Chapter III. Of These Wounds
III
OF THESE WOUNDS
“WE WAITED FOR Gabriel as long as we were able.
“A week had passed since the Grail’s resurrection, and Maergenn was a city much changed.
We stood upon the dún’s battlements, watching folk rush through her streets like ants, arms laden, wagons loaded.
Maryn’s face was serene, black gaze roaming the ocean we must soon cross, sea winds tumbling golden curls about her cheeks.
Dior was less a picture of calm; pacing the cracked stones with hands clasped at her back, wide blue eyes drifting ever northward.
She wore a blue cloak, a mantle of pale wolf furs, and a breastplate of steel; new embossed with the same sigil now stitched into hundreds of tabards among her honorguard in the streets of Portunn below.
“A chalice, silhouetted against a field of flame.
“‘The tide won’t wait, Dior. And we’ve waited too long aready.’
“It was the Princess á Maergenn speaking, leaning on the ramparts with arms folded, freckled cheeks pinked by biting dawn winds. She’d abandoned her royal gowns for the journey ahead—dressed in leather britches and knee-high boots, a mail hauberk and a tabard of two greens, hatched with black and blue, embroidered with the wolves and nine swords of her clan.
A longblade of silversteel taken from a dead son of San Michon hung at her belt, and her auburn hair was bound in a long warbraid.
“‘He’ll come,’ Dior insisted. ‘I know it.’
“Reyne sighed, taking up the younger girl’s hands. ‘He thinks you’re dead, love.’
“‘I don’t care,’ Dior hissed. ‘Gabe won’t leave me. He promised.’
“We stood quiet as stone, but the voices in my mind were gabbling, babbling; a cacophony that was hard to contain. Understand they had always been there, Marquis—those souls I carried within me, whispering in my dark. But over the last few nights in Maryn’s presence, I’d noted they’d become far louder.
I could hear each of them now, not just a sea of voices, but individuals, clearer than they had ever been.
Truth told, they’d become so loud we’d been relieved when Dior commanded us to leave the dún to hunt for my faithless brother. But …
“‘You found no trace of him?’ she demanded, rounding on me. ‘Nothing at all?’
“‘No, chérie.’
“‘Would you tell me if you had?’
“Black eyes burned in the back of my mind. Maryn yet staring at the sea.
“‘I would tell you. We found no sign of Gabriel, Dior. I vow it on my souls.’
“She scowled at that, arms wrapped about herself as she began pacing the ramparts anew. Bells were ringing in Portunn below, cries echoing amid the shush of the waves, the high calls of heartsick gulls. Reyne glanced to me, lips pressed thin.
“‘Dior, we must depart for Augustin. Capitaine á Connell says we need to pass around the Cape of Knives before the spring thaw. The currents will change, the seas—’
“‘Phoebe sent her best trackers on Gabe’s trail. They’ll return with news, I know it.’
“The Princess á Maergenn seemed set to argue, but we heard soft tread upon the stone then.
Dior caught it also, turning as Phoebe á Dúnnsair climbed the crumbling stairs to our highwalk.
She glared at me, yet spared a small nod for Maryn—Highlanders were a people who cherished the wisdom of matriarchs, remember, and Phoebe had sense enough to concede there were none so venerable in that keep as Maryn herself.
“‘Phoebe,’ Dior breathed. ‘What news, did y—’
“‘Nothin’, Flower.’ The fleshwitch looked norward, her voice heartsick. ‘Long we hunted. Valley, river, and dell. But we found nae sign of Gabriel.’
“‘Well, he can’t have just disappeared!’
“‘Storms have blown fierce these last days, Dior. Old tracks. Fresh snows. Nae novice woodsmen are the Black Lion or his fellows. And my folk are keen to be headin’ home.’
“The Grail sank to her haunches, dragging her mangled hand back through her curls.
“‘Fuck my face…’
“Reyne exchanged a glance with the fleshwitch. ‘Dior—’
“‘I know what you’d say,’ the Grail snapped. ‘And it might feel like wisdom. But Gabriel de León has fought beside me longer than any of you. He brought down the walls of this whole fucking city to return to my side, and turning my back on him now…’
“She shook her head, looking eastward.
“‘It might be wise. But it’s just not right.’
“‘My father perished of plague when I was a child.’
“All turned to Maryn, still stood with her face to the ocean. Her shadowed eyes were closed, as if after so long in the dark of that tomb, she still struggled to keep them open. Her voice was that of a little girl, but her words carried weight, undeniable.
“‘Little did I know the man who made me. Yet e’en as I fell into damnation’s arms, e’er did I seek figureheads to stand in his stead. Centuries I hunted. For a mentor. An anchor. I thought the hole in my heart might be filled, if I could find the right man to fit it.’
“Maryn opened her eyes, looking now upon Dior.
“‘One day soon shall ye learn same as we—there be none who might fill that void but the Father above. Yet know we, why ye love this man. Not thy blood, but yet thy family.’
“Dior chewed her lip, eyes shining. ‘Oui.’
“Maryn nodded, and lifting her hand, bit her wrist. The scent of ancien blood struck us like a sword to the breast, and within us, that choir of souls sang, none so loud as he.
The Mother bled a single trembling droplet from the wound, and that drop formed itself into a moth, small and crimson, not falling but flitting up into stormwashed skies above.
“‘We are not yet that which we were, holy child. Weak from long slumber. Heavy with lost years. This mote of us will perish in time, crumbling into ash and eternity. But while it lasts, we shall give what little strength we have to the finding of him, this man ye would have stand in thy father’s stead. No rest shall we take ’til he be found, and word of thy resurrection gifted to his wond’ring ears. ’
“Dior drew a trembling breath. ‘Merci, Maryn.’
“The Mother smiled faintly. ‘No thanks, holy child. Thy tears say more than words. But ye must turn thine eyes to ice now, and affix thy resolve with pins of cold adamant. Voss and his legion draw ever nearer to Augustin. If thou hast not claimed the sainted blade and Elidaen’s throne both by Maidsfeast, this world shall dwell in darkness eternal.’
“It was a sobering thought, stilling everyone upon those battlements. Reyne chewed her lip, her faeling eyes falling upon the Mother.
“‘Why does Fabién want Augustin, Maryn? He’s waged his war for over a decade now, marching from Talhost, ever eastward. Why is he so hell-bent on the capital?’
“‘Hell-bent is right, daughter of Nine Swords. When one gives up his soul, the trappings of power ephemeral are all that remain. No matter how hollow their weighing.’
“‘Well, why does he want me?’ Dior demanded. ‘The Forever King has hunted m—’
“‘Oh, holy child, name him not so. Voss be no king. He is a dogsbody. A baseborn slave. Know thee not, the master he serves? Like all those priests who slew heaven’s son? What covenant think ye they broke? What false god think ye they worshipped? ’
“Dior only shook her head. In reply, Maryn pointed across the bailey where the ruins of Maergenn’s cathedral rose.
The blackened sun was cresting the horizon, smudging the dawndoors with faintest light, and upon them was wrought a tale old as the One Faith itself—winged seraphim of heaven and hell, slaying each other in their eternal war.
“Maryn spoke then, shivering every spine upon those battlements.
“‘Fabién Voss is a servant of hell. Lickspittle to the Lord of the Pit himself. By command of that black prince was God’s son tormented ’pon his wheel, and at his beck, doth his immortal lackey labor still.
We hath no ken why Voss desires thee. Only that he serves an evil so absolute God Himself cast it from his kingdom.
He cannot be allowed to claim thee. And with these brave and beautiful daughters at thy side, we think he shall not.
For seldom in our years hath we laid eyes ’pon so fine and fierce a company as this.
’ That dark gaze roamed the ramparts, filling each breast with fire.
‘But we can wait no longer for the Black Lion of Lorson. Though it grieves thee, holy child, we must depart for Augustin.’
“Dior sighed, pawing at her eyes. She looked to her wounded hand, the mangled brand of Lilidh, scarred for all the world to see. So much had she given already, this child of gutters and lies. But as she breathed deep and stood, again I saw the queen in her.
“‘Tell Joaquin and the others. It’s time for us to leave.’
“The Princess bowed. ‘My Lady Grail.’
“And with a small nod to Mother Maryn, toward the port she set her tread.”
The Last Liathe fell silent, staring across the rushing waters at the historian.
Jean-Francois was writing swiftly, turning back every few breaths to finish a portrait of the Mother of Monsters.
But as the quiet stretched long, filled only by the rush and babble of that black river between them, the vampire raised his eyes.
“Are you waiting for something, Mlle Castia?”
The Liathe stared, dark gaze agleam with a thousand points of refracted light.
“Some gasp of false breath? Some muttered blasphemy? Some sign you understand the magnitude of what we have just revealed to you?”
“And what have you revealed, precisely?”
“Margot Chastain.”
Jean-Francois stifled a yawn, dipped his quill. “What of her?”
“She is of the Five,” Celene hissed. “Spoken of in Testaments, just as Fabién; priestess of gods false and covenants broken. You are many things, Jean-Francois, but no true servant of the pit do we mark you. We are wondering how it feels to learn your maker is a devotee of the Lord of Hell himself?”
The historian chuckled, turning back to his portrait of Maryn.