by Jay Kristoff
“‘And Dior is the key,’ Chloe said, squeezing the boy’s hand.
“I looked down to the infected stag at our feet. The dream of roast venison was long abandoned, and only faint horror remained, keeping company with the thirst in my veins. Perhaps this Blight was the reason no wretched entered these woods. Maybe because people didn’t come here anymore, there was no prey for coldbloods to hunt. Whatever the reason, the ache in me was spreading like burning poison. When I looked to Chloe, my eyes couldn’t help but drift to the arteries pulsing swift below the line of her jaw. When Bellamy stepped up behind me, I couldn’t help but hear the song of his heart, lub-dubbing under his rasping breath.
“My teeth were sharp against my tongue. My throat, ashen.
“‘Let’s get the fuck out of this forest.’
“We trekked onward, not daring to forage anymore. We lit a fire, beacon be damned, and slept only a few hours a night, all of us unnerved. The dark was full of whispers, the sound of soft feet. Phoebe never roamed far, and I hadn’t the heart to tell the others about the silhouettes I saw creeping around the edges of our firelight. But though they followed, watched, nothing actually moved on us. We were interlopers here, unwelcome, but the Forest of Sorrows seemed content to let us leave. I rationed my sanctus, keeping myself just above the precipice, my mood souring more each day.
“‘Those spiders have human hands.’
“‘Shut the fuck up, Bouchette.’
“‘That tree … its face looks like … my mother’s.’
“‘Shut. The. Fuck. Up. Bouchette.’
“‘Is it me, or are the feathers on that bird … tiny tongues?’
“‘SHUT THE FUCK UP, BOUCHETTE!’
“Atop Jezebel, bowed against the cold, Père Rafa sighed. ‘The Book of Vows speaks that we are not made more by the God above us, but by the friends beside us. Yet in this case, Bellamy, I must concur with our good chevalier. Please, for the love of God, shut up.’
“The forest about us deepened, the strangeness with it, and after a fortnight our tempers were frayed to single threads. We were almost out of food, and I was down to my last peck of sanctus—just a few blood-dark flecks in the bottom of my phial. But at long last, we emerged from the weald onto a snow-capped tundra, a long plane of undulating grey before us. Phoebe bounded through the snow like an overjoyed puppy. Rafa clutched his wheel and turned his eyes skyward. Dior only sighed.
“‘If I never see another tree in my fucking life, I’ll die happy.’
“To the south, the Dílaenn River could be dimly seen—a thin strip of silver in the noontime grey. And in the distance ahead, we saw a sight that birthed a collective sigh of relief. A series of hills—once barley fields, now thick with potato scrub. A long road wound up to a tall peak, and atop it, like the Laerd Lady of all the surrounds, stood our goal.
“It was tall walls and good stone. It was stout gates and civilization. It was food. It was fire. It was liquor. It was sanctuary.
“‘At last.’
“Rafa smiled and made the sign of the wheel.
“‘San Guillaume.’”
XIII
SORROW AND SOLACE
“SAN GUILLAUME WAS a monastery, but it would still pass for a fortress in a pinch.
“The structure crowned a steep rise, unassailable save by the thin road winding up to its walls. On either side, the ground dropped away in sheer cliffs, the Dílaenn River branching away from the Volta at the fork and flowing toward the sea. The walls were pale limestone, battlements crusted with grey snow. Murder holes looked out like dark eyes on the ascent beneath. Around the walls stood a sea of shanties and tents—commonfolk seeking shelter in the monastery’s shadow, by the look. San Guillaume stood, silent and imperial, a monolith to God’s majesty in this wilderness.
“But I knew, as soon as I caught the scent on the wind …
“‘Something is wrong,’ Rafa murmured.
“We quickened our pace, the ache in my belly and in back of my eyes worsening as the smell of stale blood thickened. Drawing nearer, I saw that those tents and shanties were all empty, and dark shapes hung on the walls—wagon wheels lashed to the battlements with iron chain. Upon them, nailed upside down so that their souls would be steered toward hell, hung the bodies of a dozen men in the same pale robes as old Rafa wore.
“The songs of fat, sable crows hung on the wind with the stench of death. The priest breathed deep, eyes welling with tears. ‘What devilry is this?’
“‘Gabe…’ Chloe whispered, drawing her silversteel.
“I hauled Ashdrinker from her sheath, my grip tight.
“There are seven quarts of b-blood in a full-grown man, did ye know that?
“‘That I did,’ I murmured.
“Although, it depends on whether one uses the Elidaeni or N-N-Nordlund quart, I suppose. The commonly accept—
“‘Ash,’ I growled. ‘Eyes open, eh?’
“… I have no eyes, she whispered.
“I glanced to Saoirse as she slung Kindness off her back. Phoebe was a bloody shadow at her side, the lioness’s hackles rippling as we drew up to the gates. They were broad, ironclad, carved with the circle of the wheel. But they creaked open at my touch, and the slayer and I exchanged a grim glance.
“‘Rafa, Chloe,’ I said. ‘Stay here with Dior.’
“Phoebe loped inside, silence itself, and Saoirse and I followed with Bellamy behind. Stepping into a broad bailey that was quiet as graves, I could taste soot, rot, strong spirits. Buildings rose either side of us; the arched vaults of a library to the west, dormitories and distillery to the east. Ahead, the bailey opened into a broad, round garden—now snow-clad and silent. The great circle of a cathedral stood at the heart of it, all limestone and thin stained-glass windows. Beautiful mosaics depicting the lives of the Martyrs were set in the stone at our feet. But they were stained now—old blood soaked into the tiles.
“A monastery, Ashdrinker asked, or a mausoleum?
“More bodies. Dozens and dozens, most dressed in monk’s robes. They’d been dead a week or so by the look, left to rot where they fell. The floor was thick with rats, black-eyed and plump. Crows sat upon the bodies, pecking at treasures in half-frozen troves. More men were strung up on the walls in here, inverted like those poor bastards on the battlements.
“‘Bladework,’ Bellamy reported, kneeling by one of the bodies.
“‘The men on the walls look flayed to the bone.’ I spat the taste of death off my tongue, my belly aching. ‘Tortured and left to bleed out.’
“‘What in God’s name happened here, Gabriel?’
“‘A massacre…’
“‘Silversaint.’
“I looked to Saoirse, standing on the battlements above the gates. The slayer was pointing to the bodies and bloodstains on the bailey floor. It wasn’t until I climbed the stairs beside the gatehouse that I understood what she saw. From the ground, it appeared a simple carnage, but from on high, there was a method to this madness. Stomach turning, I realized the corpses were arranged in a pattern—a grim signature in dead meat.
“Flower and flail, flail and f-f-flower.
“I nodded. ‘Naél, Angel of Bliss.’
“‘This is the work of the Holy Inquisition,’ Bellamy whispered.
“‘Oh, dearest God…’
“I glanced downward at the moan, saw old Rafa in the gateway, dark skin blanched with grief. He stumbled into the bailey, holding the wheel at his throat so tight I thought the silver might bend. ‘Oh Heavenly Father, what hell is this?’
“He ran to the closest corpse, the rats scattering. Falling to his knees, he turned it gently, a long, shuddering moan slipping over his lips. ‘Ohhhhhhhh, no. Alfonse…?’ He turned to another body, just a boy by the look, and Rafa’s face crumpled like old vellum in a tightening fist. ‘Jamal? Jamal!’
“He seized hold of the body, rotting and lolling in his arms.
“‘What is this? WHAT MADNESS IS THIS?’
“‘Rafa!’
Chloe ran to the old man’s side, horrified. The priest clutched her, spittle on his lips as he began to come apart at his seams. ‘Oh, Rafa, Rafa…’
“‘Ch-chloe, th-this is Jamal. He … writes poetry. H-he … Oh, God … oh God…’
“Dior stood at the gates, sleeve pressed to his lips. A bitter wind blew in from the valley below, the boy’s magik frockcoat billowing about him as he met my eyes. And he knew it as sure as I did. As sure as the dark sun sinking toward the horizon must set. Every single person in this monastery had been slaughtered. And somehow, some way …
“‘This is because of me,’ he whispered.
“The slayer took the boy’s scarred hand. ‘Don’t say that, flower.’ And as Dior met Saoirse’s eyes, I saw tears welling in his lashes with the truth none could deny.
“‘Saoirse,’ I murmured. ‘Stay here and watch the others. I’ll look for survivors.’
“Rafa began howling, gut-deep, animal sobs. I shared a glance with Chloe as she pressed the old man to her breast, hushing and rocking him like a mother might. The atrocity of it all was etched in her eyes, bloodshot and brimming, and my jaw was clenched as I lifted Ashdrinker and strode into the library.
“The door was burned to char, old smoke in the air. Ashes danced about my boots, windows blacked with soot. My heart sank, some part of me aching worse than I had at the sight of those slaughtered men. The sword in my hand whispered, silver and full of sorrow.
“Blasphemy …
“Books. Thousands of books. Brass-trimmed codices and woodblock cuts. Vellum scrolls and parchment tomes, each illuminated by loving hands. And they’d been hurled like dross to the library floor, and there, set ablaze. Every one of them. Burned to fucking ashes.
“I knelt by the charred pile, flipping through ruined pages. The knowledge of geniuses, holy men and heathens, thousands of truths and thousands of lies, each of them a story worth the telling. And now, they were nothing but soot in my mouth as I whispered.
“‘A life without books is a life not lived.’
“Searching the other buildings, I found only bodies and the leavings of lives undone. Plates with half-finished meals. A partly woven wreath in a monk’s cell, never to be completed. I trudged out of the empty cathedral, my thirst stabbing at the relentless scent of old, wasted blood. Fountains carved in the likeness of angels spilled brackish water into long ponds. Beyond the cathedral, a tall wall ran along the lips of the cliffs. Beyond it, a drop waited, perhaps a hundred and fifty feet, down to the frothing rivers below.
“Rafa stood atop it, looking down into those grey, freezing waters.
“As I walked to the battlements beside him, the old priest met my eyes. He clutched the wheel strung about his neck, rubbing the silver between his fingers. His face was harrowed, cheeks wet with tears. I said not a word. I’d none in me for horror like this.
“And then … music.
“It began soft at first. A few notes echoing on bloodstained stone. But the chords slipped together into a bar, and the bar wove itself into a tune, and soon, I stood silent and amazed as that smattering of notes reached into the awful stillness and filled it.
“Young Bellamy was sitting up on the wall, playing his lute.
“But not just a song. A spell. Begun in the string-struck spiral of a melancholy refrain but ending, shivering upon my skin and loosing the anchors on the whole of my heart. It was a song I’d never heard like of, a song that might make stones weep and the wind cease its sighing for fear of missing one gentle, soul-sick moment. It was ache and longing, fulsome and wanting, each swell and shift sweeping you higher as it spoke—through no tongue of man or way as weak as words—a truth beyond telling. A sorrow-sweet circle, like the pearl-white crescent of angel wings, curving upward toward crescendo and then down, soft and softest, back to those same few ember-warm notes that began it all. It whispered at the edge of hearing, and it pressed lips smooth as silk to your aching brow and told you that though all things must have their ending, so too must then end darkness, and here, now, in this bright and blessed moment, you were alive and breathing.
“Bellamy struck one final chord, like the warmth of a kiss lingering after the lips have left your own. And he hung his head and was still. Chloe sat with face upturned, weeping. Rafa and I had followed the song back to the bailey, entranced, Dior mopping his lashes on his sleeve. Even Saoirse was pawing at her eyes. And reaching up to my cheeks, I was astounded to find them wet. But somehow, no sadness in my heart.
“‘Seven Martyrs…’ I breathed.
“‘That was … beautiful, Bellamy,’ Chloe whispered.
“‘Merci, Sœur Sauvage.’
“‘Does it have a name?’
“Bellamy’s fingers trailed along his silver necklet, lingering on the sixth of the musical notes strung upon it. ‘A soothsinger must pen seven songs to be considered a master by his peers in the Opus Grande. Seven songs through which they might speak the truth of the world. That was my sixth. “Sorrow and Solace.”’
“I shook my head, looking Bellamy over with new eyes. ‘And your seventh?’
“The young man smiled, gently putting his lute away. ‘I’ve not found it yet, Silversaint. That is why I left my Augustin, and my empress divine. To sing the truth of the world, I must see it first. And when I find that song, to her arms I shall return.’
“A strange silence fell then. Windswept, yet somehow warm. And into it, Dior spoke the question burning in everyone’s mind.
“‘What are we going to do now?’
“Chloe and Bellamy looked to me. Rafa stared yet at the carnage around us.
“‘There are no horses in the stables,’ I sighed. ‘But there’s some food yet unspoiled in the refectory. Vodka in the distillery. Things will look less dark with something hot in our bellies.’ I glanced to Chloe. ‘Mayhaps you and Dior could help Rafa cook a meal, Sister?’
“Chloe met my eyes and nodded. ‘Busy hands, busy minds.’
“She walked across the carnage to Rafa, standing still and silent. Taking the old priest’s arm, she murmured, and he blinked as if remembering where he was, allowing himself to be led away, beyond the arched oaken doors and out of sight. Bellamy came down from the walls. Saoirse joined me as Phoebe drifted out of the gate like smoke.
“I laced my collar up about my face, looked from soothsinger to slayer.
“‘Let’s get burning.’”
XIV
LIATHE
“THE STINK OF charred meat was thick on my tongue. We’d set the bodies burning a few hundred yards down the hill, smoke drifting skyward into thickening snows. I was throwing the last of them on the pyre—a boy, maybe twelve years old—when Phoebe came bounding back up the road.
“The sun hadn’t yet fallen; the lioness moved in a soft blur through the long shadows, all golden eyes and rust-red fur. Saoirse knelt in the frost as the beast loped up to her and circled once, growling, tail lashing side to side.
“The slayer’s eyes narrowed, and she looked at once to me. ‘Strife comin’.’
“‘Danton?’
“She shook her head, slung her axe off her back. ‘The other one.’
“I looked down the hill, jaw tightening as I saw a faint spot of blood-red stalking toward us through the falling grey.
“‘The monastery is holy ground. Both of you, get back inside. Now.’ I glanced to Saoirse, flashed her a small smile. ‘Pretty please with sugar on top.’
“The slayer scoffed, and we retreated back through the gates. Bellamy stood on the battlements with a tallow-soaked quarrel loaded in his crossbow and a burning barrel beside him. I waited with Saoirse just inside the open gate, armed and ready.
“The bodies were gone, but the scent lingered, the knuckle-deep clawing of old blood on the back of my throat. The thirst was a constant pain now, my fangs grown long in my gums. But I pushed thoughts of blood aside as best I could, watching that figure come on like wolf to wounded deer, until she stopped but a few dozen yards from the walls.
<
br /> “The highblood stood in the dying light, locks of dull midnight-blue parted about her face, running thick to her waist. She wore her long red frockcoat and tight black leathers, silken shirt parted from her pale chest. Her face was obscured by that porcelain mask, black lips and dark, kohled lashes. She was slender, tall—just a maid when she was murdered. But her eyes were bleached with time—a dead thing’s eyes, drained of all light and life. Looking to Bellamy on the wall above, Saoirse and me waiting just beyond the threshold, she flipped her frockcoat hem back and gave a formal, strangely masculine bow, like gentry at court. Her voice was soft as shadows, marred by that slight, slurring lisp.
“‘Good evening, Monsssieur, Mademoissselle, Chevalier.’
“I glanced to the sun on the still-warm horizon. ‘Not yet it’s not.’
“The vampire looked past me to the buildings behind. ‘Where isss the child?’
“‘You’ve got balls, bitch. Coming to holy ground with the sun yet up.’
“‘The one who comesss behind us will not be so polite as to asssk at all. But we will repeat ourselvesss once.’ Those pale eyes fixed on mine. ‘Where isss the child?’
“Phoebe bared her teeth in a soft snarl as Saoirse rested Kindness on her shoulder. ‘I dare ye step across that threshold to look for him, leech.’
“The vampire didn’t blink. But my eyes were now fixed on the sword in her hand. The weapon was gently curved, long, graceful as its mistress. When I’d seen it in the dark by that watchtower near the Ūmdir, I’d thought the blade had simply been soaked red with the blood of the wretched she’d killed. But now, with bones burning and tongue parched, I realized the sword wasn’t just drenched in blood. It was made of blood.
“Her blood.
“‘Who are you?’ I demanded.
“The vampire bowed again, deeper this time. ‘You may call usss Liathe.’”
High in the reaches of a lonely tower, a swiftly scratching pen fell suddenly still. The Last Silversaint drained his glass to the dregs as the historian of Margot Chastain, First and Last of Her Name, Undying Empress of Wolves and Men, blinked once. Jean-François’s voice was still sweet as smoke, but a fury boiled beneath his honey-smooth tones.
