Chapter VIII. With Black Light It Burns
VIII
WITH BLACK LIGHT IT BURNS
“THE AIR WAS beginning to foul as we reached the Cape of Knives.
“I remembered the turn of seasons when I was a little girl; sprays of flowers bursting across the countryside, beautiful trees donning emerald dresses and swaying in sun-warm winds. But since daysdeath, spring in Elidaen had become a miserable affair. Even from Dawnseeker’s deck, we could smell the faint scent of rot as snows began melting, hugging the treacherous coastline as we skirted the southernmost tip of Sūdhaem and found the vast black waters of the Eversea before us.
“Cheers and prayers to God Almighty rang across the decks at the sight, Phoebe shaking Capitaine á Connell’s hand, Dior and Reyne sharing a long and smiling kiss.
The tradewinds would back us now, speeding us northeast across the Bay of Antoine.
If fortune held, we’d be at the gates of Augustin before ever Voss reached them.
“If fortune held.
“Though shadows of fatigue still underscored her eyes, Mother Maryn had begun ascending to the deck after prayers each dusk, staring eastward, her cherub’s lips pressed thin.
Phoebe and Reyne schooled Dior in swordplay under the watchful eyes of Joaquin and Dior’s other faithful thugs.
But still, the Grail met us each midnight, afire with curiosity and some newfound energy.
Those few hours we spent together each eve were the brightest of my day, and each milestone in her journey was rewarded with another piece of my tale.
“Another death of Celene Castia.
“When she could lift the contents of her teacup unerringly, I told her of my encounter with imperial troops outside Albon—cut to ribbons and torn by dogs, saved only by flinging myself off a cliff onto fangs of stone below. And the first time she managed to form her blood into a crude blade, I told her of my almost-death in the Vipère.”
Jean-Francois blinked, looking up from his tome. “The river?”
“I had to cross it to reach San Yves. But the Forever King had made his ill-fated attack at the Twins by then, my brother’s name spoken with awe around a hundred taverne hearths.
The lords of Elidaen knew the truth now; vampires were real, and worse, ambitious, gazing with hungry eyes at the fiefdoms mortal men had carved.
Garrisons were stationed at every river crossing in Nordlund; gloomy soldiers in the unicorn and yellow tabards of Emperor Alexandre III.
And after my encounter in Albon, I was frightened of soldiers.
So I sought to cross the river another way. ”
The historian raised one blond brow, looking to the black waters between them.
“You didn’t…”
“I did.”
Jean-Francois snickered, clapping one hand over his mouth. But despite his best efforts, the historian finally burst into raucous laughter. The Last Liathe glowered, seething as the historian shook with mirth, wiping bloody tears from his eyes.
“You tried to swim across?”
“I was still learning what I was,” she snapped.
“Unlike some, I’d no mentor to advise me about the perils of fresh running water to our kind.
I was schooled by trial and bloody error.
Sleeping in snowdrifts and waking with my veins frozen solid.
Spewing scarlet fountains until I learned to choke down the blood of rabbits and rats.
And oui, wading out into the Vipère rather than cross that bridge and confront its accursed garrison.
Mock me for my faith. Spit at me for my failures.
But do not dare to scorn that I had no mother to primp my golden hair and hold my trembling hand as I fell to darkness.
Celene Castia learned alone, seigneur. But by Almighty God, she learned. ”
Jean-Francois had stopped laughing now, brushing an errant curl from his cheek.
“So what happened when you tried to swim?”
Celene nodded to the dark floods between them.
“Respectfully, perhaps you might wade in and find out?”
The Last Liathe stared, hard black stare and thin pursed lips. Despite her feigned deference, Jean-Francois knew she’d still kill him in a blinking if she got the chance. But as he dipped his quill, the historian’s lips were still curled in a smile.
Because she’d never get the chance, would she?
“Continue,” he commanded.
The Last Liathe stared for a handful of heartbeats, still and silent as stone.
But with a glance to those flames, she obeyed.
“Dawnseeker was well across the Bay of Antoine when next we had a breakthrough.
Dior had been struggling to form a blade solid enough to cut something.
Time and time again, her bloodblade would fail before the rope did, and many were the nights she was practically weeping with effort.
But she never relented. And after weeks of fruitless cursing and silent pleas to the heavens, our prayers were answered.
“‘Eat every inch of my shapely arse, you pig-fucking, goat-loving—’
“‘It is a piece of string, Dior,’ we smiled. ‘It cannot hear you.’
“She stood glowering at her victim—two thin strands of hemp, split in twain and hanging from nails in the hull. But after a moment, she blew a stray lock from her eyes and scoffed at me over her shoulder. ‘Don’t ruin my fun. That’s what Reyne’s for.’
“We leaned against the hull, hands behind our back. We’d have been uncomfortable talking of such things once—the troubles between lovers.
But truth told, I was growing more at ease around this girl.
Some nights, we spent more time talking than actually training.
The voices in my mind were ever in tumult with Maryn so close, those shadows beneath my surface never far away.
But they grew quieter when the Grail was near.
And though Dior was my student, in truth, I was thinking of her more and more as a confidant.
“A friend.
“‘You are still … frustrated in matters amorous between you and Reyne?’
“‘One way to put it,’ Dior sighed. ‘In hindsight, a princess trained in a nunnery by warrior puritans might not have been an ideal choice to try to drag into sin with me.’
“‘Perhaps sin is a state best avoided by both of you, Dior.’
“‘You sound like Reyne now. Maybe you could try bedding her.’
“Lighting a cigarelle, she paced back and forth like some caged wolf.
“‘Apologies, I’m being a cunt. Reyne’s brilliant. But walking about half-sprung all day is wearing fucking thin, let me tell you. Never choose someone of religious principle to fall in love with, Castia. Not unless fiddling yourself to sleep every night sounds a jolly old time.’
“‘I do not think we choose who we fall in love with, Dior.’
“She leaned against the pillar, breathing grey as she met our eyes.
“‘Quoting old taverne ballads? Or talking from experience?’
“‘I was in love once.’
“‘Your Philippe?’
“We shook our head, eyes drifting to the porthole glass. We could see no shadow there, but I knew he was listening. Waiting. ‘No. Philippe would have made a fine husband. But though I died with him, I did not die for him.’
“Dior looked us over, boots to brow. Smoothing her hair back, she bound it with a thong of leather—it was long enough to tie up now. Eyes narrowed against her cigarelle smoke, she sank to her haunches.
“‘You sound like someone with a story to tell.’
“‘Five deaths I’ve told you aready. One life remains us. That leaves three more dyings to account for. But all of them are one, really. One beginning. One end. One name.’
“‘Wulfric.’
“‘Oui.’ I sat opposite, eyes to the floorboards, the past yawning wide before me. ‘Two years it took me to reach my destination. Two years of fear, of skulking in shadows, of listening to Gabriel’s legend grow as I crawled eastward. The horde of exsanguinated rabbits in my wake could have fed half Sūdhaem, my thirst for true prey swelling all the while. But my oath held true, my dark appetites in check—I would not be the monster I beheld. And finally, I climbed through the fungus-clad deadwoods of the Orhomme foothills, and found it waiting. The great cityfort of San Yves.’
“‘The Fifth Martyr,’ Dior muttered. ‘Yves the Peerless.’
“‘He who united Nordlund under the One Faith.’
“‘Or led a religious pogrom that killed thousands of innocent men, women and children. Depends on your point of view, doesn’t it?’
“‘History does tend to make idolatry of brutality.’
“‘Stories they told us at mass said Yves carried a chariot wheel into battle to honor the Redeemer. Used it for a shield.’ The Grail chewed on a fingernail, spat the leavings onto the boards. ‘Explains the martyrdom, I s’pose.’
“‘Did you ever visit the city of his birth?’
“She scoffed. ‘I never set foot outside Lashaame ’til a year back. Was it pretty?’
“‘Oh, it was beautiful, Dior. Cradled between two spurs at the feet of the Orhomme mountains. Its walls were old and thick, hung with banners stitched with the red field and towered shield of the Famille Durand—the city’s first house. At its heart stood a seven-spired cathedral, reaching toward heaven. And at the city’s edge, close to the mountains, loomed a grand crown of towers ringed by high black walls.
“‘The great Priory of San Yves.
“‘The gates were sealed when I arrived, battlements patrolled by soldiers in Durand red. The state of my injury back then was so profound I could barely talk, but even without the horror Laure had made of my face, I could never have simply walked inside. I waited ’til nightfall to steal within; swift as a thief between the changing of the guards.
And hood pulled low, scarf high, I finally found myself in the City of Spears.