Chapter VII. Into the Lion’s Den #2
“Charlotte marched us through the masked throng until we stood before a long table at the room’s end.
A multitude was there gathered, men and women, young and old, dark of hair and eye.
Most were relations of mine, I supposed, though I knew no names, and behind the masks—lions for the most part—I could see little of their faces.
I noted an older gent with a shaved head and mild blue eyes, wearing the blood-red cloth of a bishop.
His robes were velvet, the wheel about his neck was gold, wealth dripping from every finger.
A young fellow dressed in fool’s motley stood down one end of the table, balancing atop a wooden ball and juggling what appeared to be five daggers, steel flashing in the air.
“All this I’d soaked in within a second or two, my whole body on edge. But as my cousin spoke again, I turned attentions to the man at the heart of it all, sitting in a tall wooden chair carved with snarling lions.
“‘Baron Gerrard, trothbrother of Emperor Alexandre III, Defender of the Faith, Sword of the Realm, and thirteenth Baron of the House of the Lion, may I present Chevalier—’
“‘Gabrieeeeel de León,’ came the call.
“I looked to the one who’d spoken—that Fool juggling at table’s end.
His face was painted white, eyes blacked, a slash of red paint across his lips in mockery of a smile.
I could see his motley had once been garish, but like all else in this empire, the riot of colors had sadly faded.
Balancing upon his ball, he wobbled toward me, blades flashing as he tossed them into the air.
I noted the knives were adorned with lions upon their hilts.
“‘Savior of Nordlund!’ he crowed. ‘Until the ravens picked clean its bones. Liberator of Triúrbaile! Until saints of silver burned it to the ground. Thief of names and breaker of oaths, rumper of faequeens and despoiler of nuns and son of mo—’
“‘Enough, Caspién.’
“It was the Baron who’d spoken, dark grey eyes now fixed on the Fool. His voice was oceans deep, bringing what little motion there was in the room to stillness—all save that simpleton on his ball of course, still juggling as he bowed.
“‘My Baron.’ Watery blue eyes turned to me, painted lips twisted. ‘Chevalier.’
“I glowered a moment, fantasizing about stowing those daggers in an idiot-shaped sheath. But remembering where I was, I turned back toward my host.
“I’ve no idea what I was expecting. When I was a boy, my grandpapa had been a figure of distant hatred—an evil old cur who’d torn away my mama’s birthright and robbed me of my own.
As I’d grown older, grown up, my hate had cooled, hardening from rage to contempt.
I’d become a father myself in those years, and I could no more imagine turning my back on my child than I could cutting my own heart from my chest. But in truth, I’d supposed this man long dead.
A bitter, broken old skeleton who’d died alone, ruing the pride that had bid him cast his only daughter into the cold.
“But though the man before me was old, he was no bag of bones. Gerrard de León looked as tall as I, no doubt just as broad in his youth. His long hair was run from black to grey, but still thick despite his years. His hands were wrinkled, but not shaking as he raised his goblet to me, eyes the same shade as my mama’s glittering above the rim.
“‘Fairdawning, Chevalier. I bid you and yours welcome to my home.’
“‘Godmorrow, Baron.’ I bowed, returning his formality. ‘We thank you for your hospitality, and bid you best wishes on this, your saintsday.’
“‘Merci.’
“My grandfather’s stare roamed my companions for a breath before shifting back to me.
Unlike any other in the room, Gerrard wore no mask; as if above the game he insisted others play.
At a word from the Fool, the minstrels picked up a new song, my temper flickering as I realized the tune he’d requested was A Lion Among the Leaves.
But though the minstrels launched into the bawdy ballad with abandon, fully half the room was listening intently now, the other half no doubt cursing they were too far away to hear.
“‘I am told you are come to my door on urgent business of the realm?’
“‘We have need of your foundry, good Baron. La Forge de San Javon.’
“One slow blink. ‘My forge.’
“‘My blade, the Ashdrinker, is damaged. My brother Baptiste believes he can mend her, but only a flame of surpassing heat can work starsteel. And I fear only a blade of starsteel will suffice in the hunt ahead.’
“‘A hunt, you say.’
“I nodded, drew a deep breath.
“‘I am going to slay Fabién Voss.’
“A murmur crossed the ballroom, like a wave on a storming sea. At mention of that dread name, the bishop made the sign of the wheel, a hush came over the minstrels once more, and that Fool at last fell still, knives falling to the floor as he gawped.
“‘The Forever King.’ My grandfather stroked his chin in the ringing silence. ‘If one may judge a man by the cut of his enemies, you are a man of quality indeed.’
“I drew breath to reply, but my throat instead seized shut. My belly wrenched sideways, flame clawing up toward my thundering heart. I realized that, in dropping his knives, that prattling stooge had nicked his finger, blood now welling bright on his skin. The Fool pouted at it, squeezing with his thumb until a bright pearl of crimson formed at his finger’s tip.
I stared, mouth flooding with spittle, the beast in me slamming up against the bars of its cage.
It seemed an age of the earth passed, all the stars in heaven burning out like candles before the little shit finally slipped it into his mouth to suck it clean.
“‘… Chevalier?’
“I turned back to my grandfather, speaking low to hide the fangs in my gums. ‘I make no claim to quality, Baron. But in matters of slaying the Dead, I hold my own.’
“‘And yet my granddaughter informs me you have brought one to my door?’
“I tasted dust, swallowed ashes. I could still smell that blood, red and bright and—
“‘My swordbrother, Aaron. A f-former silversaint, only a few months turned. The dark has made claim to him, but he is not yet fallen to it. I vouch for his conduct on my life.’
“Charlotte sneered at that, sharing a dark glance with the bishop. The Baron looked to Lachlan, to Baptiste, back to me, and though no mask covered his face, still, it seemed he wore one. I thought again of my mama, the fury that must have blazed in this man’s heart when he flung her from his hearth; pregnant with the bastard who would go on to be sung of in every taverne from Vellene to Asheve, before dragging his name into disgrace.
“He had me over a barrel, and we both knew it. If any of that old ire remained …
“‘Are you quite well?’ he asked.
“‘I … A drink would be most welcome, Baron.’
“‘Forgive me. I am being a poor host. And it is time for toasting, I suppose.’
“My grandfather snapped his fingers. That maidservant who’d met us at the door stepped forward, gown rippling like liquid sapphire, a golden platter upon her hand.
Ornate goblets and a green glass bottle were placed before my grandfather with unerring poise.
The Baron drew a beautiful blade from his belt, cracking the pale waxen seal about the bottle’s throat, staring down at the lion illustrated upon the faded label with a wistful smile.
“‘Gabriela laid these down twenty years ago. God rest her soul.’
“‘… Gabriela?’
“‘My dear wife. Your grandmother.’ The Baron filled the goblets, dark eyes meeting mine as the scent of wine kissed the bloodstained air. ‘Your mama did not tell you of her?’
“‘Forgive me. But Mama did not often speak of this city. Or her mother. Or you.’
“The Baron’s gaze fell at that. But rising to his feet, he lifted his goblet, the maidservant handing one each to Lachie, Baptiste, and me.
My eyes drifted from her jugular to the Fool, still inspecting that damned cut on his finger.
The bloodscent was stronger than the wine’s perfume, my thirst writhing up my throat, spilling from my lips in a low, desperate growl.
“‘Mesdames and messieurs,’ the Baron called. ‘Almighty God has seen fit to grant me seventy years beneath heaven, and not all have been bright. But even in darkness, by grace of the Angel Gabriel’s promise to our ancestor, León yet stands as a beacon of the light. So on this my saintsday, let me offer toast to you! Who stand, where others have knelt! Who fight, where others have fallen! Let us drink to the King of Kings, to the Angel of Fire, but most, to you who would live for but one day as lions, and not lifetimes as lambs!’
“He raised his cup again.
“‘Long live House de León!’
“‘Santé!’ came the cry.
“I downed my goblet in a single gulp, desperate to quench the inferno in my belly. Lachlan sipped the Baron’s toast politely, but his troubled eyes were now fixed on me.
He’d guessed months back that my thirst was worsening; the dread sangirè that in the end would claim him too.
But I don’t think he realized just how bad it was until that moment; to see me almost completely unmoored by the scent of a few drops of blood on the air.
“‘Ye aright, brother?’ he asked.
“But my eyes were fixed on my grandfather as he sat once more. The old man ignored my stare, raising his goblet to folk in the crowd, toasting his health and long life. But desperation was uncoiling through my veins along with my thirst now. I knew I’d be lucky to see my next saintsday, let alone my seventieth, and I’d no more time for courtesy.
“‘Baron,’ I hissed. ‘My blade. Will you aid us in her mending?’
“The old man’s voice ran cool as he sipped his wine. ‘My forge burns night and day to keep my men armed and city safe, Chevalier. Why would I interrupt its workings for you?’
“‘The whole empire will be safer when Fabién Voss is dead.’
“‘They say no man of woman born can slay the Forever King.’
“I grabbed his wrist, my belly afire. ‘I plan to test that theory.’
“My grandfather finally met my eyes then, snatching his hand back from my unasked-for touch. Charlotte tensed, a dozen guards reached for their blades. But with a gesture, the Baron held them still. He stared at me hard now, and though his face was lined with age, I swore I saw a hint of my mama in it. His back was straight despite his years, and in the iron of his gaze, I saw the same ferocity and pride she’d instilled in me.
“I clenched my jaw, desperation in my whisper.
“‘Please, Grandfather.’
“The Baron looked to the silver signet on my finger.
“Up into my eyes.
“And nodding slow, he gave his answer.
“‘My house is yours, Gabriel.’”