Chapter III. Of These Wounds #2
“And I am to take your word on this?” The historian pouted, tapping his lip.
“Nono, not even your word, oui? Instead, I should trust the testimony of a cannibal of her own kind, with over eight hundred years of slaughter drenching her wee cherub’s claws, and God only knows how many stolen souls clambering for attention inside her tiny bonce? ”
“Mother Maryn was no angel, to be sure.”
“Nor her maker.” Jean-Francois scoffed. “Maryn was broodchild of Illia—also one of these Five, oui? If there be a pebble of truth in this avalanche of deceit, then the founder of your entire cult was also a bootlicker of the Fallen.”
“Illia repented before she died. Worked to undo her legion of sins.” Celene leaned forward, fixing the historian in her stare. “You can too, Jean-Francois.”
Jean-Francois’s fangs gleamed as he threw his head back and guffawed.
“And who shall be my confessor, Mlle Castia? You? Shall I have Meline bring down a priest’s dress and holy water for the rites of contrition?
” The historian rose from his seat, spitting now.
“No, that wouldn’t work, would it? Because for all your petty preaching, and all your counterfeit piety, your beloved Almighty hates you as much as he hates me. ”
Jean-Francois stilled himself, sitting back down, the reflection in Celene’s eyes showing only an empty chair. Straightening his cravat, the historian lifted his quill again.
“‘Toward the port she set her tread,’” he quoted.
And across that black river, Celene sighed.
“Portunn was aflurry,” she said. “Final preparations for our journey to the capital underway.
We walked side by side with Maryn; Dior, Phoebe, and Reyne ahead, the crush of folk parting before the Grail as if the waters before San Antoine.
And looking out over the boardwalks to the means of our departure, we were forced to thank the Almighty for his providence.
“Even as Maergenn fell, as silversaint and duskdancer and vampire clashed upon the walls of his dún, Nikita Dyvok fought like a demon.
But though all his court feared him, not all of them were loyal.
And in those final moments, no few Dyvok abandoned their liege, betraying their blood oaths in exchange for forever.
“Among those rats was the Draigann, broodchild of Lilidh, master of the Dyvok fleet. Two dozen warships had been moored off Portunn, and when Lilidh’s eldest gave the order, those vessels hauled anchor and fled, the Draigann and his dogs safe aboard.
The ships they could not crew, the kith scuttled, sending them to the bottom of the Gulf of Wolves—all save one.
A grand three-masted war galley, miraculously left unmarred, unscarred.
Anchored a few hundred feet offshore, and now claimed by the Red Hand of God.
“Her figurehead was a beautiful maid in ornate armor, her sword outstretched along the bowsprit. Her sails were daubed with the same sigil marking the doublets and tabards of Dior’s faithful—that chalice silhouetted by flame.
She had once been called Marauder, but the name down her prow had been sanded clean and replaced with another, a promise, a prayer for all that she would soon sail for.
“Dawnseeker.
“With soldiers serving as crew, she could hold more than two hundred fighting men aboard. A cadre was being ferried out to her now, calls echoing down the crowded docks. We could see Maryn’s great stone coffin riding in the longboat with them, that angel carved upon its lid.
We’d be sailing over the ocean of course, and salt water is not the impediment to our kind that fresh water is.
But the Mother still needed a place to sleep.
“Phoebe’s kin were among those loading supplies for our journey, but the Highlanders would soon be heading back to their mountains.
Their march would take months, and now that the Dyvok were defeated, we’d no idea if their All Mothers would allow further entanglement in ‘Lowland affairs.’ Idolators they might have been, but the talons and fangs of fleshwitches can slay kith swift as silver, and their army would have been a boon in the coming battle.
But in all likelihood, they were off the board for good. ”
The Last Liathe scowled.
“Damned heathens.”
“You speak of them so fondly, too.” Jean-Francois dipped his quill and tutted. “I simply cannot imagine why they’d forsake the pleasures of your company, Mlle Castia.”
Celene rolled her eyes, but ignored the jab.
“We waited for the next longboat, watching a lonely gull circle overhead.
Phoebe had gone to speak to her kin, kissing each cheek of the big úrfuil, Brynne á Killaech, and gifting her cousin Breandan and aunt Cinna embraces of farewell.
Old Cinna cradled a young blond girl in her arms—we recognized her as Mlle Mila, a lass rescued by Gabriel and Dior at Aveléne, now apparently adopted by the Dúnnsairs.
The little girl was watching us with wide eyes, moppet doll clutched to her chest, raising one hand in farewell.
“Beside us, Maryn’s eyes were once more closed, her thin shoulders slumped. She’d fed upon a captured foulblood yestereve, draining the wretch to ashes, but the Mother still seemed terribly frail; enervated by that long century in eventide.
“The Grail stood with Reyne, the pair touching every so often as if to reassure the other she was there. We could see the faint smile on Dior’s lips every time their fingertips brushed, the blush rising on the Princess’s cheeks in kind.
And yet, as Dior looked across the bustling docks, the love-bright smile faded from her lips.
“She’d spied a boy, sitting among the rope coils and provisions. He was Ossian born, perhaps seven or eight, muddy of hair and freckled of skin. He was watching the workers, but his leg was bound to a splint with bloodstained rags, his green eyes smudged with pain.
“Letting her fingers drift from Reyne’s, Dior wandered over to the lad. His eyes grew wide as she crouched before him, all the motion around her falling still.
“‘What’s your name, garcon?’
“The boy tried to answer, so overcome he managed only to flap his lips.
“‘Yer pardon, Holy Maid.’
“Dior turned to a tall Ossian man standing among the now-motionless dockmen.
“‘I’m his da if it please ye. His name is Finley.’
“‘Finley.’ Smiling, Dior turned back to the lad. ‘That’s a good name.’
“The boy spoke, soft with awe. ‘It means Fine Warrior.’
“‘I’m sure you’re the finest. But it seems you’ve hurt your leg, Finley.’
“‘He broke it, Holy Maid,’ the lad’s father explained, doffing his cap. ‘In the attack, like. When the leeches were throwin’ their boulders into the Auldtunn streets.’
“‘They got Laini, too,’ the boy whispered. ‘Their rocks squished her.’
“The Grail touched his hand, soft with sorrow. ‘Was she your sister?’
“‘My k-kitty.’
“‘I’m sorry.’ Dior brushed the grubby red hair from his eyes. ‘I wish I could give her back. But I can help you, Finley. If you’ll let me? Can I see your leg?’
“The lad looked to his father, uncertain. But the man said only, ‘Courage, boy.’
“And so, meeting the Grail’s eyes, little Finley nodded.
Smiling, Dior reached out gently, the boy wincing as she unbound his broken leg from its splint.
His skin was horribly swollen and blotched—infection already setting in at his roots.
Keeping her face stone, Dior reached to her belt, and the boy whimpered as she drew a dagger.
Around us, I saw Phoebe tense, Mother Maryn watching, a hush come over the docks now.
“And with the tip of her blade, the Grail pricked the finger of her mangled hand.
“Blood welled bright at her fingertip; a rubied pearl glittering in the dim dawn.
The scent was wondrous, perilous, as if the curtain of the heavens had been rolled back and the sunlight of my long-stolen youth shone upon my face once more.
And with a whisper of comfort, Dior smeared her blood upon that septic skin.
“For a moment, all remained as it was. I saw dockmen murmur among themselves, exchange wary glances. But before our awestruck eyes, we saw the bruises on that child’s skin fade then, the unwholesome pallor flush with vigor.
And with eyes wide, little Finley slowly stood, testing his weight and looking to his father in wonder.
“‘Pa, look, I’m fixed!’
“‘Sweet Redeemer…’ the man whispered, tears welling in his lashes.
“The whisper echoed down the docks, all the folk around Dior now sinking to their knees. Every eye was alight with the fire of faith, every tongue breathing prayers to the Almighty. Maryn met our gaze, a smile curling her lips as someone in the crowd began singing a hymn to heaven’s glory.
Others reached out to touch the hem of Dior’s cloak as she rose to her feet, sea winds tousling her ashen hair.
“‘… Holy Maid?’
“Dior turned, found a woman of middle forty among the throng. Another Ossian, she was—face lined by hardship, clothes greyed by stonedust, arm in a bloody sling.
“‘I’d nae dare to presume, b-but…’
“‘Of course,’ Dior nodded. ‘Of course I’ll help you.’
“The woman whispered thanks, almost in tears as Dior lifted her arm, unwrapped the filthy dressing. The wound was terrible; as like to end in amputation as not. And yet, as before, with a touch of her holy blood, the woman’s hurts were made well.
“She cried aloud, holding her arm aloft to heaven and calling witness, praying for God’s blessings to be showered on the girl’s head.
Folk were gathering about Dior now, dirty hands outstretched.
They begged her to cure their hurts—not just wounds from the assault, but from life itself, pushing and pulling in want just to be near her.
“The mob grew unruly, and Phoebe looked set to intervene.
But the Grail shook her head, motioning to the duskdancer all was well.
And, knife gleaming, bloody hand outstretched, Dior Lachance set about unwinding every hurt in that battle-bloodied city.
By her holy touch were mangled limbs made whole, shattered bones set, blinded eyes made to see.
Miracle after miracle she wrought with her red hand, slicing at finger and palm again and again—healing their hurts, no matter how much it hurt her in kind.
“The sun was climbing higher, the crowd not yet diminished, the hour growing so late that in the end we drifted to Maryn’s side. Our Priori looked tired, leaning upon one of the boardwalk pylons with lashes dipping upon her cheeks.
“‘Are you well, Mother?’ we asked.
“The unchild’s eyes snapped open, and she blinked once, twice before finally focusing on our face. ‘Our eventide was long, child. Waking yet are we.’
“‘Should we not away? The tides will not tarry.’
“‘Time we can spare for this. With every drop spilled, her legend grows. And a legend we shall need, sweet Liathe, if we wish to carve our Grail a place ’pon the Fivefold Throne of Elidaen and part the veil forever.’
“We nodded, seeing the wisdom in it; the blind fervor now blazing in every man, woman and child on those docks. Maryn brushed a golden curl from her cheek, pawing at her eyes and pinching the bridge of her nose.
“‘Thou shalt watch o’er her on our journey ahead, Liathe. Slumber’s weight yet lies heavy on our shoulders, and we shall have need to rest a time, afore to strength we are returned.
Meanwhile, we shall have thee stand vigil o’er the Grail.
Keep her counsel. Guard her well. And speak to us, of any deed or word that might trouble thee. ’
“‘Your will be done, Mother.’
“‘Thou dost serve us well, good Liathe. Soon shall all thy blessed labors bear sweetest fruit. Unto the arms of God above shall thee and thy burdens be delivered.’
“I closed our eyes, the voices in my mind whispering.
“‘We would like that. Very much.’
“‘Have faith, child. Not long now. We know it.’
“It took another hour before Dior was done. The mortals of Maergenn were fair bewitched by the end of it, and if the Grail had simply walked across the rolling waves out to Dawnseeker, they could not have been more amazed. Phoebe bid final farewell to her kin, kissing little Mila’s cheek and asking her aunt Cinna to speak to the All Mothers on Dior’s behalf.
Joaquin and Dior’s other Unbound helped her down into the waiting longboat, Elaina sniffing and licking her bloody hand.
Maryn and I stood now at the bow, Reyne at Dior’s right, Phoebe finally climbing into the longboat with a distinctly uneasy expression.
“‘Are you well, Mlle Phoebe?’ Joaquin asked.
“‘Dinnae like boats,’ the fleshwitch growled.
“‘Did a masked schooner murder your papa as a child or—’
“‘I cannae swim, ye lily-white Nordish cunt!’
“‘Oh.’ Joaquin flashed a cheerful smile. ‘Well, no trouble. If you fall in, I’ll save you.’
“Phoebe sank down to the longboat’s belly, the black talons at her fingertips digging deep into the gunwale. ‘Lay hand on me, I’ll break yer fuckin’ arms, boy.’
“‘No fear, Phoebe,’ Dior said. ‘I can’t swim, either. We can drown together.’
“‘Bollocks to that,’ Joaquin scoffed. ‘I’ll just save you both.’
“Dior smiled weakly, Phoebe now looking at her young charge sidelong.
“‘Ye aright, Flower?’
“The Grail nodded, rubbing her brow. ‘Just a little dizzy.’
“‘Nae surprised. Ye must’ve spilled half a gallon o’ claret up there.’
“‘It was worth it.’ Dior looked back to the docks, where little Finley stood with his father, still waving. Smiling, she raised her hand in return.
“‘San Dior! ’ they cried. ‘La demoiselle du Graal! ’
“‘Dior,’ Reyne whispered, eyes gone wide. ‘Sweet Mothermaid…’
“We heard the odd note in the Princess’s voice, whispering in awe.
It had always been the nature of her holy gift that Dior could heal the wounds of others, but not herself.
Though she might drag a body back from the very brink of death with her blood, her own body was as slow to mend as any mortal’s.
She’d sliced her skin open dozens of times as she’d worked, we’d seen it with our own two eyes. But now …
“‘Your hand,’ we whispered.
“Holding her mangled paw up before her, Dior’s eyes grew wide. For while her fingers were still missing, the cuts she’d carved to mend those folk on the docks …
“‘Holy shit,’ she breathed.
“The Grail’s wounds had healed.”