Chapter III. The Price
III
THE PRICE
“WHAT IS A good term for inebriation, Marquis?”
Jean-Francois blinked, glancing up from his tome.
“A good term? Is there something wrong with inebriation?”
“For our purposes, it lacks a certain … je ne sais quoi.”
The Last Liathe took another mouthful from the bottle he’d given her, dragging her knuckles across her lips and blinking. The historian raised one brow.
“I should have warned you, Mlle Castia. I often have my thralls drink a bottle of wine before they bleed for me. Gives the blood a little kick. I fear it might’ve gone to your head.”
“Oh.” Celene squinted at the mostly empty bottle. “Oh.”
“Have you ever been drunk before?”
“Once. It was … not my finest hour.”
The historian watched as the most dangerous murderess in all the empire peered at her outstretched hands as if they belonged to someone else. And despite himself, he laughed. “I believe the term you’re searching for is shitfaced, mademoiselle.”
Celene shook her head. “Too vulgar.”
“Rat-arsed, perhaps?”
“How, precisely, is that less vulgar than shitfaced?”
“Soused? Rotten? Jagged? Pickled? Full as a tick? Drunk as a lord? Off one’s tits?”
The Last Liathe snapped her fingers. Pointing to Jean-Francois, she nodded.
“That one. Perfect.”
She pushed the bottle away with her boot, scowling.
“Dior was a touch off her tits.”
The historian scoffed and turned to a new page as Celene rejoined her tale.
“The banquet that night had started well enough. It was held in the grandest hall any of us had ever seen. Once again the walls were gold, refracting the light of what must’ve been a thousand chymical globes suspended in goldglass chandeliers overhead.
A sextet of master soothsingers from the Opus Grande played upon a mezzanine, and the air was bright with talk and laughter and beautiful song.
Five great tables were draped in red velvet, decorated with golden statuary and hollanfel vines.
A sixth ran horizontal to the others, set aside for the royal famille and their entourage.
“Vassals of the Empress had arrived in Augustin with fresh troops, called from across Elidaen’s southern reaches.
Every noble house of the city was invited to greet them, and every invitation accepted—all wishing to catch a glimpse of the girl who had bitten off the right hand of the Iron Maiden, cured the sick and dying, and made the entire populace of Augustin fall hopelessly, completely in love with her.
“La demoiselle du Graal.
“Mother Maryn and I were not in attendance—fonts of holy water stood at every door, every utensil in sight was silver. Besides, it would not do to have corpses sit with quality. But Dior was given a place of honor at the table below the Empress, her capitaines beside her: Joaquin Marenn, resplendent in a dark doublet with split crimson sleeves, and Reyne á Maergenn, Princess of Lands Low and High, bedecked in an off-shoulder gown of emerald green. Several Unbound were also present; those Callums and Sherrods and Liams never far from Dior’s side.
But the crude tabards scrawled with her sigil had been replaced with cloth of finest cut, her sigil not wrought with chalk now, but silver thread.
“Dior herself wore a beautiful but austere dress of pale satin.
Her ashen curls were let loose, long enough to flow past her shoulders, our moth hid beneath them.
Her only adornment was that golden wheel, strung above her well-hid décolletage.
All told, she was a picture of chaste and holy virtue, and about as comfortable with that pose as you imagine.
“‘More wine.’
“Such had been the refrain for an hour, and the pageboy attending her looked distinctly dubious as the Grail waved her goblet under his nose.
It was wrought of gold—unlike every other guest in attendance, Dior could not drink from silver.
Reyne and Joaquin shared a troubled glance as the young lad filled it up again.
“‘Are you certain you should be—’
“‘More for her, too,’ Dior said, nodding to Reyne’s cup.
“Joaquin cleared his throat. ‘Dior, I’m not much one for royal banquets, but if I were to guess, passing out in a puddle of your own vomit isn’t exactly fashionable.’
“‘Bring him a whole carafe,’ Dior said, glancing at the pageboy.
“‘I know you’re nervous,’ Reyne whispered. ‘I know Maryn and Celene have been pressing you to speak to the Empress. But I’m not certain getting stumbling drunk right before you inform Isabella you need her throne is the wisest plan.’
“‘Why the hell do you think I’m drinking?’ Dior knocked back her cup, glanced toward the high table. ‘I’m trying to conjure the balls to ask her, Reyne. Gabe always said there’s nothing like a dram of courage to hold you steady when the screaming starts.’
“The Grail looked down into her goblet and sighed from the bottom of her chest.
“‘God, I wish he was here.’
“‘Phoebe will return soon,’ Reyne said. ‘Gabriel beside her, I’m s—’
“‘Are you well, Mlle Lachance?’
“The question came from the royal table, rising just high enough to be heard above the chatter and minstrelsong. Glancing to the dais, Dior found herself looking into the cold sapphire eyes of Philippe de Augustin. The handsome young prince was dressed in a doublet of golden velvet, embroidered with the unicorns and swords of his house. He sat at his mother’s right hand, but to Isabella’s left, the high seat of the Emperor was, as always, empty.
“‘I’m wonderful, Majesty.’ Dior held out her cup again. ‘Merci for asking.’
“Philippe watched the pageboy fetch another carafe and pour.
Unlike much of the citizenry, the young Prince had proved largely immune to the holy fervor surrounding the Grail.
Though she performed miracles, Dior also kept company with duskdancers and vampires, and the Prince had little regard for either.
But more, Dior represented a fundamental shift in power at court, and if there is one breed under heaven who resent shifts in power, it is those who are already powerful.
“‘You are enjoying our feast?’ the Prince asked.
“‘It’s delicious, merci. I’ve not had much opportunity to drink real wine before.’
“‘It comes in barrels, if you prefer.’
“Dior ignored the jab and threw a thoughtful glance to Joaquin. ‘Perhaps a bucket? Might come in handy later when I’m being unfashionable.’
“‘I look forward to the show,’ Philippe replied, lip curled. ‘I wonder if—’
“‘How fares your quest, Mlle Lachance?’
“The minstrels played on, but some of the nearby chatter stilled as Empress Isabella interrupted her son, nobles and clergy now leaning nearer and straining to overhear.
“‘Quest, Your Grace?’ Dior replied.
“Isabella smiled. ‘The Sainted Blade.’
“Dior gulped another mouthful, stalling for thought. Truth told, the quest was something of a sore spot. When Maryn had informed her that after months of searching, she’d finally discovered the Black Lion marching with his army toward San Maximille, Dior had been overjoyed.
But when she’d asked our Priori to inform my brother she lived, Maryn had proved …
reluctant. The Mother raised an excellent point—Gabriel did not even know her, and had no reason to believe anything she said.
It was deemed far more sensible to send someone he trusted to speak with him in the flesh.
But not only did that mean leaving Gabriel in the dark, it also robbed Dior of another of her dearest counselors.
“Dior wasn’t simply the Holy Grail of San Michon, she was also a duskdancer of the Moonsthrone. And with Phoebe gone after my brother, she had no one to talk to about it.
“Fear for Gabriel, troubles with Reyne, questions about her very nature all weighed on her mind. Not to mention the task of sweet-talking her way onto the throne of Elidaen.
“No wonder she was drinking.
“But Dior sat straighter, breathing deep as she met the Empress’s eyes. ‘Phoebe is on her way to Gabriel’s side, Your Grace. I’m told she’ll be with him any day now.’
“The Prince sipped his wine, scowling. ‘Long did Baron Gerrard de León ignore our royal father’s requests for aid. I find it … interesting his bastard grandson has mustered so great a host to our defense.’
“‘Not exactly your defense, Majesty,’ Dior replied. ‘Maryn thinks that Gabe plans to attack the Forever King at San Maximille. But fear not. Phoebe will talk him around. Bring him and his army and Ashdrinker all back to Augustin. I’m sure of it.’
“Isabella lifted her goblet, the wine barely wetting her lips.
“‘We have taken long counsel with our generals, our soothsayers, our clergy these past nights, Mlle Lachance. As you can imagine, there is much conjecture as to the veracity of your tale. Yet our royal son and chief archivists have found some small traces of what might constitute substantiation in the Royal Athenaeum. Words about a secret bloodline of the Dead. A hidden war. A prophecy born of the crusade at Charbourg.’
“‘Forgive me, Your Grace. But you mean to say the heresy at Charbourg.’
“It was an elderly man speaking, sat to the left of the Emperor’s empty chair. He was a portly fellow in dove-white robes, a silver wheel about his throat, silver rings on his fingers. His beard was long and grey, his balding head gleaming in the candlelight.
“‘Of course, Pontifex Gascoigne,’ Isabella smiled. ‘The heresy, forgive me.’
“‘Justly were those rebels who rose against House Augustin put down.’ Rheumy eyes fell on Dior. ‘And well were their claims of the Redeemer’s mortal line silenced.’
“Prince Philippe lifted his goblet and muttered, ‘That would certainly explain an almost complete absence of their mention in the royal archives, at least.’
“‘A little knowledge is a dangerous thing, Majesty,’ the Pontifex said, tucking into his third helping of mushroom stew. ‘Would you not agree, High Inquisitrix Maya?’