Chapter XII. Tarnished Silver #3
“The duskdancer hung her head, the gold in her braids singing softly. But Gabriel’s eyes shifted to me then, sharp as glass, hissing between his fangs like a viper.
“‘You.’
“The punch took him full in the face, split his lip upon his teeth. Dior hissed in pain, clutching her fist in her wounded hand as Gabriel’s head snapped back on his neck. Lolling forward, swaying on his chains, he gazed through a veil of bloody hair, whispering.
“‘Dior, you m-must li—’
“‘I must NOTHING! You KILLED HER!’
“‘Dior, n-no, I—’
“‘You didn’t need to do that! I don’t give a damn what Voss promised you, I don’t give a fuck if he slaved you! You didn’t need to hurt her, Gabriel!’
“‘I didn’t.’
“Dior’s face twisted, tears welling in her eyes but not yet fallen.
“‘One thing,’ she hissed. ‘Just one thing that was mine, that’s all I needed. You want my blood? Fucking take it! My hand? My body? My life? I’d give them all to end this hell!
I just needed one drop, Gabriel. One inch!
One miserable scrap of joy would’ve been enough!
And I found her, you bastard. You miserable piece of shit.
But it’s always the same. Always! The ones I love either leave me or get taken away. ’
“She gritted her teeth, tears finally spilling as she leaned close and hissed.
“‘And you took her from me.’
“‘Dior, I didn’t hurt that girl. Godssakes, after what happened to ma famille…’
“He looked to the fleshwitch then, eyes pleading.
“‘Phoebe, t-tell her.’
“The duskdancer’s eyes welled with tears, her torture plain on her face. Every part of her screamed that she speak truth. Every part, save the blood in her veins.
“‘Celene…’
“We met his eyes then. Grey like the ocean before a storm. Scrawled with blood and cracked by hunger. The eyes of a killer. A sinner. A brother. An ocean of hurt stretched between us, but still not so deep nor wide we couldn’t have crossed it if we’d truly wished.
We were still blood, after all. Always, Lions.
But this was more than just we two. This was the fate of the world. Of every soul under heaven.
“Not just the greater good.
“The greatest.
“‘Celene, Godssakes, t-tell her!’
“What is the difference between faith and madness, Historian?
“What are you prepared to sacrifice for what you believe?
“So we matched his gaze with our own.
“And we breathed not a word.
“‘Dior, p-please.’ Gabriel met her eyes, blood drooling from split lips. ‘They’re trying to t-turn you against me. The Esani aren’t what you believe, I know it sounds like—’
“‘Bullshit,’ she spat. ‘It sounds like bullshit from the mouth of a murderer!’
“‘Goddamn you, girl, will you fucking listen to m—’
“‘A LIAR!’ she roared. ‘A drunk! A waste of fucking skin who’ll say anything and fuck anyone so long as it gets him back to his real daughter!’
“He flinched then, eyes welling with pain. ‘Dior, you’re as dear to me as m—’
“‘Fuck you! FUCK YOU!’
“She fell on Gabriel then, screaming and punching and spitting. Joaquin stepped forward and she lashed out at him in turn, bellowing that no one was to touch her. Heartbroken, the houndboy backed off, looking to Dúnnsair and us to intercede as Dior reached to her waist and hauled Ashdrinker from her sheath. The sword sang as she drew it, poised in her trembling fist. Gabriel’s eyes were fixed on the blade, lip trembling.
“‘Oh, Ash…’
“He looked at Phoebe, heartbroken.
“‘What did you do…’
“I could not feel Dior’s thoughts. But her rage was incandescent, and in that moment, I truly believed she might run my brother through.
I wondered how that would make me feel. Wondered if I should stop her.
Wondered why, amid all the hue and cry in my skull, I heard Wulfric whisper Gabriel’s name—the name of the son he’d never wanted.
Never loved. But in the end it was Phoebe who caught Dior up, holding tight as she roared and bucked like a wild thing in the duskdancer’s arms.
“‘Let GO of me!’
“‘Hush, Flower, let it be!’
“‘Let me go, he killed her, he fucking KILLED HER!’
“‘Clear a path!’ Phoebe roared to the men behind her. ‘Out of the way, damn ye!’
“‘Dior!’ Gabriel bellowed. ‘Dior, listen TO ME!’
“‘Take him to the Tower!’ Dior spat, fixing the capitaine in her gaze as Phoebe dragged her from the cell. ‘You hear me? Let the fucking Inquisition have him! I hope they cut your bollocks off, you fucking pig! I hope they hang you skinless!’
“Dior’s roars faded as Phoebe dragged her up the corridor, still flailing and kicking, her Unbound trailing behind.
Threats of hanging, dismemberment, other tortures more vile hung in the air, cut through with screams of rage and grief.
We could see each one sink home, Gabriel’s teeth gritted, tears spilling down his bloody cheeks.
He had given all for that girl. Wagered his last coin and lost. And though he might have pledged allegiance to Voss, still I saw the love he bore her, broken now upon these jagged stones.
Some loss is simply too bitter to swallow, Historian.
Some hurts run so deep they can never be mended.
Grim Father Time does not give. He only takes. And from my brother?
“He had taken everything.
“‘When is he coming?’
“Gabriel looked up as we spoke. In his thoughts we felt pain, grief, rage, regret.
“‘I didn’t want it to b-be this way, sister.’
“‘When is your master coming for Dior?’
“He shook his head, gaze falling away from me. ‘B-but maybe it had to be.’
“We scowled, moving aside as the guards began unbinding the manacles at Gabriel’s wrists and ankles.
We knew there was wisdom in Dior’s command—any knowledge Gabriel had about Voss’s numbers or plans might be of use in dark nights ahead.
But though the Tower of Tears was holy ground, and the Inquisition ostensibly in service to the Angel of Bliss, we knew their conversations would be far from polite.
He was fallen far, but Gabriel de León had stood at the side of the angels once.
Given blood and body and breath to defend this realm from the evil he now served.
“‘How did it come to this, brother?’
“He scoffed then, blood drooling from his chin.
“‘Your Lord moves in mysterious ways.’
“Gabriel shook his head and sighed.
“‘I’ll see you down in hell.’
“We walked from his cell, our own Inquisitorial escort falling into step behind us. Climbing the stairs to the halls above, we asked after Dior, informed that the Grail was headed to the Pontifex’s Palace, there to begin preparations.
The notion that the wedding would go ahead after all that had happened was a strange one, but still welcome.
Truth was, we were tired, Historian. Of the blood.
Of the lies. Of feeling torn between our faith and our sense of what was right, wondering how the former could feel so very far from the latter.
This life could be cruel, we knew. These trials were sent to test us.
But it was difficult sometimes to reconcile the idea of a creator who loved me with a life that looked like mine.
“That was the mystery of it, we supposed.
“The mystery.
“And we heard Wulfric’s voice then. Echoing for months in our head, but fallen so very quiet these last few nights.
Marching back across Place San Maximille with our escort, onward through the chateau, we searched every surface—gleaming blades and bunting-clad windows and polished suits of shining platemail—for some trace of his reflection.
We saw nothing. Yet still we heard his voice, the night we’d both saved and stolen his life.
“Thou art ready, Celene. For the final mystery of our faith.
“The Lord moves in mysterious ways.
“‘What news, Liathe? ’
“Mother Maryn was waiting at her chamber door as we returned with our retinue. The marks of my brother’s attack lingered on her skin, her voice cracked and graveled. But her eyes were smooth black orbs, boring into our own.
“‘Dior is preparing for her wedding, Mother. She believed nothing Gabriel said. He is sent to the Tower of Tears, and the bloody keeping of the Inquisition.’
“She nodded, gaze falling on our guards. ‘Goodly work, holy sons. Certain are we, his tongue shall be loosed in short order on matters of the Forever King’s plans.’
“The men said nothing, taking up their posts outside our rooms with eyes dead ahead. Though Gabriel de León was a murderer and heretic in the sight of the Inquisition, there was no love lost among their troops for we walking Dead either.
“We reached out to the Mother, thoughts touching hers, speaking without speech.
“Gabriel will sing a different version of last night’s events than ours, Mother.
“Let him. They shall think him a liar, singing to save his skin. Yet when celebrations are in full swing this eve … we should silence his song forever.
“He is in the Tower of Tears. We cannot enter holy ground.
“Dahtr á Dúnnsair suffers no such restraint.
“Our eyes met Maryn’s at that, a chill upon our skin at the cold we found waiting there, belied by the joyful smile on her lips.
She gestured to the tall windows in the sitting room overlooking the plaza outside.
Despite the weather, folk were gathered in multitudes now, crowded on bridges, some even scaling the great statue of San Maximille to get a better view of the royal couple as they’d enter the cathedral.
“‘We cannot attend mass. Shall we watch the happy day from here? ’
“‘Forgive me, Mother.’ We sighed, head hung low. ‘But I am … wearied past all bearing. He is lost, but Gabriel was my brother once. I admit his fall weighs heavy. I must pray to Almighty God for solace and seek comfort in the arms of sleep.’
“Maryn nodded. ‘These nights are sent to try us. Thou hast earned thy rest. We shall fetch thee afore the thanksfeast this eve. Though thou art sore burdened by thy holy works, still we should pay respects to bride and groom.’
“‘We will be ready.’