Chapter XII. Tarnished Silver #2
“‘The Inquisition have already pressed to have the chevalier taken to the Tower. The death warrant on his head still stands. Dior has held them off for now, but I’ve no clue what she’s liable to do. I’ve never seen her like this.’
“I looked to Phoebe and nodded.
“‘We serve at the pleasure of the Grail.’
“With a sigh, Joaquin glanced to one of the Callums, and the doors were opened wide.
Beyond was a morgue—chill and dry, great slabs of stone laid out in neat rows along a cold granite floor.
Here, masters of Le Collège des Apothicaires conducted trials on cadavers, attempting to unlock mysteries of the flesh in pursuit of justice.
Most murder victims in Augustin were brought here as a matter of course. Wealthy ones, anyway.
“The slabs were many; blood entwined in the air with heartsick weeping. Bodies lay in spattered shrouds, my brother’s alleged handiwork covered out of respect for the dead.
But one body was unveiled—a beautiful girl with flame-red hair.
Her faeling eyes were closed forever now, hands crossed over her shattered breast in some attempt at repose.
“Duchess Yvaine was on her knees beside that slab. Her head hung low, her gown rent by her own hand, cheeks streaked with kohl and tears. But the girl at that slab’s feet was deathly silent.
Dior stood with palms pressed to the stone, ashen locks tumbling about her cheeks.
She was dressed in white as ever, but a swordbelt encircled her slender waist now, Ashdrinker’s broken blade sleeping in the scabbard.
And as she looked up at us with eyes like blue ice, we saw the Holy Grail of San Michon was not weeping.
“She was enraged.
“‘Tell me what happened.’
“‘Dior, we grieve for y—’
“‘Now, Celene.’
“We hung our head, dragging one lock behind our ear, fingers brushing cold porcelain.
We realized what a fright we must look—that awful, savage grin scrawled in crimson upon bone white.
The face beneath was ghastlier still, but at least it was ours, and in lieu of any other, we supposed we owed some kind of honesty here.
So we slipped our mask off, and though the Duchess paled in horror, Dior stared unflinching.
“‘Gabriel infiltrated the chateau,’ we began. ‘We know not how.’
“‘Came in through the pumpworks, they think.’ This murmur from Joaquin, stood sad and still behind us. ‘His clothes were still wet when they brought him down.’
“‘I mean what happened with Reyne,’ Dior demanded.
“We hung our head. ‘The Princess had met with the Duchess Yvaine—’
“‘You were spying on her?’
“‘We were watching her back, Dior. We cannot look out for you now you abide on holy ground. But we know how dear the Princess is to you.’
“We sighed, looking at that cold girl on that cold stone.
“‘Was to you.’
“‘What happened?’ Dior whispered.
“‘The Princess was … overjoyed after her conversation with the Duchess. Reyne was on her way to speak to you when she caught sight of Gabriel. He let her see him, we think. To lure her close. Mother Maryn and I sped at once to her side. But despite our warning, the Princess sought Gabriel out. He ambushed her. Questioned her. Yet even with a blade at her throat, the Princess refused to betray you.’
“Dior flinched at that, jaw clenched tight as she glanced at the girl she loved. And in that pause, we looked at our boots. Everything we’d spoken up to that point was truth.
But there was no way to proceed now without lying to Dior’s face.
We had never done that. Not in all we’d been through.
I wondered at the question Phoebe had asked me then; what the difference between madness and faith truly was.
We knew good could come of evil. I could sacrifice truth for something I believed in. Especially one so hurtful.
“But this girl was my friend. Celene Castia’s friend. And friends should not lie to each other, no matter how deep the truth might cut.
“‘O Lord of Love,’ we whispered. ‘O God of Blood, O King of Wolf and Lamb…’
“‘Celene?’
“‘The inquisitors found Gabriel and Reyne,’ we told her.
‘They attacked. We begged Reyne to run. But she was brave, your Princess. By the time Maryn and I arrived, Gabriel had laid the soldiers and Princess low. His fury was … impossible. He almost slew Maryn before he was forced to flee. It took a hundred men to bring him down.’
“Phoebe murmured, golden eyes agleam. ‘They weren’t gentle, Flower.’
“Dior’s gaze burned like fire. ‘You said Reyne was on her way to see me. Why?’
“‘We’d spoken of her father.’ It was the Duchess whispering now, Reyne’s cold hand in hers. ‘Hard news, but she seemed elated at it.’
“‘Her father,’ Dior repeated.
“‘Laerd Ryan á Sadhbh.’
“Dior blinked, glancing at Phoebe. ‘You told us—’
“‘It seems Phoebe was mistaken, Dior,’ we said. ‘An innocent misstep.’
“‘I’m sorry, Flower,’ Phoebe breathed. ‘I swear by my blood and breath, I thought it true. My Connor did love the Nineswords during the Highland Wars. But it seems he was nae the only one…’
“‘Reyne was Laerd Ryan’s get,’ Yvaine said.
‘One glance at the pair of them would’ve told you the truth of it.
That’s why Mother sent Reyne away to live with me.
’ The Duchess squeezed her sister’s hand, tears coming anew as her accent finally slipped.
‘Oh, my poor lamb, I should’ve never let ye go back to Maergenn town. ’
“Dior looked at me, eyes wide, pulse pounding.
“‘She wasn’t…’
“‘No, Dior. Reyne was not your sister.’
“She hung her head then. Nails scraping across Reyne’s slab as her fingers curled into white-knuckled fists.
Stomping her boot once upon the flagstones, she closed her eyes.
We could not read her thoughts—as always, the Grail’s mind was a locked room to us.
But a blindworm could have seen her fury as she looked to us and spat.
“‘Let’s go see your brother.’
“She stalked toward the exit, snarling as Phoebe reached for her arm. And sharing a glance with the duskdancer, we followed, Joaquin and the Unbound hurrying in the Grail’s wake.
Down stone stairs she stalked, into the bowels of the Hall of Justice, gloomy light and iron bars and rows of stern guards.
These were the dungeons of Augustin, deep in the city’s foundations, grey and bleak and thick with winter’s chill.
Soldiers saluted as she passed, several murmuring blessings on this, her happiest of days.
But Dior gave no reply; clenched teeth and hissing breath, white and boiling in the freezing dungeon air.
“Down long corridors, past ironclad doors, boots thumping cold stone.
None among the Unbound spoke, but we could feel their turmoil; loyalty for their savior wrestling with the fear of what she might do.
Finally, she rumbled to a halt outside a stone cell, fronted by thick iron bars.
Two dozen guards in fullplate stood vigil outside it, blades unsheathed.
“‘Open it,’ Dior demanded.
“Their capitaine was a heavyset fellow with a scarred chin and thick moustache, almost half again Dior’s height. ‘My Lady Grail—’
“‘Open the cunting door, Capitaine.’
“The man looked to his fellows, the Unbound, finally to Phoebe. The duskdancer shook her head softly, trying to dissuade him. But this fellow was no fool, and he along with this entire troop knew full well who Dior would be to the city of Augustin by day’s end.
“‘My Lady Grail,’ the man nodded.
“As the big guard unlocked the door, we studied the pitiful wretch within, shaken by the sight of him. Even after his excommunication, Gabriel de León had been lauded as a savior of this realm, a hero of its people. Some had praised him all the more after his exile—the holy warrior who’d defied heaven for the sin of forbidden love.
But now, his fall was complete. A murderer of Augustin’s sons and daughters, drenched in royal blood.
“Tarnished silver.
“He hung from the ceiling, bound at wrists and ankles with only his toes touching the floor. A paleblood could break steel with enough motivation, but the soldiery of Augustin had taken no chances—the manacles were reinforced, triple sets of chain pinioning each limb, another his waist. He was stripped to his britches, silver ink gleaming on his skin. A veil of black hair was draped over his face, soaked with blood, but a glance told us how badly he’d been beaten.
From the amount of sacrament he’d been dosed with yestereve, it would’ve taken a committed session of true brutality to have left a mark on him.
But we could see such, sure and true; broken fingers, broken nose, broken ribs.
From the scent, we knew the blood was mostly his, but we yet caught notes of last night’s battle—the sanguine perfume of Maryn’s ancient veins mingled with dead soldiers and poor Princess Reyne.
“‘Wake up,’ Dior demanded.
“Gabriel only groaned.
“‘Wake up, bastard!’
“She snatched a pail of icy water from the cell floor, flung it into Gabriel’s face.
With a gasp, a sputter, my brother came slow to his senses.
He took a moment to find himself, blinking hard, steel-grey eyes yet blurred.
But finally, he focused on the figure before him, his whisper trembling with relief and heartbreak.
When last he’d seen her, this girl had been a corpse.
Their parting a final farewell. Despite it all, to see her alive and breathing now filled Gabriel with fire. The fire of purest love.
“‘D-Dior, oh God, Dior, I—’
“‘You killed her.’
“The words were spat, not spoken. Dior’s teeth clenched, eyes ablaze.
“‘You murdered her.’
“‘M-murdered…’
“Gabriel blinked harder, realizing at last where he was. His eyes drifted from the irons at his wrist to the folk at Dior’s back. A cadre of Unbound, mute and grim. Joaquin Marenn, pale and afeared. Phoebe á Dúnnsair, bloodless with grief.
“‘Phoebe…’ he whispered.