Chapter VI. Among the Ashes
VI
AMONG THE ASHES
“OUR JOURNEY WITH Charlotte was slightly less enjoyable than a fucking funeral.
“Each mile toward the city of my mama’s birth was a slog through stinking mire, and there was precious little cheer to be found upon it.
Our meals were raw mushrooms washed down with brackish water, and rather than the drinking and bawdy conversation usually found among soldiers around a campfire, each day ended just as it began—with a roadside mass.
Lachlan and Baptiste both partook out of politeness, but Aaron and I demurred, of course, observing proceedings from a good safe distance.
“As capitaine of the company, Charlotte led the service, offering each of her men a sip from a beaten metal flask as she renewed the ashen circles on their brows. Her voice was iron as she quoted the Testaments—not reading, mind you, but reciting by heart.
“She was no pulpit-huckster. No prancing preacher like some I’d known, all swagger and grift.
When Charlotte spoke the word of God, I could see his fire in her gaze.
When she talked of damnation, ever she looked toward Aaron and me.
And watching her each dawn and dusk, I soon marked my dear cousin for exactly what she was.
“A coldhearted, dyed-in-the-wool fanatic.
“Though their courage was in no dispute, Charlotte’s hunters were as unsettled as nags in the knackery at our presence.
These soldiers were trained to hunt and kill the Dead, and to find a vampire in their company—unbound, unslaughtered—clearly had every one of them on edge.
We did our best to act like prisoners, but my cousin had saved everyone the indignity of actually tying us up for the trek—I could break most bonds if pressed, Lachie was stronger than me, and Aaron could bend forge-hardened steel with his bare hands.
Our blades and wheellocks were kept under guard in the hunters’ wagon, axles creaking dangerously under Epitaph’s weight.
Charlotte’s men rode with hate in their eyes and weapons in hand—those wondrous mechwork bows just begging to sing.
“The road to my grandfather’s capital was a black quagmire, reeking of rot.
I knew this had been wine country in sweet yesteryears, but those hills and fields were riddled with fungus now, dead vines clawing upward from the earth like hands of the restless dead.
Every mile along the road was marked by an iron gibbet, creaking on a rough timber frame.
Upon each cage was scribed the crime of the corpse therein.
“WYTCH.
“THRALL.
“LEECH.
“With his poor horse slain, Lachie walked beside Argent and me, Baptiste rode upon Rosebud, Aaron far out on our flanks as ever. Lachlan packed a pipe as we slogged northward on the third day, his expression thoughtful as he studied Charlotte.
“‘A godly lass, this cousin of yers. Spirited too.’
“‘Spirited?’ I scoffed. ‘Stubborn as three drunken mules, more like.’
“Baptiste smiled. ‘Obstinance runs in your famille, then.’
“Lachie chuckled red smoke. ‘Shame he missed out on the good looks, aye?’
“‘And the wit.’
“‘Look, are you cunts going to get sick of dogging me anytime soon?’ I asked.
“‘I don’t believe we’re planning on it, no,’ Baptiste replied.
“‘You might offer a little moral support, considering where we’re headed.’
“Lachlan scoffed, handing over his pipe. ‘This is moral support, ye fuckin’ blouse.’
“I pretended to grumble, but my lips still twisted in a smile as I breathed the sanctus into my lungs.
I knew full well these men would ride straight through hell if I asked, and in time-honored tradition, they were showing it the only way most men knew how—by heaping as much shit onto the shoulders of the one they loved as possible.
“Baptiste’s eyes were on the road ahead, but every so often they drifted to Aaron in the distance. ‘Jesting aside, what troubles you, Gabe? This road was of your design, but the nearer we get to the end of it, the more unquiet you seem.’
“I sighed, resisting the urge to recount the litany of my woes. Truth was, months on, my heart still bled for Dior, and the knowledge I’d let our only hope of ending daysdeath slip my fingers was a wound I thought would never heal.
I’d run out of liquor long ago, and without that crutch, my thirst had blossomed to a full-blown bonfire in my belly, only briefly cooled by ever-increasing doses of sanctus.
But in the end, I settled on my nearest fear.
“‘My grandpapa cast my mama from his house when she was eighteen years old, Baptiste. She was three months pregnant, and all she left León with were the clothes on her back, her name, and this.’ I took off my glove, showing him the silver signet ring she’d gifted me as a boy.
‘And the root of her downfall was her decision to keep me.’
“‘But all the things you did since,’ Baptiste insisted. ‘All the lives you saved. You’re a hero, Gabe. Everyone in the empire knows your name.’
“‘And that I brought that name into disrepute. Seducing a bride of God. Dragging her into sin.’ I shook my head, lips pursed. ‘Legally speaking, I probably shouldn’t have taken the name at all, but the vampire who bedded my mama wasn’t kind enough to spare me his.’
“‘Did she ever talk about him? Your father?’
“‘She promised to. But the Wraith in Red murdered her before she had a chance. Celene gave me his name, at least. Wulfric. Ancien of the Faithless. Lord of San Yves. She was his student for a time. Before she murdered him.’
“‘Seven Martyrs,’ Baptiste whispered, signing the wheel.
“I only shrugged. ‘I tried, but honestly, I can’t muster many fucks to give for my papa’s death, brother. It’s not like he gave any for my life.’
“Lachie whistled for attention, pointing nor’ward. ‘Yonder.’
“I saw it in the muddy distance now—a pale smudge on a clifftop coastline. The last bastion of civilization west of Redwatch. All the lands about had run to ruin; fiefdoms toppled, vast swathes of Alexandre’s empire ceded to the never-ending rampages of bloodlords and wretched.
But I had to admit I felt a swell of pride as I looked upon the city of my forebears, still standing in a world fallen to its knees.
“‘La Tanière du Lion,’ I murmured. ‘The Lion’s Den.’
“‘She’s a beauty,’ Lachlan nodded, his voice wistful.
‘Always wanted to see her. She was designed by the grandmaster Charl Beno?t, but he died afore construction could begin. T’was his lass Annalise broke the ground, and his grandson Duvall oversaw construction.
She’s limestone for the most part, quarried from local cliffs, like, but the basalt inlays are mined from the Godsend Mountains to the north.
Her walls run near ten miles, and she’s provisioned by sea, so any besieger would have to come by land and… ’
“Lachie’s voice faded as he realized we were staring at him.
“‘I like castles, aright?’
“‘Clearly,’ I murmured.
“‘Leastways I studied something useful in the monastery. What did ye ever master in San Michon, save brushin’ yer pretty hair and playin’ grab-arse w’ nuns?’
“‘… Touché.’
“Night had fallen like an anvil by the time we neared the city’s walls.
They stretched out before us now; pale limestone, towering forty feet high.
The battlements were lit by braziers, ringed by a deep drymoat, filled with more of those cruel wooden spikes and hemmed with iron gibbets.
The drawbridge was raised, heavy oak bound in iron.
Banners flew proud upon the ramparts, alternately embroidered with lions and crossed swords, or the sigil of the Angel Gabriel; that blade wreathed in flame.
Charlotte pressed a horn embossed with the same to her lips, a somber note splitting the night.
“‘La Lionne Cendrée!’ came a faint cry ahead.
“The shout was taken up along the walls, soldiers pointing. ‘Dame Charlotte!’
“‘La Lionne Cendrée returns!’
“‘The Ashen Lioness,’ Lachlan murmured, watching Charlotte sidelong.
“‘Good title,’ I nodded. ‘One wonders how it was earned.’
“‘Wonder on, then,’ my cousin replied coolly, not meeting my eyes. ‘Not everyone needs drunken buskers and brothel troubadours to sing of their exploits. Some are content that the Father shall count their worth on their day of judging.’
“‘Spend lots of time in the company of brothel troubadours, do you?’
“Charlotte glowered, attentions drawn away by a deep clunk from the gatehouse.
With the creak of heavy chain, the drawbridge was slowly lowered over that vast moat of stakes, thumping to rest in the mud.
Mighty iron gates beyond swung wide with an ominous creak, revealing a long, arched tunnel behind.
A cadre of soldiers stood at its end, two score strong.
They carried burning torches or more of those wondrous crossbows, clad in surcoats and mail, black tabards bearing the sigil of House de León.
“‘Wait here,’ Charlotte commanded. ‘Lieutenant Mathieu, rest of you, with me.’
“My cousin strode toward the gatehouse with her company and the wagon of weapons, leaving us in the shadow of those creaking gibbets. Aaron drifted closer, Argent stomping warning, ever skittish in his presence. Aaron’s eyes were fixed on the fires atop the walls, the men there gathered, peering down the burning sights of their bows at us.
“‘I always wondered why the Forever King never attacked this place.’
“‘Fabién’s mind was ever on Augustin,’ I replied. ‘And these walls are no jest.’
“‘I’d follow you into any dragon’s maw, brother.’ Aaron glanced to those gibbets, the bones and ashes therein. ‘But something about this city feels … ill.’
“I frowned at that, searching Aaron’s eyes as Baptiste murmured.
“‘We could still leave?’
“‘Leave?’ Lachlan scoffed. ‘We’ve nae dragged our arses all the way here just to—’
“‘Come forward!’