Chapter II. To the Dawn
II
TO THE DAWN
“HOW GREAT A change but a handful of sunsets can bring.
“The council was held in the Hall of Plenty, in the heart of the Maergenn chateau. Only a few days back, this place was filled to brimming with fiends of the Blackheart’s court, thralls they had enslaved, folk they saw only as meals.
Yet in that bloodstained hall, no devils now held council, but holy warriors and heathen sorcerers and believers true, united by their love of the fierce and beautiful girl stood at the heart of them.
“Fire burned in the hearth—the first that had been lit in that keep since the Dyvok seized it. A gathering of mortals stood about it, trying to banish winter’s chill from their bones.
Reyne á Maergenn, fifthborn of Niamh Nineswords—no longer in maidservant’s garb, but a gown of emerald green embroidered with the wolves and swords of her royal house.
Phoebe á Dúnnsair, clad in a breastplate of steel and bloodstained leathers, gold entwined in her slayerbraids and glinting in her predator’s eyes.
She stood with a passel of her kin; her cousin Breandan, her aunt Cinna, and brutes more animal than man.
The hulking bear-kin Brynne á Killaech stood at Phoebe’s right hand, and a collection of Highland chieftains loomed at the fleshwitch’s back, all sharp teeth and wicked talons.
“Young Joaquin Marenn was in attendance also, along with a bevy of burly men—former thralls of the Dyvok, all. They stood around Dior, armed with burning torches and silversteel taken from sons of San Michon fallen in the battle, the image of a chalice rough-drawn upon their tunics or tabards.
“Dior stood in the midst of them, fine and fey, still clad in mail and a breastplate of steel, a mantle of wolf fur about her shoulders.
I knew not the shape of the magik that had bid her rise from her grave, but rather than weakened by her ordeal, she appeared animated by it; her eyes keen and movements swift, voice ringing with a newfound power as she gave voice to the question on every mind.
“‘How the hell can this be?’
“She looked around the room, but none could offer answer. The Grail had been slain—we’d seen it with our own two eyes.
Yet now this girl moved and breathed for all to see, cheeks flushed, heart pounding, fairly brimming with light and life.
And in absence of any rational explanation, we offered the only one we had.
“‘A miracle, chérie.’
“Joaquin nodded at our whisper, the men about him likesame, placing forefinger and thumb over their hearts and looking upon her with simple awe.
“‘The Red Hand of God.’
“The Grail chewed her lip, the street-smart, cobble-hard urchin in her still discontent with so simple an explanation.
But raised on hard stone with hard choices as she was, Dior Lachance was ever a pragmatist. And with no better answer forthcoming, she set the question aside, asking the next most important on her mind.
“‘Where’s Gabriel?’
“Phoebe lowered her eyes, tucking a braid behind one pointed ear. ‘He rode out days ago. Aaron and Baptiste are gone, too. And Gabe’s battlebrother Lachlan.’
“‘We have to go get him.’
“‘We know not where he rides, Flower.’
“Ice-blue eyes met animal gold. ‘Your folk can track him, surely. He thinks I’m dead, Phoebe. He thinks it was his fault.’
“‘It was his fault,’ Reyne said, faeling eyes now falling on me. ‘His and yours. You two were so busy trying to murder each other, you let Lilidh murder Dior.’
“‘And my Connor besides,’ Phoebe growled.
“We were stood against a tree-tall pillar, far from the dreadful heat in that hearth, those believers and their torches. We’d raided the keep’s wardrobes, unearthing finer cloth than the rags we’d wrapped ourselves in after we were burned at Cairnhaem.
A long frockcoat, white velvet and gold filigree, buttons agleam.
Breeches of black leather, riding boots of the same, and for the last, a shirt and scarf of red silk to hide the ruins of our face.
“‘Our condolences for the loss of your husband, fleshwitch, but w—’
“‘I need nae condolences, leech. I need nothin’ from ye.’
“‘What in the names of Malath and Mothermoons is that thing doin’ here, anyway?’
“It was a duskdancer who spoke—a chieftain by name of Angiss, so twisted by the Moonsthrone’s idolatrous magiks his head was that of a wolf, and his hands wicked claws.
“‘Aye,’ Brynne growled. ‘We need nae counsel from maebh’lair.’
“‘From whom then,’ we asked, ‘shall you seek it?’
“Phoebe turned to the Grail. ‘We should head to the Highlands, Flower.’
“Murmurs of agreement rippled among the other heathens, drowning out our scoff. But the Grail seemed unconvinced, looking Phoebe over with jaw set.
“‘What’s in the Highlands?’
“‘The All Mothers. Wisdom and magiks, old and true.’
“Phoebe’s aunt Cinna nodded. Her skin was leathered, sacred tattoos faded by time, but her eyes held wisdom. ‘Long have our auguries spoke of the Anabh’Dhai’s birth, lass. Foretelling the birth of the Godling who shall end the Time of Blighted Blood.’
“‘Unless I’m mistaken those auguries said I’d be born of the Highlands,’ Dior replied.
‘Not some streetwalker from Lashaame. And I mean no offense, Cinna. Phoebe. All of you.’ She looked about the Highlanders, hands clasped.
‘I know what you sacrificed to come to my aid, I truly do. But I’m not sure what hiding in the Moonsthrone will accomplish. ’
“Phoebe gently touched Dior’s cheek. ‘Ye’ll be safe there, Flower.’
“‘Maybe. I’m just not sure safe is where I’m supposed to be.’
“The Princess Reyne took her hand. ‘So long as you’re with me.’
“Dior smiled, squeezing the taller girl’s fingers. In the silence following, Joaquin declared, ‘We stand with you, Mlle Dior. Where you lead, we Unbound shall follow.’
“Angiss raised one scarred eyebrow. ‘Unbound?’
“Joaquin nodded. ‘So we call ourselves. Scorched and slaved to the Dyvok no more, but freed by her holy blood, and sworn to her holy cause.’
“‘And where would ye have her lead ye, boy?’
“Joaquin stood taller, squaring his shoulders. ‘Don’t call me boy, monsieur.’
“The wolf-chief scoffed. ‘One battle ’neath yer belt, and ye’d have me name ye man? I’ll bet ye’ve barely a whisker on yer bollocks!’
“‘Peace, Angiss,’ Phoebe warned. ‘These goodly folk aren’t the enemy.’
“‘Nae, but enemies stand among us.’ Angiss gestured at us with those terrible claws. ‘The streets outside are drenched with Highlander blood, and yet we count the Dead among our counselors?’
“‘What then would you counsel?’ we demanded. ‘Dior Lachance is the Holy Grail of San Michon. Descendent of the Redeemer Himself. It is through the Esana prophecy that she shall lead this world to salvation, and our souls besides.’
“‘I’ve heard such talk before,’ Phoebe growled. ‘When ye led us to the tomb that was Cairnhaem, and betrayed yer own brother almost to his death. If Gabriel were here—’
“‘He is NOT here!’ I cried, fists clenched. ‘Just as he was not there when I was damned to night eternal! Have you not yet noticed that about my dear brother, fleshwitch? Gabriel de León is never there when you need him!’
“Dior met our eyes then, pity swimming in pale blue. ‘That’s not fair, Celene.’
“‘Fair? Since when does fair have anyth—’
“‘This blackened veil shall be undone.’
“All the room fell still as those words slit the air. A warm shiver ran down every spine, and the voices in my mind whispered in response. Before she’d spoken, Mother Maryn had stood so small and silent in the shadows that she seemed to slip from the mind somehow.
But now, the power of her fairly thrummed upon the walls.
“She was clad in the only clothes we’d found that fit—those of a child.
A nobleborn child, to be sure, her velvet gown the color of cream, bodice embroidered with gold thread that matched the curls spilling down her back.
She was the very image of innocence—a tiny angel fallen to earth, the kind that might be found hung in the imperial galleries at Augustin, or in a locket about a proud mother’s neck.
It was only her eyes that gave her away.
Her eyes and skin. For while the latter was pale and smooth as alabaster, the former were black, hard, flooded to her lashes with a darkness so deep it might swallow the soul.
“Or so it had seemed to me, at least. We’d sat together, up in the boudoir where we found her attire, and she had fixed me with that bottomless gaze.
I’d no notion of the full counting of her years, but I knew she was broodchild of Illia—founder of our faith—and the eldest Esana on earth.
Somewhere in her centuries, Maryn must have consumed a child of Voss, for as she stared, I felt her mind touch my own.
And though I’d been powerful enough to devour one of the eldest Ironhearts under heaven—dread Aléne, child of Fabién—Maryn’s thoughts still pierced mine like a bloody spear. ”
The Last Liathe paused, fingers steepled at her lips.
“You are of Chastain blood, Marquis. This bloodgift is not yours to know. But the reading of minds can be a … delicate matter. Like … pressing one’s fingers to a rime of fresh ice over still water.
If you touch but lightly, you can gain a sense of temperature, of texture, without leaving a mark.
But press too hard, the ice will crack. Touch too long, it will melt.
And though deeper secrets and thoughts can be plumbed beneath that cold surface, the mind’s owner will feel you there. And few take kindly to such violation.”
Celene chuckled.