Chapter X. A Handful of Words
X
A HANDFUL OF WORDS
“HE IS COMING.
“Such was the rumor. Such was the fear. Such was the whisper in every commonroom, every hearth, every bordello and bar and boudoir in Augustin.
It held the city in cold claws, gripped its soldiers with quiet dread and citizens with rising terror; a shadow fallen upon the Heart of Elidaen no pyre nor prayer could banish.
“The Forever King is coming back.
“Weeks had passed since Phoebe’s return.
Wintersdeep had arrived in full, and with it came Elidaen’s season of storms. Every year since daysdeath’s fall they’d seemed to worsen, and that year, they raged with a fury no historian could recall.
The capital was lashed with constant tempests, snows falling so fierce what little daylight we had seemed choked to constant night.
Rumor had begun in earnest the week before; that with these furies to cover him, the Forever King must surely be on his way, marching with deathless feet toward the empire’s doom.
The generals of the Golden Host had eyes abroad of course; brave men and women ranging across the frozen northern reaches, looking for signs of the legion’s coming.
But no word, warning or otherwise, had reached the capital in days.
And in that dreadful silence, the city’s commanders found confirmation.
“Voss was murdering their scouts.
“Augustin was utterly blind.
“He was coming.
“But not all news in those nights was dark. After Joaquin spoke of the Black Lion’s betrayal to the Prince, the knowledge that few could now be trusted to protect the Grail had been brought home.
Philippe took greatest pains to ensure the safety of his bride-to-be, giving over a small legion of troops to the command of her Unbound.
And more, Mother Maryn and I were finally allowed to leave our chambers.
We were always accompanied by Inquisitorial troops, of course.
They were led by that hulking slice of beef, Moulin, and the trust between us was paper-thin.
But still, we oversaw Dior’s protection, erecting a wall of steel between her and any who might do her harm.
The wedding was set for weeksend, the coronation at Maidsfeast looming closer each dawn, and Maryn was taking no risks in ensuring Dior’s well-being.
“More troops had arrived from the southern provinces, and though we’d still miss my brother’s numbers, the force mustered to the capital’s defense was impressive.
The finest were the last to muster, but also most welcome—a legion of crack bowmen and three thousand cavaliers from the chateau at Daggercoast.”
Celene shook her head.
“I am told in years before daysdeath, horses were so common that a farmer might afford one to plow his fields. But in the years after the sun failed, large livestock were simply too costly to keep. Horses feared me now, but I had always been fascinated with them, and watching those cavaliers parade through the streets of Rive C?ur, I found myself smiling in soft wonder. I had never seen so many beautiful beasts in my life.”
“We had three,” Jean-Francois murmured. “On the farm. Bella, Soot, and…”
The historian frowned, staring into the dark as he realized …
“God, I can’t remember the third one.”
“You were a peasant boy, Marquis?”
Jean-Francois looked across the river, eyes narrowed. The Last Liathe was watching him, expressionless, cold as the stone she sat upon.
“A farmer’s son, oui. We lived near San Maximille. Centuries ago now, it seems.”
“Your Empress found you there?”
“Hardly,” Jean-Francois scoffed. “My lady finds as little joy in the rustic charms of the provinces as I did, Mlle Castia. No, I ran away to Augustin to seek my fortune. Apprenticed with an artiste of some repute. Rented a squalid little loft in Rive Nord with a handful of other starving dreamers. Painted portraits and fucked the occasional fatcat to make the rent.” He smiled softly.
“My dark mother was one of my subjects.”
“Does it sadden you, to know that loft is gone now? Those dreamers all dead?”
Jean-Francois’s smile faded.
“The wolf frets not for the ills of the worm.”
“But does he fret for himself? All he lost? As the dreamer, so dies the dream?”
The historian arched one brow, lips pursed.
And taking his hint, Celene spoke on.
“Duke Maarten de La Fontaine, le Chevalier des Faucons, was capitaine of the cavaliers—a Sword of the Realm, knighted by Emperor Alexandre, who had been godfather to all three of his children. Maarten was a broad-chested bear of a man, with a booming voice and a black beard big enough to lose a herd of sheep inside. His coming was heralded with jubilance, and such was his confidence in the capital’s defenses, the Duke had brought his wife and daughters to attend the royal nuptials.
“The night before the wedding ceremony, with all the palace abuzz, the de La Fontaines were welcomed with a royal banquet. Maarten and his wife Yvaine sat at the table of honor, the Duke offering toasts to the groom and his bride-to-be. Dior and Philippe spoke softly during the meal, and the Grail kept any longing stares toward her Princess to a minimum. Talk was first of war, but soon turned to the ceremony amorrow, and though at first she’d resisted as best she could, it seemed even the Empress and her supporters were given over to the idea of the Grail’s union to the Prince now.
It is a strange thing, Historian, but very little in this world brings out the bluejays of joy like a wedding, particularly a royal one, and we ourselves were caught up in the idea of it.
“The wedding, and the salvation it would bring.
“Yet it was well after the plates had been cleared that the most important conversation of the eve took place.
“It happened in a small sitting room, in the heart of the vast guest wing.
“Two women and a handful of words.
“In light of Gabriel’s betrayal, Dior had deemed it safest that she abide on holy ground before her nuptials.
Her chambers had been relocated from Chateau Impérial to the rectory of Cathédrale de Lumière—a lavish estate at the church’s eastern flank colloquially known as the Pontifex’s Palace, where the Grail now slept and ate.
We could not watch her on sanctified earth of course, contenting ourselves to patrol the square outside from dusk until dawn.
But in the interest of keeping vigil over those she cared for, we’d hidden our mote with Reyne that night.
And so it was we’d been there to witness it.
“The beginning of the end of everything.
“‘Dearest sister,’ Reyne sighed.
“‘My dove, it’s so good to see you,’ Yvaine breathed.
“The pair embraced, emotions kept in check at the feast finally unveiled in private. Duchess Yvaine de La Fontaine was not much akin to her youngest sister in appearance—fairer of face and smaller of frame, though the pair shared their mother’s flame-red hair.
Yvaine’s locks were styled in the height of courtly fashion, and while a careful observer might see traces of Ossian heritage in her freckles and sharp green eyes, Yvaine’s accent was near vanished; long years in the east having eroded most traces of the west.
“‘I’m sorry we didn’t have a chance to speak before the feast,’ she said. ‘It’s been absolute bedlam since we arrived. And before, truth told. Maarten insisted on bringing the girls for the sake of morale, and you know what a handful they can be.’
“‘It’s aright,’ Reyne smiled. ‘We’re speaking now.’
“‘I’m so glad you’re here, love. When I heard about Mama and Una and Cait…’ Yvaine closed her eyes, squeezing her sister tighter. ‘God, I feared the worst for you too. I should never have let you journey back to Maergenn.’
“‘It’s not like you could’ve stopped me.’
“Yvaine chuckled at that, despite the tears.
“‘Well, that’s a fact. You’re as stubborn as Mama is.’
“A sigh.
“‘Was.’
“The pair broke apart reluctantly, sat on a couch beside each other. The Duchess fetched a kerchief from her bodice, dabbing her lashes carefully so as not to smear the kohl. It was strange to think of this pair as siblings in truth—the gulf in their ages was almost wide enough for Yvaine to be Reyne’s mother, and Reyne had grown up in Elidaen under Yvaine’s wing, more ward than sister.
But they were united in grief at least; sorrow entwined with the smoke in the fireplace and the song of thunder overhead.
“‘I’m sorry, Yvaine,’ Reyne said. ‘I tried. When the Blackheart struck, I tried to—’
“‘Hush now,’ Yvaine replied, mopping Reyne’s cheeks. ‘Know no shame, sweet sister. Maergenn’s fall is not your fault.’
“‘You spent a fortune having me trained by the Chante-Lames. Least I could’ve done is died in defense of our homeland. But I made no difference at all.’
“‘You cut that rot right out. I’m certain you fought like a—’
“‘Mother put me in the mushroom silos, Yvaine.’ Reyne shook her head, lips pinched pale. ‘I waited thirteen years to return to Ossway. Trained every day ’til my hands bled in the hopes the great Niamh Nineswords might notice me when I got home. And when the Dyvok threatened to annihilate our people, everything we were, everything she’d fought to build …
she set me in defense of the bloody foodstores. ’
“Yvaine hung her head. ‘We heard only rumor about her death at the Blackheart’s hands. Do I … do I want to know the truth?’
“‘No.’
“Reyne shook her head, sorrow welling in those faeling eyes.
“‘All my life, I fought for her to notice me. And now she never will.’
“‘Mother was never the most … maternal of women. But ache not for the love of ghosts, sister. The dead fill no hole but the grave.’
“‘Easy for you to say. You were always her favorite.’