Chapter VI. Always
VI
ALWAYS
THE SILENCE WAS a bloodstain, spreading until it filled every corner of the cell.
The truth was smoke, cloying and foul to swallow.
“Voss.”
Jean-Francois brushed his quill across his lips, eyes on the silversaint.
“Daysdeath was Voss’s work.”
“Oui.”
Gabriel held out one shaking hand, gaze fixed on the bottle Jean-Francois had snatched away, now sitting on the cold stone beside his chair.
With a sigh, the historian poured them both a goblet, lip curling as he saw the blood had already cooled.
Caring not a drop, the silversaint snatched up the cup, drained it to the curdled dregs.
“I don’t understand.” Jean-Francois frowned. “If the Forever King was the source of this eternal darkness, why did it not end with him?”
Gabriel dragged his knuckles across clot-smeared lips. “Patience, coldblood.”
The historian rolled his eyes. “I suppose you’re right, mon ami. If good things come to those who wait, the grandest of things must surely be on our horizon. But I fear we have been neglecting our other guest.”
Jean-Francois gazed across the river, folding one long leg over the other.
“Are you well over there, Mlle Castia? You’ve not made so much as a peep of late. Most unlike you, to hold that serpent you name tongue twixt your teeth?”
The Last Liathe glowered. “Fear of immolation will do that to a girl.”
The Marquis chuckled. “You are no more a girl than I a goat. But come, enough from the Lion of Lorson. The sun—such as it is—is climbing higher, and when we left the Last of the Liathe, she was at something of a crossroads. Her brother imprisoned for Princess Reyne’s murder, destined for a day of slow torture at the hands of the Inquisition and a night of swift murder at the claws of his lover, Phoebe á Dúnnsair.
Lachance’s wedding was proceeding apace, the square outside Cathédrale de Lumière thronged with onlookers, Mother Maryn overseeing proceedings from her perch by the window.
And you had just wrested the truth of the Esani’s purpose from your dear Master Wulfric. ”
“You’re quite good at this,” Celene said. “You should do it for a living.”
“That’s what I said,” Gabriel scowled.
“So how was the wedding?” Jean-Francois smiled.
“I’ve no idea,” Celene replied softly. “We didn’t watch it.”
The Last Liathe ran hard fingertips across oily stone, gaze drifting to the torches in the hands of the thrallsword cadre. Firelight flickered across pitch-black eyes, lost now as she stared into the mists of memory.
“We heard it, of course. I doubt there were many under heaven who didn’t.
And our senses were so sharp, it was almost as if we did watch.
The tolling of great bells to commence the procession.
The cheers as the handsome Prince and his retinue appeared at the doors of Chateau Impérial, beginning the solemn march to the cathedral.
The hubbub of chatter, falling to stillness thereafter, the hush of anticipation broken only by the song of thunder and the howl of hungry winds.
And then … rapture, Marquis. The applause as the bride appeared was so loud it drowned out the crashing clouds, the roars so fierce they shook the very boughs of heaven.
The bells began anew, the prayers of every citizen, their blessings, cries, wishes best, all rising until the entire city trembled, and we along with it.
Joy. Hope. Happiness. A song so bright it almost drowned the darkness we’d found ourselves plunged into after Wulfric told us the truth. ”
Celene shook her head, dragging a lock of hair from her bitter smile.
“But not quite.
“We lay in that coffin, wrestling with it all the day. The promise of salvation. The weight of annihilation. Bright angel on one shoulder, leering devil the other, drowning out the hymns of the choir in Cathédrale de Lumière as Dior began her march down the aisle.
“Maryn had lied to us. Lied to Dior. Reading the tale of daysdeath in our mind that first night in Dún Maergenn, and marrying it to the Esana prophecy, so that one was entwined with the other. The death of days. The blackened veil. Twisting Dior’s desire to bring back the sun toward the path of ending this world. And we had helped her.
“Thou hast told her this? A believer, thou hast made her?
“We have, Mother. We need only for you to show her the way.
“It was darkest deception. But I was a liar too. And we knew why she’d done it.
“The greatest good …
“The choice before us was an awful one, and I’ll admit we saw the terrible sense of Illia’s plan.
Those mortals who had lived godly lives would be taken up on the Day of Judging and seated at the Father’s right hand.
Only those who lived in sin would be punished, and what cared we for sinners—we who’d hunted them every night of our unlives?
Were we not yet God’s punishment manifest on this earth?
“Was this not his will, and I, the monster his will had made me?
“O Lord of Love, O God of Blood,
“O King of Wolf and Lamb,
“Thy will be done,
“Thy judgment comes,
“Alike to bless’d and damned …
“To die was for us to burn, we knew this true, and always, I was terrified of those flames.
But a voice in me was whispering now, ever louder as the day wore on.
As Testaments were read and troth rings exchanged.
As vows to love and honor and obey were spoken, as final hymns were sung, as happy husband and weary wife emerged into storm-struck light and the adulation of an empire.
And finally, that question was all I could hear.
“If threat of punishment was all that drove me to goodness, how could it be good?
“Obedience under deception. Fealty under thrall. Love under fear.
“How could this be holy?
“The knock rang at our door, shaking me from darkest thoughts. I knew not how much time had passed, but I felt night drawing close now, chill creeping deeper in this shadow, no hindrance to the revelers we could hear outside.
“‘Celene? ’ Maryn called. ‘It is time.’
“We replied, loud enough to drown the quavering in our voice.
“‘Coming, Mother.’
“We dressed quickly; fresh garments crafted by the imperial seamstresses in preparation of this happy day.
A new mask of pale porcelain, eyes rimmed black, and a smile, warm and genuine, painted in fresh red.
A new frockcoat of dark heartsblood, golden embroidery and buttons, shining in the dying light.
A shirt of white silk, crisp black britches, and knee-high boots polished to a sheen so bright we might have seen our reflection in them.
But as we dragged them over hose-clad toes, the face we saw was his.
“Evil we do, Wulfric assured me. Lest evil we be.
“We walked side by side, the Mother and I—together but not alone. The air was thick, the soldiery on high alert after my brother’s attack the previous eve.
Maryn’s hand had healed, but the terrible burns at her throat were only concealed by her nun’s wimple.
And we were flanked by our ever-watchful cadre of inquisitors.
“Every part of me was on edge, and I prayed as I walked. Whispering the Vow in my head and reaching for Maryn’s hand to steady me.
Though the Mother could sense my trepidation, I think she felt it too.
The ceremony was done, the Grail wed to her Prince, the end of a story a thousand years in the telling only a coronation away.
The hallways were flocked with servants and guards and guests, revelry in the city outside rising despite the awful weather.
The feasting hall lay ahead, bunting on the walls, ice in our belly.
“Hold firm, Celene, Wulfric whispered. Heaven awaits.
“Doors were drawn wide, and a wave of sensation washed over us—the warmth of countless bodies and the perfume of woodsmoke and wine and blood. The feasting hall of Chateau Impérial was so vast, another chateau could almost have been built within, and every general and capitaine, priest and bishop, and marquis and baron in the empire seemed to be gathered therein. Knights in full platemail and bright tabards stood guard at every door and pillar, armor shining like looking glasses—this was a celebration, but a princess had been murdered by the empire’s greatest hero the night before, and no chances were being taken with any other royal.
An orchestra from the Opus Grande wove a spell of wondrous notes in the air, the dancefloor already filled, bodies entwined with their sorcerie.
For a moment I was reminded of the gala in San Yves so many years ago, my first communion, the voices within me singing in time.
“It all felt so surreal …
“All this would be gone, soon. Either the Forever King would sweep it away, or the hand of God would claim his own. And in the motion of those dancers, the laughter of those revelers, beyond the color, light, movement, sound, we sensed a sadness in the roots of this happy day. One last desperate stab at life. One last dance before all songs ceased.”
Celene smiled, hanging her head.
“But perhaps that was just me.”
“And where was the blushing bride in all this?” Jean-Francois asked.
“With her husband. Sat at the head of the room, surrounded by her new famille, her back guarded by more steel-clad chevaliers. Even unable to read her thoughts, we could sense the shadow of Reyne’s absence—the sadness in her eyes and the lack in her smile.
But despite her grief, the Grail looked radiant, Marquis.
Like God had plucked an angel from his kingdom and set her among we sinners to remind us what grace could be.
Dior Lachance had been born a gutter rat.
And now, she was the princess of an empire.