Chapter XVIII. By Sainted Blade #2
“‘Véris,’ we whispered, our heart ablaze.
“Yet it was not to those goldglass spires the Prince marched us, but the keep at the city’s heart.
We’d considered the walls of Dún Maergenn impressive, Marquis, but I tell you now, and true, we had never seen a chateau as magnificent as this.
It was as if a fortress had a dream of all it might one day become, and awoke to find that dream true.
Miles of battlements, great towers and sweeping arches, carved not by masons, but poets, and crowned by a spire that reached toward the daystar like a son to his holy father.
Only if the sovereign of heaven himself were to build a bastion might that place know a rival.
“‘Chateau Impérial,’ we breathed.
“Great gates we passed, great courtyards we crossed, ever in that stern Prince’s wake. As we walked majestic halls, marble and gold and carpets red as blood, Dior’s eyes grew wide with wonder, the scale of it all beggaring belief.
“Magnificent doors loomed at the end of a long hallway, embossed with designs immortalizing the conquests of Maximille Augustin I, the Seventh Martyr. Prince Philippe came to halt, the soldiers surrounding us tense as bowstrings. We stood now at the heart of imperial power on earth, never closer to the fulfillment of the prophecy, Dior’s destiny, the end of daysdeath.
To stumble here was to lose our lives. Souls. World.
“‘A princess is worthy to set foot beyond these doors, Reyne á Maergenn,’ Philippe declared.
‘A trothwife to a Clanlaerd also, Phoebe á Dúnnsair. And my Empress shall have desire to see this … Maid of the Grail. But the corpses will remain here, as will your soldiers. And should your hearts prove black, their lives shall be the price of your folly.’
“We bristled at that. But we felt Maryn’s mind in ours then, light as feathers.
“Peace, sweet Liathe. In safe keeping do we leave our savior.
“None of the company looked pleased at this news, but hearing no dissent, Philippe stepped up to those mighty doors, and at some hidden signal, they opened without a sound. Looking at the room beyond, we were thankful we’d come at night—God only knew how painful the glare must have been in years before the death of days.
“‘My God…’ Joaquin breathed.
“I nodded, my voice awonder. ‘The Golden Halls of Augustin.’
“The room was bewildering and vast, lined with a great river of blood-red carpet.
Pillars as tall as ancient oaks stretched to the ceiling overhead.
Towering windows of cut crystal looked out on the great city beyond, and to the bewilderment of our company, we saw the walls themselves were wrought of solid, gleaming gold.
“With a last glance, Reyne and Dior followed Prince Philippe inside, Phoebe behind, golden light glinting on her hair, her breastplate, her hunter’s eyes.
A dozen soldiers followed the Prince, but the rest remained outside.
I’d no need to read their minds to know they were one crossed word away from murder, and I’d risk no wrath by using my bloodgifts here.
But that wasn’t to say I was blind as those doors swung shut. ”
“Your moth,” Jean-Francois said, turning to a fresh page in his tome.
“Just so.” Celene nodded. “Dior’s coat and mail were sundered when she’d become the wolf, but my mote had not been left behind.
It was sat in the warm dimple beneath Reyne’s right ear now, hid beneath those summer-flame braids.
The Princess’s pulse thumped swift beneath our feet, our thoughts skimming her own.
“Though Reyne tried to keep her wits, the wealth on display in that hall made her mother’s dún look a panhandler’s hovel.
The golden walls were hung with portraits of proud men; emperors all, clad in finery or suits of plate, each wearing the same crown.
The pillars were marble, inlaid with black pearl, reaching up to a ceiling adorned with stunning frescoes.
But though awed by the opulence, the Princess could not help but notice each curtain was wrought of enough velvet to serve as a hundred winter cloaks, and the wool in the carpets at her feet could have clothed a thousand war orphans in the streets outside.
“The room was filled with people—courtiers of the Golden Halls.
Though the city had stood on the edge of disaster but a sunset before, most had found time to primp their hair and deck themselves in velvet and silk.
A passel of holy men stood among them; cardinals with robes of rich crimson, hands dripping silver and gold.
Even the guards were clad in tabards edged with true silver stitching, pommels glittering with rubies.
Reyne tugged at the frayed edge of her doublet, dragged fingers through her grimy hair, and we felt her abashment.
But Dior stood tall in her rags, and Phoebe simply glowered, those golden eyes meeting every haughty stare so fierce and fey that most looked away.
“A dais rose at the hall’s end, and two thrones there waited.
Upon the lower was a woman, brow graced with silvered diamonds, eyes glittering like sapphires.
But the higher throne was empty, save for the crown upon its cushion.
The seat was strange in its crafting, as if five different hands had fashioned five different thrones, then crushed them together—and of course, that was near the truth.
The high seats of each country in the continent claimed by Maximille, brought back to his capital and wrought into one.
“The Fivefold Throne of Elidaen.
“‘My Empress Isabella,’ Prince Philippe called. ‘First of Her Name, beloved widow of Alexandre III, Protector of God’s Holy Church and ruler of all Elidaen, I present Princess Reyne á Maergenn, daughter of Niamh Nineswords, Phoebe á Dúnnsair, Laerdbride of the Moonsthrone Mountains, and…’
“Here the Prince paused, glancing toward the Grail.
“‘Dior Lachance.’
“The Empress was mute, studying the trio.
She was a beauty, naturally; long-limbed and fine, possessed of the self-assured grace that only a woman of middle-thirty can fully wield.
Though she wore no crown, her auburn hair was styled in the seeming of one, the diamonds at her brow glittering in the light of the chandeliers overhead.
In her face, we could immediately see the resemblance to her handsome son, and though her golden velvet gown was the kind of gorgeous Dior would have gladly died to own, the Empress also wore a breastplate of silver, embossed with sigils of her noble house and a line of scripture from the Book of Vows.
“Turn ye now, oh faithless kings of men, and look upon thy queen.
“‘La demoiselle du Graal.’
“Sapphire eyes roamed Dior, from her filthy ashen hair all the way down to her dead soldier’s boots. And though we expected this Empress of men perhaps to scoff, to scorn, instead her smile was warm as mulled wine on a wintersdeep day.
“‘Aren’t you a picture.’
“Dior and Reyne exchanged a glance, both girls mute.
“‘Has our son thought to offer refreshment?’ Isabella asked. ‘Your road to Augustin looks to have been a long one. We’d not leave you wanting at its end.’
“‘N-no.’ Dior managed something between a bow and curtsey. ‘Merci.’
“Princess Reyne cleared her throat. ‘Your Grace.’
“‘I m-mean no, Your Grace. Merci, Your Grace.’
“The Prince scowled, but the Empress only smiled wider as a servant stepped forward with a golden tray, laden with brimming cups.
“‘Wherefrom are you come, child?’
“‘Dún Maergenn, Your Grace.’ Dior stood taller, beginning to find her balance now. ‘The city is destroyed by the Dyvok. We few are all that remain. But the Untamed are defeated. The Blackheart and Heartless both slain.’
“A murmur rippled among the court at that, holy men whispering prayers and making the sign of the wheel. Empress Isabella spoke again, her voice soft.
“‘Our heart was bled white to hear of Duchess á Maergenn’s passing. The
Nineswords’ loss was felt as keen as our own royal husband’s by all here in these Golden Halls. We offer condolence to her noble daughter in this time of deepest sorrow.’
“Reyne curtseyed, speaking soft thanks. And though the Princess’s cheeks were warmed by the Empress’s kind words, Isabella’s eyes never left Dior’s.
“‘Yet we did not ask wherefrom you traveled, child. But wherefrom you are come.’
“Prince Philippe turned to those holy men, gathered to the right of the throne.
“‘Lashaame, was it not, High Inquisitrix?’
“‘Oh shit…’ Dior hissed.
“From among the bishops and cardinals, a woman stepped forward, a copy of the Testaments under her arm. She wore black leathers, a blood-red tabard embroidered with the flower and flail of Naél, Angel of Bliss, a gauntlet of black steel on her right hand. She was middle-fifty, stiletto-thin, grey hair cut in a sharp fringe. A tricorn was her crown, dark lace veiling darker eyes, sharp enough to flay the skin off the Grail’s back.
“‘Oui, Majesty,’ she replied, crisp and venomous. ‘There charged for crimes of heresy, bloodwitchery, and the murder of Bishop Henri Merciér.’
“The courtiers gasped, sudden babble ringing on the frescoes overhead. The Grail clenched her fists, shouting over the tumult.
“‘I can explain!’
“Isabella’s smile dimmed in the sudden still. ‘S’il vous pla?t, chérie.’
“‘My blood can cure the sick. Mend the dying. Your own soldiers can testify to that. The Inquisition called it witchery. But S?ur Chloe Sauvage, sister of the Silver Order, and Père Rafa Sa-Araki, brother of the Order of San Guillaume, found me and told me the truth.’
“Isabella’s brow rose, ever so slight. ‘Truth?’
“Dior faltered, chewing her lip and looking to Reyne.
Though she believed in herself, that faith seemed to be paling under that relentless sapphire gaze.
She was the descendant of the Redeemer, oui.
The Godling born. But truth was, she was still a seventeen-year-old girl, stood before the most powerful woman in the empire and her entire court besides.