Chapter VII. Second Son
VII
SECOND SON
“SEVEN DAYS LATER, Dior was roused by a knock at her door.”
The Liathe rolled her eyes and sighed.
“She was in the bath at the time.”
Celene raised one brow, looking expectantly at the historian across the water. Jean-Francois was sketching in his tome, pausing now to meet the Liathe’s gaze.
“What, no lewd commentary?” she demanded. “No inquiry about who she was with, or request for a detailed description of what she was wearing?”
“Oh, please. I’m not a total pervert.”
The historian frowned.
“… Wait, she was in the bath, what was she wearing?”
“Her chambers were richly appointed,” Celene continued.
“Palatial in scope as befitted a guest of station, though in truth she never seemed comfortable in them. She’d dismissed the servants the Empress had given her, making her own bed and dressing herself each morn.
Our moth kept vigil with her always, save in the hours she visited the great cathedral in Place San Maximille.
“Despite her ancestry, Dior had never struck us as particularly devout, so we were pleased that each dawn and dusk now, and often noon also, she’d begun attending services in Cathédrale de Lumière.
Between masses, she spent as much time in the city as she could, tending the sick and mending the broken, Joaquin and her loyal soldiers in tow.
The rest of her days she spent training in swordplay with her Unbound, reading the Testaments, and pacing at her balcony with eyes turned ever northward.
“She asked Maryn how affairs with Phoebe and Gabriel fared almost hourly. But the mote our Priori had sent out those many months ago had finally failed, crumbling at last to dust. And though Maryn had sent another, it had yet to arrive at San Maximille. All we knew was that Phoebe had reached Gabriel, intent to steer him from battle with the Forever King. But as to how she’d fared, we’d no clue at all.
“Dior was sunk to her shoulders in near-scalding water when the knock rang on her chamber door. Her blue eyes had been fixed on the steam rising from the bath’s surface, trailing her fingertips through the vapor and watching it dance.
But as the knock echoed on the walls, we felt her pulse quicken beneath our tiny feet, our mote hid beneath the damp curls at the nape of her neck as she rose from the tub.
Dripping all over the boards, she called ‘Just a moment! ’ and hurried across her boudoir.
She dressed swiftly in a simple but elegant gown of dove white, stringing her golden wheel about her throat and whispering my brother’s name like a prayer.
But it was not the Black Lion of Lorson who stood outside her chambers that cold winter morn, but a lion younger still.
“After a pause for disappointment, Dior dipped into a passable curtsey.
“‘Your Majesty.’
“Philippe de Augustin, son of Alexandre III and Prince of all Elidaen, stood in the hallway, framed by tall windows of snow-frosted glass. He was surrounded by a small army of bodyguards, decked in stout hauberks and tabards of his house.
“The Prince himself was armed with his well-loved longblade, but he wore no armor, clad instead in a fine golden doublet with split scarlet sleeves and leather britches that we suspect most maids would have considered exactly the right kind of tight.
A heavy crimson cloak lined with wolf fur mantled his broad shoulders, clasped by a brooch set with a unicorn and five swords.
His chestnut hair was fresh cropped, cheeks fresh shaved, the scars of battle carved at brow and chin not enough to ruin his portrait.
“‘La demoiselle du Graal,’ he said, bowing from tight-clad hips.
“The pair stared at each other for an age, Dior’s brow rising.
“‘Am I supposed to invite you in?’ she finally asked. ‘I’m new to this royalty thing, admittedly, but that’d be scandalous, wouldn’t it?’
“‘Indeed. Though I confess I’m unsure if you wouldn’t delight in that, mademoiselle. You seem to rather enjoy throwing this court into chaos.’
“The Prince seemed to catch himself, remembering his intent in coming here. Softening his tone, he gestured to the city beyond the windows.
“‘I thought we might walk instead. Talk.’
“Dior glanced to the snow-clad glass. ‘Looks cold out there, Majesty.’
“In one motion, the Prince had whipped off his heavy cloak, draped it about the Grail’s shoulders, and offered his arm with head bowed. He moved with the grace of a dancer, and all the poise of a young gallant raised at court.
“‘Impressive,’ Dior admitted.
“‘No fear, mademoiselle. I still have plenty of time to disappoint.’
“A small smile touched his lips, and Dior’s lips curled ever so slight in kind.
She breathed deep, looking again to the windows at the Prince’s back.
Clouds were gathering above, the bite of frost now full in the air, the promise of war entwined with it.
She knew what was coming with wintersdeep.
But for the first time, she had a chance to truly stop it.
Looking down at her mangled left hand, she sighed.
“‘Fuck it.’
“And pulling the cloak about her shoulders, she took his arm.
“Side by side, the pair began walking, down the lavish halls of Chateau Impérial. Dior moved stiff and slow, obviously unnerved to be at this young man’s side.
We wondered if she’d ever been touched by a boy in this fashion before.
Pursued by one. She’d certainly never kissed one, and the notion of weddings and wedding nights obviously weighed heavy, dimming her usual brightness.
The prince’s guards fell into step a respectful distance back, a flock of Dior’s Unbound tromping behind.
All told, the procession counted fifty strong, servants and courtiers stopping to gawp as the pair passed by.
But despite his initial request, the Prince said not a word, and finally Dior cleared her throat to fill the void.
“‘So, do w—’
“Philippe glanced her way, and the look in his eyes bid Dior bite her tongue. Onward they walked, down corridors decked with gilt and goldglass, past saluting gens d’armes and through ironclad doors, finally crossing the chateau drawbridge into Place San Maximille.
“Looking out on the towering statue of the city’s founder, the rushing waterways, the grand plaza usually so thronged, Dior was agawp to see the place utterly deserted.
“‘Where … is everybody?’
“Prince Philippe kept walking, bringing the Grail gently with him as his bodyguards fell farther behind. And finally, with a long look at the empty square about them, he spoke.
“‘The Golden Halls of Augustin have no end of ears, Mlle du Graal. And this conversation shall be a delicate one. I had the plaza cleared so we might have privacy.’
“Dior whistled softly. ‘Must be nice to be the Prince.’
“Philippe scoffed. ‘I think you and I both know how the appearance of power and its truths can differ. How those who wield it effortlessly are also beholden to it utterly. And how reality and perception seldom make a harmonious marriage.’
“Dior raised one brow. ‘Fine segue, Prince de Augustin.’
“‘I’m glad it pleased you, Mlle du Graal. I stayed up half the night writing it.’
“Philippe risked a smile, his cheek creased in a small dimple. Dior scoffed softly, hair tumbling over her eyes as she dipped her head. Despite the chill, her skin was sheened with sweat, and though their pace was gentle, her heart thundered like a horse at charge.
“‘You’re trying to be charming now?’
“‘Trying and failing, I take it.’
“‘The only words you’ve had for me since I got here have been hard ones, Majesty.’
“‘Forgive me. But this whole city has been turned on its head by your arrival.’
“‘That was never my intent. And what you said before about me delighting in chaos, that was unfair.’ The Grail looked Prince Philippe up and down, hands curling into fists. ‘I didn’t ask for any of this, you know. I was happy enough living in squalor and cutting purses from rich wankers before prophecy reared its ugly fucking head.’
“‘Do you have any brothers, Mlle du Graal? Or sisters?’
“Dior blinked at the odd question, a frown darkening her brow.
“‘No.’
“A pause.
“A sigh.
“‘Well … maybe.’
“She glanced in the direction of the guest wing. Of Reyne’s rooms.
“‘It’s complicated.’
“‘I’d an older brother named Bastien. He was Mother’s favorite.
Father’s too. A golden child, beloved of all.
Prince of princes. He died when he was fourteen.
Heir to the greatest empire on earth, laid low by a simple fever.
’ Philippe gazed over the square, voice gone soft.
‘I was the second son. Never intended to sit the Fivefold Throne.’
“‘I’m sure that’s not true,’ Dior said. ‘That he was their favorite, I mean.’
“‘… You have met my mother, haven’t you?’
“She scoffed softly, hiding her eyes behind her hair again. ‘The Empress speaks to you unkindly sometimes, I’ll admit. But I find that people treat you the way you let them, Majesty. Respect is earned, not owed.’
“‘She is Empress. I am her loyal subject. And … not overly fond of conflict with her.’
“‘You’re a knight. How many battles have you fought? How many foes conquered?’
“‘I wear the mantle of soldier now, but not always. In fact, before heirdom was foisted upon me, I was studying to join the priesthood, if you’ll believe it.’
“Dior looked him up and down again, pale lips pursed. Prince Philippe was tall. Strong. Fine. Hardened by battle and scarred by trials.
“‘I can no more imagine you in a priest’s skirt than me, Majesty.’
“He smiled, and this time she joined in. ‘And that is my point. None of us get to choose the hand that God deals us, do we?’
“‘… No, we don’t.’
“‘Nor the duty that comes with it, Mlle du Graal.’
“She hung her head, her voice barely a murmur.
“‘If this is going where I think it’s going … you should probably call me Dior.’
“‘And where do you think it is going, Dior?’
“She met Philippe’s eyes then, swallowing the lump we could hear in her throat.