Chapter VIII. Darkest Hour
VIII
DARKEST HOUR
“‘VICTORY.’
“Such was Maryn’s hiss, slipping from her lips as she strode into the library. We looked up from the Testaments we were pretending to read, head tilted.
“‘Priori?’
“‘We say victory, Liathe.’
“She swept across the room, nun’s skirts whispering, taking our hands in hers and squeezing so tight we winced at the pain.
“‘Did ye not hear? Not see? The Prince hath proposed matrimony to the Grail, and thanks to thy wise and learned counsel, Dior hath accepted! One step nearer to the union of heaven and earth. One step closer to the fruition of Illia’s dream.’ She looked skyward then, and I saw her eyes filmed with bloody tears.
‘Praise be to thee, O Lord of Love, O God of Blood. All glory unto thy throne, O King of Wolf and Lamb.’
“We blinked then, realizing that just as we, Mother Maryn must have a mote of herself secreted somewhere near Dior.
Watching. Listening. But if she had a mote near the Grail, and had also sent one north to find Phoebe, that meant that unlike us, Maryn must be able to see through more than one set of eyes.
Command more than one mote at a time. That unsettled me slightly, I admit.
We were but new to the power of the Esana, but Maryn had wielded it for centuries.
She could pierce thoughts with a glance.
Crush steel with a shrug. Wield blood like a maestro.
Her power was such that in the coming battle, she might well be the difference between victory and defeat.
“But what else was she capable of? How many sets of eyes did she have hidden about this palace? How much did she see? How much did she know?
“‘Véris,’ we whispered.
“‘We are close, Celene. Closer than we have been since before Charbourg’s fall.’
“‘There is still the matter of my brother. Dior trusts him more than anyone. If Gabriel returns with an army in tow and bends her ear against us, all could be undone.’
“Maryn smiled at that, black gaze unreadable.
“‘Patience, Liathe. And prepare thyself. To do what needs be done.’
“Maryn would say no more. Over the next few nights, our Priori remained within her chamber, emerging only to feed. Our morsel of blood was still delivered every dusk by one of Dior’s Unbound, but the hunger in us was worsening.
We’d meant to speak to Dior about it, but news of her betrothal had swept the palace by then, and she was kept long from our side.
The bells of Cathédrale de Lumière sang for an entire day when the engagement was announced to the people, and Dior’s hours were filled with councils and fittings and lessons.
She sent Joaquin to Maryn constantly, demanding news of Gabriel and Phoebe, asking if the mother’s mote had yet reached San Maximille. Always she gave the same reply.
“‘Patience, holy child.’
“‘Patience.’
“On the third night Maryn came to us, deep in the still past the witching hour.
We were in the library again, reading from the Book of Vows, trying to still the disquiet in our mind.
Wulfric loomed large those nights, his shadow seething, pacing silently behind the walls of our eyes.
He spoke little, but I felt him often, as if he too were gripped with the fervor I saw now in Maryn, stepping from the shadows with a secret smile at her lips.
“‘It is time.’
“We rose soundlessly, the look in Maryn’s eyes brooking no question.
And to the cold, silent hearth in the dining hall, we followed her steps.
Though we were ‘guests’ of the Empress, we were not trusted to privacy in our sumptuous cells—Inquisitorial troops made regular patrols to ensure that we remained firmly where Her Grace Isabella had put us.
But though the churchmen were thorough, they were also creatures of habit, and their visits came regularly with each tolling of the hour.
“‘We have until twobells,’ Maryn said. ‘Fly swift.’
“With the sound of tearing cloth, whispering wings, Maryn burst apart.
Her swarm of moths fluttered about us in a red haze before turning, rolling, fluttering up the chimney above the cold hearth.
And shifting, ripping, tearing apart at our seams, we followed, up the soot-clad way of that cold chimney and into the waiting night.
“The snow was knives, the wind was hungry; the howling harbingers of wintersdeep.
Through our myriad eyes, we could see all Augustin below us.
The marbled beauty of Rive C?ur, Cathédrale de Lumière and Chateau Impérial, La Rivière de Fer and the glittering Rue des étoiles.
Over the city walls we swept; those grand battlements bristling with cannon and guarded by thousands of brave soldiers, north toward a great span of stone.
It had been one of seven once, Pont de Clementine its name, after the faithful wife of Maximille I.
But now, the folk of Augustin simply called it Lastbridge.
“It spanned the River Béni, the only path from the city. Its great gatehouses had been repaired, Augustin’s finest charged with its defense.
We could still see those barrels of black ignis lashed beneath the arches, ready to blow rather than allow the Forever King to cross.
But the Béni was freezing swiftly now, wintersdeep ice, and when Fabién came again, we knew Lastbridge would not be his only road into the city.
“Onward we flew, ever in Maryn’s wake, over the broken bones of Rive Nord.
Some small attempt had been made to repair the outer walls here, and a brave garrison stood the watch.
But the city’s northern shore was all but deserted as we flew over it, Place San Antoine echoing with the sound of our battle there; Reyne’s cry and Dior’s howl and Kestrel’s promise to Maryn, our Priori’s vow in turn.
“All Shall Kneel.
“Judgment Comes.
“Over the fields beyond the walls; vast farmlands that once grew wheat and corn and sprouts, now given over to fungus and potato. We’d been flying for a spell now, and we began to fear we’d not return in time for the patrol when Maryn descended, a tiny crimson tempest, spiraling down beneath the rotten boughs and leafless eaves of a fungus-riddled deadwood some twenty miles from the city.
And in a clearing of fallen trees and broken stone, she alighted, coalescing with us beside her, together and alone.
“But not for long.
“‘Come forth,’ she commanded. ‘Fiáin dahtr.’
“From the shadows she stirred, her scent reaching us now; sweat and scrub, mud and blood. As Phoebe stepped from the dark beneath the trees, her eyes gleamed like topaz, golden trinkets singing as her braids shifted in the wind. We saw she was muddied by long miles, wearied by longer trials, and that the curse of her blood had worsened. With every dance, a child of the Moonsthrone ran the risk of their beast leaving a mark upon them, and we saw Phoebe had paid a price for her latest waltz; in addition to the pointed ears and cat’s shadow and hunter’s eyes, beneath the hem of her clancloth skirts we could see a tail now, long and furred in the fashion of a lioness.
“Our lips curled at the mark of idolatrous magiks upon her flesh. Phoebe’s gods were not ours, nor her allegiance. And so we were astounded as she walked from the gloom, and with head bowed low, sank to one knee before Maryn.
“‘Mistress,’ she whispered.
“We looked to our Priori, realization sinking into our chest like a knife.
“‘You…’
“We blinked, looking again at that proud warrior of the Moonsthrone, that slayer of countless kith, that daughter of Moons and Earth, down on her knee in the mud.
“‘You thralled her.’
“‘Of course,’ Maryn replied. ‘Think ye we would entrust the Sainted Blade to a hand we did not wield? Think ye we would risk Dior drawing counsel from lips godless? ’
“‘… When?’
“‘Aboard Dawnseeker. In nights after we departed Dún Maergenn. A moth from our wrist, dissolved into her drink each day until the deed was done. Dior’s Unbound are immune to our touch, thanks to the blessing of her blood. But the Dahtr á Dúnnsair hath never partaken of the Grail’s veins.
And save wounded by silver, nor shall she ever need to.
The perfect hand. Be that not aright, Fiáin dahtr? ’
“‘Aye, Mistress.’
“Our mind was in tumult at this, our heart sinking. We’d little fondness for Dúnnsair, nor she for us. But the sight of her on her knees …
“‘What news, brave Phoebe? ’
“‘The deed is done, Mother.’
“From within her clancloth, the fleshwitch produced a familiar sword in a beaten scabbard. With the crisp song of steel, Phoebe drew Ashdrinker from her sheath and thrust the weapon into the snow. We were forced to admire her beauty—the blade of an angel, wrought in the Empyrean Forge by Evangeline herself. Our eyes roamed the sigils upon the blade’s curve, up, up to the silvered dame upon the hilt.
Her arms were outstretched as if to embrace us.
Her face smiling, as if pleased to see us.
“We doubted she truly was.
“‘Gabriel gave you his sword?’
“‘Nae,’ Phoebe replied, meeting our eyes. ‘I tried to convince him, but he’d nae be swayed from vengeance. So, I took the blade before he had opportunity to lose it.’
“‘… You stole it?’
“She smiled then, tail switching from side to side. ‘He was compensated.’
“‘If you stole his blade, then he’ll surely be coming after it?’
“Maryn shook her head. ‘Such was his hubris, the Black Lion pressed his attack, even without his blade. We watched through our mote, high upon the winds, as he crashed against San Maximille’s walls. His troops were sore blooded, and he blooded Voss deep in turn. But at the last, at the very cusp of Voss’s throat, thy kinsman fell. ’
“My heart sank at that. Thinking back on all our years together. Our youth, thick as thieves, fighting imaginary foes about Papa’s forge. Our journey with Dior, our betrayals and battles, confessions and contritions. And our voice trembled as I whispered.
“‘My brother is dead?’
“‘Worse. Gabriel de León hath pledged allegiance to Fabién Voss.’