Chapter XII. Tarnished Silver
XII
TARNISHED SILVER
“ALL WAS CHAOS in the hours after Reyne’s murder.
“The notion that an enemy of the crown had stolen so far into the palace had Prince Philippe in an uproar, and the entire chateau was locked down. Maryn and I were marched to our chambers, questioned by a trio of inquisitors from the Tower of Tears. Conscience was a millstone about my neck, but my Priori’s stare bored into the back of my skull as I gave testimony of the Black Lion’s failed gambit.
His attack on the Mother and myself. His butchery of brave imperial troops, and his cold-blooded murder of Princess Reyne—a girl whose only crime was her refusal to betray the whereabouts of the Grail.
“The inquisitors were satisfied after a handful of hours, our chambers locked as they departed. We watched the furor from our windows—soldiers with blazing torches searching the streets, the council buildings, the Golden Halls themselves for more conspirators. We’d no idea what the coming day would bring.
But in the small hours before dawn, we were roused from our vigil by pounding at our chamber door.
“Fresh troops were stationed outside—a bevy of toughs in Inquisitor red, hard as coffin nails. These new guards were taking no chances after the murder of Capitaine Moulin and their comrades, and rather than hauberks of mail, they wore suits of halfplate and greathelms now, carried heavy longblades and wheellocks, or axes and tower shields scribed with the flower and flail of Naél. But among all that crimson and steel, we saw the gleam of gold—the scarred face and hunter’s eyes of Phoebe á Dúnnsair.
“She was dressed for grief; her three-green clancloth replaced by black linen. One of her slayerbraids had been hacked off in Highland tradition, to be placed upon the Princess á Maergenn’s pyre as it was lit.
We could tell she’d been weeping. But Phoebe still wore her breastplate of steel, graven with sigils of the Moonsthrone, talons gleaming at every finger’s tip.
They could slay a kith swift as fire or silver, those claws.
We wondered what she might have done with them, had she not been slave to Maryn’s blood.
“‘Dior requests yer company, bloodwitch.’
“‘We serve at the Grail’s pleasure, fleshwitch.’
“We turned toward Mother Maryn, now at her chamber door across the foyer. Our Priori was still terribly wounded from Gabriel’s attack, her throat scorched, a ragged nub where her hand used to be.
Her bloody nun’s habit had been replaced by a nightdress of humble sackcloth, her voice a mangled croak.
“‘Celene? ’
“‘Dior requests our company, Mother.’
“‘Apologies, Mother Maryn.’ Phoebe bowed. ‘She asked to speak to Celene alone.’
“‘As the Holy Grail commands, so shall we obey. Go with God, faithful daughters. Steer her wise and true.’
“Maryn’s eyes met ours, sharp as knives.
“‘God is watching.’
“We curtseyed low, departing in the fleshwitch’s company, the voices ringing in our head louder than the boots of the soldiers about us.
Half the cohort of inquisitors followed, the rest remaining with Maryn as we trod through the chateau halls.
All was abustle, like a beehive overturned, and it seemed preparations for the wedding continued apace despite the evening’s tragedy.
Majordomos shouted, maids ran hither and thither, serfboys fled the red-faced wrath of quartermasters and cooks.
It was hard to tell from here that we stood on the brink of war, that an assassin had struck at the heart of imperial power just hours before.
But stepping out into Place San Maximille, that illusion faded.
“Cadres of men in mail, thickets of spears and swords glinting silver, hundreds, thousands of soldiers mustered against more treachery.
Chevaliers of the realm strode among them—men knighted by the Emperor, tabards embroidered with laurels and the hawks and flowers and chevrons of noble houses.
Chateau Impérial would be the last line of defense if it came to a Voss assault, but even here, barriers were being erected across the streets to narrow them, windows barred.
The Dead could move like no mortal soldier; not merely down thoroughfares and alleys, but across rooftops, and each building was being adorned with spiked palisades, like martyrs crowned with thorns.
If this were to be the final battle for their empire, House Augustin would make it one to be remembered.
“Yet among these iron spikes and gleaming forests of spears, garlands of paper flowers were being strung, a great red carpet being laid for the wedding procession from Chateau Impérial to Cathédrale de Lumière. Even in the predawn light, we could see folk assembling at checkpoints to the plaza, carrying paper bouquets and baskets of confetti. Rumor must have been spreading about the Black Lion’s attack—the soldiers about us whispered of nothing else.
And still, those folk queued in the freezing cold, eager to find pride of place in the plaza from which to watch the ceremony. ”
“Nothing quite like a royal wedding, is there?” Jean-Francois sighed.
“Nothing at all.”
“It makes sense, I suppose,” the historian mused, sipping from his goblet. “Weddings promise children, and royal children promise peaceful transition of power. Stability of rule. The only kind of permanence mortals can truly know.”
“We think it was simpler than that.”
“The outfits, then?”
Celene scoffed, scraping fingernails along oily stone. Her dark eyes were fixed on that pale moth, once more circling the chymical globe.
“Dior Lachance was lowborn, Marquis. Raised up by God and providence to the highest seat in the land. Folk of the commons saw her as one of their own made good. And if she could do it, so might they. She was a faerytale come to life. Happy ever after in flesh.”
“What girl could hope to live up to such expectation?”
“She tried.”
The Last Liathe breathed deep.
“God help her, she tried to the end.
“We crossed a bridge over the plaza canals, steam rising from the surface. The weather was chill enough to make the blood in our veins thicken, but those waters still flowed, heated by the great works at La Rivière de Fer. Black ignis charges were being placed at strategic points, ready to blow the bridges should the battle reach the capital’s heart.
This would be the war to end all wars. The throw for all the coin.
“And through it, Dúnnsair and I walked, side by side.
“‘How is Dior?’
“Phoebe glanced at us with eyes narrowed, her recently acquired tail hanging below her skirts and switching side to side. We could feel her contempt, her pure animal rage. The fleshwitch was bound to Maryn, true, but that ensured absolutely no affection for us.
“‘How’d ye bloody think?’
“‘Afraid. Vulnerable. We must be cautious here, fleshwitch. We m—’
“‘Dinnae fuckin’ lecture me. I serve my mistress true. But if she’d nae ordered me to leave ye be, I’d have already shoved ye in one o’ these canals, ye traitorous cunt.’
“‘God is my judge, fleshwitch. Not you.’
“‘Did ye have aught to do w’that poor girl’s death?’
“We glanced over our shoulders at the cadre of soldiers following. The inquisitors kept a respectful distance, and the clamor and rush of the troops about us was enough to mask our voices from curious ears, but still …
“‘You should not speak of such matters.’
“‘Gabriel de León is many things. But a murderer of young girls, he isn’t.’
“‘My brother serves his master. I serve mine. We all do what we must.’
“‘That’s poor solace to the corpses in yer wake.’
“‘Reyne á Maergenn was a faithful daughter of the Almighty. She sits now at his right hand in the kingdom of heaven. Her death is a small price to pay to save so many lives.’
“‘Emperors. Generals. Priests. Ye ever notice how the people who preach loudest about folk dyin’ fer the greater good never do any of the dyin’ themselves?’
“We glanced to the soldiers around us, fresh faced, eyes bright, so young.
“‘It has not escaped our attention.’
“‘This is madness.’
“‘This is belief.’
“‘What’s the difference?’
“I looked at her then, this daughter of Mountains and Moons.
She was torn, we could see; sick and pale with grief and guilt, yet bound by bonds of blood.
It must have been awful for her, truth told.
While I had chosen this, she had been forced into it.
And while all this sin did ensure a greater good, I could see how pained she was to be a servant of it.
“‘You are an honorable woman, Dúnnsair. I can see why my brother is fond of you.’
“‘Well, you’re a fuckin’ viper, Castia. And I can see why he loathes ye.’
“‘Evil I am, lest evil I be. But when we speak to Dior, hold the line. The Holy Grail must wed her prince this day.’
“The Augustin Halls of Justice were a grand affair, all fluted columns and marble facade, stretching into stormwashed skies.
Beautiful statues of Raissa and Eloise flanked the doors, the Angel of Justice armed as ever with his scales of judgment, his sister with her sword and shield of Retribution.
Directly behind the halls loomed the spiked silhouette of the Tower of Tears—infamous headquarters of the Holy Inquisition.
“We were marched through grand halls, down wide stairs, into the chill below the building. Outside a set of ironclad doors we found Joaquin and a score of Unbound, the former pacing so fierce, he might have worn a groove in the flagstones.
“‘How is she?’ we asked.
“‘Far from good,’ he replied.
“‘Color me all the way surprised,’ Phoebe muttered.
“‘I don’t think she should do this today.’ Joaquin cast a worried glance to the doors at their backs. ‘I mean … with the wedding in a few hours and all…’
“‘We serve at the pleasure o’ the Grail, lad.’
“Joaquin turned to us, pale and furious. ‘Is it true? The Black Lion slew Princess Reyne with his own blade? He was covered in her blood, they say. Drenched with it.’
“‘My brother has fallen far, M. Marenn.’