“WE’D RIDDEN THROUGH the night, as if hell itself followed on our tails. The first winter snows were falling, the bloodstains from our battle at the watchtower still caked upon my hands. But it wasn’t ’til the sun dragged its sorry arse into the sky that I felt somewhere near safe. Daylight was no bane to the Dead anymore, but Danton Voss wasn’t fool enough to strike at anything less than full strength again.
“Next time, he’d come in the night.
“We traveled into a long stretch of dead oaks choked with fungal snarls. The north wind whispered cold secrets, biting at ears and blue fingertips. I rode on the flank, studying this strange company sidelong and wondering just how deep the shite little Chloe Sauvage had dragged me into truly was.
“It’d been over a decade since I’d seen her, but I was still surprised at how much she’d changed. Chloe had always been a bookish sort, prim and painfully devout. But her freckles had faded, and her eyes were older—a woman now, where once had stood a girl. She was dressed more like a soldier than a nun; a dark surcoat over a chainmail shirt, a silversteel sword at her side and a wheellock rifle on her back, that infuriating mass of mousy brown curls bound into a long tail. But as we rode through the ghostwood, still she rubbed the silver sevenstar about her neck endlessly, lips moving in silent prayer.
“Dior rode behind Chloe, the boy’s arms encircling the holy sister’s waist as he chattered almost incessantly. He was an odd one—a manor lord’s frockcoat and a beggar king’s britches, that tumble of ash-white hair hanging in bright blue eyes. He carried a silvered dagger in his coat, and a heavy chip on his shoulder. I’d have put him at maybe fourteen, but there was an edge to him, glass-sharp and gutter-born. He looked at me like he’d slit my throat for half a brass royale.
“Saoirse traveled on foot, with Phoebe loping along at her side. Of all the company, the slayer impressed me most—she stole through the deadwoods like a wraith, and moved with a grace that told me those blades she carried weren’t for the jollies. Under her wolfskin cloak, she wore beautifully tooled leathers and chainmail, a kilt of black and three shades green. Two interwoven stripes were inked down the right side of her face, bloody scarlet. That big red mountain lion she ran with made most of the horses nervous, and the pair spent the day scouting tirelessly, returning only now and then for a check-see.
“Last came Père Rafa and Bellamy Bouchette, the priest and soothsinger riding side by side. Rafa’s robes were the pale, homespun cloth you’d find on the backs of most monastery men. His skin was dark and worn like old leather, thick square spectacles perched precariously at the end of a long, thin nose. He looked skinny enough to snap with my smallest finger, but I still recalled our battle by the watchtower—that wheel around his neck burning like a bonfire as he saw that strange masked highblood off our backs.
“Bellamy wore a fine dark-grey doublet, mail, a cloak of what might’ve been greyfox. A silvered chain with six musical notes was strung about his neck. His longblade hung at his side, his grey felt cap tipped so rakishly it’s a wonder it didn’t fall off his head. His jaw was like to a shovel blade, and I wasn’t sure how he managed it, but his stubble was still a perfect three days’ length. He rode beside the priest, and though I put him at maybe twenty, he played with his fine bloodwood lute like a thirteen-year-old boy with his cock.”
“Artfully?” Jean-François asked.
“Constantly. I fucking hate soothsingers. Almost as much as spuds.”
“Why?”
“Poets are wankers,” Gabriel sighed. “And minstrels are just poets who’re allowed to strum themselves in public. It’s a self-important prat who believes his thoughts are worth putting to parchment, let alone writing a fucking ballad about.”
“But music, de León…” The vampire leaned forward, animated for perhaps the first time since their conversation began. “Music is a truth beyond telling. A bridge between strangest souls. Two men who speak not a word of each other’s tongues may yet feel their hearts soar likewise at the same refrain. Gift a man the most important of lessons, he may forget it amorrow. Gift him a beautiful song, and he shall hum it ’til the day the crows make a castle of his bones.”
“Very pretty, vampire. But truth is a sharper knife. Truth is, most men write songs so they can hear themselves sing. And the rest sing not for the song, but for the applause at the end. You know what most men don’t do enough of?”
“Tell me, Silversaint.”
“They don’t shut the fuck up. They don’t just sit and listen. It’s in silence we know ourselves, vampire. It’s in stillness we hear the questions that truly matter, scratching like baby birds on the eggshells of our eyes. Who am I? What do I want? What have I become? Truth is, the questions you hear in the quiet are always the most terrifying, because most people never take the time to listen to the answers. They dance. And they sing. And they fight. And they fuck. And they drown, filling their gullets with piss and their lungs with smoke and their heads with shit so they never have to learn the truth of who the fuck they are. Put a man in a room for a hundred years with a thousand books, and he’ll know a million truths. Put him in a room for a year with silence, and he’ll know himself.”
The vampire watched the silversaint drain his wine to the dregs, then refill his glass all the way to the trembling brim.
“Do you know what irony is, de León?”
“They make swords out of it, don’t they? Mix it with coally and hit it with a hammery?”
“Halfway through his second bottle, sweating for another pipeful, and he chastises others for their vices.” Jean-François tutted. “The only thing worse than a fool is a fool who thinks himself wise.”
“I’ve spent my time in that silent room, vampire. I know what I am.”
The silversaint raised his goblet and smiled.
“I just don’t like it very much.
“We finally crossed the Ūmdir at a shallow ford, the waters rushing up along the flanks of our horses. Dior seemed to get his back up as the river got deep, and I wondered if the boy was afraid of getting that fine stolen coat of his soaked. It stopped his chatter for a while at least. Jezebel didn’t seem to mind the wet, though, and I gifted my big dray a fond scratch behind her ears. Despite her change in circumstances, the horse seemed glad to know me—I supposed I was a kinder master than that pair of inquisitors I’d pinched her from. I just wished I had some sugar to gift her.
“As we clopped up the freezing bank, I unfurled my beaten map, pulled out my spyglass, and took one last look at the lands behind. In our wake lay the Sūdhaem; warmer climes and little patches of civilization still free of coldblood hungers. But ahead, between us and the Volta, the war-torn wastes of Ossway awaited. The river was at least a month’s ride, presuming no one harried our steps. But truth told, I was hoping someone would.
“‘Why did Voss set the Beast of Vellene on your trail?’ I called.
“The question had been chewing at me all night and day, and now that we were across the water and safe-ish, it needed asking. I still felt too far in the dark about Chloe and her little band—where they’d come from, how all this started. If they were to be my bait for Danton, I wanted to know exactly what I was putting on my hook.
“‘How does the Forever King know about this Grail bullshit at all?’
“I looked over my shoulder to Chloe, Dior sitting behind her. We were riding a thin strip of mud that could barely qualify as road. The dead trees were thick with shadow and frozen blooms of fungus, crusted with grey snow. But Chloe’s eyes were closed, and heavenward. Lost in prayer mostlike.
“‘Chloe?’
“‘I fear the fault is mine, Silversaint,’ old Rafa sighed.
“‘Well, best start talking straightwise, priest. We’ve one of the most dangerous leeches in the empire hunting us, and I’d have the why of it. As soon as Danton gathers strength enough, he’ll be at us like a shore-leave swab to the nearest doxyhouse.’
“The wanker paused his strumming. ‘He means to say “enthusiastically,” Père.’
“‘Merci, Bellamy, I understood the implication.’ The old man turned dark eyes to me. ‘And I fear this Prince of Forever will not be the only shadow at our backs, Silversaint.’
“‘I’ve no patience for riddles, old man. Best start at the beginning.’
“Rafa breathed deep. ‘I have served God since I was a young man. As a b—’
“‘Hold, hold.’ I held up one hand. ‘When I said the beginning, I didn’t mean I wanted your fucking life story. Get to the part that matters, priest.’
“That earned some sideways looks from the company; Chloe opening her eyes and raising one brow, Dior scowling, the wanker chuckling over his lute. And oui, I was acting bitchly. But it’d been over twenty-four hours since I’d smoked that pipeful upon Dhahaeth’s walls, and the thirst had me by the bollocks. The blood I’d squeezed out of that fledgling’s heart was still stowed inside my greatcoat, and I could practically taste it already. But we’d had no time to scratch ourselves, let alone to cook a hit of sanctus, so I’d been rationing what little I had left, smoking just enough to keep the edge off.
“Mostly, anyways.
“‘Well, quite.’ Rafa cleared his throat. ‘But to my point, I have served the Order of San Guillaume for forty-one years. I am a linguist and astrologer. A student of the universal spheres.’ He lifted his arms skyward like a conductor afore a symphony. ‘And when the shadow fell across our sun, I devoted my life to uncovering how it might be undone.’
“‘What Père Rafa is too modest to say,’ Chloe interrupted, ‘is that he’s one of the most preeminent scholars on daysdeath in the empire.’
“The old man smiled with small, worn teeth. ‘You flatter me, good Sister.’
“Chloe bowed. ‘Flattery well earned, good Father.’
“‘Oui, oui, I’ll tickle his taint later,’ I growled. ‘But San Guillaume is a distillery, not a library. Used to be the finest barley fields in the Ossway on those hills. Even nowadays they make a vodka that’ll peel the paint off walls.’
“‘’Tis true my brotherhood made coin from the fruits of the bottle,’ Rafa nodded. ‘But that coin has always been spent in acquisition and preservation of knowledge. San Guillaume boasts one of the finest libraries in the empire, Silversaint.’
“‘I’ve been searching for daysdeath lore in the San Michon Library the last seventeen years, Gabe,’ Chloe said. ‘But ten years back, I heard tell from Frère Fincher that a monk in San Guillaume was also a keen scholar on the topic. I sent a missive, and Rafa answered.’
“‘Thus began a long correspondence.’ The old man smiled, fond as a father. ‘And the finest of friendships, with one of the keenest minds I’ve encountered in all m—’
“‘Fuck me,’ I sighed. ‘She’s already married, priest. And to God no less.’
“‘Are you trying to be a bleeding arsehole, hero?’ Dior scowled. ‘Or are you just naturally gifted?’
“‘Shut your noise hole, boy. The adults are talking.’
“Chloe squeezed the lad’s hand. ‘Dior … please…’
“The boy fell silent, staring bright blue daggers at my neck.
“‘Over the next decade,’ Rafa continued, ‘Sister Chloe and I traded information. Following a fragile thread through thousands of texts. With the good sister’s advice, I searched the Library with fresh eyes. And within the pages of a timeworn tome, I unearthed a message. Written in a manner that I believe you are familiar with, Silversaint.’
“I met Chloe’s eyes, nodding slow. ‘What kind of message?’
“‘A poem. Penned in old Talhostic. From holy cup comes holy light; the faithful hand sets world aright. And in the Seven Martyrs’ sight, mere man shall end this endless night.’
“‘It’s a prophecy, Gabe.’ Chloe’s eyes blazed with a familiar fervor. ‘A prophecy about the Grail, and ending daysdeath once and for all.’
“I scoffed. ‘And the abbot let you leave San Michon on the back of that? Alone?’
“‘I finally convinced him there might be merit in all this a little over a year ago. The war had grown so deep by then, he could spare few ’saints for so thin a gambit. But he did send two brothers with me on the road. Frère Theo Petit and his apprentice, Julién.’
“‘I remember Theo,’ I smiled. ‘A good man. A better blade. How is the old dog?’
“Chloe lowered her eyes. Old Père Rafa made the sign of the wheel.
“‘We were ambushed one night,’ he said. ‘Crossing the Ossway, shortly after I’d been collected from San Guillaume. A war party of the Blood Dyvok. Brother Theo and Julién…’
“I glanced to the silversteel sword Chloe wore, realizing who it had belonged to.
“‘Shit…’
“Rafa nodded. ‘We traveled on undaunted, more than a year now. But we needed more help. Young Bellamy joined us in Sul Ilham half a year back—’
“I glanced at the wanker as he struck a note on his lute for dramatic effect.
“‘Young Saoirse has traveled with us perhaps three months,’ Rafa continued. ‘And M. Lachance here is the newest addition to our little band.’
“‘Right, so madman’s poetry and little Lord Shitinhisbritches aside, how did the Forever King get word of any of this?’
“‘As I say, I fear the blame is mine,’ the priest said, scratching his pointed grey beard. ‘Once Chloe and I assembled a compelling case, I informed the head of my order, and Abbot Liam sent word of my discovery to Pontifex Gascoigne in the capital. We fear someone among the Pontifex’s inner circle may be … compromised.’
“I sucked my lip, scowling, my mind running over the tale. ‘Well, it still all sounds like horseshit to me. But if the Forever King has set the Beast of Vellene on you…’
“‘Why do they call him the Beast of Vellene?’
“It was Dior who’d spoken, the rest of the group falling silent. I looked the boy over, the swagger, the scowl. He had one of those traproot cigarelles dangling from his lips, unlit. As I met her eyes, Chloe shook her head in warning. But I figured the little prick could do with some waking up about the shite we were all in.
“‘Vellene was the first city that fell to the Forever King,’ I said. ‘Seventeen years ago. After the gates came down, Voss had every man and woman within slaughtered to bolster the numbers of his legion. His daughter Laure murdered every babe in the city, and made a bath of their blood. But Voss’s baby boy Danton has a fondness for untouched girls. Rumor has it, he herded every maid he could find into Vellene’s dungeons. Locked them up. Kept them fed. And every night, he’d release ten of them from the city gates.’
“Dior frowned. ‘What for?’
“‘For sport. He’d promise they’d be spared if they eluded him ’til dawn. And then, one by one, he’d hunt them down. Tracking them across the frozen wastes, slaughtering them like hogs before setting off after the next. He hunted and killed every girl in the city that way. Took him months. And the last of them, a hollow and broken shell by then, he let live, releasing her only so she might babble tales of the slaughter.’
“‘Great fucking Redeemer…’ the soothsinger whispered.
“‘Blasphemy, Bellamy,’ Chloe murmured.
“‘That’s who we have hunting us, boy,’ I said. ‘That’s the kind of bloodhound we…’
“My voice drifted off as I heard the faint thunder of hooves. My pulse quickened, and I wondered if by speaking of the Beast, I’d somehow conjured him. But all thoughts of Danton evaporated as I lifted my spyglass and spotted a dozen riders rushing up the muddy track behind us. Most were men, soldiers, clad in crimson tabards. But the pair in front were women, long black hair cut in sharp fringes over veiled eyes. My belly sank into my boots as I recognized them. Tight leathers. Dark mail. So identical they couldn’t be anything other than twins. They wore black gauntlets on their right hands, blood-red tabards marked with the flower and flail of Naél, the Angel of Bliss.
“That inquisitor cohort …
“‘Fuck,’ I sighed.
“‘Fuuuck,’ Dior said.
“‘… Fuuuck?’ I asked.
“‘Fuuuuuuuuck,’ he nodded.
“A horn blast rang over a distant shout. ‘Halt! In the name of the Inquisition!’
“‘Mothermaid curse them,’ Chloe hissed.
“Bellamy slapped his horse and roared, ‘Hoof it!’
“And we were off, pounding down the muddy trail with the cohort at our backs. We ran hard, but old Rafa wasn’t a rider’s arsehole, and our mounts were in need of a breather after a hard night’s slog. Glancing behind, I saw the cohort were gaining. And if you’re going to have to fight, coldblood, don’t waste the best of yourself fleeing.
“I took hold of Ashdrinker’s hilt, drew her into the dull daylight.
“Be that not the n-nun ye shot, y-ye shot?
“‘That’s her.’
“She looks upset. You should s-send her flowers. Girls like f-flowers, Gabriel.
“‘Stow that lute, Bouchette!’ I roared. ‘There’s heads need kicking!’
“‘Nae!’ came a cry.
“I caught a flash of movement, saw Saoirse barreling through the trees swift as a deer, strawberry-blonde braids streaming behind her. Phoebe came running on the slayer’s tail, the lioness just a russet blur. With a skill I’d rare seen like of, the clanswoman leapt aboard Rafa’s galloping horse, shoving the priest back and grabbing his reins.
“‘Nae place to fight that many! Follow!’
“Saoirse steered the horse into the deadwood around us. Chloe and Dior followed, Bellamy tipping me a wink as he galloped past, lute still in hand. I slowed long enough to crack off the shot in my wheellock, and then I was away, riding hard on the soothsinger’s arse as we crashed through rotten scrub and towering spires of ’shrooms and ’stools.
“The light plunged dimmer as we rode, branches stretched overhead like a tangle of beggars’ hands. I heard pursuit behind, another shout: ‘Halt in the name of the Inquisition!’ but when the fuck has that worked, honestly? I knew not where she was headed, but the slayer’s woodslore was tip of the top, and she led us along a switching path through frozen bramble and branch before charging us down into a narrow gully.
“The earth had split wide and deep, the roots of old trees and tendrils of fresh asphyxia forming a matted roof over our heads. Her lioness was nowhere to be seen, but Saoirse held up a hand for a halt, finger to her lips. Chloe’s head was bowed in prayer, old Rafa rubbing his wheel between forefinger and thumb. I heard another peal from that horn, the dim thunder of approaching hooves.
“‘Talya!’ a woman cried. ‘Can you see them?’
“‘Valya! This way!’
“I like her voice. She sounds pretty, is she p-pretty?
“I scowled at the sword in my hand, the silvered dame on the hilt.
“I be not in the mood to slay nuns this d-day, Gabriel. I have done that enough f—
“‘Shut up,’ I growled.
“Rafa glanced over his shoulder. ‘I said nothing, Silversaint.’
“‘Hssst!’ Saoirse hissed.
“The hoofbeats grew louder, and I heard the ragged breath of horse and man as the riders closed in. If those god-bothering pricks had caught us in that gully, it’d have been red slaughter. But my heart eased as they crashed past, all thunder and fury, a few dozen yards southward. Chloe made the sign of the wheel, Dior sitting behind her with dagger in fist, cheeks pinched pink with chill, that unlit cigarelle still dangling from his lips. The boy met my eyes through his mop of white hair, and I saw he was more furious than afraid.
“Whatever else he might have been, it seemed Dior Lachance was no coward.
“The hoofbeats faded. I flinched in my saddle as a shadow fell over me, but looking up, I saw only Phoebe, standing on the gully’s lip above. The mountain lion stared with glittering golden eyes, the scar cutting through her brow and cheek seeming to curl her jowls into a smile as she growled.
“‘We’re clear,’ Saoirse whispered. ‘Let’s be oot an’ off.’
“Wordlessly, we obeyed, nudging our horses from the gully. Turning north, we trotted through falling snows, Phoebe loping along at the back of the line and watching Jezebel and me with hungry eyes. I heard the inquisitors heading away from us, but I knew it’d be only a matter of time before they realized they’d been duped.
“‘You knew them.’
“Glancing up, I saw Dior watching me from the back of Chloe’s horse.
“‘Those bitches. You knew them.’
“‘We’ve met. Briefly.’
“Bellamy glanced at me sidelong, Père Rafa fixed me with a curious stare. Even Chloe threw me an eyeful on the wrong side of suspicious. ‘Met how?’
“‘I shot one in the back and stole their horse.’
“Dior scoffed. Chloe’s jaw dropped. ‘Gabriel de León, you shot a nun?’
“‘Not to kill. Well … not technically.’ I scratched my chin, a little chagrinned. ‘I’m impressed those wretched didn’t murder them, though.’
“Chloe simply boggled as I shrugged.
“‘Long story.’”
Up in their lonely tower, Jean-François cleared his throat, tapped his quill upon the page impatiently. “As if to a—”
“The Inquisition is a sorority of the One Faith,” Gabriel sighed. “Charged with rooting out heresy in the Church. Unlike most holy orders, the sisterhood don’t swear to God or Mothermaid or Martyrs, but to Naél, the Angel of Bliss. Which makes about as much sense as I do after my fourth bottle of wine.”
“Meaning what, exactly?” the vampire asked.
“Meaning they’re a pack of fucking sadists. They believe bliss can be appreciated only in the absence of pain, and the only prayer they partake in is torture.” Gabriel lifted his glass to his lips. “Gossip bridles. Heretic forks. Breast rippers. Those twisted bitches invented them all. When old Cardinal Brodeur was accused of heresy back in sixty-four, he was given to the gentle keeping of the High Inquisitrix in Augustin’s Tower of Tears. Word is they flayed his skin off, then packed him in salt overnight to stave away the sepsis. Poor bastard confessed after a day. They kept him alive seven more. In the end, they cut off his wedding tackle, fed it to him, then let him bleed out of his misery.”
Jean-François raised an eyebrow. “Is that true?”
“Fucked if I know,” Gabriel shrugged. “Never let the truth get in the way of a good yarn. Point is, they make terrible dinner guests. Unless you enjoy conversations about not being hugged enough as a child and the best way to kick puppies off bridges without getting blood on your boots.
“And fair enough, I’d shot one in the back. And those bitches were fond of grudges. They say the best revenge is living well, but there’s still a lot to be said for dancing beneath the blood moons in a cloak made of your enemy’s skin. But noting the nervous glances my new comrades were sharing, I guessed that cohort hadn’t been headed to Dhahaeth to sample the vodka when I stumbled across their bogged wagon and stole Jezebel.
“We already had the son of Fabién Voss on our tails. But it seemed Chloe’s little band had earned the attentions of the Inquisition too.
“The shite I was wading in had just got about three feet deeper.”