martyrs is going on?’
“I stood in the Hammered Smith, hands crusted with ashes and blood. Bellamy and Rafa were slumped by the fire. Chloe stood beside Dior, Saoirse nearby, cleaning the gore off Kindness. Phoebe had followed the wretched, whether to take them down one by one or ensure they retreated, I hadn’t a clue. But I’d no care for a few ragtag corpses.
“My eyes were fixed on Chloe, Ashdrinker in my hand. My old friend was avoiding my eyes, tending the wounds at Dior’s throat and arm. The little bastard’s cravat and shirt were soaked with blood, but the boy was staring me down, defiant as ever.
“‘Well?’ I demanded. ‘Spit it out, Chloe. What did I just see?’
“Know ye, what we have w-witnessed, Gabriel.
“I glared at the blade in my hand, sharp teeth gritted.
“Faithless may ye be, but yet ye have eyes to see, to see. A mirac—
“I slammed the sword home and silenced her voice, glowering at Chloe. She tutted and fussed about Dior like a mother hen, wrapping his wounds in swaddling until at last the boy winced and waved her off. ‘I’m fine, Sister Chloe. God’s truth.’
“Chloe sat back, bloody hands to hips, a bone-deep fear in her eyes. ‘Blessed Mothermaid, that was too close, Dior. I told you to run to the cathedral.’
“‘And I told you,’ the boy said. ‘I’ll not leave my friends to fight my battles for me.’
“‘You can’t risk yourself like that! You’re too important!’
“‘Why?’ I demanded.
“Chloe finally met my eyes. Secrets locked behind her lips.
“‘Goddamn you, Chloe Sauvage, speak! You’re the one who dragged me into this cavalcade of arsefuckery, and the enigmatic silence is wearing thin. You want my help, you’d best start singing, else I’ll leave the lot of you to the fucking Dead!’
“The holy sister slumped cross-legged upon the floor, glanced around the room. Saoirse shook her head, scowling black. Bellamy licked bloodstained lips and nodded once. Rafa remained silent, staring at Dior.
“The boy was looking at me, wincing as he slipped his arms back into his pretty coat. As he glanced to the blade at my side, I could see a grudging respect in his eyes—the knowledge they’d all likely be dead if not for me. But still, his gaze slipped to the pipe in my coat, the scarlet wash glazing my eyes, and I saw that same contempt I’d seen in the church.
“Bad men never realize when the monster is them.
“Dior glanced to the holy sister, and finally, reluctantly, he nodded.
“‘… Do you remember the night you first trained me in the Library, Gabe?’
“I looked to Chloe, and back across that ocean of time. It stood so deep and far, I almost couldn’t see the shoreline. The current was black and perilous, threatening to drag me into the depths as I pictured the two of us sparring in the stained-glass light, Astrid sketching by the window. Such a simple moment, so unsullied by blood and death and futility that it made my chest hurt.
“Godsakes, we were only children …
“‘I remember.’
“‘We trained. Then we read. Then we talked. You, me, and Azzie.’
“‘What a world this would be,’ I smiled, ‘were it not held wholly and solely in the grip of stubborn old men.’
“She smiled too, and I could see the girl she’d been in her eyes. ‘And then?’
“‘… The star,’ I finally realized. ‘That falling star.’
“She nodded, eyes shining. ‘I told you at the time it was auspicious. I said God intended great things for us. And I was right. But far grander than the three of us meeting, that falling star marked another triumph. One it took me almost sixteen years to find the truth of. A miracle, Gabriel.’
“Chloe looked to the boy standing bloodied and bruised by the fireside.
“‘And there he is.’
“‘What the fuck are you talking about, Chloe?’
“‘How well do you know your Testaments, Chevalier?’ Bellamy asked.
“I glanced to the soothsinger, huddled by the fire. ‘A damn sight better than you, I’ll wager.’
“‘And what do you know of the Aavsenct Heresy?’ Rafa asked.
“I frowned, scratching at the drying blood on my chin. ‘I think … I remember a book about it, perhaps? In the forbidden section of San Michon?’
“‘There’s a tale to be told here, Silversaint.’ Rafa nodded to the ’singer. ‘I think we should leave it to our expert to do so.’
“I glanced at Bellamy. ‘You’re not going to fucking sing it, are you?’
“The wearied man perked up. ‘Would you like me to?’
“Scowling at Chloe, I rummaged in my saddlebags by the door. Grabbing one of my vodka bottles, I pulled a chair to the fire. ‘Talk.’
“Undeterred, the soothsinger brushed back his perfect curls. He looked about the room, drawing a deep breath. And he launched into his tale then, with all the flourish of a young buck who’d carved a hundred bedpost notches with his silver tongue.
“‘Perhaps a thousand years ago, somewhere in Nordlund, a boy was born. His name is lost to time, but he’d come to be known as the Redeemer. As he grew to manhood, he became an itinerant priest, preaching that there was only one God. Not only did he proclaim the Old Gods a lie, the Redeemer claimed to be the son of this true God. He performed miracles. Raised the dead. And in time, an army. Marching west, he spread his “One Faith” at the point of a sword. The conflict was bloody, and decades long.’
“‘Fucksakes, Bouchette, you’re not telling m—’
“‘Hush, Gabriel,’ Chloe growled. ‘Listen.’
“Bellamy leaned into his tale. ‘The Redeemer was betrayed by his disciples, and murdered on the wheel by priests of the Old Gods. But his last loyal follower, the hunter Michon, caught his lifeblood in a silver chalice as he died. Michon took up the war in her Redeemer’s name, until she herself was martyred in battle. But the ideals of the One Faith endured. And centuries later, the warlord Maximille de Augustin and his famille finally united five kingdoms into one empire, under
the One True Faith.’
“I sighed, necking the bottle. This was nothing I didn’t already know.
“‘Pay attention, Gabe,’ Chloe insisted. ‘What you’re about to hear could get you and everyone you love flayed to death on the wheel. This is the darkest heresy in the empire.’
“I swallowed deep and sighed. ‘Out with it, then.’
“Père Rafa bent forward, liver-spotted fingers steepled at his lips. He glanced to Dior, and I could see the fear in him—as if even speaking these words were a sin.
“‘Chloe and I pieced this tale together over many years, Silversaint. Fragments of knowledge. Merest scraps of truth, mixed among miles of madmen’s scrawl and lies. To this day, we know not the half of it. But one thing is certain, and two for sure. Michon was not only the Redeemer’s disciple.’
“The old man sighed as if from his bones.
“‘She was his lover.’
“If the priest expected that shot to strike home, it fell well short of the mark. ‘God’s begotten son enjoyed a tumble like the rest of us.’ I shrugged. ‘So what?’
“‘So the Testaments were first written in old Talhostic, Silversaint. And in Old Talhostic, the words for lifeblood and essence are almost the same: Aavsunc. Aavsenct.’
“‘Michon didn’t capture the Redeemer’s lifeblood in some cup, Gabe.’ Chloe pressed one hand to her belly. ‘She captured his essence in her own. And nine months after his death, she gave birth to his child. A daughter. Named Esan.’
“My eyes narrowed at that. ‘That’s Old Talhostic too. For Faith…’
“Chloe nodded and murmured. ‘Esani.’
“‘Faithless…’ I whispered, looking at the vein in my wrist. ‘What the fuck…’
“‘A direct descendant of God’s son,’ Rafa murmured. ‘But within a year, her mother was dead. And fearing persecution, Esan’s guardians moved her to Talhost. Eventually, she had children of her own. The Redeemer’s descendants often exhibited signs of divinity in their blood, but kept their origins secret. They built a dynasty, and eventually, began an uprising against the Emperor himself. Claiming a divine right to sit upon the Fivefold Throne.’
“‘The Aavsenct Heresy…’ I murmured.
“‘So it was named by the Pontifex of the One Faith,’ Chloe said. ‘The idea of the Redeemer taking a mortal lover was declared a sacrilege, and the descendants of Esan, blasphemers. And in the following purge, their line was all but wiped out—ironically by the Church their progenitor Michon had helped forge.’
“‘All records were expunged from Church archives,’ Rafa said. ‘Only scraps remain. Esan’s bloodline diminished to almost nothing, and lost all knowledge of itself. The blood thinned. The line was almost broken.’
“‘Almost.’
“Chloe looked to Dior, the boy silhouetted against the flames.
“‘But that falling star we saw? That star marked the moment of Dior’s birth. Rafa and I have searched for more than a year. Following tales of magik, witchcraft, sorcerie. We’d almost given up hope when we heard of a boy whose blood worked miracles. Even brought people back from the edge of death.’
“‘Great fucking Redeemer,’ I breathed.
“‘Blasphemy,’ she smiled weakly.
“‘You’re telling me this skinny little fuckstain…’
“‘… is the last-known scion of Esan’s line. Dior doesn’t know where the Grail is, Gabriel. He is the Grail. The cup of the Redeemer’s blood.’
“‘From holy cup comes holy light,’ Rafa said.
“‘The faithful hand sets world aright,’ Bellamy murmured.
“‘And in the Seven Martyrs’ sight,’ Chloe whispered.
“Dior met my eyes and shrugged. ‘Mere man shall end this endless night.’
“The crackling flames were the only sound to fill that silence. I looked around the room, pulse hammering in my temples. This sounded like the darkest shade of madness. The chill in the air seeped into my chest, and I stood, sudden enough that Saoirse lifted her axe, jaw clenched. Chloe stared at me with eyes wide; Rafa’s hand was inside his sleeve. But I only paced the room, dragging one hand back through my hair before stopping to stare at the boy—that pale streak of seagull shit in his stolen coat and busted boots. He looked nothing like the salvation of the world. But I’d seen it with my own fucking eyes. Those monsters bursting into flames as his blood touched their lips. Those red hands dragging Rafa and Bellamy back from the edge of death. Drinking the blood of an ancien kith might heal a wound as deep as those two had suffered, but Dior was a living, breathing boy.
“How could this be? I wondered.
“Could this be?
“I walked slowly toward Dior, and the boy simply watched. I stopped a few inches away, and he looked up at me, unflinching. I could feel Saoirse at my back, Bellamy’s fingers now slipping to his blade. But I only reached down beside me and the boy, snatched up my vodka. Gulping a mouthful, three, four, I felt my eyes watering at the burn. And tossing the empty into the fireplace, I said the cleverest thing I could think of at the time.
“‘Well, fuck my face…’”
IX
TWO WORDS
“‘GABRIEL.’
“My eyes flashed open, pupils dilating in the dark. A bird with broken wings beat swift inside my belly. For one blessed moment, I thought I was in our bed back home. The peaceful rhythm of my daughter’s breath drifting down the hall, the bare branches of the sycamore outside our room scraping against the window. All was peace, and all was well, and I held tight, closing my eyes against the truth.
“But then I smelled rot in the walls, vague hints of fresh blood and stale mold and rat. The soft sounds down the hall belonged to Dior, the boy now moaning in his sleep. And the silk-soft scratching at the window belonged to …
“‘Gabriel.’
“I sat up in bed and saw her, suspended and breathless in the night beyond the window. Her hair was blackest velvet, her cheek, the curve of a broken heart. Her skin was pale and bare as the barrow-bleached bones of long-forgotten queens. In her eyes, I saw the answer to every question, every wanting, every fear I’d never known the naming of, and she pressed herself to the glass, hands and lips and breasts, all smooth curves and shadows full of promise, whispering soft as the sleep she’d stolen me from.
“‘Let me in.’
“I rose from my furs, bare feet on hard boards, bare chest in chill air. The silver troth ring on my finger felt heavy as lead. She tracked my movement like a wolf ahunt, and she swayed, drifting away into the snow-kissed dark and then surging back, pressing harder now against the window. Black fingernails whispered up over her hips, sinking like claws into the soft swell of her shoulders, dragged deep down her arms and then, red and dripping, scribbling, scratching, on the glass once more. Eyes on mine, she bit down, a dark pearl of promise welling on her lip.
“‘Let me in, my lion.’
“All that stood between us now were two words. Strange how so much power, so much peril and promise, resides in so tiny a thing. Two little words can carry weight enough to see empires rise and kingdoms fall. Two little words can begin the end of everything. How many hearts have been made complete by words so small as I do? How many more have been shattered with a breath as tiny as It’s over? Little sounds that reshape or unmake your entire world, like great spells of old to redraw the very lines by which you see yourself and all else about you. Two little words.
“‘Forgive me.’
“‘Do it.’
“‘I can’t.’
“‘You must.’
“I could already feel her lips, warm as old autumn, the taste of burning leaves on her tongue. I could imagine pale hands slipping into my britches, pale legs wrapped tight around my waist, my teeth grazing her lip and her blood singing between us, filling the empty inside. She pressed against the window as I drew closer, hunger and sheerest wanting, and she smiled, all the colors of despair. With shaking hands, I unlocked the window and pulled the sill up slow. And
with a voice that sounded not quite like my own, I spoke two words.
“Two little words.
“‘Come in.’”
X
NO FLOWER BLOOMS
“THE STORM BROKE four days later, and all the land was empty grey.
“The weight of it still hung on me, heavy as the broken sword at my side. Every time I looked to Chloe and Dior, the strangeness struck me harder. Over the course of my life, I’d seen my share of impossible. Castle walls crumbling under blows from long-dead fists. Monsters who danced in the skins of beasts and wore the faces of men. Legions of the Dead and the eyes of a king eternal, boring black and bottomless into my own.
“‘I have forever, boy.’
“Truth told, I’d never tasted impossible like this. I’d only agreed to accompany Chloe for a chance to strike at Danton. But I couldn’t forget what I’d seen.
“And so, the morn we prepared to leave Winfael, I’d gone searching. I found the boy in the ruined cathedral again, staring up at that window of San Michon like it held an answer to some unspoken question. The floor was thick with new-fallen snow, my breath hanging chill. I could smell his wounds—old, scabbing, a bandage at his throat where he’d been bitten. As miraculous as his blood was, the boy didn’t seem able to heal himself.
“As I walked inside, Dior glanced over his shoulder and sighed. ‘What do you want?’
“‘Chloe’s fretting on you. You shouldn’t wander alone.’
“‘I need your advice like I need a donkey dancing on my dick, hero.’
“‘You know, that chip on your shoulder must get awful heavy some days. And most folk would spare a merci for the man who saved their lives, Lachance.’
“‘If you just came here to give me shit—’
“‘I came to give you this.’
“The boy looked to my outstretched hand. In my palm was an old sanctus phial, the sacrament long since smoked, the glass now filled to the stopper with ripe, fresh blood.
“‘I don’t smoke that shite, what am—’
“‘It’s not vampire blood. It’s mine.’ I gritted my teeth, scowling. ‘I have … gifts, boy. Gifts that most palebloods don’t. I don’t know the working of many of them, but I know if you carry this with you, I can sense you. Follow you. Find you anywhere in the empire.’
