Chapter I. To the Abyss
I
TO THE ABYSS
THE GATES OF Sul Adair opened with the song of splintering ice, the groan of frozen hinges.
The Marquis Jean-Francois of the Blood Chastain stood at his Empress’s right hand, watching the great portcullis rise like an executioner’s blade.
As always, three more had opened in sequence before it, clearing the path through four baileys, encircled by mighty ramparts of ironstone.
Gears rimed with ice crackled and moaned, roaring winds whipping flurries of grey snow up the long cobbled road to the outer walls.
Watching the tiny figures approaching from its far end, the Marquis felt his lower lip tremble.
Frost clung to his lashes, golden hair whipping about his face in the bitterbleak gale.
His flailing curls were again an annoyance, but dressing had been purest agony, and the historian had decided that binding back his hair was simply too much effort.
He might have called for Dario’s help, but the wounds the silversaint had left him were ghastly; he’d no desire for the thrall to see the blackened, mangled mess between his legs.
And though the hurts would heal in time, Jean-Francois already knew from experience it would take nights of agony before he was whole again.
“Gabriel,” he hissed. “You utter bastard.”
What remained of Margot’s court was again assembled upon the chateau steps, gathered around their eldest in their wall of silk and fur and brocade.
The Empress wore a different gown than yestereve—her golden velvet and midnight lace were drenched in blood from the feast. Instead, she was clad in crimson, the bodice form-fitting, the skirts and train so long they were borne by no less than four thralled maids.
A mantle of true direwolf fur was draped about her shoulders, and her four great black wolves sat in a row before her.
Hunched miserable at his Empress’s side, the Marquis studied the cadre trotting beneath the gatehouse arches.
A dozen deathless knights rode in the vanguard, threescore thralls in their wake.
They sat once-proud horses, but the beasts had been flogged near dead to get here, breath steaming through bloody teeth.
The knights were clad in fullplate of dark steel, their leader mantled with a cloak of heartsblood red.
Greathelms hid their faces, eyes glittering through the slits.
As the storm rocked iron-grey skies overhead, a figure glided up to his side, Jean-Francois stiffening as she slipped an arm through his.
A tall and stately femme, attired in a gown of fabulous black silk, golden hair circling her brow in a beautiful wreath.
A tiny puff of fluff was clutched to her pale bosom in lieu of pearls.
“Is it true?” she hissed.
“Viscontessa Nicolette.” Jean-Francois winced. “H-how now, sweet niece?”
“Uncle Jean-Francois, is it true? You allowed the silversaint t—”
The puff of fluff yapped, beady eyes on the oncoming cadre.
A dozen Dead glares fell upon the Viscontessa, and the Empress herself turned to regard her grandchild, black eyes burning with such terrible outrage it might have melted the grey flurries about them.
Cowed into perfect stillness, little Henri fell silent.
Nicolette likewise bowed her head and shut her admittedly pretty mouth.
Bringing her steaming horse to a halt, the lead rider climbed from her steed, landing in the frost like a stone.
A greatscythe was strapped to her saddle, a dreadful motif of skulls embossed into her magnificent armor.
She removed her greathelm, long black braids swept back from her princely brow.
Her face was as beautiful as it was cold, cheeks and eyes daubed with old blood in the seeming of a death’s-head.
“Margot of the Blood Chastain.” She bowed. “I bid thee greetings, Priori.”
“Kestrel of the Blood Voss.” Margot inclined her head, thunder cracking the skies overhead. “We bid thee welcome, Priori.”
The vampires stared at each other, eyes black as the road to hell.
The air between trembled, all the figures about them deathly still.
The storm wind was a clawing, howling beast, buffeting Margot’s silken gown and bejeweled braids.
But not a single hair on the Iron Maiden’s head moved in that gale—as if it were wrought of iron like her flesh.
“We thank thee for invitation to thy beautiful home,” Kestrel finally said.
Margot smiled. “Given freely and with Courtesy, as in nights of Old. No gifts of the Blood shall be in these halls wielded, no wrath nor rancor abided. Under banner of pax doth we eldest here convene, for the betterment of our empire entire.”
“Our empire.”
Kestrel smiled too at that, dried blood cracking upon her lips. Jean-Francois watched her gaze roam the ice-thick battlements, the dark stones, finally returning to his dam.
“Where be the Draigann? Kariim is yet to rear his serpent’s head, but know we, the Untamed slithered ’cross thy threshold well afore we. Be the fresh-faced Priori of Dyvok so uncivil as to neglect greetings for his elder and better?”
“The Dyvok are occupied with matters of state. Return shall they, anon.”
Jean-Francois swallowed thickly at that, Nicolette watching him sidelong.
“Shall we retire within, Priori?” Margot asked. “This weather be of foulest measure. Warm stead and warmer bodies await. Enter freely, and of thine own will.”
Kestrel ignored Margot’s invitation, eyes returning to those storm-struck walls.
Thrallswords in dark steel patrolled the highwalks, twin wolves and twin moons emblazoned on black cloaks.
That ebon stare fell now on Margot’s court; the wind-struck counts and barons, duchesses and viscontessas, all still as stone.
“How now, Ambassador?”
Jean-Francois felt Nicolette stiffen as the Maiden’s gaze fell upon her.
“Prince Kestrel.” The Viscontessa dropped into a perfect curtsey, deeper than any mortal could manage. “Too long has it been since I beheld your splendor. I was sorely grieved at your noble father’s murder, and regret deeply the nature of our parting.”
“Like a thief in the night.” The Maiden’s smile deepened, fangs glinting at the edges. “Where be the prizes ye stole, little burglar? Snatched from my maker’s grave?”
Kestrel stared at the Viscontessa, black eyes burning.
“Where be Gabriel de León?”
“We should retire inside, Priori,” the Empress cooed. “We have much to discuss.”
“Indeed. The state of thy defenses, for one. Where be thy men, Priori? Numbers far thinner than we were led to believe stand the watch of Sul Adair. Numbers of thy Court of Blood, thinner still. Unless … they all too be engaged in these … matters of state?”
Kestrel turned back to Margot now, her glare gone fell.
“Where be Gabriel de León?”
Margot’s lips were pursed, the Empress mute and motionless.
Kestrel’s gaze roamed the Chastain courtiers, falling at last on Jean-Francois, the pain of his wounds momentarily overshadowed by the fear in his belly.
The historian shivered as he felt a cold touch brief upon his mind, the Maiden’s fangs gleaming as she hissed.
“Escaped.”
“Ye dare.”
Margot did not seem to move. But in less than a blinking, she stood not upon her chateau’s steps, but a mere inch from Kestrel’s face. The Maiden’s hair moved then, sure and true, ruffled by the zephyr in the Empress’s wake.
“Ye dare press gifts ’pon mine own blood in mine own halls? Under banner of pax are we here convened! The hospitality of Blood Chastain shall not be besmirched, nor the Courtesy of their Empress aggrieved! Thy father should have taught thee better, Kestrel.”
The Iron Maiden’s gaze fell on the Empress again. And though Margot was her elder, her better, the last of the Five yet alive, Jean-Francois saw not fear in Kestrel, but rage.
“My dread father did teach me. A great. Many. Things.” Kestrel gestured to the windswept courtyard around them. “And we stand not in thy halls, Margot.”
The Maiden lifted her chin, glowering.
“Nor, apparently, doth his murderer. Despite assurances made by Blood Chastain.”
“Matters be in hand. Our finest hunters and the Dyvok both aready stalk his trail.”
“Dyvok?” Kestrel sneered. “Their best already slaughtered by the prey they purport to hunt? Should they catch him, be their intent to bleed ’pon the Lion ’til he drowns? Nay.” The Maiden shook her head, snarling now. “I say thee nay, Priori.”
Turning swift, Kestrel leapt atop her weary horse with preternatural grace. The Voss knights formed up about the Maiden as her gaze fell again on Jean-Francois.
“What direction hath our rabbit run, child?”
The Marquis said nothing. But again, he felt that cold touch, crueler now, harder, icy claws rummaging through his memories until her treasure was unearthed.
“West,” she growled.
“Kestrel, we need him breathing,” Margot hissed. “A tale hath de León to tell, and—”
“Scant hours his lead.” The Maiden turned to her company. “For blood, we ride.”
“Nay, we need him ALIVE!”
Ignoring the Empress’s outrage, Kestrel wheeled her beast about. With a savage kick to the stallion’s flank, the Iron Maiden broke into a gallop, dark knights about her as they thundered back toward the gates.
“Damn her black soul to the abyss! If she slays him…” Margot snarled at a nearby thrall. “Gather every member of my court yet fit to hunt. We run!” Whirling upon her courtiers, the Empress roared. “Run, curse you!”
With dark glares and soft curses, the elders and mediae of Margot’s court began stripping off their fine garments.
Only fledglings too young to take the huntershape remained still, watching as brocade greatcoats and velvet gowns were cast aside, bodies stripped bare beneath the clouds.
Dukes and contessas warped, twisted, joints cracking, spines arching, fur splitting porcelain skin.
And in but a few beats of a mortal’s heart, where once that Court of Chastain had stood, now awaited a pack of wolves, grim and deathless.