Chapter II. Closer To God
II
CLOSER TO GOD
“SEVEN WEEKS HAD passed since the Battle of Augustin—days that beleaguered city had never expected to see. Seven weeks in which crushed battlements were repaired, dead sons and daughters buried, fresh soldiers trained. Seven weeks of celebration of our victory over the Endless Legion, and she who’d made it possible.
But in that time, grey snows had begun falling from dark skies, the River Béni slowly freezing, winter creeping back to Elidaen.
“All of us knew who would return with it.
“It was prièdi, and mass was being held in Cathédrale de Lumière. We could not attend, of course—of all churches in Elidaen, that ground might have been the holiest, and besides, the Dead were not left to roam Augustin freely. Mother Maryn and I were being kept as ‘guests’ in the western wing of Chateau Impérial, under the watchful eyes of a small legion of Inquisitorial troops. But we stood at a high window that day, marveling at the scene below: tens of thousands of Augustin’s citizens gathered in the cold, snow-clad square of Rive C?ur, before the greatest house of God ever built.
“That cathedral was a marvel, Marquis. Even denied the splendor of its interior, we could not help but feel closer to God simply looking at it. It rose up across the grand plaza in Augustin’s heart—master of the eastern flank, with Chateau Impérial on the west. It was the opus of the genius Albrecht; every spire and flying buttress a hymn to heaven.
Its foundations were stone, but the intent of its designer was to admit as much of God’s light as could be managed.
And thus, for the most part, Cathédrale de Lumière was a miracle wrought not of stone, but glass.
“Vast windows depicting scenes from the Testaments were stained every color of the rainbow, held up by a beautiful latticework of solid goldglass. Mined from the mountain ranges around Lashaame and Raa, it was the rarest and most valuable material in the empire, usually reserved for objets d’art in the houses of the highest. But in their capital, the Augustin Emperors had assembled such a sum as to beggar belief, used to fashion a house worthy of the Almighty himself.
The figures within were blurred even to our Dead eyes, but through the panes, we could make out a tiny figure in white; the Pontifex himself, conducting the mass.
As always, the imperial court was assembled, and though we could not see them, we knew Dior and Reyne sat among them.
“Grand estate buildings framed the crowded square, and in its heart loomed a statue of Maximille, the Seventh Martyr, first Emperor of Elidaen, and patriarch of House Augustin. He was carved of white marble, a longblade in his upraised fist and a wheel about his neck. Fifty feet high he loomed upon a rearing unicorn, guardian of the city his children had built. About his feet were great fountains, fashioned like a flock of cherubim. Waters rushed from vases in their hands, filling a vast pool about the statue’s base and, from there, flowing outward—this single fountain was the source of those five great canals running through the streets of Rive C?ur.
“We stood at the window, listening to distant hymns on the rising wind.
We were clad in new clothes, provided at the command of Empress Isabella herself.
Fine leathers, silken shirt, a wondrous frockcoat of crimson, adorned with buttons of pure gold.
But best of all, a scarf of red silk and a mask of new porcelain covered our face and throat, repainted by our own hand.
Black-rimmed eyes and a sawtooth smile, near as awful as our own true grin.
“‘Why did Voss abandon his attack?’
“For weeks had I asked myself that question, and for all my quiet wondering, it was yet unanswered. Glancing to the small figure at our side, we finally spoke it aloud.
“‘Why did Fabién retreat, when he was so close to victory?’
“Mother Maryn remained silent, eyes fixed on that cathedral, fingers entwined. After we’d raided the wardrobes at Maergenn, it had been strange to dress a creature so ancient in the clothes of a young girl, but we wondered now if we didn’t prefer Maryn’s former attire.
Our Priori was clad in new cloth just as we, fashioned by request from the imperial seamstresses—the severe black robes and dove-white wimple of a holy prioress, wrapped about the body of child with eyes of ebony.
“Mother Maryn indeed.
“‘Priori?’ we whispered.
“Maryn bowed her head and made the sign of the wheel, murmuring an end to her prayer. And finally, she turned those bottomless black eyes on me.
“‘Wise thou art to ask, Liathe. We have pondered such ourselves these last weeks.’
“‘Have you found an answer that satisfies? To us, it makes no sense.’
“‘Our arrival surely played a role. After his crusade at Charbourg, Fabién thought our Faith extinguished. For centuries did he labor to destroy Illia’s dream, and dismay he must have surely felt to know he failed.’
“‘But if the Maiden pressed with the numbers she had, she might have destroyed us then and there. And yet, her father bid her retreat. Why?’
“‘Dior, wethinks. The revelation that she is Fiáin dahtr as well as heaven’s heir was not foreseen, even by Voss. If Kestrel had pressed, who can know if Dior might have been hurt? Even slain? Fabién knows the prophecy. He knows he has until Maidsfeast to stop us. He is nothing if not patient, and ever hath he sought to take the Grail alive.’
“We shook our head at that; one more question that gnawed us constantly.
“‘And still we do not know why.’
“‘Why matters not, Liathe. He will never have her.’ Maryn looked to the skies, gentle flakes of frozen grey kissing the window.
‘Concern thyself not with the Voss. Winter is come once more, and Fabién shall soon return in force. All thought, all will must now be bent to seeing Dior ascend the throne.’
“We nodded, eyes on the stormwashed heavens above. We still believed in the prophecy—after all we’d seen Dior do, our faith in the Grail of San Michon was stronger than ever.
And we still clung desperately to the idea that in fulfilling his son’s dream, in uniting heaven and earth as one, God would judge our souls righteous.
“‘What news of Phoebe?’
“‘Her journey hath been fraught. Foulbloods roam the lands unchecked. But she be within sight of San Maximille at last. The Sainted Blade shall soon be ours.’
“‘One step nearer to salvation.’
“Maryn shook her head. ‘And still, ten thousand leagues away. Dior hath not even broached subject of her ascension to the throne with Empress Isabella.’
“We sighed then, head hung low.
“‘She has tried. Isabella’s priority has been the repair of her fortifications, replenishing her troops. They attend mass together, but the Grail is never given opportunity to speak to Isabella alone. We suspect the Empress does not entirely trust Dior. Or us.’ We licked our ruined lips, voice gone soft.
‘And Dior has her own troubles. The notion of being a duskdancer would be difficult enough for her to contend with. And since learning of her lineage, matters between her and Reyne have been … strained, as you can imagine.’
“‘What I can better imagine are the fires that await us should we fail,’ Maryn hissed.
‘No time hath we for juvenile melodrama. Seven weeks hath passed since we arrived, and no longer is it enough for the Grail to try. The first banners hath arrived from the southern provinces with fresh troops, and the Empress holds feast tonight to welcome her lords.’
“‘… You wish Dior to broach the topic in public?’
“‘If she cannot speak to Isabella alone, what choice have we? Would that we could simply bend the wills of those around the Grail and be done. But every cup Isabella and her household drink from is purest silver, and every member of Dior’s entourage who hath supped of her blood is now immune to thralldom.’
“We blinked at that. Wulfric had kept thralls—those hunters who roamed the countryside looking for signs of the Grail had all been bound to him. But …
“‘You have … tried to slave members of her company?’
“‘Stay thy histrionics, Liathe. Those who do the will of the Almighty be freer than any under heaven. And there be no room for sin in a heart filled with the fire of God.’ Maryn pursed her lips, thoughtful.
‘Yet even without the Blood, there be other ways we can exert influence. And thou art one of them.’
“‘… Me?’
“‘Dior trusts thee, Liathe. She is fond of thee. Wheels hath been set in motion. When Dior comes to thee for counsel, thou shalt steer her only in the direction of the throne.’
“‘Wheels, what d—’
“‘Thou art a faithful and true servant of God, child. We see the devotion in thee, fierce as heaven’s fire. We wonder if Wulfric knew how bright thy faith would burn when he took thee in. We wonder if that is why he chose thee to succeed him.’
“A sliver of ice pierced our belly then, eyes like black glass boring into ours.
“‘Know we, Celene, what thou didst to him.’
“Our jaw tightened behind our mask, sudden terror gripping our veins as the very snow falling outside seemed to still. We knew it’d been foolish to hope we might keep our sin from a mind as powerful as the Mother’s.
But now our secret was unveiled, we feared the worst, nails biting bloody into our palms. Yet rather than attacking us as she’d done beneath Dún Maergenn, Maryn took hold our hands, gentle as feathers.
“‘Be at peace. Thou hast not destroyed our brother, but saved him. Wulfric was ever a delicate flower, Celene. Of we four who survived the Charbourg’s fall, he was the youngest. The most … human.’
“‘He was a monster,’ we hissed.
“‘He was. But evil we do.’
“‘… Lest evil we be.’