Chapter III. Patience
III
PATIENCE
“MY DAUGHTER.
“Sweet Mothermaid, that thought had me reeling, head spinning, belly churning as I climbed those cold stone stairs.
The lass I followed moved swift as any thrall, but my own legs were having trouble keeping me upright.
My body was at the crumbling edge of its limits now.
And beyond the exhaustion of battle, the thirst in my veins, the weight of all Voss had just told me, one word gripped me like a vise.
“Patience.
“What would I say to her? What would I be to her? Hadn’t the Almighty tortured me enough?
I’d thought her gone forever, a piece of me with her, yet as I climbed higher, the thrill of learning she yet lived was fading, and I was left with the awful truth she didn’t live at all.
No matter what awaited me in that room upstairs, Patience was dead.
“My baby was Dead.
“‘Chevalier.’
“The whisper came from the shadows. We’d reached the second floor, lined with ironclad doors and dead torches in cold sconces.
It was testament to how deep I was mired in troubled thoughts that I’d not seen her, stepping now from the gloom in that beautiful blood-red gown.
The same vampire I’d seen lurking among Voss’s court below.
“The corset drew her body into a perfect hourglass, her curves testing the very limits of the fabric, skin pale and smooth as freshest cream. Her long blond hair was styled like a crown about her brow, that small puff of fluff some might’ve called a dog pressed against her cleavage.
She held me pinned with her eyes, smile red as cherries.
“‘Forgive me for startling you.’
“I looked this dark beauty over, heart thumping. ‘Who are you?’
“‘Nicolette Chastain.’ She dipped into a deep curtsey, obviously intended to treat me to the view down her bodice. ‘Ambassador of Margot Chastain of the Blood Chastain, First and Last of her Name, Priori of Shepherds and Undying Empress of Wolves and Men.’
“‘And what can I do for you, Ambassador?’
“The vampire glowered at the lass escorting me, and with a bow, the thrall retreated out of earshot. As she placed her small dog on the ground, Nicolette’s eyes returned to mine, smoldering like forgefire.
“‘More what we might do for each other, Chevalier. I know you are a terribly busy man, but when your other business is concluded, I would speak with you. Alone.’
“‘Indeed.’
“She drifted closer, placing one cool hand on my arm. ‘Indeed.’
“‘I think I might seek out a bath first, mademoiselle.’
“Her eyes roamed bloody brow to bloody boots, breathing in the perfume of gore on my skin. ‘Oh, please don’t go to any trouble on my account.’
“I glanced at the wolves and moons embroidered on her bodice, gaze tumbling down the valley beyond. ‘What the hell is one of Margot’s brood doing among the Voss?’
“‘Grandmama is calling a Conclave. I am here to convince Lord Fabién to attend.’ She leaned close, breath tickling my throat as she lowered her voice. ‘Between you and me, I’m not sure she wants him there, but it’d be impolite not to ask.’
“‘Grandmama? ’ I scoffed. ‘That’s what you call her? Margot Chastain is one of the oldest vampires in the realm, responsible for more carnage than every plague, flood, and famine in the history of this empire. I don—’”
“Merci!”
The Last Silversaint glanced up as Jean-Francois’s cry echoed on the walls.
“Véris, Chevalier! That is exactly what I’ve been saying! I mean Grandmama, honestly, as if the Undying Empress of Wolves and Men were some—”
The historian faltered, and he glanced back and forth between the siblings. Gabriel simply stared, blood congealing on his skin. Celene blinked once, her brow darkening. Calmed now, Jean-Francois straightened his cravat, cleared his throat.
“Apologies. Proceed.”
Gabriel raised one brow, staring at the historian a long moment before continuing.
“Nicolette only smiled at my tirade. Gazing up into my eyes, standing close enough that her whole body was in contact with mine, her hand slipping up my arm.
“‘I’ve heard rumor around court,’ she purred. ‘Your name, mentioned along with something about a cup of holy blood. I am certain my Empress w—’
“‘I’m certain she would.’
“Sick of this little game, I pulled my arm loose.
“‘Your timing couldn’t be worse, vampire. But even were it impeccable, Margot Chastain can still suck the snot-end of my prick. And you can just fuck off.’
“‘Well, couldn’t you just charm the paint right off the walls? I wonder what else you might charm off, given opportunity?’
“‘I have a promise to keep, leech. With company far more pleasant than yours. You lay hand on me again, I’ll take it off at the neck. Now get the hell out of my way.’
“Smile completely undimmed, Nicolette loosed her grip, drifting back into the shadows. Aiming a final glower in her direction, I rejoined the thrall waiting at corridor’s end.
My heart was pounding like a war drum by the time we reached the third tier, escorted past rows of thrallswords to a heavy door, clad in iron bands.
The letter P was carved into the metal by ancient claws.
“My daughter’s room.
“A vampire stood at corridor’s end; the same who’d wrapped her pale arms around my baby at battle’s end.
Even if she’d not put her hands on my Patience, I’d have known her anywhere; the sight of her stood with her siblings outside my door as Fabién came knocking forever burned into my mind’s eye.
Marble skin and red talons and crimson gown, bare shoulders kissed by chocolat curls and a stole of grey fox fur.
She regarded me silently, eyes and soul as black as her bastard father’s. The Fifth Prince of Forever.
“‘Morgane.’
“‘Chevalier.’ She nodded. ‘Well fought today.’
“‘I almost killed your father today, vampire.’
“‘My father died over three hundred years ago. Murdered along with my husband. My mother. My sisters. My daughters. By he who then cursed me with forever.’
“She smiled, and in her eyes I saw the hatred of poison centuries.
“‘So as I say. Well fought.’
“Morgane lowered that black gaze, glancing now to the door.
“‘Within thy daughter abides. Thy precious flower bloomed. She hath been well tended, these last nights, I vow it. Know I would not have allowed harm to befall her.’
“I stared, one hand still holding my bloody sword.
“‘Merci, madame. As payment for your kindness, I vow to kill you quick.’
“Morgane’s eyes narrowed.
“And opening my daughter’s door, I stepped inside.
“Noon had struck, stormlight pressed upon the windows, thunder rocking the walls.
But the curtains were drawn, the room near pitch-black.
It took a breath for even paleblood eyes to adjust, but I began to make out the outlines of a palatial boudoir.
A tall wardrobe. A grand four-poster bed.
I saw a desk against the wall nearby, parchment scattered across polished oak.
My daughter had loved to draw—an artiste just like her sweet mama—and I saw these were sketches wrought by her hand.
They were childish but showed promise, my eyes stinging as I leafed through them.
“A rabbit, crouched in snow.
“A tree, stood tall against frail sunset.
“A dead boy, sprawled on bloody stone.
“My heart froze, rising into my throat as I roamed deeper among her drawings. Mutilated soldiers. Charred skeletons. Horrors I’ll give no breath to here.
The inhumanity of it left me reeling, so sick I had to lean against the desk for fear of falling.
And as the timbers creaked beneath my weight, I heard her voice in the dark.
“‘Papa?’
“She stirred behind me, sitting up now in her bed. I turned toward her, chest heaving, dread and panic and awful crushing guilt washing me through. But looking on her then, wide iron-grey eyes and long midnight locks and skin white as yesteryear snows, I didn’t see the monster who’d made those drawings. I didn’t see a Prince of Forever.
“I saw my angel.
“My beauty.
“My …
“‘Patience.’
“‘You came,’ she whispered.
“‘I did.’
“She reached out for me. ‘Will you sing for me, Papa?’
“All the love in the world was shining in her eyes. She was the end of the longest road of my life. And it mattered not then, what she might’ve done. It mattered not what she’d become. All that mattered was her smile.”
The Last Silversaint shook his head, voice cracking.
“My Astrid had a thousand smiles. A smile cruel as winter wind that could cut you down to shivering bone. A smile light as dove’s down, just the hint of it across her cheek to let you know she was listening as you spoke.
A smile that could make you fear, and a smile that could make you cry, and a smile that made you feel like you were the only man alive.
But my favorite, my very favorite, was the same my daughter gave me that day.
Inherited from her beautiful mama. A smile that whispered and made me smile in kind. ”
Gabriel hung his head, staring at the name on his fingers.
“What did it whisper?”
It was Celene speaking, gazing across the water with bloody tears rimming her eyes.
“That she was happy,” Jean-Francois sighed. “And the sight of him had made her so.”
The cell beneath Sul Adair was deathly quiet now.
Even the rushing river had seemed to still.
The men who had beaten him so brutally but a few minutes before now stared at the Last Silversaint with unveiled pity, and more than one pawed at their eyes.
Dario was sniffling, gaze downturned, and with a groan of “Godssakes” the Marquis handed over a silk kerchief.
But the historian paused then, staring down at the pages of his tome, thumbing the bloody teardrop that had just fallen onto the page.
“I’ll not speak of it.”
Gabriel cleared his throat, growling the lump away.
“What we said to each other in that dark. What I felt to have her back in my arms after all that time. I don’t give a damn if Margot demands the whole of my tale.
I don’t care if she tortures me to death.
” He lifted his tear-stung gaze, fixed on Jean-Francois.
“I’ll not give your mistress that, vampire. That moment is mine and mine alone.”
Jean-Francois nodded, dabbing at his lashes.
“Did you sing her to sleep?”
“… I promised I would.”
“What did you sing, Gabriel?”
The silence deepened, the dark so large, the historian felt it on his skin.
His gaze was fixed on the wretch opposite him; head hung low, torn face crusted with blood.
Despite it all, Jean-Francois still felt pity for Gabriel de León.
In all his decades, the historian could not recall meeting a man who had suffered quite so much.
Again he wondered why the ’saint had not simply ended it.
If there was truth in the Forever King’s words; that an eternity of sensation, no matter how painful, was preferable to nothing at all.
Gabriel lifted his head, eye shining with tears. And the Last Silversaint began singing. The historian knew the words, whispering now in tune—the nursery rhyme Gabriel would sing to his daughter, back when she was woken by terrors in the night.
“Sleep now, my lovely, sleep now, my dear,
“Dark dreams will fade now your papa is near.
“Fear not the monsters, fear not the night,
“Papa is here now and all shall be right.
“Close your eyes, darling, and know this be true,
“Morning will come, and your papa loves you.”