Chapter I. A Legend Living
I
A LEGEND LIVING
JEAN-FRAN?OIS SIGHED AS the Last Silversaint finally opened his eye.
The holy sacrament hadn’t managed to rouse him from his beating, though in truth the historian had little idea what he was doing administering it.
He knew sanctus needed to be smoked in a particular fashion; the flame held a precise distance from the bowl, lest the blood burn rather than vaporize.
But the smoke drifting from the sticky powder had been black, not red, and besides, Gabriel was not conscious enough to inhale much.
The historian had cast aside the pipe in disgust.
He’d tried mortal blood next, spilled by an ever-obliging Dario into a goblet of gold. But though the ’saint had stirred when Jean-Francois pressed the cup to his lips, he’d not woken fully, groaning and dribbling the best of the draught down his stubbled chin.
“Hell with it, then,” the historian had hissed.
And biting his wrist, he’d pressed it to Gabriel’s lips.
That had woken him, sure and true, his one good eye snapping open. Gabriel’s pupil had dilated, that hunger Jean-Francois now knew all too well rising swift to surface. And latching hold of his wrist as if on to life itself, the Last Silversaint had begun to drink.
One mouthful, two, the historian shivering in delight as he felt the silversaint’s teeth sink into his skin.
But the pain at his nethers served as grim reminder of how dangerous this serpent in his arms was, and Jean-Francois allowed Gabriel only one more swallow before snatching back his wrist and punching the silversaint full in the face.
Knuckles cracked bone, Jean-Francois wincing at the sting. Gabriel’s head snapped sideways, his mouth tore loose as he collapsed back onto the cold stone floor. Jean-Francois rose to his feet, licking his wounded wrist and spitting.
“That’s for my balls, bastard.”
Despite his obvious pain, the gouges and bites and tears all over his body, the Last Silversaint levered himself onto one elbow and somehow managed to chuckle.
“They’ll grow b-back, Chastain.”
“Unlike your eye.”
Gabriel reached up with one unsteady hand, touching his bloodied face.
Four great rends from the Empress’s claws were torn down brow and cheek, obliterating his teardrop scars and one storm-grey eye besides.
Thanks to the historian’s blood, the ’saint’s wounds had already begun healing—the bone-deep gouges in his leg, the rends across chest and forearms had not vanished entirely, but at least they’d stopped bleeding.
Yet what had been taken completely could never be given back.
“God gave me two,” Gabriel sighed.
“Véris.”
He looked across the river then, toward the monster who had spoken. His eye narrowed, his lip curled, voice dripping with venom.
“Sister.”
“Brother.”
“Traitor.”
“Coward.”
“Enough,” Jean-Francois snapped.
With a moan of agony, the silversaint pushed himself up to sitting.
He was on the cold floor of the Liathe’s cell, deep beneath the chateau.
Long shadows danced upon the stone, thrown by the burning torches in the hands of the thrallsword cadre.
There were two dozen of them, armed to the teeth and clad in Chastain tabards and fullplate, staring at the silversaint with the look of men simply begging for a murder.
“Boys,” he nodded.
Jean-Francois sat in the velvet armchair at water’s edge, Dario pouring a goblet of blood.
The chymical globe on the table lit the boy’s handsome face, scowling as he brushed away that bothersome white moth.
The Marquis’s march back down from the throne room had been quieter than his ascent—with dawn’s arrival, most of Margot’s court had retired to their boudoirs, a willing thrall or visiting dignitary or perhaps even both for company.
He’d caught sight of Nicolette on the arm of a dark-haired Ilon beauty, some strapping young thrall draped between the femmes.
With an arched brow, the Viscontessa had invited her uncle to come up and play, but the Marquis had been forced to demur, slinking back into the building’s bowels.
Jean-Francois could imagine the debauchery going on upstairs with very little effort, and the fact he was stuck down in this cell with this pair of pricks had him in the foulest of moods.
“Sit your arse down, de León. Let’s get this over with.”
“Or wh-what?”
The historian felt Dario tense, the thralls about him bristle. With one steady hand, he reached for the goblet of blood, taking a small sip and clearing his throat.
“I beg your pardon?”
The Last Silversaint glanced to his sister, fixed the historian with his one good eye.
“The deal we struck is obviously off the t-table. I’ve upset your mama far too m-much for her to grant any final r-requests. So I asked Or what, Chastain.”
The Marquis put down his goblet and sighed.
“Capitaine?”
The thrall’s fist came down like thunder from Gabriel’s blind side, cracking across his wounded cheek.
Whatever mending the historian’s blood had managed was unmade in an instant, those gouges torn anew, the silversaint collapsing with a grunt.
More thralls descended, swift and savage, dancing on the silversaint’s ribs with their boots.
These had been the fellows who’d cleared away the remnants of Delphine and his cadre after Gabriel’s escape, and they were obviously keen to even the scales.
Dario watched the beating with hammering heart, but the historian’s eyes were fixed across the river.
Celene sat at the water’s edge, fingers entwined, rivers of long black hair framing delicate features.
He searched the Liathe’s face for some hint of pity as she watched her brother being thrashed.
But the Lion’s little Hellion only stifled a yawn as the sounds of pulping flesh and cracking bone rang above the river’s song.
“En-nough,” came the groan.
Jean-Francois studied his fingernails, buffing a speck on his lapel.
“FUCKSSAKES ENOUGH!” Gabriel roared.
“Very good, messieurs,” Jean-Francois called. “That will do for now, merci.”
A few last kicks sank home before the thrall cadre obeyed, stepping back with blood-splashed boots. The Last Silversaint was curled into a ball, torn hands about his face, the stone beneath him spattered crimson. Wheezing once. Coughing red.
Jean-Francois glanced to Dario, waved impatiently at the bottle of blood on the table. The boy approached as if the fallen saint was a coiled serpent, placing the half-filled bottle on the stone and retreating quickly to his master’s side.
Celene watched as Gabriel rolled onto his elbows and knees, coughing more red.
His split brow was pressed to the stone, hair tumbled over his mauled face, blood and spittle drooling from his teeth.
He reached out, skinned knuckles and silvered fingers scrabbling for the bottle.
Tilting his head back, he pressed it to the ribbons of his lips, guzzling the lot without pause, rivulets of red spilling down his chin.
Tongue probing the bottle’s lip for the dregs, the Last Silversaint tossed it aside with a crash. Fixing Jean-Francois with his remaining eye, he licked split lips and nodded.
“G-good point. Well m-made.”
“Pathetic.”
Gabriel glanced to Celene as she whispered, eye narrowed.
“Fuck yourself.”
The Last Liathe pressed one hand to her dead heart, wincing. “A hit. Nay, a wound. How can one muster defense against such scintillating w—”
“Capitaine, if Mlle Castia continues to trade barbs with her brother, please light the stone under her scrawny backside so I might enjoy the melody of her screams.”
Jean-Francois glanced across the river, meeting the Liathe’s eyes.
The stink of oil still hung heavy in the air, the rock floor beneath her gleaming, and the historian’s lips curled in a small but very smug smile as the Liathe shut her trap.
Reaching into his frockcoat, Jean-Francois fetched quill and ink, lifting his history onto his lap.
Reaching across the table, he patted the seat of the armchair opposite, whistling as if to a favored hound.
“Here, boy.”
The historian busied himself with finding his place in the pages, but his smile only swelled as he heard the silversaint hauling himself upright.
With a bubbling cough, Gabriel limped across the bloody stone toward the water’s edge.
He paused briefly, blinking at the pale bone pipe Jean-Francois had cast aside, groaning as he stooped to fetch it.
But with a long hiss of pain, he soon collapsed into the chair beside the historian.
“Good dog,” Jean-Francois murmured.
Celene sat silently on oily stone, watching as Jean-Francois dipped his quill. All was silent save for the river’s laughter, the breath of waiting thralls, the rattle in Gabriel’s chest as he struggled to breathe. Jean-Francois cleared his throat.
“Your sister has been kind enough to speak of events in Augustin leading up to the Grail’s wedding. But there is a gap here, de León. One we need to fill.”
“Speaking of, where’s your girl?” Gabriel asked softly.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Meline. I left her breathing, where is she?”
Silence was the only answer given.
The silversaint slowly nodded.
“When last we spoke,” Jean-Francois continued, “you told me of the ill-fated attack on San Maximille. Your army’s defeat by the Endless Legion.
The revelation that your daughter Patience had risen Dead, broodchild of Fabién, and Prince of Forever.
Your sister covered your failed attempt to steal the Grail, and the murder of Reyne á Maergenn. ”
The siblings glowered at each other then, eyes brimming with accusation and rage. But the historian was secretly delighted that neither uttered a word.
“But as I say, there is a gulf here, Silversaint. One I find difficult to bridge. I am wondering what happened between the moment you accepted Fabién’s invitation into his home, and the moment Reyne discovered you in Chateau Impérial.
I am wondering what possessed the husband of a murdered wife, and the father of a daughter Dead, to throw in with the monster responsible for both.
A creature he hated more than any on earth. ”
“Almost,” Gabriel murmured.
Jean-Francois looked up from his tome. He saw the silversaint was still staring across the river, eye fixed upon his sister.
When they’d first met, when Jean-Francois stepped into his cell what now felt a lifetime ago, the Last Silversaint had seemed a giant.
It was a sad truth, but great men must usually die before they became immortal, the tale of their lives glorified only after their endings.
But Gabriel de León was a legend living.
A man who had begun carving his story upon history’s page almost as soon as that story had begun.
As Gabriel stared at Celene, Jean-Francois could see pain in his gaze.
Loathing. A rage that burned bright enough to best the sun.
But the man himself seemed small now. Very small, and very tired.
Red scrawl at the edges of his eye, red ribbons sliced through the silver on his skin.
His knuckles were bloodied, fingers trembling about that pipe of bone as he tore his eye from Celene’s, meeting Jean-Francois’s.
“I could do with a smoke, Chastain.”
“Say please.”
Gabriel’s jaw clenched, rage swelling in storm grey. All in the room knew he could probably kill Jean-Francois before the thralls cut him down. But common sense conquered any desire for pointless heroics.
“… Please.”
The historian stared, savoring the suffering in that bloodshot eye. But there was surprisingly little joy in kicking a dog already down, and truth told, Jean-Francois was sick to the eyeteeth of all this. And so, he reached into his frockcoat for a vial of sticky red.
Despite the loss of his eye, the silversaint caught the sanctus unerringly.
With shaking, bloodied hands he packed the pipe’s bowl, patting his pockets in search of a flintbox all knew wasn’t there.
With a nod to one of the thralls, Jean-Francois bid him closer, and Gabriel brushed bloody hair back from sticky cheeks, lighting the pipe on the thrall’s torch.
The sacrament bubbled, dark chymistrie flooding into the silversaint’s veins.
Jean-Francois watched it take hold, calming the tremors in the Lion’s hands, slowly closing the worst of his wounds.
Gabriel held his breath, eye closed, dozens of heartbeats unmoving.
Exhaling red, he leaned back and sighed from the depths of his broken heart.
“Thank God for small mercies,” he whispered.
“You pay the beast his due,” Jean-Francois mused.
“Or he takes his due from you.”
It was the Liathe who’d spoken. Looking to Celene, Jean-Francois recalled it was her father who’d taught Gabriel those words—old drunken child-beater Raphael Castia.
The historian was reminded that despite all the knives in the back, these two had grown up together.
But their hatred clearly burned with an intensity that blinded them both.
The cup was broken. The Grail was gone.
The pipe hung slack in Gabriel’s fingers. Smoke drifting from his lips.
“What time is it?”
“Long past the hour this tale should have finished,” Jean-Francois replied.
Gabriel leaned forward, elbows to knees as he took another drag from his pipe. The smoke spilled from his nostrils, between his fangs, whisper stained red.
“We’re almost there now, coldblood.”
The historian raised his brow.
“Patience?”
Gabriel sighed.
“Patience.”