Chapter XIV. Father of Whispers #3
“Well. You can’t make an omelette without cracking a few heads.”
Gabriel crossed one long leg over the other, scratching at the dried blood on his leathers with one ragged fingernail.
“Aaron flew like a spear, landed like a thunderbolt, walls shaking around us. All the rage in him was unleashed now; the thought that this monster had slaved his Baptiste, the sheer horror of a whole city held in thrall. But more and most, I think I knew the true heart of his fury. This was Ilon, after all. Father of Whispers. And sire, or grandsire, or somesuch, of the vampire who’d fathered Aaron.
My brother had never met the monster who seduced his mama—that bastard had been slain years before.
But at the root of it, the heart of it, the Father of Whispers was the sire of all Aaron’s suffering.
“The ancien raised his hand and Epitaph sang, severing Ilon’s arm at the elbow.
His grip on me failed and I fell, every mouth in the cathedral now open in one long howl of pain.
Ilon lashed out with his other hand—a blow so terrible, it sent Aaron crashing through one of the tree-tall pillars holding the ceiling aloft.
Ancient stone blew apart like cheap crockery, shrapnel cutting into the sea of thralls, all bellowing with Ilon’s rage as the gables groaned.
Aaron rolled upright, splashed with blood, Epitaph yet in his fist.
“Ilon stood at the altar, broken stained glass wreathing him in the color of flame. Though his right arm was cleft at the elbow, his robes splashed with blood, still his was a fearsome beauty; the Angel of Fire unveiled, speaking with ten thousand mouths.
“‘I SMELL MY BLOOD IN THEE, CHILD.’
“Aaron raised Epitaph, smiling over its bloody edge. ‘I smell yours, too.’
“‘ALL THIS CITY BE MINE, LITTLE STRIPLING. FOOL THOU ART, TO CHALLENGE ME IN IT ALONE.’
“‘But I am never alone.’
“Reaching into his greatcoat, Aaron lifted a long bundle wrapped in oilcloth, flinging it toward me.
I rose from the shattered steps, catching the haft, lips curling.
The darkest hours of my life had been lightened by the weight of that blade in my hand, and this one was no different—slinging the oilcloth away and smiling at the silvered dame in my hands.
“This b-b-b-be no angel, Gabriel. B-b-back to hell let us send him.
“Aaron flung himself at Ilon, Epitaph raised high. I launched myself at the vampire’s flank, Ashdrinker clutched in my one good hand.
I’d no time to anoint her blade with my last vial of Dior’s blood, still tucked into my collar’s hem.
But I needed that blood to slay Fabién and besides—this was an ancien Whisper, not an Ironheart.
Aaron’s blade had sheared through Ilon’s elbow like piss through snow, and I aimed to make short work of this bastard; fighting side by side with my brother as we’d not done since our victory at the Twins. ”
In his tower, the Last Silversaint heaved a soft sigh.
“But as I say, Historian … when fighting Whispers, your heart is not truly your own. And Ilon owned every heart in that city.
“She was a girl. Maybe ten years old. Long black hair like my Patience, clad in a pretty red church dress. She stepped from among the crowd and flung herself between the vampire and me, screaming at the top of her lungs ‘Don’t hurt the angel! ’
“My charge faltered, more citizens rising now, throwing themselves into the breach between Ilon and Aaron and me. The whole cathedral had awoken as if from a dream, thousands of voices crying out in horror, hundreds of hands reaching toward me. I couldn’t have fought them all even if I dared, and of course I didn’t—these were innocents, thralled by Ilon’s blood.
Yet they fought like devils possessed, mothers and maids, priests and paupers, dragging me down, Aaron’s roar lost under the din of their fury.
“‘IN THE HEART OF EVERY FATHER.’
“Ilon gazed at me in the crush, speaking at last with his own fathoms-deep voice.
“‘IN THE brEATH OF EVERY BABE.’
“He stepped toward me, bloody hand rising.
“‘IN EVERY DREAM AND DROPLET OF MY DOMAIN DO I ABIDE.’
“Palebloods have the strength of ten men, Historian. The get of Dyvok, the strength of dozens. Yet there in the belly of Le D?me, Aaron and I faced thousands. They tore Ashdrinker from my hands, pinning me like a fly in a web of grasping hands and gabbling mouths. I roared defiance, heart twisting as I saw Lachlan among them, my old ’prentice taking hold of my good arm with a grip like iron.
Baptiste was with those attacking Aaron—hundreds of innocent bodies flinging themselves upon my friend.
“The sea of flesh trembled now; parting like a curtain. And before me loomed that monster, that serpent, that Whisper, once more proffering his bloody wrist.
“‘BY MY WORD DIDST THY FOREBEAR LAY THIS CITY’S FOUNDATION. BY MY WILL WAS THIS CHURCH BUILT FROM DUST.’ Ilon sighed, low and long. ‘I LOVE THIS CITY, GAbrIEL DE LEóN. AND SO SHALL THEE.’
“‘Do you love it enough to die for it?’
The voice trembled—not with fear or sorrow, but fury.
Looking past the monster’s shoulder, I saw my cousin rising behind him.
Charlotte’s face was twisted with hatred, her one good eye ablaze with truth long denied, smeared sticky and red across her snarl.
I realized that in smashing Dior’s blood from my hand, Ilon had sent it splashing—upon the pews, the floor, a few droplets striking folk in the front row: Charlotte, the Fool, my grandpapa.
That blood was smeared upon her lips now.
And in her hands, she held her sword, Lightbringer, its blade already slicked with oil as she plunged it clean through the vampire’s back.
“Lightbringer was fashioned by a genius, true, but it was no blade of enchanted starsteel. And while it pierced Ilon’s heart, Charlotte hadn’t struck its flint lest she warn her mark of her coming.
She twisted the hilt to spark the blaze, but with a roar, the vampire spun, striking with his claws, Charlotte sailing through a sea of parishioners with a wail.
Ilon staggered, turning slow, reaching back with red claws to drag the blade from his spine.
“But through the crush of folk, another lion rose.
“I’ve no idea what I was expecting when I met him.
When I was a boy, my grandpapa had been a figure of distant hatred—an evil old cur who’d stolen my mama’s birthright.
But he was no bag of bones, hollow-eyed and twisted.
No, Gerrard de León was tall as I, no doubt just as broad in youth.
His hands were wrinkled, but not shaking as he seized the blade in Ilon’s back, twisting the hilt as he whispered.
“‘One day as a Lion…’
“The flint struck, the oil caught, the blade at last catching fire. Ilon screamed, turning on my grandfather and opening his throat to the bone. I roared as the blood sprayed, as the old man fell. But those flames caught upon the angel’s robes, Ilon wailing now in terror.
“All about me, their voices were raised—that barony of thralls, howling as the fire took hold. Their hold on me loosed, their minds unmoored, the vampire’s agony rippling through his congregation.
He flailed among them, claws cleaving flesh, tearing heads from necks, his faithful all brought to their knees by the terror of him.
“But not me.
“I rose from the chaos, diving across the tombstones of men who’d built this city at a devil’s command, snatching Ashdrinker off the floor.
Ilon tore the flaming robes from his body, hair catching fire now, fanged maw open in a howl of such pain it shook the cracking gables above.
And as I flew toward him, he fixed me with a gaze deep as forever, and whispered with a voice that almost undid me.
“‘PLEASE, DON’T—’
“Ashdrinker sang as she came, an aria brighter than the Empyrean choir. She sliced through flesh and bone that had endured a thousand years, cleaving Ilon’s head from his shoulders.
There came a sound then, or perhaps an absence of it—a silence so deep it seemed a hymn.
And as the whole world held its breath, those thousand years claimed their due, Time’s dread hand now taking hold.
Perfect flesh undone, perfect smile unmade, the Father of Whispers blowing apart so violently I was thrown back like a toy, like a boy, crashing into the flagstones and tumbling into blackness.
“I lifted my head, body aching, bones broken. Blinking, I looked skyward, pawing at my wondering eyes. Though summer still reigned, snow was falling inside that cathedral, drifting from the rafters and onto the congregation below. They looked about in wonder, mothers and maids, beggars and bakers, the scales falling from their eyes. Because of course it wasn’t snow falling within Le D?me that day, but ashes—the ashes of the monster who’d both built and slaved this city, now smote unto dust by the hands of its son.
“And daughter.
“She lay on her back in a widening puddle of red, struggling to breathe. I staggered to Charlotte’s side, kneeling now, good hand clutching hers.
“‘M-merci, c … c…’ She coughed, red and dripping. ‘… Cousin.’
“‘Aaron!’ I roared.
“My brother pushed his way through the bewildered throng, blue eyes wide.
“‘Help her!’ I demanded.
“He nodded, kneeling beside me, lifting his wrist and biting deep.
The congregation was slowly coming to its senses now, women sobbing, children crying.
Baptiste pushed through the throng, Lachie also, putting a hand on my shoulder and squeezing.
But my eyes were fixed on Charlotte as Aaron pressed his bloodied wrist to her lips.
“But she refused to swallow.
“‘Drink,’ I whispered. ‘The blood will cure your hurts.’
“She shook her head, turning aside. ‘Enough b-blood.’
“‘These folk need you. Grandfather is dead. Who’ll rule this house if not you?’
“‘You are not a fool, are you, Lionne Cendrée?’ Aaron asked.
“‘B-b-burn in hell. L-leech.’
“Aaron’s gaze flickered to Lachlan. ‘I can see why she likes you.’
“‘Charli…’ Lachlan whispered.
“My old ’prentice knelt on the flagstones, leathers slicked with blood. His aegis was aglow once more, the light of his faith rekindled now Ilon’s hold had been broken.
“‘I know yer shame, Charli,’ Lachlan murmured, taking my cousin’s hand. ‘Yer rage. I know what it is to be used. To have yer bleeding heart turned against ye.’
“He shook his head, lips pressed thin.
“‘Yet it’s only in falling we’re taught to fly. These last few days wi’ ye, I’ve found myself wonderin’ over and over what it is I live fer. And though those days have been a lie, I think I yet found some truth in them. And I wonder…’
“He squeezed her bloody fingers, swallowing hard.
“‘Mebbe ye did too?’
“Charlotte met Lachlan’s gaze, blood bubbling at her lips, jaw clenched tight. There was a coldness to my cousin, cruel as winter dawn. But as she looked at Lachie, I saw that frost warming, the ice on her cracking like a window of stained glass.
“And jaw clenched, breath hissing, Charlotte nodded.
“Aaron pressed his wrist to her lips again, and at last she drank, choking down his blood like poison. Though only a fledgling, Aaron was grandchild of Nikita, Priori of Dyvok, his blood deep enough to drag Charlotte back at least a little from death’s shore.
Her breath came a touch easier. Color slowly returned to her lips, twisting in the smallest of smiles as she gazed at Lachlan.
And patting Aaron’s back, I dragged myself up on trembling legs.
“Reaching into my greatcoat, I took out my pipe, loading myself a dose as I looked over the chaos around us. The congregation were still bewildered, surfacing from the deepest of nightmares. My arm was broken, the flagstones greasy with gore. Half my grandfather’s court had been slain in Ilon’s death throes, his poor Fool Caspién among them.
Following the trail of blood, I saw the Baron then, sprawled upon the altar steps, sightless gaze fixed on the Redeemer above.
Breathing red, I knelt at my grandfather’s side, pressing his eyes closed.
I’d not known the old man long, but I’d still seen something of myself in him, wondering what we might’ve been had my mama …
“‘Mama,’ I murmured.
“I reached inside my grandfather’s coat, and there I found it; a thin book, bound in leather, the sigil of our house embossed upon the cover with the initials A.L.
“My mother’s journal.
“I flicked through the pages, soaked with red. I saw Mama’s handwriting, penned over thirty years ago and yet immortal. And amid the running ink and blood, I saw a name.
“Wulfric.
“‘Gabe?’
“I turned at the voice, inhaling another lungful of the sacrament’s bittersweet warmth.
Aaron stood with Baptiste beside him, not quite close enough to touch.
Lachlan knelt with Charlotte, her head cradled in his lap.
But he fixed me with kohled green eyes, voice ringing on the broken gables overhead, the broken altar beneath.
“‘What do we do now, brother?’
“‘I told you already.’
“I rose with a wince.
“Tucked the journal inside my coat.
“‘I have a king to kill.’”