Chapter IV. Upon the Silvered Glass #2
“Dior and Reyne glanced at each other then, the Grail’s lips parted in shock.
“‘Holy shit…’
“‘This was long before we were wed,’ Phoebe said. ‘My Connor was a wanderer back then. Trekking from Asheve’s shores to Augustin itself. A royal vagabond, descendent of Ailidh, seeking to understand the world he hoped one day to rule. But during his journeys through the Highlands, he met yer ma. And fer a time … he loved her.’
“Reyne frowned, struggling to find words. ‘I … he … you…’
“‘I dinnae know he left her wi’ child. Nor did he, I’m sure of it.
He was an honorable man, my Connor. But when Lilidh brought him to Maergenn as her slave, he’d have marked ye fer his kin.
He protected ye from the Heartless in those hours afore Maergenn’s fall, though it cost him his life.
Yer age and the time of his affair with yer ma all fit, lass.
Even now, I cannae be sure, but watchin’ ye these last weeks… ’
“The fleshwitch caressed the Princess’s cheek, smiling sadly.
“‘Ye’ve his eyes, Reyne. Moons know I spent enough time drownin’ in them.’
“We recalled that great white wolf at the Heartless’s side; one eye pale blue, the other marked only by a vicious scar. Reyne’s hand rose to her own eyes, emerald and sapphire, both grown wide as she looked to Dior.
“‘Like father…’
“‘Like daughter,’ Dior replied.
“Phoebe searched Reyne’s gaze, as if seeking the girl’s mettle. ‘If my suspicion be true, ye’d be a child of Low and Highland royalty twined. Daughter of the Nineswords and a descendant of Ailidh the Bold both. Ye know her story, lass?’
“‘She was…’ Reyne shook her head, clearly dumbfounded. But Dior slipped an arm about her waist and squeezed, and the Princess found her voice again. ‘A warrior queen. She conquered most of Ossway in the name of the Mothermoons.’
“‘Stormbringer they called her. And it’s foretold she’ll one day be reborn. A ruler who’ll bind the Ossway true, Low and High, nae by edge of blade but right of blood. And if yer a child of Niamh á Maergenn and Connor á Lachlainn both…’
“‘But I’m not even first in line for my mother’s throne! My sister Yvaine lives in southern Elidaen. She’s a daughter of pureborn wedlock, not some ill-got bastard.’
“‘Don’t talk like that,’ Dior frowned. ‘You’re a queen if I ever met one, Reyne.’
“‘I see courage in ye, Reyne á Maergenn. And if ye are my Connor’s girl…’ The fleshwitch swallowed then, voice soft with grief.
‘The gift calls to a duskdancer child only when their parents are taken into the arms of death. If Connor’s blood ye carry, then his power ye might carry, too.
And with him now gone … Have ye noticed any change of late? Sharpness of eye or strength of arm?’
“‘… Not at all.’
“‘Nae aversion to silver?’
“The Princess motioned to the longblade at her belt; pure silversteel, taken from a fallen son of San Michon. Phoebe pursed her lips, studying the girl’s features.
“‘It cannae be just chance. He died to defend ye. And those eyes…’ The fleshwitch shook her head. ‘Mebbe his gift dinnae pass to ye. But Connor á Lachlainn was my husband, and if ye be a child of his blood, I’ve obligation to ye now. I lost the daughter he planted in me afore she was born. And I’m nae yer ma, and shall never be. But…’
“The fleshwitch faltered then, casting her hunter’s gaze to the decks. The Princess spoke into the silence, her voice raw with sorrow.
“‘Niamh Nineswords was a great woman. But no great mother. She sent me from her side when I was a girl, and when I returned years later, she greeted me only with scorn. The Blackheart took her from me when he took her throne. But truth told … I never really had a mother at all.’
“Phoebe lifted her eyes, dragging talons back through her hair.
“‘I’d like to know ye, Reyne á Maergenn. If ye’ll let me.’
“‘I’d like that, Phoebe á Dúnnsair. Very much.’
“The fleshwitch opened her arms, and Reyne stepped into their arc, eyes closed as they embraced. Dior’s eyes shone with tears, and as the pair parted, Phoebe reached into her tunic, fetching a leather thong.
Like the collar Phoebe herself wore, it was woven into a beautiful pattern of everknots, wound about a small nut.
“‘This is the way of our people,’ Phoebe said, presenting the necklet. ‘To carry a seed into battle, so that something might grow from the soil where we fall. But more, it’s to bear hope of a future brighter, and the promise of morrows greener.’
“Reyne smiled as the duskdancer bound the collar about her throat, fingers brushing the tiny promise of life she now carried. ‘Merci, Phoebe.’
“The fleshwitch kissed Reyne’s brow. ‘Moons’ blessings, lass.’
“All this we watched from the railing, real eyes yet to the sea. As the trio parted, we remained motionless, but our thoughts were a storm at all this. Phoebe á Dúnnsair was no friend of ours, and if she held sway over the Princess, she held sway over Dior. In nights to come, the Grail’s allegiances could not be torn in two directions, nor her heart in twain.
“Only one thing mattered.
“By sacred blood, or else by none,
“This blackened veil must be undone …
“And so, after time passed, we rolled to our feet and walked down to the deck, cold wind clawing our hair. The fleshwitch was now on the stern speaking with our capitaine—a grizzled old seadog named á Connell, wide as an ocean, deep as a puddle, teeth made entirely of gold. Hunter’s eyes followed as we passed, down the spiral stair belowdecks.
Timbers were creaking, waves crashing upon the hull as we stopped outside Maryn’s door, raising knuckles to knock.
“‘I cannot do this…’
“The whisper came from within—the Mother’s, sharp and bright with pain.
At the sound of her voice, the voices within us responded; all those stolen lives, all those harbored souls.
A choir of fledglings and mediae—Victorine Ilon, Octavia and Dmitri Dyvok, Alexandra and Anastasia and Anna Chastain.
Beyond them I could feel Aléne Voss, one of the seven Princes of Forever; all her power, all her hatred, all her rage uncoiling within me.
But deeper, beyond even the Terror’s fury, I could feel him.
“Mentor.
“Master.
“Monster.
“‘Ye will do this,’ came the hiss beyond the door. ‘Feckless, faithless coward.’
“It was Maryn’s voice again, but a changed timbre, an altered tone. And when she spoke again, again, it seemed her inflection, even her accent shifted, over and over, as if she spoke with not one voice, but dozens.
“‘Hold to thy course. Cleave to thy faith. Not long now.’
“‘Too long, oh heaven help us, so long. How in God’s name can you stand it? ’
“‘Cease thy whining, all of thee! We hath not labored centuries to stumble at this, finale’s throat. Remember all Illia taught thee! And what hangs in this balance! ’
“‘I want to go hoooome.’
“‘And soon we shall. We all of us, my loves, my dears. Into thine arms, O Lord.’
“A hiss came then, softer than the rest.
“‘She knows. The Liathe.’
“‘She knows nothing and none. Stopper thy babble at once.’
“‘Great Wulfric would have mentored no fools. If sh—’
“‘Silence now, all of thee! ’
“A quiet fell then, our knuckles rising swift to fill the breach. At the sound of our knocking, Maryn called in the cabin beyond.
“‘Sweet Celene? ’
“We opened the door, eyes downturned. ‘Forgive my intrusion, Priori.’
“‘No intrusion, dear Liathe. Enter of thine own will, and be welcome.’
“We bowed low, stepping inside. The cabin was sparsely appointed, the space dominated by that great stone coffin she’d slept in beneath the cathedral.
Maryn was stood before it, like a statue in the cabin’s heart.
The deck below us rolled with the motion of the waves, but though we were forced to constantly rebalance, the Mother stood straight as a pillar, motionless save for her skirts and golden curls, as if her feet were nailed into the deck.
Her bloodless face was smiling, but we could still see shadows of fatigue carved beneath her eyes, a knife-hard glint upon those flawless black globes.
“‘Our counsel, sought thee? ’
“The voices within me murmured and sang—fear of the Mother, fear for ourselves, the unrest of the vengeful dead—and it was only with effort I forced them into silence.
Glancing about the cabin, we saw a war chest, a bookshelf, a washbasin and looking glass.
Though any mortal might have seen themselves reflected there, the mirror showed only a stone coffin in an empty room. No Maryn. No …
“‘Celene? ’
“‘Forgive us, Priori. But you asked us to keep vigil on the Grail.’
“‘And so? ’
“‘The fleshwitch is forging an alliance with Princess á Maergenn. Dúnnsair believes Reyne may be the daughter of her late husband, and seeks to strengthen ties between them. If she is in Reyne’s counsel, she shall have greater influence over the Grail.’
“The Mother smiled, weary but gentle. ‘Fear not the Fiáin dahtr, sweet Liathe.’
“‘She is dangerous, Mother. She and her kind loathe us w—’
“‘Thy concern is noted, child. Thy wise counsel received with gratitude. We thank thee for thy careful vigilance … but we are still tired, sweet Celene. Very tired.’
“Our Priori clasped her fingers before her and smiled, as if to signal the matter was done.
I wished to say more, to press home the threat Phoebe might pose, but Maryn simply stared, black and hard, and I confess I was cowed to silence.
The weight of her in that room pressed down on me like lead, and I was conscious of how much power was distilled in her tiny frame.
Though outwardly Maryn was a picture of calm, I recalled those voices arguing as we approached; the same tumult obviously within her mind that I felt within mine.
“‘Be there more, dear child? ’
“We glanced up, lips parted to answer. But behind Maryn, we caught movement then; blades of ice slipped into our belly. Where once that looking glass had looked upon an empty room, a figure now stood reflected in it, glowering over Maryn’s shoulder.
“Right at us.
“It had been years since we saw him in the flesh, and yet we saw him every day. A tall figure, alabaster skin and lustrous hair, rippling like bolts of darkest silk. His eyes were black and piercing, his form swathed in cloth as dark as night. A lord of it. A prince of it.
“He stared at me, smashing fists against the looking glass as if trapped on the other side; only that thin shield of silver to keep him from our throat. The mirror trembled, and so did we, taking one step back.
“‘… Sweet Celene? ’
“We blinked, looking to our Priori. Maryn seemed utterly oblivious, unhearing and unseeing, but over her shoulder, that monster yet pressed against the looking glass.
“‘Be there more? ’ Maryn repeated.
“‘N-no, Mother,’ we whispered. ‘Forgive us again for the intrusion.’
“She inclined her head. ‘Ye serve us well, sweet Liathe. Go with God, and be of bright heart. Soon, all thy earthly suffering shall be rewarded in the kingdom of heaven.’
“‘Oui, Mother. G-godmorrow to you.’
“We glanced once more to the mirror.
“The monster we had murdered, staring right back at us.
“And with belly twisting, jaw clenched, we all but fled the room.”