Chapter XIII. Friendship
XIII
FRIENDSHIP
JEAN-FRAN?OIS DASHED UP the winding stair, boots striking the stones so swift his cadre of thrallswords were struggling to keep pace.
The agony in his mauled nethers had subsided to a gnawing ache now, but still he was struggling as he crested the stairs.
The historian emerged into the grand hallway of the chateau above, limping past the doors of Phaedra and Mahné, the dread twins regarding him silently.
A gaggle of deathless courtiers in Chastain colors was there gathered.
Chatter hushed as he appeared, and several scandalized glances were aimed his way, whispers tickling cold skin.
Among the sycophants and smiling assassins of Margot’s court, Jean-Francois spied a dozen unfamiliar faces.
They were all beautiful, clad in velvet and silk and deliciously tight leathers, and upon lapels and cuffs he spotted motifs of serpents and roses.
But despite the instinctive hostility he felt at the presence of so many strangers in his home, the Marquis made his way toward the throne room with nary a glance for any.
“Uncle, have you heard th—”
“Not now, Nicolette,” he sang, slipping his blood-niece’s clutches.
Nicolette pouted, clutching her little rat-dog to her bosom, obviously disappointed at his refusal to indulge her thirst for gossip.
But Jean-Francois paid no mind, limping through the gathered court and up the grand stairwell, wondering how swift his pulse would now be racing if his dead heart still beat.
Though the storm outside raged unabated, night itself was failing now.
Dawn rapped its knuckles faintly upon towering stained-glass windows, muddied shadows in rainbow colors thrown long upon the floor.
Jean-Francois’s footfalls echoed on high-flung ceilings as he ascended the chateau’s four towering levels, past the beautiful frescoes adorning the walls; heaven and earth and all between.
Reaching Sul Adair’s highest tier, those bare walls adorned with the portraits he’d so lovingly painted, the historian took a moment to straighten his frockcoat, smooth back his golden locks.
The thralls outside his mother’s throne room looked uneasy, faces ashen beneath their helms. Jean-Francois saw bloodstains on the carpet as he approached the towering doors.
He was acquainted enough with its perfume by now to know exactly who it belonged to.
The doors were drawn open, one of the guards calling.
“Marquis Jean-Francois of the Blood Chastain, Historian of Her Grace, Margot Chastain, First and Last of Her Name, Undying Empress of Wolves and Men.”
Jean-Francois nodded thanks, adjusting his cravat. He spared a thought for Meline at that moment—it was his majordomo who’d announced him last time he entered this chamber. Had he but known it would be her last …
What? he asked himself. Would you have pretended to care?
The wolf frets not for the ills of the worm.
The presence struck the Marquis as soon as he crossed the threshold, like the kiss of a new lover upon the nape of his neck.
Jean-Francois shivered as he walked into the grand chamber beyond.
The beautiful song of a lone castrato drifted from the shadows, pillars stretched into the dark overhead.
A river of crimson carpet marked the road forward, Jean-Francois noting more bloodstains beneath his feet.
Tome in his arms, he walked toward the dais at the end of the room.
The closer he drew, the more that delightful warmth faded, doing battle with a chill hanging deeper, older in the air.
Margot’s throne awaited ahead, the magnificent, if not altogether realistic, portrait of the Empress he’d painted looming behind it.
She stared at him from his canvas, that Empress of Wolves and Men, eyes black as storm-lashed skies above.
Around the throne at her feet, seven figures waited.
The first four, her wolves, of course. Malice. Valor. Prudence. Fealty. Black and fierce, they lounged upon the dais, blood-red eyes following the Marquis.
His mother next, resplendent upon her throne, eyes fixed on his.
The Empress Margot was clad in a magnificent gown of midnight black, dark pearls about her neck and laced in her braids.
She’d not returned from her hunt unscathed, he saw—a dark handprint was scorched upon the pale marble of her throat.
Well did Jean-Francois know her pain, hand drifting to his own wounds as he glowered at the source of them.
The Last Silversaint lay sprawled before Margot’s throne, so still and pale that, for a moment, Jean-Francois thought he might be dead.
His leathers and flesh were torn, and he was covered in blood, its perfume sending a thrill through the historian despite himself.
Gabriel’s right leg had been mauled to the bone, and beneath the matted hair and blood, the historian saw where once two neat teardrop scars had trailed beneath the storm grey of the silversaint’s right eye, four great furrows were now torn through brow and cheek.
The eye itself was gone entirely.
But not long did Jean-Francois’s gaze linger on Gabriel’s hurts. As he studied the fallen ’saint, not quite sure how to feel, again that shower of warm kisses tickled the back of his neck, turning him now to regard the last figure in the room.
He was to beautiful as an ocean is to a raindrop.
As the sun is to the moons. He looked Sūdhaemi by birth, long braids of black hair trailing over broad shoulders, threaded with tiny trinkets of gold.
He wore a frockcoat and britches of grey velvet brocade, a golden serpent with eyes of dark opal pinning his cravat.
His skin was not marble but obsidian, his eyes black as oblivion.
Looking upon this creature, Jean-Francois could not help but think of Gabriel’s description of the ancien he slew in the cathedral of León.
Bleakest beauty.
Death divine.
“Kariim Ilon of the Blood Ilon, eldest of his line, and Priori of Whispers,” Margot said. “May I present my youngest, the Marquis Jean-Francois.”
“Art thou not a beauty,” the vampire breathed.
The creature named Kariim stepped forward without seeming to move, molten, serpentine, reaching out with one hand to press the gentlest caress upon Jean-Francois’s cheek.
At the merest touch of those fingertips, the Marquis was undone, knees buckling, lashes fluttering as that beautiful creature swept him into his arms, enfolding him in an embrace deep and soft and silken, a low moan slipping his teeth as those hands wandered, those lips drifted closer, those eyes swallowed him whole, dragging him down, down into a place where there was not wanting, only needing, only—
“Jean-Francois,” Margot said.
The Marquis blinked, coming back to himself.
He was stood before that throne again, his Empress regarding him with one brow slightly arched.
The Priori of the Whispers had not moved at all, regarding the historian with night-black eyes and the ghost of a smile.
The Marquis realized he would have done almost anything in that moment to see that smile come full to bloom. To be wrapped in that silken embrace.
And Jean-Francois understood then why they called this one the Spider.
“Priori,” he said, bowing low. “It is my pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
“Of that,” Kariim inclined his head, “we are certain.”
That black gaze shifted to the Empress, smile fading.
“But of little else, we fear. Where be the Draigann, cousin Margot? Where be Kestrel? Assured were we, thy convocation would be attended by Priorem of each line. While the bait ’pon thy hook hath appetites whet”—here, those black eyes drifted to the bloodied wretch on the floor—“not merely for lion’s blood hath we journeyed so far. ”
“Well we know it, cousin,” Margot replied. “And well we know thy concerns.”
“Concerns? Like a cow for her lost calf? Nay, we be not concerned, cousin. The Voss are prowling about Madeisa, Margot. And Dyvok rabble hath already bloodied Sul Ilham—both domains long held by the brood of Ilon. We Whispers crush no countries. Covet no crowns. But our nests are ours. Should affronts continue, there shall be … unpleasantness.”
“Be at peace, cousin,” Margot replied. “The Draigann and Maiden were at hunt. They return e’en now to Sul Adair.
Long nights and roads hast thou journeyed to our halls.
Pray ye, take pause to wash away the stains of thy road, and a moment for thy cohort to cast off storm’s chill.
Soon enough shall thy grievances be heard, I swear thee. ”
The Spider regarded Margot silently, fingertips pressed lightly together.
Truth told, Jean-Francois was yet struggling to keep hold of his wits in the presence of the Ilon Priori.
Though he knew these feelings were simply the gifts of the ancien’s blood at work, there was nothing simple about them.
To behold this creature was to covet him.
To be near him was to be not near enough.
As Kariim turned that gaze upon him, the historian was so lost in the spell of his eyes, he almost didn’t hear the Priori speak.
“And what of this beauty? Be it here at purpose, or simply for distraction?”
“My son hath a gift for me,” the Empress replied. “Doth he not?”
The historian came to his senses, sinking to one knee and proffering his tome.
“My Empress. I pray my work this night pleases you.”
Margot made no reply, still radiating a mild displeasure as she took the history from Jean-Francois’s hands.
With the swiftness of her ancien Chastain blood, Margot read the tome, flipping through the pages with the sound of a hummingbird at wing.
Her black gaze swept every line, consumed every word, missing no moment nor morsel.
But though the tome was the product of a full night’s testimony, the Empress devoured the entire history cover to cover in only a handful of heartbeats.