Sunset #2
“These wars betwixt our kind and the sheep hath drained this empire white as yesteryear snows,” Margot continued.
“Upstart bloodlords carve petty fiefdoms and feud for the dregs that remain. Foulbloods maraud unchecked, swelling their rotting number further every night. And he who styled himself our Forever King is slain. But if our great houses do not come to accord, soon we shall all join Fabién on the shores of hell. And I for one harbor no burning desire to suffer my due judgment in the Houses of the Fallen.”
The Draigann clenched his jaw.
“Nor I, Lady Chastain.”
“Then be at peace, cousin. Only a century or two hath ye walked this earth with deathless feet, but thy dam was ancien true, and know ye full well, the sanctity of Courtesy offered by the eldest. Thee and thine are welcome here in Sul Adair. Honored guests, one and all. We have news ’pon the winds that Kariim the Spider draws near, and the Iron Maiden shall arrive by Damesday.
Once the Priori of Ilon and Voss are seated beside thee at mine table, we shall all of us decide how this new night shall be ruled. ”
Margot smiled, cold as winter’s kiss.
“And who shall kneel for whom.”
The Draigann pressed his lips thin behind his frozen beard, but with a swift glance to his motley court, this beggar king slowly nodded.
“You speak truth, cousin. Not misplaced are rumors of the wisdom of the Priori Chastain. But on one matter, I must regretfully dissent.”
“Prithee, cool thy blood, Priori. Thy vengeance shall have its slaking, doubt it not. Slender entertainment doth the Black Lion of Lorson yet provide, but soon shall Gabriel de León’s cup runneth dry. We shall allow thee witness as his throat is cut in the end.”
“I thank you, Lady.” The Draigann actually dropped into a decent sort of bow at that, his courtiers following likesame. “And well will we savor the punishment due. Yet not on the matter of de León do I dissent, but your estimation of your other guests.”
Margot blinked. “Indeed?”
“Perhaps these storms have grounded your eyes, cousin. But they’ve not slowed the Ironhearts.
If you expected their coming by weeksend, you underestimated their resolve to see their maker avenged.
We caught sight of them on the road here, and I tell you truly: Kestrel and her court will be knocking on your door well before Damesday. ”
Margot’s face remained impassive, and she nodded once, as if news of the Ironhearts’ early arrival held no more heft than a feather. But throwing a hateful glance to the tempest above, Jean-Francois knew full well the weight of this revelation.
“Come ye,” Margot said, gesturing to the ironbound doors of the grand keep behind. “Parched ye must be after so long a journey. Enter and be welcome, children of Dyvok. And know no fear. The Blood Chastain shall see thy thirsts well satisfied.”
The Untamed cohort bowed once more, Margot’s courtiers parting like black water, thralls scurrying forth into the falling snows to take charge of their beasts.
But the Dyvok themselves waited politely—not wholly an unruly mob, these sons and daughters of Lilidh.
The Draigann inclined his head, gesturing to the keep.
“After you, great Lady.”
“So rare to find a gentleman in these sunless days. But ye must forgive us, Priori. Matters of state demand our brief attentions. Certain are we, thou art familiar with how heavy the mantle of eldest can weigh. Even ’pon shoulders as impressive as thine own.”
The Draigann nodded. “I will await your pleasure within, Lady.”
The Empress smiled, dark as poison. “Not long.”
Margot glanced to the once-talkative Viscontessa at her left hand.
“Show our honored guests to the dining hall, Nicolette. We shall join thee presently.”
With a curt nod and a swish of red velvet, Nicolette climbed the snow-clad stairs, leading the Dyvok through towering doors wrought with warring angels.
Margot’s courtiers followed, a procession of venomous whispers and eyes like knives.
Jean-Francois remained at his Empress’s side, eyes roaming the keep’s facade; the magnificent tree-tall windows of stained glass, the flying buttresses, the spires piercing the dusk-deep skies.
Though he’d dwelled here for a decade, the Marquis was still slightly awed at the scale of this place.
Viscontessa Nicolette had spoken true: Sul Adair—Black Tower in the tongue of Sūdhaem—was the realm’s mightiest fortress now great Augustin was fallen.
At least a dozen different armies had broken like cheap pottery upon these walls over the centuries, and the mighty mont upon which it was built was known as Akhiv Dha Th’oth—the Mountain that Drinks Soldiers.
Once this fortress had guarded the goldglass mines of Lashaame and Raa, the grand cityport of Asheve, but now the—
“For what dost thou wait, child?”
Jean-Francois blinked, turning to his Empress.
Margot was stood in the falling snow, a full head shorter than he, yet somehow towering above.
Kith could not choose which of their victims were granted the Gift, and Jean-Francois knew many in Sul Adair whispered his dark mother spoiled her youngest son.
But gazing at him now, Margot’s presence was a chill bleaker than any storm, her eyes as dark as the oubliettes beneath this keep.
The fires struggling upon the battlements threw long shadows on the ground, and as Margot stared at him, they seemed to deepen, to bend, the dark between them rippling and warping as her gaze drank him like a desert drinks the rain.
“Mother? What—”
“We are blinded in this tempest. But if this fool just spake truth, Kestrel Voss may be but a few turnings of the moons from our doorstep. Though this Draigann is a beggar in a king’s guise, no paupered orphan be the Iron Maiden.
Kestrel is eldest of the Ironhearts, battle-bloodied, and a true Prince of Forever. And she is close, my son.”
Jean-Francois glanced to the tower window above, jaw clenched. He could sense storm-grey eyes upon him, remember those fingers around his throat, hand drifting up to his cravat and caressing the still-healing wounds beneath. Thunder cracked the skies.
“De León,” he said.
“And his sister. There is more to their tale, Marquis. The army of the Moonsthrone, the fall of Dún Maergenn, the discovery of dread Maryn beneath, all these songs have they sung. But the red snows of Augustin, the Battle of Charbourg, the fate of the Grail…”
“They are liars, Mother,” the Marquis hissed.
“Since the first night we spoke, de León has repeated his claim: The cup is broken. The Grail is gone. He wept testifying to Lachance’s murder at Lilidh’s hands.
Yet not one hour later, his sister confessed the Grail soon awoke in the tomb where they buried her, alive and well. ”
“Then her breaking must be yet to come in his tale.” Margot lowered her chin, black gaze boring into his. “And I would have the rest of it.”
“The Last Silversaint and Last Liathe are serpents, filled with the same rank venom. Their fondness for deceit is equaled only by their hatred for each other.”
“Then use it, Jean-Francois.”
The shadows warped further, a faint screaming rising behind the roar of the wind as the Empress Chastain took one step closer to her youngest.
“The Iron Maiden and the Spider draw near. The haste of their approach speaketh volumes to the prick of their desire. But still, we need advantage if we expect them to bend the knee, and de León and his wretched sister hold it. For what purpose did the Forever King covet Dior Lachance, Jean-Francois? Why did Fabién seek the child alive? And if indeed she was the key to ending the death of days, how is it the sun still wears its ashen mantle, and dawn yet dons cold midnight’s crown? ”
Margot fell silent, black gaze pressing on the Marquis until it was all he could do not to fall to his knees. But as thunder tore the skies, she reached out, too swift for mortal eyes to follow, hand resting upon his flawless cheek.
“De León still feels a kinship with thee, my pale beauty. His pride in himself and his hatred for his sibling shall provide the rest. Use him, Jean-Francois. Promise him the earth. Only claim me that which I need. The truths at the root of the Grail’s fall, the failure of the Faithless, the breaking of our Lion’s wretched heart. ”
The Empress pressed gentle upon the Marquis’s skin. But a chill trickled down his spine as he felt her fingers skimming his wounded throat.
“But do it swiftly, child.”
Jean-Francois swallowed, nodding slow.
“As my Empress commands.”
Margot’s hand fell like dead leaves. Thunder in her wake, she ascended the stairs, her wolves trailing behind, leaving the Marquis in the falling snow alone.
Jean-Francois’s hand drifted up to his neck.
His eyes to the figure watching above.
And jaw set, the vampire stalked inside.
III
HE WAS HALFWAY up the tower stair when the bloodscent struck him.
Not an uncommon perfume in a keep full of monsters, granted, and so keen were Jean-Francois’s senses, he could smell the feast now underway in the dining hall.
Beneath the thunder outside and Margot’s choir within, the murmur of silken voices could be heard, coupled with snatches of distant laughter.
The copper-sweet bouquet of fresh blood had tugged the historian downward even as he’d climbed, and he’d glanced over his shoulder to Meline, ever three steps behind.
He saw his majordomo’s lips curl at remembrance of his interrupted feast earlier this afternoon.
Despite the cadre of thrallswords following, the Marquis was entertaining the notion of just rucking up Meline’s skirts and finishing what he’d started right there on the stairwell when he smelled it drifting from the tower above.
Iron-bright.
Lead-heavy.
“Dario,” Jean-Francois realized.