Chapter II. Closer To God #2
“‘We are all of us monsters, Liathe. Such be the Almighty’s design, and to that, thou hast cleaved true. Who was it who found Dior in the wilderness? Who was it that brought her through hellfire and war? Who was it who burned, bled, believed in this moment more than any other? ’ She squeezed my hands, gaze locked on mine.
‘It was thee, Celene. All thou hast given and suffered, every sin committed, every drop of blood spilled has led to this moment. Our moment of redemption! And in felling thy mentor, thou hast proved thyself his worthy heir. Capable of doing all that which must be done.’
“Maryn shook her head then, black eyes shining with adoration and wonder.
“‘I walked with the first of us. The greatest of our Faith. And I vow it true, child: great Illia herself would have been proud of thee.’
“My fear faded, replaced with the elation of her praise, the acknowledgment of all we’d given and lost. For months we’d dreaded Maryn uncovering our crime.
I’d been Wulfric’s sworn disciple, and my betrayal, no matter how well deserved, had been a terrible one.
But rather than punishment, it had earned me … accolade.
“‘Thou art ruthless, Liathe. Pitiless. Dauntless. And know thee, better than any in this city save perhaps ourselves, the stakes at risk in this contest.’
“‘Every soul under heaven.’
“‘Just so.’
“‘We will save them, Mother. We will save them all.’
“‘So we pray. Not long now, God willing. More than eight centuries hath we born this burden, child. Trapped in this … body. This … life.’
“We blinked, taken a touch aback. For all our time together, Maryn had spoken mostly of the Faith, and almost nothing of herself. But we could hear such desolation and exhaustion in her voice now, we thought for a moment she might weep.
“‘It could not have been easy for you,’ we murmured.
“‘Nay.’
“Maryn looked down at her little hands and sighed.
“‘Once we were naught but rage, Celene. Boiling our soul to blackness and our purpose to nothingness. Canst thou imagine it? The fury? The impotence? A woman of twenty, fifty, eighty, imprisoned in this child’s flesh? Forever small? Forever unwanted, save for the lust of deviants and the devouring maws of childless mothers? ’ She shook her head.
‘Naught but faith in God could have sustained us. The same which sustained thee. We are kin, thee and I. Alike not simply in mind, but soul. And not at this last breath shall we stumble. We are close to salvation, Celene. So very close. Can we count ’pon thee, in darkest hour to come, to do what must be done? ’
“We squeezed her little hands then, the fire of faith ablaze in our Dead heart.
“‘Of course you can, Mother.’
“‘Véris, child.’ She smiled, deep as forever. ‘Keep the faith. Judgment Comes.’
“We remembered Wulfric hissing those words at us. Blood in our mouth, on our hands, seeping from our broken heart. But as if in answer to those dark thoughts, a song split the stormwashed skies—a symphony of bells from goldglass spires to signal the end of mass. A cry went up across the square, the folk there shifting forward, straining to see past the legions of guards about the cathedral steps. The great doors were flung wide, all within the square poised on knife’s edge. And out in the mob, a lone child cried.
“‘The Grail! ’
“Dior stepped from Cathédrale de Lumière, stood at the top of the grand stair. She was resplendent in a beautiful gown, white as yesteryear snows. Ashen hair tumbled free upon her shoulders in the fashion of a maid, body bereft of jewelry save a single wheel of gold about her neck. The Princess á Maergenn and Joaquin Marenn stood beside her, Reyne draped in the emerald green and wolves of her house, the houndboy looking handsome as a pocketful of devils in dark new finery. And at Dior’s other side stood Empress Isabella, swathed in imperial gold, presenting the Grail with a wave of her hand.
“‘The Savior of Augustin!’
“‘God be praised!’ came the cry. ‘Bless you, child!’
“‘Heaven’s Huntress!’
“‘La demoiselle du Graal!’
“They loved her, one and all, devotion writ in every smile, and well we knew why. After the Battle of Augustin, the whole city had been rife with rumor about her; the she-wolf who severed the hand of the Iron Maiden, the Redeemer—oui, Redeemer they named her, Marquis—who delivered their city from doom. But for weeks after the Forever King’s retreat, Dior had roamed the streets with her Unbound, working dawn ’til dusk.
“The desolation in Rive Nord and Sud had been terrible, the toll upon its people even heavier. And though each night we could see how much it cost—her skin waxen and shadows cut beneath her eyes—still she’d bled for them, just as she’d bled on that dock for the victims of the Battle of Maergenn.
When she’d arrived in Augustin, Dior had been the girl who turned back the Endless Legion.
But now, its citizens saw her as she who had healed the mauled and maimed. Mended the battered and broken.
“Not destruction, but salvation.
“Not an ending, but a beginning.
“Dior raised her mangled left hand, and we watched awestruck as the entire city followed suit, arms held up, forefingers and thumbs outstretched. An ocean of people, united in adulation for she who had delivered them from evil.
“‘They adore her,’ Maryn whispered. ‘And well they should. Soon, Heaven’s Scion shall deliver them all from the grim hand of darkness.’
“We bowed our head, praying that it would be so. We knew we were yet far from salvation—the Redeemer’s blade still in the hands of our wretched brother, Dior’s ascension to the throne nothing close to assured.
But at the sight of those folk united in their adoration, I could not help but be buoyed up, looking to the strangled sun, knowing in our souls salvation must soon come.
“‘This blackened veil will be undone.’”