Chapter X. The Offering
X
THE OFFERING
“I WOKE WELL after noon the next day, body aching, tongue swollen. My night had been miserable, the images I’d seen in my drunken dreams wouldn’t leave my mind, thumping in time with the sledgehammers in my skull.
It seemed some storm raged in my head; louder than my rising thirst, the ache of my hangover.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw them: my sister, ma famille, dear Dior, consumed by those flames.
“I knew what none of it meant. Only that I wanted to be gone from this place.
The scent of sour wine hung on my breath, my skin, but my first thought as I dragged my sorry carcass out of bed was to check the liquor cabinet.
And finding it inevitably, tragically empty, I washed my face and went in search of something to fill me.
“The keep was bustling; no surprise considering how late I’d woken.
Pipe clenched between my teeth, I prowled grand hallways and staterooms in search of a drop.
I passed through the feasting hall, a library, fonts filled with holy water, stumbling at last upon a heavy door with a dozen guards in dark livery outside it.
“I sized up the tallest; a youngblood with black hair and fuzz on his cheeks.
“‘Is this where my grandfather keeps the liquor?’
“The guard kept his eyes forward, jaw set. ‘No, Chevalier.’
“I squinted over his shoulder, breathing red smoke. The door was ironwood, bound with fat bands of steel—heavy enough that even I’d have trouble breaking it open.
‘Well, there’s something valuable in there.
A stash of dreamweed, mayhaps? Deeds to the chateau?
A collection of particularly naughty Elidaeni lithographs? ’
“‘This is the armory, Chevalier. The wine cellar is below the kitchens.’ The youngblood nodded farther down the hall. ‘That way.’
“I thumped his shoulder, eliciting a wince, though from my breath or strength, I know not. ‘Your blood’s worth fucking smoking, boy.’
“The lad blanched, but I wandered on, at last stumbling into the keep kitchens. Here again was a rush of activity; evemeal preparations underway by a bevy of sweat-slick maids. They nodded godmorrow, and thinking of her offer last night, I looked briefly for Odette among them. I’d no appetite at all, chewing a rind of spudloaf and trying not to puke.
But at the kitchen’s rear, I spotted twin doors and stone stairs leading down, down, down.
“The wine cellar was dark, cool, vast. Rows of wooden shelves ran its length, bottles of dusty green sealed with faded red wax, lions illustrated upon the labels. Despite the wealth on display upstairs, here at last I found some sign of the apocalypse beyond León’s walls, for though this larder might once have brimmed with booze, only a few hundred bottles remained.
The other racks were stocked with provisions: dried mushrooms and smoked fish, sack upon sack of fucking potatoes.
“I heard movement among the shelves, glass clinking and rustling silk, thinking once more of Odette. But rounding the corner, I found company more unwelcome.
“My grandfather’s Fool.
“He wore his faded motley and jester’s face, red smeared across his mouth in parody of a smile as he filled a hessian sack with bottles of Vin de León.
“‘Thirsty, M. Caspién?’
“The Fool started as I spoke, bottle slipping his grip. I moved to grab it, but the idiot managed to catch it himself; quick as he’d juggled those knives at my grandfather’s feast. Sighing, he pressed one hand to his heart.
“‘Seven Martyrs, you frightened the life out of me.’
“The Fool took a deep breath to calm himself, managed to find a smile.
“‘Fairdawning, Chevalier. A pleasure to see you again.’
“‘I’m sure it is.’ I glanced around the racks, down to the hessian sack of wine, and back up to his eyes. I said nothing else; letting silence ask for me.
“‘My lord asked me to fetch him a bottle,’ Caspién declared.
“‘Or six. Little early in the day to hit it that hard?’
“Caspién smiled wider, a child’s mischief in his eyes. ‘Always midnight somewhere.’
“I reached out slow, took the wine from his hand. ‘Wise words.’
“‘Fools often speak the wisest.’
“My eyes were locked on Caspién as I cracked the seal. The crimson wax was frail with age, crumbling in my hand—long years had passed since these bottles were laid down, it seemed. Drinking deep, savoring that taste near-forgot, I dragged my knuckles over my lips.
“‘It’s good that men like you exist,’ I told him. ‘Highborn folk can take themselves too serious. There should always be one in court free to speak truth to the powerful.’
“‘You speak wisdom, Chev—’
“‘Despoiler of nuns. That’s what you called me. As if I ruined her when we touched.’ I leaned closer, fangs sharp against my tongue. ‘Say what you will about me, Caspién. But speak ill of my wife again, I’ll tear your teeth out through your arsehole, understood?’
“His smile died entirely, jaw clenched. And though I stood taller, broader, paleblood son and Sword of the Realm, that Fool met my eyes, his own glittering with malice.
“‘Understood. Chevalier.’
“I could feel the dagger of Caspién’s gaze between my shoulder blades as I climbed the stair, bottle in hand.
But taking another mouthful, I heard ruckus outside; clashing blades and faint cries that drove all thought of that feckless idiot from my mind.
Fearing for Aaron again, I marched for the bailey to see what lay behind the fuss.
The strangled sun was high, but gloom still hung inside the courtyard.
A barracks stood across the yard from the stables, and a training ground had been set up to drill the gens d’armes—wooden dummies and straw targets.
Among them, two figures danced back and forth, dueling in the dim light.
“Charlotte and Lachlan.
“My cousin’s form was fierce, longblade hissing as she advanced, fringe plastered to a sweat-stung brow.
She and Lachie dueled with wooden swords, but I saw Charlotte played no games; striking with deadly speed at Lachie’s chest, throat, nethers.
Feinting swift, she landed a solid blow, Lachlan grunting as her blade met his gut.
And backing away, for the first time since I’d met her, I saw my cousin’s lips twist in a smile.
“‘Enough schooling, Frère á Craeg?’
“Lachie straightened with a wince. ‘We’ve nae begun the lesson, Mlle de León.’
“She smiled, twirling her sword. ‘You cannot learn a thing you think you know.’
“He grinned in return, green eyes flashing. ‘I know a thing or three.’
“My old ’prentice lunged, lashing out at Charlotte’s chest. His strength was Dyvok born, and he wielded wooden greatswords, one in each hand.
But I could tell he held himself back—enough to give his foe a fighting chance.
Fight she did, their blades crashing so hard that tiny thunderbolts rang on the walls.
Yet in the end, Charlotte was mortal, and Lachlan paleblooded; one of the finest blades San Michon ever produced.
He locked up her guard, bearing down with his strength.
Charlotte’s face twisted as she tried to stand her ground, and though she trembled with strain, still I fancied her smile widened as Lachlan pressed.
Yet as she buckled, she lashed out, sweeping his leg and sending the pair tumbling to the cobbles.
Lachlan landed atop her, but Charlotte had drawn a dagger from her belt, steel glinting in the grim dawn light as she pressed it up against Lachie’s throat.
The pair were breathless, searching each other’s eyes a long moment before Lachlan chuckled.
“‘I didn’t think this a fight to the death, mademoiselle.’
“‘Then you know me not at all, monsieur.’
“‘I know a little, I think. Perhaps not so much as I’d—’
“Somber applause rang across the bailey, cutting Lachie’s words off at the knees. And sat atop the stable in a smear of dull sunlight, I saw Aaron now, clapping slowly. His eyes were fixed on Lachlan’s, lips twisted as my old ’prentice rolled upright.
“‘Well played, á Craeg. You timed that fall exceptionally.’ Blue eyes flickered to Charlotte, roaming my cousin up and down. ‘Pleasant dreams tonight, I’ll wager.’
“‘Shut yer mouth, de Coste,’ Lachie snarled.
“Charlotte rose slowly, dragging damp hair off her sweat-stung skin. ‘No one gave you permission to leave your cell, leech.’
“Aaron winced, glancing to the guards at the doors. ‘Technically, I’m still in it. Or at least on it. And it’s a stable, Mlle de León, not a cell. Hardly the most daunting of dungeons.’
“‘Perhaps I should find a more suitable hole to put you in,’ Charlotte hissed.
“Aaron glanced to Lachlan. ‘Are you quite certain you want me in it?’
“‘That’s fuckin’ it.’ Lachie hurled aside his wooden blades, stalking across the bailey. ‘Get yer arse down here, or I’m comin’ up there to get it.’
“‘But,’ Aaron glanced to Charlotte, ‘I’m not allowed to leave my cell.’
“‘I’ll nae tell ye again, I—’
“‘Aright, that’s enough.’ I stepped from the shadows, bottle in hand. ‘Put it back in your pants, Lachie. And you,’ I growled, glaring at Aaron. ‘Show some fucking manners.’
“Aaron arched one brow, affecting a lilting Ossian brogue. ‘Ah, the brave chevalier rides to his wee squire’s defense. Warms the cockles o’ the heart it does, me boyo, me lad. To be sure, to be sure.’
“‘Mock all ye like, wanker,’ Lachie spat.
“‘Merci, I believe I shall.’
“‘And it’ll do naught to fill the hole inside ye. Nor set the scales of yer sins even. But one day ye’ll pay fer the blood ye’ve spilled, de Coste. I vow it.’
“‘One day? I pay every day, wee squire.’
“‘That’s enough, Aaron,’ I growled. ‘Being a cunt doesn’t make you clever. And cruelty’s a coin that’s only repaid in kind. I’d have thought you’d been served enough of it by now to know that.’
“I glowered at my old battlebrother, but Aaron refused to meet my eyes, the anger of last night still thick between us. Grunting, I turned at last to Lachlan.
“‘You busy?’