Chapter VIII. With Black Light It Burns #2
“‘It was named for the soldiers who’d marched from its gates during the Wars of the Faith. But San Yves was no mere fortress. Goldmines in the Orhomme had made the Lords Durand wealthy beyond measure, and San Yves was a marvel. Even the lowest dwelling was grander than the cottage I’d been born in, and the highest, palaces to me.
I could not help but marvel, looking about with the eyes of a child and vampire both—the glittering lights refracting on frost and stained glass, graven fountains frozen solid, marble angels dancing on the eaves of cathedrals so high they kissed the sky.
“‘I could see why the monster who had been my mother’s lover called this place home, and I resolved to find Wulfric quick as I may. I knew not what welcome he’d give, or if he’d answers to the questions burning inside me.
What am I? Why am I? Am I damned, as the old tales said?
And if so, is there some way I might find salvation?
“‘But he’d struck me as a princely sort, and so I slipped over high walls and into shadows of the noble quarter. Though the Forever King was still a distant fear back then, he was a fear nonetheless, and patrols trudged through the freezing streets. I saw signs on almost every house—churlsilver or salt at the windows, braids of virgin’s hair or withered garlic cloves or the wheel of the Redeemer above every door.
Despite its beauty, dread hung over San Yves’s snow-clad cobbles, coiling in its gloom.
“‘But stealing through those palatial streets, I heard the most beautiful sound. It kissed the wind like perfume, like a lover calling their beloved home. To name it music was to name the Eversea a puddle, but that was the only word I had for what I heard.
“‘Music, the like of which I’d never known.
“‘Entranced, I followed, through the noble quarter to the grandest estate I’d seen in the city. The high wall bristled with spear tips, but my palms weren’t scratched as I slipped over.
My senses were sharp as razors since I’d fallen to darkness, and each note of that song was a spell, woven of gossamer and angel’s tears.
“‘It was a hymn, I realized. A favorite of my childhood, sung in our tiny chapel in Lorson with my mama and papa and sister and brother by my side.
“‘To Thee, My Heart.
“‘Despite the chill, a bay door at the upper floor was open, and it was from that balcony the hymn spilled into the night. I’ve no clue how long I stood beneath, enraptured. The player was a lone pianist, notes of their song dancing like fireflies in my dark. Reaching up, I found my cheeks wet with bloody tears—a horror to which I’d never grown accustomed.
The light spilling from those doors seemed suddenly distant, the dark around me bottomless.
But that music was like a lifeline thrown to a drowner, bidding her Hold on, swim, strive.
With life came hope, it promised, and with hope, life.
“‘The song ceased. The spell broke. I found myself in a barren garden, leafless trees about me and cooling gore upon my cheeks. I heard footsteps—the musician, I realized, coming out to breathe night’s air. And though I knew I should be gone, I could not help but linger, to see the one who’d woven such sorcery with a few simple keys.
“‘It was a boy. Twelve or thirteen years old. He wore a crimson jacket and silken shirt, cravat pinned with a gleaming ruby—noble’s garb.
His hair was long and loosed, golden blond, his skin fair and features fine, but something struck me odd.
It took a moment to grasp it. But as he stood with face upturned to heaven, the wind brushed back those golden locks from eyes white and sightless.
And I knew then; this young maestro was blind as a newborn pup.
“‘I turned to leave, boots crunching in the snow. He tilted his head, smiling down into the dark. Bonsoir, Capitaine Lebeau. How fare you?
“‘I said nothing, frozen still.
“‘… Capitaine Lebeau?
“‘I bolted, a startled deer, up and over the wall. I hit the icy cobbles running, heard the boy cry out, a bell ringing in alarm, distant shouting and soldiers’ boots. Cursing myself a fool, I dashed away, not stopping until I’d lost myself in the backstreets and squeezeways in the city’s sprawling downside.
And there I stopped, sinking against an alley wall, not breathless, but still afeared, searching the shadows with quickened eyes.
“‘Dawn was coming. I needed a place to lay my head, a refuge from which to begin what I realized might be an impossible search. I’d been a peasant girl, remember. I’d never seen a city like San Yves, so many buildings, so many people.
I began to understand the enormity of my task—I’d no clue where Wulfric might be found.
And this was no muddy backwater, but a cityfort of soldiers.
I must tread careful, lest I meet another ending.
“‘I’d not many lives left.
“‘Will you help me, mademoiselle?
“‘I started at the voice, rising to my feet. In the alleymouth, I saw a silhouette against the misty light, shadow stretching toward me. I’d been so lost in thought, I’d not heard him approach; he must’ve been quiet as cats.
I was halfway to bolting when I realized it was no soldier, not even a man, but another little boy; this one no more than four or five years old.
“‘I’ve lost Mama, he said, hand to quivering lip. Please help.
“‘Soft with pity, I tightened my scarf about my face lest I frighten him. Though it was every kind of strange to find a lone waif in that alley, I was overwhelmed with the urge to help, help this lost child find his mama. But as he stepped closer, I saw he was no waif at all.
“‘He wore cloth of finest cut—a gorgeous frockcoat, knee-high hose and polished shoes, red silk and black velvet. Though barely more than a toddler, he was dressed in the manner of a lord, as if a tailor had taken a gentleman’s clothes and shrunk them to fit his tiny frame.
His dark hair was slicked back, and looking at his skin, poreless and pale, his eyes, gleaming sharp despite the tremble in his voice, I knew he was a monster.
“‘A monster like me.
“‘Now, Aleks, he whispered.
“‘Something struck me, anvil-heavy and iron-hard. I’d been hit from above, a massive weight smashing me into the ground.
I felt a boot between my shoulders, a fist crashing into my skull, once, twice, three times.
Bone splintered, my face mashed into cobbles, and I hissed in pain as I was flipped onto my back.
“‘My assailant stood above me, knuckles glazed with my blood. She was tall and heavy boned, perhaps middle-thirty. What little I could see of her hair was strawberry blond, her pupils glass-bottle green. But the whites of her eyes were shot with red, sunk in bruised hollows—a Dead thing’s eyes.
Her skin was mottled, run through with dark veins, like a corpse too long in its grave.
But strangest of all, as she seized hold of my face, I realized she wore a long black habit, a veiled white wimple.
“‘This monster was dressed as a nun.
“‘Her grip was terrifying, my bones creaking.
I was ripped off the cobbles like a plaything and smashed back into them, again, AGAIN, so hard the stone shattered, the back of my skull with it, my hood soaked with blood and brains.
I was only dimly aware as the woman dropped me bloodied and broken onto the stone, tearing my scarf away.
“‘Uglygirl, she gurgled, as if her throat was filled with phlegm. Drink?
“‘The boy spoke in a crisp Elidaeni accent. No, Aleks. You know the commandments.
“‘Thirsty! she snarled. Drink!
“‘No! Do you wish to make Master angry?
“‘The woman’s fury abated at the boy’s raised voice, and she shrunk down on herself as if she were the child being scolded. Nono, nononono.
“‘Then behave. Or I shall tell him you were wicked.
“‘Nnnnono, Percival. She patted my bleeding head so hard my eyeballs bulged in their broken sockets. Good Aleks. Good me, see.
“‘I sucked a bubbling breath, trying to speak with my mangled mouth. P-please—
“‘The little one blinked, looking me over with dark eyes. Still moving, eh? Most impressive, mademoiselle. You must be born of sternest stock.
“‘Voss. The big woman sniffed her bloody hand and grinned razors. Vossssss.
“‘I s-seek—
“‘Death? Wonderful. Twirling a feathered tricorn between his hands, the Dead boy placed it upon his head. Aleks, be a dear, will you?
“‘No, I gurgled, struggling upright. N—
“‘The woman’s hand closed about my forehead. I scrabbled at her grip, terror in my belly that after all I’d suffered, this might truly be the end of my road. But her strength was implacable as she hauled me off the stone and smashed my skull back into it.
“‘One.
“‘Two.
“‘Three.
“‘And like a curtain at concerto’s end, darkness fell.
“‘I was not even conscious as they carried me through the backstreets and over snow-clad cobbles. Had I been, I’d have understood why that moldy hulk named Aleks was dressed as a nun. For it was to the priory they took me; those grand gothic spires rising on the city’s edge.
I was dimly aware of being carried through dark tunnels beneath, slung over Aleks’s shoulder as little Percival led the way.
And finally, we emerged into a labyrinth of rooms and corridors deep below the priory’s foundations.
“‘I was slammed onto an oaken table, timbers shuddering.
Looking about through bloody eyes, I saw a vast library, dimly lit by a chandelier above.
The shelves stretched floor to ceiling, filled to bursting—as if every word ever penned beneath heaven must be there gathered.
The carpets were blood-red, the timbers polished oak, air heavy with dust.
“‘Guard her well, Aleks. I shall fetch Master.
“‘Aye, Percival.
“‘The little one raised his finger again in warning. Be good.
“‘The big woman lowered her eyes. Aye, Percival.