Chapter I. She Is Risen
I
SHE IS RISEN
“I WAS NEVER one to believe in miracles, seigneur.”
The stink of oil hung thick in the air, thrallswords with flaming torches poised on the dark shoreline.
But the Last Liathe had found a relatively dry patch of ground, sweeping back her fine, bloodstained coat and sitting cross-legged upon the stone.
Pale fingers were steepled at her lips, dark eyes on the water.
As she began speaking, soft under the river’s song, Jean-Francois did his best to hide his smug smile.
“The Testaments tell of them,” Celene said.
“The histories, too. San Antoine parting the Eversea. The Redeemer laying the army of King Thaddeus low with a single stroke of his blade. Even my dear brother’s victory over Fabién’s legions at the Battle of the Twins.
But no matter how oft I heard tell of them, life had taught me one lesson, sure and true.
“Miracles were as myths for the likes of me.
“So as we hung, limp and almost bloodless in the arms of dread Mother Maryn, I was certain I was about to die. Maryn’s body was that of a child, only six or seven when she was murdered, clad in rotting robes of black.
But her strength was like nothing we had known, rising from her coffin and seizing hold of me as if I weighed a feather.
Her eyes were dark as the voids between the stars, her teeth sharper than any sword, sinking into our throat.
And as she drank me down, I felt the colossal emptiness inside her—the drought-dry wanting of a century spent in slumber, set to devour me whole. ”
Celene paused a handful of heartbeats, shaking her head.
“I cannot tell you I was unafraid. The agony and bliss were … unspeakable. I could feel my essence being ripped from its moorings; the Angel of Death flinging his pale arms wide. Yet even though my body would be destroyed, the teachings of Illia herself, First of the Faithful, promised that my soul would be spared with this communion. Carried within Maryn’s body until the Day of Judging, just as I carried all those I had consumed in turn.
I could hear their voices now, clambering inside me; a choir of all those I had devoured over my years, singing the same dread refrain.
“Now you see, Celene Castia.
“Now you understand what you did to us.
“And then, just as sudden as she’d begun, Maryn stopped drinking.
“We hung in her arms, drained near to dying, a sack of rags and twigs.
And she lifted her mouth from the wreckage of our throat, locks of brine-sodden blond plastered to her skin as her bottomless eyes rose up, up to the ceiling.
To the crypt they had laid the Grail inside, the Tomb of the Mothermaid in the Cathedral cellar, far above our heads.
“The Red Hand of God, they’d named her. La demoiselle du Graal. But more and most, the whisper that had become a cry that had become a hymn was a simple one, and true, spilling from Maryn’s lips now in a bloodstained whisper.
“‘San Dior.’
“Maryn released her dreadful grip, dropping us into the brine at her feet. We could smell old gore in the seawater, see the stone coffin she had risen from, still stained with the ancien blood that had awakened her. Statues of the First Five loomed above us—those priests of gods false and covenants broken, gathered around the messiah they had murdered. Maryn’s eyes narrowed at the sight of them, gaze drifting over those sigils about their necks—raven and bear and serpent and wolves and skulls. And then, she looked to me.
“‘Who art thou? ’
“Her voice was lilting, childlike, utterly at odds with those bottomless eyes, that ravenous maw. But I could feel the power in her, remember the strength of her arms, the depth of her thirst, and though she seemed a child, I was near speechless with terror.
“‘Celene,’ we managed. ‘L-liathe of d-dread Wulfric.’
“‘Wulfric. Where be our brother in blood? ’
“We clenched our teeth, the souls we carried clambering up within us now, one louder than the rest, screaming with shapeless rage at she who had undone him.
“‘He is gone to his final rest,’ we whispered, crawling to our knees. ‘Jènoah also.’
“Maryn’s shoulders sagged at that, and she pressed one small hand to her chest. It seemed for a moment she was truly a child then, a moan of such grief and pain slipping her lips that our heart twisted at the sound.
I saw tears of the blood she had just drunk from our own still-bleeding throat rolling down her cherub’s cheeks.
“‘How? ’
“The voice within me roared, demanding confession.
Contrition. But I dragged myself to my feet, dripping seawater and blood.
And steeling my own resolve, I pushed him back down to the dark where he dwelled.
I was master here, not he. Little Mountain, my papa used to call me.
Iron rusts. Ice melts. But I was Celene Castia.
“And I was made of stone.
“‘Jènoah left a note in his own blood upon the floors of Cairnhaem,’ we told her. ‘This wait too long. This weight too heavy. But we carry the flame, Mother Maryn. Master Wulfric’s teachings live on in me.’ I hung our head, grief and loss now clawing at our chest. ‘We … we found her, Mother. The Scion of Heaven. She who would part the veil and save all our damned souls. But I…’
“I closed our eyes then. Guilt and terrible sorrow in my whisper.
“‘She fell in battle. Against the Dyvok. I tried to s-save her, we tried to…’ I moaned, ruined lips peeling back from our teeth. ‘Oh sweet and merciful God, forgive me…’
“But Maryn’s eyes had left me, drifting again to the ceiling high above our heads.
And with no more words, she turned away.
She moved as if she ached, body stiff from long years of stillness, hobbling between those screaming statues and grime-smeared tombstones, reaching the winding stair leading up to Amath du Miagh’dair.
“Weak and thirsting, we followed, limping in her wake; a small, pale figure swathed in rotten black, rising ever higher on the stair. Wounded, wincing, we staggered after her, finally emerging from the stink of blood and defeat, into the Mothermaid’s tomb above.
“The walls were cracked, mosaics of Michon and the other Martyrs bearing the mark of the battles in the city above. But the Mothermaid’s tomb was near intact.
It was crafted of marble, capped by a great sculpture of silver, tarnished with time.
The Mothermaid was wrought at rest upon a bed of skulls, dancing cherubim and mighty seraphim standing guard with silvered swords. And before that tomb, Maryn stood.
“‘Mother?’ we whispered.
“‘She abides within,’ Maryn said. ‘Heaven’s Scion.’
“We nodded, eyes downturned, the bitter taste of failure upon our tongue. ‘The funeral rites were spoke three days ago. May Almighty God grant her eternal r—’
“‘Fool.’
“I glanced up, fear twisting our belly at the wrath in that single word.
“‘Listen.’
“I obeyed, head tilted, eyes downturned. Outside, I could hear voices—the prisoners who had survived the assault upon Maergenn, the thralls liberated by Dior’s guile.
The song of sea and lonely gulls. But then, upon the cracked marble flanks of the Mothermaid’s tomb, I heard it.
Faint, but unmistakable. And if the dead heart within our chest had beat, it would surely have flung itself from our ribs in joy.
“Thump. Thump. Thump.
“And then, so faint it might have been an angel calling from heaven’s shore …
“‘Can anyone fucking hear me? ’
“‘Dior,’ we gasped. ‘Sweet God and Mothermaid be praised, she lives!’
“I knew not the how of it, nor the why, caring none for neither.
With a shapeless cry, we rushed forward, set to free her from that tomb.
But the capstone was silver, tons in the weighing—it would burn our hands to cinders before ever we dragged it free.
So looking to Mother Maryn, sagging against the wall now, we cried out, wild and shaking with joy.
“‘We will get help!’
“We flew from that tomb, I swear it, borne on wings of a hope such as I had never known.
I had seen her die, Historian. Neck snapped like kindling in the grip of Lilidh Dyvok, her body laid in state for the whole city to grieve.
But now, an impossibility, a blessed, incredible wonder, the shout spilling from our lips as we rushed through the Hall of Crowns, onto the steps of Dún Maergenn and screaming at the top of our lungs.
“‘SHE IS RISEN! ’
“Folk looked to us, wary, frightened—one more monster in a city near destroyed by them. But among the multitude in the rubble and ruin of the dún courtyard, I saw one I yet recognized. Joaquin Marenn. Former houndboy of Aveléne. Dior’s accomplice in the conspiracy that freed the Dyvok’s thralls from bondage, and liberated this city entire.
He was stood with a handful of other men, his hound Elaina at his heels.
“‘M. Marenn!’ we roared, dashing toward him.
“‘Mlle Castia,’ he replied, trepidation in his eyes. ‘What tr—’
“‘Dior is risen! The Grail lives, do you understand me? She is risen from the dead!’
“The boy’s eyes went wide, and folk around us murmured disbelief, signing the wheel at my blasphemy. But we squeezed his arm, eyes boring into his as we spoke.
“‘Bring men! As many men as you can find! And be swift!’
“We turned, dashing back toward the dún. Commanding his hound to stay, Joaquin rallied a handful of burly messieurs, their hands still scorched by the brands of former thralldom. And urged on by our cries, they followed us through the great halls, down the hidden stone pathways of Niamh Nineswords’ keep.
I could hear a clamor growing behind us, word of my revelation spreading through the city.
Joaquin ran swift at my side, jaw set, eyes wide—this boy whose life had been saved by Dior’s bravery and sacrifice.
I could see in him the same which burned in me—a flame of faith, choked by grief to but a single spark, now burning with the promise of that which had seemed utterly lost.
“Hope.