Chapter I. She Is Risen #2
“Into Amath du Miagh’dair we ran, Joaquin and the other scorched taking up position around the tomb.
One burly fellow started as he noticed Maryn, slumped silent in a corner and watching with eyes dark as sin.
But the Mother only smiled, beatific and angelic—a far cry from the horror that had near drunk me to ashes.
“‘Be swift, oh faithful swords. God Himself shall praise thy holy work this day.’
“Thump. Thump. Thump.
“A pounding within the tomb, the faintest cry.
“‘Is someone out there? ’
“‘Almighty God and Mothermaid,’ Joaquin breathed. ‘It’s true.’
“‘Lift!’ we cried. ‘Godssakes, LIFT!’
“The beating within the tomb became louder, Dior’s cries higher pitched, and we roared, ‘WE ARE COMING, CHéRIE! ’ I heard ruckus at the doorway, more folk descending from the courtyard, eyes wide, wondering.
And through the crush pushed a familiar figure, clad in leather and furs, a breastplate of embossed iron, her plaited hair burning red, and her eyes the gold of a lioness unleashed.
“‘What the bloody hell is goin’ on here?’ Phoebe á Dúnnsair demanded.
“‘She lives!’ Joaquin cried. ‘Dior is alive, Mlle Phoebe, help us!’
“Phoebe’s eyes met ours, brimming with misgiving. But though this woman and I hated each other like powder and flame, whatever passed for a smile twisted our face.
“‘She is risen, fleshwitch.’
“‘Helloooo? ’
“‘Sweet Mothermoons,’ Phoebe whispered.
“The fleshwitch ran to the tomb, but again, she was held at bay by the silver, forced to watch as Joaquin and his fellows bent their backs to the task. Though the scorched had been liberated from servitude by Dior’s blood, it seemed some strength of their unholy masters remained, and faces red, straining with the effort, they lifted that great capstone, one fraction after another, every inch a torturous mile.
“Fingers clad in an iron gauntlet emerged from between tomb’s cusp and capstone’s lip, and despite the threat of silver, we took hold and squeezed.
“‘Help! ’ came her cry. ‘I’m in here, I’m here!”
“‘We hear you, chérie! We are coming!’
“Whispers of wonder rippled among the onlookers, spreading like flame on old summer brush. And those murmurs became gasps became cries of joy as those silvered angels were at last thrown aside, and from the cold stone cradle whereupon she’d been laid, the Holy Grail of San Michon burst with a sob of relief.
“‘DIOR! ’
“She crashed into our arms, gasping, weeping, ashen hair plastered to tear-struck cheeks. She still wore the suit of platemail they’d laid her in, the metal groaning now as I crushed her to our chest and wailed at the wonder of it all.
With a howl, Phoebe flung herself at us, arms wrapped around the girl, pressing her lips to Dior’s cheeks and eyes as tears streamed down her face.
The scorched looked on in beggared wonder, Joaquin falling to his knees and calling praises to heaven most high, that from the cold arms of Death himself had salvation been delivered.
“Dior was weeping, bewildered, searching our face and Phoebe’s as if we might offer explanation of how this could be.
She was warm, breathing, her neck whole and her body seemingly unharmed.
But in the lack of answers, we focused on elation, to see this girl we cared for, we needed so desperately, somehow returned to life. ”
The Last Liathe stared at the ceiling above her head, her voice soft with wonder.
“And in that moment, seigneur, I came to believe in miracles.
“‘Are ye aright?’ Phoebe whispered. ‘Are ye…’
“The fleshwitch looked down then, to Dior’s hands in hers.
Her right was clad in a steel gauntlet, embossed with filigree of gold.
But Dior’s other hand had been left bare, the wounds she’d earned in that terrible final battle unveiled for all to see.
All but her forefinger and thumb were gone—torn away as she’d saved the life of Reyne á Maergenn from dread Lilidh.
The wound had been bloody and ragged when she was laid to rest. But now, though the digits themselves were still missing, the skin was smooth, the hurt entirely healed.
“‘What the hell is going on?’ the Grail whispered.
“‘Dior?’
“The word was frail as glass, edged with tears. And as she looked up, I saw the pale blue of the Grail’s eyes catch alight.
All wonder, all fear, all doubt vanished at the sight of the girl now stumbling through the crush at the tomb’s entrance, her hair the color of summer fire, mismatched eyes alight with wonder.
“‘Reyne…’ Dior whispered.
“‘DIOR! ’
“The Grail scrambled to her feet, clumsy in her platemail. With a cry, the Princess á Maergenn, youngest daughter of Niamh Nineswords, crashed into her arms, and crushed her lips to Dior’s.
Their mouths open, their bodies entwined, their two become perfectly one.
There was joy in that kiss, sinner, blissful and complete, so bright it might have outshone the sun before the death of days.
“‘Praise be to God,’ we whispered, bloody tears on our cheeks.
“They carried the Grail from that tomb like a conquering queen, Joaquin and the other scorched lifting her high as word of her resurrection spread.
Out through the keep they carried her, Phoebe and Reyne in tow, tears in every eye.
We followed also, such bewilderment and elation in us we were struck dumb.
“The city was in uproar, folk descending from the gore-flecked alleys of Newtunn, the ash-stained piers of Portunn, the shattered streets of Auldtunn, come to see the miracle unveiled. She rode upon their shoulders, clad in gleaming steel, and it seemed for a moment the skies above grew bright. Faint light shone upon her, like heaven’s kiss to her brow, and as the Grail smiled, Joaquin bellowed for all the world to hear.
“‘She is risen! God and Mothermaid be praised, SHE IS RISEN!’
“They roared, those folk there gathered, voices borne up on the wings of a miracle. They called her name, they begged her blessing, they wept with the awe of those who witness God’s work upon this earth.
Laughing with joy, Dior lifted her mangled hand.
And our dead heart filled with wonder as we saw the crowd do likesame; holding their hands aloft, forefingers and thumbs outstretched in mirror of her own wounds.
“‘The Red Hand of God!’ Joaquin cried.
“‘LA DEMOISELLE DU GRAAL!’
“We stood upon the steps, simply watching; a sight I will never forget. I could find no words, reduced to a heartsick sigh and a glance to storm-struck skies above. It shames me to say it, but I confess I’d wavered.
Thought us abandoned by heaven’s king. And as we placed one hand over my faithless heart, I vowed I would never doubt him again.
“‘Merci, saint-père. Merci.’
“‘From holy cup.’
“The whisper carried, even in that uproar, cold fingers down our spine.
Phoebe turned, looking now to the shadow at our backs.
Maryn there stood, mouth curled in a smile still smeared with our blood.
And as she stared at the Grail, she spoke the words carved in the tomb below; the prophecy that would save us, the vow that would deliver us all.
“‘From holy cup comes holy light.
“‘The faithful hand sets world aright.
“‘And in the Seven Martyrs’ sight,
“‘Mere man shall end this endless night.
“‘Before the Five, come unto one,
“‘With sainted blade, ’neath virgin sun,
“‘By sacred blood, or else by none.’
“We signed the wheel, our voice now joining hers.
“Promise.
“Purpose.
“Penance.
“‘This blackened veil shall be undone.’”