Chapter VI. Always #3
“‘I am so sorry, mon amie. I wanted so desperately to believe, but…’
“I shook my head.
“‘This is wrong. This is sin. And no matter the cost, I can be party to it no longer.’
“Dior stared, fallen still, though all the dancefloor still moved around us.
And while her thoughts were ever a locked room, in her eyes, I saw not the shock or fear or betrayal I expected after such revelation.
Instead, I saw the guile of a gutter rat who had risen to become the princess of an empire, but had never forgotten the streets she came from.
“Nor what it took to survive them.
“‘Well, well,’ she murmured.
“We smelled blood. The heady, heavenly bliss of her blood.
And we realized while we had been giving our confession and Maryn had been raging in our head, Dior had slipped a silversteel dagger from one sleeve and sliced her wrist upon it.
She already held it against our back, at the gap five ribs down, poised over our long-Dead heart.
“‘You might’ve just saved your life, Castia.’
“Maryn had risen to her feet, fury unleashed, eyes wide and face twisted in hatred. The Unbound about her sat watching, wondering, all the world fallen still, her mind piercing ours like a bloody spear as her claws tore her palms.
“Betrayer! Deceiver! Thou shall BURN FOR THIS IN H—
“The greatsword sang as it came down on her shoulder with the strength of the Moonsthrone Mountains.
As powerful as her centuries had made her, still the blade cleaved muscle and bone, splitting her little body to her belly.
The Mother of Monsters staggered, and as the blade was ripped free, she turned to face the one who wielded it.
“That knight. That tall knight of the Golden Host who’d stood guard at her back. He lifted his blade now, platemail polished like a mirror, greathelm concealing the face of the man within. But we’d have known his voice anywhere.
“‘Judgment Comes,’ my brother hissed.
“The crowd cried out as his greatsword fell again, glinting silver, whistling as it came. It struck Maryn’s neck, almost taking her head.
But she was no fledgling, the Mother of Monsters.
No mediae to be so easily slain. This was a creature who had survived the fall of Charbourg, the almost-end of Illia’s dream.
Bringing her arm up, she shattered Gabriel’s blade with her little fist, fangs bared in a snarl.
Metal shards flew, tumbling as if in slow motion, silversteel splinters drenched with blood.
“But not just Maryn’s.
“The fire started small; a single flare of light, deep in the hollow of the Mother’s chest. But within seconds it had burst, bubbled, blossomed into flame.
And as holy fire spread like quicksilver over ancien flesh, consuming her pretty dress, her golden curls, we realized whose blood had anointed Gabriel’s blade.
“Maryn screamed, the crowd with her, chaos breaking loose in the hall.
Flames roared over her skin, chewing meat and bone as Dior looked on, pale blue eyes alight.
And though she knew now her design might be undone, even more than failure, Maryn feared death.
She feared the flames of hell. And so, as that holy fire spread and the mob screamed, the Mother bared her fangs and hissed.
“‘Not this night.’
“The sound of tearing cloth. The song of ripping flesh. And before that awestruck crowd, Maryn burst apart—hundreds of moths, thousands of wings, red as the blood on Gabriel’s shattered blade.
Filling the air in a blinding, burning storm, that multitude fluttered toward the gables.
The fire chased, spreading from one moth to the next, racing her toward the sky.
But if only one of them escaped, Maryn would too.
“‘Oui,’ Dior hissed. ‘This night.’
“The Grail reached out her hand. That hand maimed in Dún Maergenn, defending the princess Maryn had slain. The Red Hand of God. And as we watched, awestruck, those thousand wings froze still. Dior’s face twisted, eyes gleaming and cold, and we realized it was not simply swordcraft she had been practicing on the privacy of holy ground these last few weeks.
We felt power reverberate within her, the power of the heavens in her veins, the power of He from whom all this had sprung. ”
The Last Silversaint nodded, murmuring into his cup.
“But that His enemies would fear Him, grim Mahné gave the infant dominion over Death, and Sanael, the secrets of the Blood, and Gabriel, the Fire that would burn the pathway to His throne.”
“Maryn burned,” Celene sighed. “Flame spreading from one piece of her to the next, all those pieces now held still by Dior’s holy will.
We could hear her in our heads; her death throes echoing through every mind in that hall.
It crashed upon us, blistering, sickening; a scream not just of Maryn’s, but of every tortured soul she bore within her body.
A scream of such blinding intensity that most of the wedding feast screamed in kind, crumbling to their knees or falling from their chairs in horror.
“We had never felt such terror nor fury nor despair, Marquis. Not even as we claimed great Aléne, Prince of Forever. Not even as we slew our master. For eight hundred and seventy-six years had the Mother of Monsters walked this earth with faithful feet. Near a millennium devoted to Illia’s dream and the search for God’s judgment true.
Judgment was come, now. And as with all the damned, it fell not in Maryn’s favor.
“My God, that scream…”
The Last Liathe looked skyward in wonder, voice gone soft.
“But with each piece of her that burned, it diminished. Fading, falling like the ashes now from the gables, grey snow on my skin. Her cries grew fainter, weaker, screaming become whispering, pleading, echoing in the still of our breast.
“O Lord of Love, O God of Blood.
“Forsake not thy servant true.
“I beg thee …
“I don’t want to die …
“The voice fell silent. The hall quieted at last. And into that deathly still, Dior spoke.
“‘A promise is a promise.’
“She stalked across the dancefloor, past gobsmacked guests scattered on their knees, beneath her Prince’s bewildered gaze, snatching up the golden goblet from her place at the high table. And, tears in her lashes, she raised her cup in toast.
“‘To Maryn. Mother of Monsters. That all might know what she did for us.’
“She knocked back the goblet, and spat red on the ashes at her feet.
“‘Burn bright in hell, bitch.’
“Silence reigned, ringing in the hollow that music and laughter had filled but a few terrible moments before. Horror and wonder and fear were carved on the face of every guest, every soldier, every soul in that hall. Every soul save two.
“The two no foe nor failing could part forever. The two whose loyalty and love had been tested over and over on this long, hard road out of hell.
“Gabriel dragged off his greathelm and let it fall with a clang. My brother’s eyes were rimmed in tears as he opened his arms. And into those arms, Dior flew.
They crashed together, the chevalier in bloody silver, the bride in bloody white, and Dior’s sob cut right to the heart of me.
Gabriel held that girl as if she were driftwood and all the world a drowning sea.
Dior held him as if he were an angel at wing, this cold earth crumbling beneath her feet.
And though all had just borne witness to calamity, though a thousand questions roiled in a thousand minds, not a single person in that hall dared speak.
It was as if all felt the sanctity in that moment; two people, both thought parted forever, reunited at last and never to be sundered again.
“‘I’m so sorry,’ he whispered. ‘I’m sorry for everything, Dior.’
“‘I know. Me too.’
“Dior’s eyes were closed, brow pressed against that golden tabard, that chest beneath.
But Gabriel’s eyes were open, grey as raging skies, fixed on me.
We stood yet in the dancefloor’s heart, and more folk were looking our way now; soldiers uncertain, Unbound poised, not knowing the whole truth but understanding that if Maryn, Mother of Monsters, was an enemy, her faithful acolyte might be too.
“‘You should take this,’ Dior murmured. ‘You should have her back.’
“From her waist, she unbuckled that jewel-studded scabbard, returning Ashdrinker to her master.
Gabriel took the sainted blade gently, eyes lit with pain as he drew her partway from her sheath, looking again at the awful crack in her blade.
I know not what she said to him. If she made any sense at all.
But as his gaze rose again to me, I saw it burned with a hatred bright as our long-lost sun.
“‘Why didn’t you kill her?’
“‘She told me the truth.’ Dior sniffed, turning to meet our stare. ‘Told me everything.’
“‘Your heart’s too soft for your own good, girl.’
“‘You’re not my papa, old man.’
“My brother softened then, his hate forgot. And as he cupped Dior’s cheek with one bloody hand, he spoke so soft we could barely hear.
“‘Yes, I am.’
“She smiled then, eyes closed once more as she pressed her head against his chest.
“‘Yes, you are. So trust me.’
“His jaw clenched. But beyond Gabriel’s hate for me lay the love he bore for the daughter in his arms. A love forged in blood and silver. A love that endured.
“He sighed, squeezing tight.
“‘Always.’”