Chapter VII. The Myth of Messiah
VII
THE MYTH OF MESSIAH
“HOW?”
The question hung in the cold air, the black river’s babble. Jean-Francois sat with tome in lap, quill poised in his fingers, eyes not on Celene now, but her brother.
“How did Lachance know?”
“I told her.” Gabriel brushed a lock of blood-slicked hair from his still-healing cheek, staring at the sevenstar on his palm. “I told her everything. First thing Dior did when she heard about Reyne’s murder was come and speak to me.”
“But she was being observed. Maryn had motes all over the chateau.”
“And Dior knew it.” The silversaint sighed.
“She was sharp as three swords, that girl, and she already knew Celene could spy on her. It only made sense Maryn could, too. So when she started to suspect something rotten among the Esani, Dior had relocated herself to the one place no vampire could watch her. Holy ground.”
“The Pontifex’s Palace,” Jean-Francois said. “But Maryn surely kept motes elsewhere? Scattered about the chateau and grounds?”
“And the whole chateau was in chaos after Reyne’s death.
Soldiers and servants everywhere. Before she was a messiah, Dior was a cutpurse.
A thief. A girl who’d spent her life stealing to live wouldn’t have many problems stealing to my cell unseen.
Especially when Maryn was being interrogated with Celene after the murder. ”
Gabriel shrugged.
“I told her everything. Phoebe. Ashdrinker. The Battle of San Maximille. The Forever King and the Esani and the horror Maryn intended to birth. And she believed me.”
Jean-Francois scoffed. “Just like that?”
The Last Silversaint looked up then, his one good eye alight.
“I pity you, vampire,” he sighed. “Your kind lose something when you turn. Not at first. It fades with time. With every night. Every murder. The mortals around you become food. Your kin become competitors. And though you cleave to bonds of fealty and famille, it’s only rote and ritual.
Remembered, not real. You forget what it is to love.
You forget what it is to trust. You forget what it is to close your eyes and let yourself fall and believe those who care for you will catch you. ”
Gabriel hung his head, voice gone hoarse.
“But Dior believed. Even when I failed. She believed in me.”
Jean-Francois stared across the dark cell, lips pinched thin. He searched within for it then—some ounce of affection, some tie beyond terror, some bond beyond blood—that would prove the silversaint a liar. But in truth, after all these years … who did he have?
A mother he feared? Lovers he slaved? Kin he loathed?
“When did she start to suspect?” he heard himself ask.
“After Phoebe returned. Dior was no fool, and something about Phoebe’s tale felt ill. Put her on guard about Maryn. And after Reyne…”
“So her interrogation in your cell afterward with Celene and Phoebe…”
“A show.”
It was the Liathe talking now, the Marquis’s eyes drifting across the river.
“A test. To see how far we two might allow her to go. When Phoebe stopped Dior slaying Gabriel, she surmised the fleshwitch must only be slaved—commanded to do ill around her mistress, yet compelled to follow her heart as far as she could when alone.”
“Dior spent the morning planning the blow from the Pontifex’s Palace,” Gabriel said.
“There were so many runners, maidservants, messengers flying back and forth, it was impossible for Maryn to follow them all. And I was in the Tower of Tears, where no vampire could observe my replies. Soldiers and chevaliers everywhere, the noble quarter packed with onlookers, too much, too many, even for a mind like Maryn’s to watch it all. ”
“I had wondered,” Jean-Francois murmured, “why Lachance had gone ahead with her happiest day, after so tragic an eve before.”
“Smokescreen.” Gabriel smiled. “Nothing grander than a royal wedding.”
“Sharp as three swords…”
The historian’s murmur was soft beneath the scratching of his quill.
“So when á Dúnnsair came to murder you in the Tower of Tears…”
“We were ready. She fought like a fucking wildcat. Gave me these right here…” Gabriel dragged up his shirt, showed four long scars running up his ribs.
“But though Phoebe served her mistress true, her heart just wasn’t in it.
And between me and the inquisitors now in on the game, we brought her down.
Locked her up. But not before I dosed myself to the tits on her blood. ”
“Enough to strike down an ancien of eight hundred and seventy-six years.”
“With a little help from a girl of eighteen.”
The silence hung heavy, the scent of blood and the weight of iron in the air. The siblings stared at each other across those rushing waters, Celene’s bottomless eyes narrowed, Gabriel’s jaw clenched tight.
“She should have let me kill you,” he hissed.
“I would have liked you to try. We can always make up for lost t—”
“Now, now, children,” the Marquis said. “We were getting along so well. I would hate to ruin our newfound harmonie familiale with something so gauche as a beating. Or conflagration.” Jean-Francois aimed a warning stare at Celene.
“I believe one lion in this room has already run through her nine lives. Lachance had obviously made up her mind that you were for the chop at the feast with your Priori.”
“Much as I think it pained her,” Celene nodded.
“In her mind, I was too far gone. Accomplice to the murder of her beloved. Happy to see my brother dead. It was only my confession that saved us. Instilling the notion we might yet be redeemed. She had every reason to hate me for all I’d done.
But she was always a believer, Dior Lachance. ”
“More’s the pity…”
“Chevalier, I will not warn you again.”
The historian scowled, smoothing down a new page.
“So. I imagine this all went down fabulously with Dior’s new in-laws.”
“Like a fucking anvil,” Gabriel growled.
“But once the ashes had stopped tumbling from the rafters, and after a not-unexpected bout of bedlam among the guests, Dior called for order. She stood in the heart of that hall, all in white, spattered in red, dusted in grey. Despite the carnage all had just witnessed, there was a gravity to that girl none could deny. When last I’d seen her, near a year ago after the Battle of Maergenn, I could tell Dior had caught a glimpse of the power within her.
But now, she’d come full to bloom without me.
I suppose it’s the fate of every parent—to let their children into the world to fly or fall on their own.
I’d not have chosen to leave her when I did.
But I could see how much she’d grown in my absence.
The woman, the warrior, the redeemer she’d become.
“‘Hear me! Good people, hear me now!’
“She held her hands wide, and all the hall fell still.
“But not silent.
“‘What is the meaning of this?’
“The Empress was on her feet, knuckles planted on the table before her, and her sapphire eyes were knives. I’d known Isabella well in my youth—her favored chevalier, her servant and sword.
I’d seen her upset before, but never quite so much as in that bloody hall.
Though she’d married into power, Isabella was an Empress who took its trappings seriously.
The pageantry and sanctity truly meant something to her.
And she’d just seen her baby boy’s wedding day befouled by murder and betrayal and the return of the champion who’d failed her so completely.
“‘Bonsoir, Bella,’ I bowed.
“‘You I will deal with later!’ she snarled, eyes on Dior. ‘You I deal with now! What is this treachery? This blasphemy? The heir to the Augustin dynasty is wed to you at the behest of a creature you have just slain before our eyes! This is madness! This is—’
“‘Mother, please.’
“Prince Philippe looked to the Empress, his face grim.
“‘Let her speak.’
“The Empress glowered. ‘Commands be not spat to they who sit thrones, young Prince. I am Isabella, First of Her Name, beloved widow of Alexandre III—’
“‘And I am your son!’ Philippe shouted, slamming down his fist. ‘Perhaps not your favorite, but I am your last! Empress of the realm you are, but you speak now to its heir and his bride besides! So while justified it may be, set outrage aside, and let her say her piece!’
“Dior and Philippe met each other’s eyes then.
“‘Respect is earned, not owed, Mother. And she has surely earned ours.’
“The Grail inclined her head to her husband.
And as Isabella looked upon her son with waking eyes, Dior walked slow to the high table.
Spattered in blood, dusted with ashes, she looked up at Philippe and smiled sadly.
And with a wince of difficulty for her maimed hand, she dragged the ring off her finger and placed it before him.
“‘You’re a good man, Philippe de Augustin. And I’m sorry. But I can’t keep this now.’
“Murmurs, whispers, cries of outrage rang in the hall as Dior returned the Prince’s troth. And turning to the court, she raised her voice loud enough to drown them all.
“‘We’ve been deceived! Me among you, and most of all!’ Dior looked out upon the court, pale blue eyes wide. ‘Though they came in guise of friends, the Esani were nothing close. And though I’ve lived under their lie for near a year now…’
“She took a deep breath then, staring into her own abyss.
“‘… My blood is not the secret to ending daysdeath. I’m sorry. But near as I can tell, it’s not the secret to ending anything but this world.’
“Murmurs began again among the guests, rising toward a roar.