Chapter VI. Always #2
“She was clad in dove white, wasp waisted and pearl encrusted, trimmed with ash-pale fur.
Ashdrinker hung at her waist in a jewel-studded scabbard, that golden wheel at her throat.
But as we approached, flanked by our inquisitor guardians, we saw the glint of more gold on her skin.
A troth ring, fresh forged, set with a ruby the size of a ha-royale.
It was on the wrong hand of course, but the right finger at least, glittering in the glow of the hundred chandeliers overhead as she raised a goblet to her Prince.
“We swept the thoughts of the high table as we approached, brushing light upon each mind so as not to break their ice; the Pontifex’s grudging admiration, the Inquisitrix’s mild displeasure, Duchess Yvaine’s fresh grief, thoughts of coming battle in Duke Maarten.
Isabella sat at the right hand of the empty throne, but all knew it would not remain empty much longer.
And though we sensed regret as we touched the Empress’s thoughts, there was very little wrath—it seemed Dior had won over even her mother-in-law in the end.
“For his part, Philippe looked upon his new bride with fondness, if not love, smiling as he returned her toast. We wondered if they might have been happy together.
“We wondered what they’d have named their children …
“‘Courage, Celene.’
“Maryn’s whisper hung in the air, hand squeezing ours as we reached the high table.
“‘Courage, Mother,’ we replied, squeezing back. ‘Judgment Comes.’
“‘Celene!’
“We saw Dior rising, and though the shadow of sorrow yet lingered, she seemed truly happy to see us.
Her smile was bright, and heedless of royal decorum, in front of all those generals and lords, she stepped down from the bridal seat and enfolded us in her arms. Her body was warm against ours, and despite it all, her whisper made us smile.
“‘Good to see a friendly face, Castia.’
“‘It is good to see you too, mon amie.’
“We pulled back from her arms, looking her over.
“‘You look wonderful, Dior. Congratulations. Truly.’
“‘Aye, holy child.’ Maryn bowed low, no guile in her angel’s face. ‘Felicitations on this most blessed of days.’
“‘Merci, Maryn. You played no small part in it.’
“‘Thy praise, a kindness undeserved, child.’
“‘Nono, you deserve it,’ Dior insisted. ‘None of us would be here if not for you. I’ll raise a toast to you this eve, I promise. So all might know what you’ve done for us.’
“‘Ye honor us, holy child.’
“‘Have you seen Phoebe?’ Dior looked about with darkening brow. ‘She was at the ceremony this afternoon, but she’s disappeared.’
“I swallowed, thinking of the fleshwitch stealing toward my brother’s cell in the Tower of Tears even now. I was grateful Gabriel was imprisoned on holy ground—there could be no temptation for me to attend his murder.
“Either to avert it. Or simply to watch.
“‘I…’
“‘The Dahtr á Dúnnsair is thy faithful paladin, Dior.’ Maryn smiled, dark eyes gleaming. ‘We are certain she shall be along presently.’
“‘Well, there’s a place set for you and her both.’ The Grail gestured to one of the feast tables, laden with wine and fare.
‘It’s not the high table, unfortunately.
There’s all sorts of royal protocol bollocks about who gets to sit with me, and Inquisitrix Maya still isn’t fond of you, I’m afraid. But it’s a place of honor.’
“‘Then we shall be honored to accept it, holy child.’
“We nodded thanks, turned toward the place set aside. Two empty chairs waited at table’s end, far enough from the other guests that they’d not be too discomfited by our presence.
We saw Dior’s Unbound there seated, among them Joaquin Marenn, crooked smile fixed upon a pretty demoiselle one table over.
Brushing their thoughts, we felt joy. Pride.
Trepidation at the coming battle, yet relief in this blessed respite.
“A tall chevalier stood near, his tabard that of a member of the Golden Host, a mighty ornate greatsword in gauntleted fists.
And though royal accolades gleamed upon his chest, and his suit of fullplate shone like a mirror, looking now at Joaquin, at those Callums and Boyds and Declans, I thought them more deserving of acclaim than any knight.
They had come so far. Held such faith. And not a one of them had wavered.
“Not like me …
“Maryn was padding toward the table, but Dior stopped me with a gentle touch. Turning back, we saw her lips curled in a teasing smile.
“‘Want to dance?’
“We glanced at the crowds about us, folk already whispering behind their wine.
“‘Is that … appropriate?’
“‘I’m a Princess now. Fuck appropriate.’
“She saw my hesitation, teasing smile become a grin.
“‘I still prefer girls with a pulse, Castia. But you’ll do in a pinch.’ Her smile dimmed then, gaze dropping to the floor. ‘It’s not like I’ve another to dance with.’
“‘Of course.’ We squeezed her hand, heart aching. ‘Of course I’ll dance with you.’
“Maryn matched my gaze, but with a glance to Dior, a small nod, she made her way to the place of honor among the Unbound. Several raised toasts to her as she sat, and our Priori gifted each man a smile and words of highest praise. Our eyes drifted to Phoebe’s empty chair, our thoughts to the Tower of Tears.
But Dior took our hand, leading us onto the dancefloor.
“She was the bride, this was her day, and all about her made way. As if to banish any sorrows, she called to the Grand Masters ‘Something faster, messieurs! ’ and the players obliged, the audience cheering as they launched into a bright jig called The Jester’s Cup.
Together, Dior and I spun through the dancers, and I found myself smiling, our fingers brushing, hands clapping in time.
There was a blissful forgetting in that song.
Refuge from the weight of the world, of God, of faith, beyond the edge of chorus and bridge and close.
And we lost ourselves in it, Dior and I parting, shifting through the throng, swapping through half a dozen partners before arriving with each other once more.
“‘You dance well, Princess,’ we smiled.
“She grinned crooked, tossing ashen locks from flushed cheeks. ‘Been practicing my swordwork. Gabe always said at root dancing and fighting were the same.’
“The warmth of the bodies, the flash of eye and smile, the blur of motion had us dizzy, and almost we’d forgot where we were.
What was happening. But the mention of my brother brought me back to the ground, the smile behind our mask died.
We caught sight of Maryn through the dancers, black eyes on us, Phoebe’s chair beside her.
We wondered if the fleshwitch had reached Gabriel yet.
Wondered if she’d make it quick. Wondered what exactly we were prepared to sacrifice for what we believed.
“Our soul?
“Our self?
“We felt Maryn brush our thoughts then. The lightest touch, probing our resolve. And turning our heart to iron, we whispered a prayer to God for strength. The Jester’s Cup had ended, the audience applauding, toasts raised to the bride for her excellent choice. With a bow of thanks, I made to leave.
“‘Merci, Princess.’
“‘Done already?’
“Dior looked at us with shining eyes, breath quickened. Her skin was sheened with sweat from her exertions—she was clad in a small hosier shop’s worth of fabric after all, long ruffled sleeves and a belly-crushing corset. But still, she offered her hand.
“‘One more?’
“I wanted to be gone. To slink back into shadow, unseen. I feared if she stared too long into my eyes, she might see what lay beyond. The lies. The hurt. This girl was my friend.
“This girl was my only friend.
“‘One more.’
“‘Something slower, s’il vous pla?t!’
“The musicians struck the opening chords, and Dior offered her arms. We stepped into them, uncertain, but of course the Holy Grail of San Michon took the lead, steering us through the swirling ocean of bodies. Our head was spinning, guilt and fear and faith and fondness all at war, the voices ringing in my head now, none so loud as he. In every gold button, every clinking glass, we saw Wulfric’s face, we heard his voice, we felt his will press upon us, the press of Maryn too, yet lurking in our thoughts. Evil we do, he whispered.
“Evil we do, lest evil we be.
“And then we recognized the song the musicians played.
It was an avant-garde composition, as one might expect from masters of the Opus Grande.
But still we knew those gossamer notes, resonating now in our bones.
It was a hymn. A favorite of my childhood, sung in our tiny chapel in Lorson.
The same Laurent had been playing the night I met him.
The same Ashdrinker had been singing when I smashed her on those stones.
“To Thee, My Heart.
“All this would be gone soon. All these people. All these dreams. And the godly would be taken up, wouldn’t they? What cared we for the sinners?
“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.
“Though Dead, by thy word I yet live,
“Though cursed, by thy will I now rise,
“Bonds earthly I sever, thy servant forever.
“And evil I do, lest evil I be,
“No more than the monster ye made me.
“The monster.
“The monster they made me.
“‘Dior…’
“We whispered, porcelain cheek pressed to hers, our voice so soft and trembling we feared she might not hear us.
“‘Dior, Maryn is lying to you.’
“We pulled her closer, and over her shoulder, through that swirling ocean of people that would soon be gone, we saw our Priori glowering at us. Thoughts pushing harder. The weight of her will pressing on ours, and a terrible fury rising beyond.
“Celene …
“‘She slaved Phoebe,’ we hissed. ‘She commanded me to break Ashdrinker. She slew Reyne and blamed my brother, and even now, she plots his death. You are in danger near her, such terrible danger, my God…’
“Celene, stop this at ONCE!
“Dior drew back slightly, pale blue eyes piercing, tears spilling now from mine.