Blade and Soul

by C. M. Estopare

  “And so, what did you do?” he pressed.

  “The Odette and I—we saved him. We sent him somewhere else.”

  “Duchess Mariett's son?”

  Loris sighed, “Yes.”

  Dimitri looked to their mother—was this what she wanted?

  She simply looked on, her eyes like that of a cat.

  Loris felt her eyes, brought the heels of his palms away from his forehead and stood.

  “Anne.” he hissed, his eyes red and puffy as they glared into their mother's low cowl.

  “Loris,” she sang, “my son.”

  Dimitri stepped away.

  “You're back.”

  She nodded.

  Loris snorted, “To change things, I suppose?” he closed the gap between them. He reached out—his hand like a viper—and clutched the leaf pendent closing her cloak, “Does it begin with me, Anne? Does it all begin with my death?”

  She brought a slow hand to his shoulder.

  Loris shrugged it off and dropped his hold of her pendant.

  Anne stumbled backward. Caught herself. She locked eyes with Dimitri, “I believe your brother has had enough of the rain.” she didn't wait for an answer, “Call the Warden, Dimitri.”

  Dimitri stiffened before approaching the cellar door to his far right. He knocked once. Immediately, two men in supple black leather came marching out.

  Dimitri turned. Watched the men approach his brother as their mother clasped Loris's hand. Her grip was tight. Pulsating.

  Silver changed hands. It slipped between fingers and vanished beneath a threadbare sleeve of black.

  DIMITRI WENT TO NO one with the information he gleaned. His mother forbade it.

  “But this could change the course of his trial—this could save his life!”

  Anne stood before the door to her chambers, stooping as she held her wrist, “Dear boy,” she cupped Dimitri's face gently. Traced the long and jagged scar that trailed from forehead to jaw, “his life is already forfeit.”

  “But—but you said if we visited we could free him...”

  “Freedom can mean many things.”

  He had to trust her. A Djinn was helping them—Dunstan Riche.

  He had to trust her.

  For he had nothing else.

  THE DAY BID GOODBYE. The sun set. The moon rose and midnight roared with a vengeance.

  The sky was starless when the slayer haunted Dimitri's dreams again.

  Have you ever felt like something was...missing?

  Repetition, young man. Repetition, repetition, repetition.

  Dimitri bolted upright in his bed as wrinkled hands clung to his forearms. An older man in a sweat-stained night shirt shook him. Dimitri recognized him as his father's steward.

  “The Victor Courtroom, Monsieur—you've been summoned. Your entire family—,”

  Dimitri sprung from the bed. Wearing only a chemise and cotton breeches, he sprinted from the room and into the long corridor outside. Passing lit sconce after sconce, he flew down a curving stairwell while avoiding other denizens of the chateau shaken awoke from their slumbers.

  He heard rumors. Whispers.

  “The slayer—he...exists?”

  “Cold blood, I heard. Strangled. Throat slit. Coins stuffed into...”

  “What a gruesome way to pass...may his soul enter the underworld...”

  “The way he died—body strung up on display—”

  Dimitri entered the chateau's main vestibule at a sprint that left him gasping for air. A sleepy crowd shambled before the tall doors of the Victor Courtroom, and Dimitri shoved his way through them. The babbling sea opened for him—courtiers looked down with obvious pity etching their eyes. Some apologized. Some said nothing.

  He entered the Victor Courtroom and halted. Head Councilman Dubois stood at the head of the audience box, his back to the crowd of sleepy people. He ignored the surge of panic as he stepped aside and moved to a corner.

  Slowly, the councilman fell to his haunches. Dropping his head into his hands, he rocked back and forth.

  The people erupted into a chorus of shrieks and screams. Accusations were wielded like swords as authoritative voices called for the head of Safrana's slayer.

  On the raised dais of the courtroom, before the audience box lay Loris's body. His limbs tangled, laying at odd angles. His throat bloodied. Cut with a single silver knife sticking up from the scarlet stained gouge. Unlike the first corpse Dimitri found—this one hadn't been desecrated. His entrails stayed inside of his body, though his limbs were broken. Twisted. Bones stuck out at odd places.

  Dimitri's stomach rolled.

  “Loris! My son—” his father's voice silenced the crowd. Made the courtroom swelter.

  Ripping through the crowd, he dove for the raised dais. His large face a thunderous storm of swirling emotion as he hovered over Loris's discarded corpse and bellowed, “Did he die here, Monsieur?!”

  Councilman Dubois shook his head.

  “How is he here, then? Who—who found him in this state?!”

  The courtroom surged with agitation.

  “No one?” his father screeched, “No one will step up?!” he paced. Back and forth. His hands clasped behind him, “What was he doing out of the damned tower, Acel? How did he end up here?!” he stopped, stood before the courtroom, “Who found my boy?!”

  Dimitri ground his teeth.

  The slayer could somehow...teleport bodies—people—things.

  Had Dunstan Riche done this? Was this his mother's idea of...freedom?

  His father spun around on the dais. Kneeled and plucked the knife from Loris's bloody throat. He snapped his gaze to the rocking councilman—his face red. Burning, “Read the initials!” he snapped.

  The councilman stood. The crowd screeched with anticipation.

  Councilman Dubois stared at the knife's gilded handle. Old eyes scanned—reading an inscription upon the steel. His eyes became wide. Wild. He shook his head—he held the weapon in both hands and shook his head violently.

  “Ghyslain Savatier,” Dimitri's father boomed as the courtroom erupted into an explosion of shocked voices—heated accusations and calls, “your life is mine.”

  Dimitri scanned the room—he stood higher.

  Where was his mother?

  A hand grabbed his wrist—jerked him down. Forced him to bend his knees and stoop.

  “Oh—Dimitri!”

  He met his younger sister's puffy eyes. Coiled brown hair sat atop her head like a hive. She wore a disheveled nightgown of lavender.

  “Loris—Loris is—!”

  Dimitri grunted—he couldn't shrug away as Lucie brought her face to his shoulder and cried.

  Where was she?

  “Mother—mother is deathly sick. Sick with grief! She couldn't rise from her bed because of the—,” she hiccuped, “—because of the news!”

  She hiccuped once more before pulling him down further, “Loris is dead, Dimitri!”

  Dimitri pulled away, “It has been five years,” he murmured, staring into her golden eyes, “how do you recognize me?”

  The courtroom fell away as Lucie sucked in a breath.

  TWELVE

  Marceline

  A single candle winked, the orange light shivering as it sat upon the floor.

  Bated breath hissed near it, the flame dancing with every painful blast of air.

  Remy lay with her arms bound behind her, moaning. Tears intermingling with snot.

  From her perch atop an empty crate, Marceline watched as Gerard kneeled near the bound woman. A thin needle slid between the agent's middle and ring finger. It glittered in the dancing light.

  Near his knee, a translucent vial of silvershade sat.

  Gerard looked to Marceline, then to Lucius.

  Marceline interlaced her fingers as Lucius tilted his head, “Why did the two of you come to the chateau?” she tried again, “Why attempt to kidnap me? Why is it important that Bann agents are here? What do you hope to gain?”

  Silenc
e.

  “What group sent you, Remy? Answer me.”

  Remy hawked. She spat.

  Marceline met Gerard's stern gaze. She nodded.

  Dipping the end of the long needle into the vial at his side, he raised it. Rammed it into Remy's arm once more.

  Remy's eyes shot open—widened. She screeched. Bit her tongue and kept the scream within her. Her arms began to convulse as her legs twitched. Thrashing upon the floor, the candlelight moved with her—dancing as she did. Thrashing as she did.

  “Ah, silvershade,” Lucius droned, picking at his fingernails as Marceline stood, “feels like a knife prying the muscle from your bone—over and over again.” he snorted, “Wasn't it at the Silvershade Trial, Marcy? When the two of them dropped out?”

  Marceline nodded, “Yes.” she approached Remy with a small vial of ointment. Kneeling, she slathered some upon Remy's pinprick of a wound.

  It was Marceline's way of apologizing that Remy was mixed up in all of this. Silently, she wished Kafka had never fallen. She wished the two sisters could have switched places.

  Remy quieted. Sighed.

  Gerard dropped the needle to the floor. Stood and took a step back, the floor creaking beneath his weight.

  “Look, Remy, I'm helping you.”

  Remy stiffened, pursed her lips and glared at the black wall before her.

  “Tell me why you're here. That's it. Just one question at a time.”

  Remy snapped her gaze to Marceline's. She snorted, twisting up her nose. Her face. She coughed.

  Spit smacked Marceline's hand. A glob of yellow phlegm.

  Marceline roared as Lucius chuckled uncontrollably behind her.

  The air thickened. He cut his laughter short.

  “You'd find more information on a corpse.” Gerard grunted, crossing his tree trunk like arms.

  He was right.

  Reaching for the collar of Remy's brigandine, Marceline began unbuttoning and unlacing the large surcoat sewn with plated leather. Remy's breath pulsed from her nostrils in short bursts as she opened her mouth to speak. She drew in air—let it go. Marceline continued undressing her, treating the larger woman like a corpse that needed to be searched.

  Remy's heel sprung out—narrowly missing Marceline's belly.

  Marceline ripped the brigandine from the woman's body. A badge clattered to the floor.

  As Remy yelped—sprang to sitting and reared back her head. Screeched. Threw her head forward.

  Stretching her arm out, Marceline searched for Gerard's discarded needle. Fingertips brushed thin metal and she grasped it. Held it in both hands before plunging it into Remy's naked shoulder.

  Remy froze. Marceline twisted the needle. Plunged it in farther.

  Blood bubbled forth.

  “Forget the girl.” Lucius hissed from the opposite side of the room, “Come. Listen.”

  Marceline heard footsteps.

  Remy belted out a cry.

  “Shut her up!”

  Marceline dislodged the needle from her shoulder. She aimed it at her throat.

  Remy bit her tongue.

  Silence hung like a dead man.

  Until they heard footsteps from outside. Rushing up the corridor.

  “I hear metal. Plate.” Gerard said, pressing his ear to the antechamber's rickety door.

  Marceline snatched the badge from the floor. She shoved it into Remy's face, “This is your last chance.” she hissed, “This the sigil of the group that sent you?”

  The badge was gold. A seven-pointed sun blazed in its center.

  Remy coughed. Scarlet trailed from her lips, “Assassins—cannot go to the afterlife. The Fates will not allow you into the underworld, Marceline...” she shook her head, “...whatever...duty you have to the Bann and to the Masters...” Remy met Marceline's eye. Spat blood from her distended lips, “...is it worth your soul?”

  Marceline's grip tightened around the badge.

  Knuckles battered the thick door of the main chamber outside.

  Lucius opened the antechamber’s door and entered the main chamber.

  Outside, the door to the main chamber sprung open.

  Six men entered.

  “You've no time left.” Lucius whispered, his voice sharp, “Silence her.”

  Marceline stiffened. She knew what that meant.

  Remy's eyes wouldn't leave her. They stared—determined, “Take the badge,” she breathed, “Join us.”

  Tossing the needle to the ground, Marceline grabbed Remy by the throat. Pressing her thumb upon Remy's largest vein, blood throbbed beneath her grip as she ventured one last look into Remy's hard eyes, “Sleep.”

  Long seconds passed before she did. Her body dropping to the floor with a thump.

  Marceline pocketed the badge and stood. Followed Lucius and Gerard out into the main chamber.

  Gingerly, she shut the door to the antechamber behind her.

  Ghyslain's massive apartments were the most apt for interrogation, so they had brought the Remy girl here. They expected peace, quiet.

  Not an audience.

  Five chateau guardsmen in silver plated armor stood in a detail of twos behind a tall herald in a short pea green surcoat. His eyes were consumed by heavy wrinkles, his mouth a perpetual frown soured by the dying light of the moon as it cast its glow from two towering latticed windows.

  Lucius whistled for their attention.

  The six men paused.

  “It's nearly past midnight, men.” Lucius took a step forward, “You're trespassing. Why are you here?”

  The herald raised his chin, “Where's your master, boy?”

  Marceline and Gerard flanked Lucius, glaring at the guardsmen.

  The hairs upon Marceline's neck rose.

  “Leave.” Lucius commanded, staring down at the herald, “Return in the morning, when the master is up.”

  Metal clanked and screeched as the five guardsmen moved to fan out around the herald.

  “We have orders to take your master tonight!”

  Steel hissed as swords were freed.

  “Leave.” Lucius intoned, “Now.”

  “Or what?”

  The guardsmen gathered, their silver armor gleaming. Swords glittering.

  As, opposite the three agents, a door swung open and slammed into the wall adjacent.

  Ghyslain stood in the doorway, a candle glimmering before him.

  “What's the meaning of this?” he barked.

  The group turned.

  As Marceline, Lucius and Gerard rushed to block their way. The three became a bulwark between the herald and Ghyslain. They dared the man to shove his way through.

  The herald conceded.

  “Monsieur Ghyslain Savatier,” he began, “you are summoned to the Victor Courtroom.”

  “And the reason?”

  The herald sucked in a long breath, “For the murder of Loris Couture, of which your weapon—with the inscription, 'Ghyslain Savatier'—was found lodged in the corpse of the deceased. You are summoned to the courtroom, as well as to the tower upon High Hill.” the herald leaned in. Lucius stood his ground, “You will hang for what you have done, Slayer.”

  The herald hawked. Spat.

  As Ghyslain stepped back and slammed the door before him.

  The chamber shivered. The herald froze. Behind him, swords hissed from their scabbards as the guardsmen braced themselves.

  Marceline licked her lips. Gerard tensed. Lucius uncrossed his arms.

  “Wh—what are you doing?!” The herald screeched—flinging his arms up into the air, “Kill them—ream them—cut them down and apprehend the slayer!”

  Knives against swords. Stilettos, really.

  Marceline slid her stiletto from her collar. Blew a piece of hair from her face.

  They'd have to protect Ghyslain to fulfill the contract—if they failed...

  The masters would silence Lucius—then cut the rest of them loose. Marceline would wander without a purpose—forever and ever.

  The herald mo
ved away, screaming—commanding.

  Wandering without a purpose—her heart sped up, hammering against her chest. Threatening to propel itself through her throat—that was worse than death.

  Would she die here?

  The guardsmen charged. Swords drawn. Silvery ends pointed.

  She stiffened, stiletto drawn.

  Armor glinted.

  Men heaved.

  Blades hissed.

  Energy cleaved through the air. Thinning it.

  As Lucius cried. Dropped to all fours and howled as his back contorted. Spiky fur protruded through his skin. His face elongated. Bones cracked and reformed. Resurfaced. A tail sprouted.

  He howled—his voice inhuman. Strangulated.

  Marceline stiffened. Gerard sucked in a breath.

  As the chateau guardsmen flinched mid-charge. Gasping, muscles stiffening. Some froze in place—steel plates clinking. A sword clattered loudly to the ground.

  In his corner, the herald blanched.

  A monstrous fox-like beast took Lucius's place. It charged at the three men. Slapping them to the ground with its herculean black body. Its spiked fur entered through the openings in their armor.

  The fox huffed, sprinting at the fourth guardsman. Its head clashed with the guardsman's silver helmet and the man screamed. With a blood-curdling roar, he lifted his sword and plunged it through the beast's meaty hind leg.

  Both went down. Slid across the floor and halted.

  Marceline raced to the three men wreathing upon the floor. Like lightening, she ripped through the skin beneath their gorgets. Blood sprinkled her. Stained her face and hands.

  Gerard took his stiletto to the fourth man. Ignoring Lucius's fox form, he lodged the point of his stiletto into the man's Adam's apple.

  He let him bleed out.

  Only the herald and a final guardsman remained. The two backed themselves into a corner. The herald pissed himself.

  Marceline met Gerard's eyes. Their duty to Lucius was an unspoken one. She snatched her gaze to Lucius's fox form crumpled upon the ground. It huffed. Panted in the white light.

  No one could know of Lucius's beast form. Of a changeling in the chateau, and in the Bann. The masters would silence them all if word got out.

  Gerard flung himself at the final guardsman. Shoved him to the ground and cleaved the end of his stiletto through soaked skin.