Chapter VI. All Butterflies
VI
ALL BUTTERFLIES
“‘AS I BELIEVE a great man once said…’
“The Grail slumped to her backside with a weary sigh.
“‘Fuck my fucking face.’
“We leaned against the hull, arms folded. ‘I believe the fucking is superfluous.’
“‘At this point, I’ll take it any way I can get it.’
“It was six nights later. The witching hour was struck, Dawnseeker’s crew abed. Waves were pounding steady on the hull, the scent of blood and sweat hung in the bilge-dank air, and I was beginning to suspect I had made a terrible mistake.
“Our little conspiracy started well enough. True to her word, Dior was able to slip her bodyguards and meet us every midnight beneath the forecastle. The space was ten feet at a side—accessible only by a squeeze through a gap in the ship’s stores, lit by a lone chymical globe.
The crates kept us hidden from wandering eyes, and the waves from prying ears.
“A teacup of blood sat on the floor, drawn from Dior’s wrist with a twist of her boot knife.
The cut had healed swiftly, but thoughts of that wondrous red treasure filled my mind constantly, its weight trying to force us to our knees.
Though I knew the Grail’s blood was deadly to me and all my kind, the scent was nothing short of heavenly.
I desperately wanted it, but at the same time, I was utterly terrified of it.
So in the end, I did my best to ignore it, seeking only to awake Dior’s ability to manipulate it.
“We’d explained the basics of sanguimancy to our young apprentice, and Dior had proved a quick study of the principles. But after six long evenings, the practicalities of the arte had utterly eluded her.
“It was frustrating for Dior to be sure. She’d made her blood tremble in the past, yet here and now, she seemed incapable of even that tiny feat.
Despite best efforts—teeth gritted, red-faced, sweat-drenched—the Grail’s divine blood simply sat where she’d spilled it, defiantly congealing in a pale porcelain cup adorned with pretty blue flowers.
“Yet if failure was frustrating for Dior, it was galling for me. Now I’d taken it upon myself to train her, memories of my time in Wulfric’s tutelage were never far away, and with each failure, his mocking whisper seemed to grow louder in my skull.
The chymical globe we practiced by was made of glass, as were the portholes bored into the port and starboard hulls cocooning our little practice space.
And in those polished surfaces, every so often, I swore I glimpsed him, pressing up against the surface.
“Laughing at me.
“‘Try again,’ we urged. ‘Eyes closed. Thoughts empty. Be it. Feel it.’
“‘I’m trying, but I don’t feel anything.’ Dior sat cross-legged, scowling at the teacup. ‘Aside from my skin being three lengths too small and a splitting fucking headache.’
“‘This blood is a part of you, chérie. As much as any limb or eye or tongue. If you wish to make a fist, do you think about the interplays between flesh and muscle and bone and tendon? Or do you simply will your fingers closed?’
“She held up her poor, mangled hand. ‘Being a bit of a cunt now.’
“‘That is not what I meant.’
“‘Accidental cuntery is still a heretical offense. I confess, I’m noting a tangible lack of awe about you recently, Castia. A distinct, dare I say willful, failure to tremble at my divinity.’
“The Grail’s lips curled in a hopeful smile, but I found no joy in levity. Instead we sighed, staring out the porthole in a search for calm. Dior chewed a ragged fingernail, glancing at the bloody cup and folding her legs beneath her.
“‘Look, maybe I just can’t do this.’
“‘You manipulated your blood when you fought Lilidh in Maryn’s tomb.’
“‘I think you’re overselling it. I yelled at it to move, and all it managed to do was embarrass me. Perhaps I just don’t have this in me.’
“Or perhaps it is thee who art lacking, Petit Monstre.
“We glanced up at that whisper, belly running cold. And in the porthole, we saw him again—pale and beautiful, swathed all in black. He stepped closer, nailing us to the floor with those bottomless eyes, bloodless hands pressed flat against that glass.
“Ye told me that once, oui? No such thing as a poor student. Only a poor teacher.
“‘Be silent,’ I hissed, vicious.
“Dior glanced up. ‘I didn’t say anything.’
“I swallowed, willing my mind still as we looked instead to the Grail. ‘Try again. Please. Feel the blood as part of you. An extension of all you are. Do not think. Know.’
“The Grail breathed deep, focusing on the teacup. We’d turned from the porthole, willing that dreadful shadow gone. But of course, there was another in the opposite wall, and as soon as we’d set our back to one, the figure appeared in the other.
“Ye were always thy mother’s daughter, he told me. Pride was Auriél de León’s undoing, and so shall it be with thee. Think ye thou canst gift this child mastery of something ye only stole? Thou shalt never be the teacher I was. Nor the monster I was.
“‘And for that,’ I whispered, ‘I thank God nightly.’
“Fool. Weakling.
“‘If I am so weak, how is it I defeated you?’
“Treachery, he growled, eyes aflame. Deception was ever thy greatest gift, Celene Castia. Thy precious Laurent could testify to that.
“I froze at those words, every inch of me now bristling with rage.
“‘Do not dare say his name.’
“‘Celene?’ Dior looked up again, frowning. ‘Are … are you aright?’
“But my ears were deaf to her in that moment, eyes fixed on that shadow beyond the glass. I could see him so clearly now; in the porthole, in the chymical globe, in the glint of Dior’s boot buckles and the polished gold buttons on my own two sleeves.
“Miss him, dost thou? Thy precious songbird? Art thou still th—
“‘Shut up,’ I hissed, fingernails digging into my palms.
“Dior rose to her feet, blanching as she saw the blood trickling from my hands.
“‘Celene, what’s wrong?’
“I gritted our teeth, fists clenched, trying to fill my mind with prayer. But those voices within were cacophony now, crashing upon the bounds of my skull, the waves pounding in time upon Dawnseeker’s hull.
Dior stood uncertain, watching as I dragged bloody hands back through our hair, pressing red knuckles upon our temples.
“And upon the floor, a porcelain cup with pretty blue flowers trembled.
“‘I am stone,’ I hissed, staring at that horror in the glass. ‘I am the Mountain.’
“Thine own fault it was. Know ye this, aye?
“‘Shut up. Shut up shutup—’
“Thou hast doomed us all. And all for a love as doomed as—
“‘SHUTUP! ’
“I’ve no memory of what came next. I can only tell you what happened because Dior told me afterward.
I do not remember her reaching out to me, her gentle touch to my shoulder.
I do not remember snapping, hands flung out at my sides, bloodblade coalescing in one fist. I do not remember Dior’s sharp intake of breath, the fear in her eyes, her hands rising up to ward off my blow.
I remember only the song of porcelain, the whip-snap of tearing air.
And before Dior’s upraised hands, a sharp blade of blood hung poised; a perfect needle, glittering but a few inches from our throat.
“I came back to myself, blinking hard, that voice fallen blessedly, suddenly still. In a heartbeat we stepped away, drawing our blade back into lacerated palms.
“‘Dior, oh Seven Martyrs, forgive us.’
“‘Holy shit,’ she breathed.
“Her eyes were fixed not on me, but on the blood now hovering between us.
That needle hung poised in the air, razored and red; fashioned wholly and solely of her will.
Yet as soon as she began to think upon it, her blood began to tremble.
And though the Grail clenched her teeth, begging ‘Nonono,’ her bloodblade collapsed utterly then, falling from the air and spattering all over the timbers between us.
“Dawnseeker sailed on, crashing heedless through black oceans, waves pounding relentless upon her skin. Yet in that hold, all seemed eerily still. Dior sank into a crouch over the crimson sluice that had been her blade, palm to the floorboards.
“‘God help me, Dior, I am so s—’
“‘I did it,’ she whispered.
“She looked up at us, pale blue eyes not bright with fear or wet with tears, but blazing with a feral, bloody triumph.
“‘Celene, I fucking did it!’
“We blinked, taken aback. I thought she might be afeared of us now, our fragile trust broken. But instead, Dior was fixed upon her victory, running her fingers through the spatter, holding them up before her wondering eyes.
“‘I just don’t know how…’
“‘You did not think.’ We shrugged. ‘You were afraid. And you made a fist.’
“We sank down onto the timbers beside her, conscious of the crimson slicked between us. That blood had killed Danton Voss after all. Burned Lilidh Dyvok to ashes. But still, we were more afeared of the damage we might have done to her.
“‘Dior, we are sorry. We did … I did not mean to frighten you.’
“‘S’aright. You couldn’t help it.’
“The Grail pouted, eyes clouded as if unsure whether or not to speak. But finally …
“‘You’re hearing them, aren’t you? The others inside you.’
“‘You … how could you possibly know that?’
“‘I’ve overheard Maryn. Arguing with herself. She’s in the cabin next to mine, she keeps it quiet but…’ Dior shrugged. ‘Small ship. Good ears. Sharp as three swords, me.’
“We pursed our ruined lips, voice gone soft.
“‘They have always been there,’ we confessed. ‘But never this loud. Ever since Maryn woke, we … I hear them all the time. I think our … closeness to each other makes it worse. I think perhaps that is why the Faithful dwelled alone after Charbourg’s fall.’
“‘Why don’t you ask Maryn about it?’
“We glanced up to that shadow on the glass. The shadow we didn’t wish her to see.
“‘I have done … questionable things, Dior. I fear what Maryn will make of me if she learns the truth. It is selfish, I know. But I am weak.’
“‘Being frightened doesn’t make you weak, Celene. It makes you human.’