Chapter VII. The Myth of Messiah #2
“‘There’s none in this room who feels so much a fool as me!’ Dior cried.
‘I heard what I wanted to hear! The myth of messiah is a heady draught, mes amis, never so tempting as when the messiah is you. But you were lied to, same as me. And same as me, you chose to believe. It’s the sweetest deceit, to be told someone else is coming to save you.
That all weight rests on another’s shoulders, save the burden for you to have faith.
And I’m sorry I asked you to have it in me.
Because truth is, there’s no one person who can stop what’s coming. No redeemer who can save us now.’
“She shook her head, hands clasped as she searched every eye, every soul in that hall. A single tear spilled down her cheek, shining as it fell to the floor.
“‘A good friend once told me this is a world worth fighting for. I know it’s one worth dying for. But if there is a savior now, it’s in all of us.’”
The Last Silversaint leaned forward, elbows to knees, running a thumb over the ink on his knuckles. His voice was graveled, thick with grief.
“My heart chilled a little at those words. A world worth dying for. I wondered if the mantle of savior had been a burden Dior was glad to be rid of. If the grief for her lost beloved, the guilt she felt at being so deceived might be matched by some desire to atone. Dior Lachance couldn’t be a savior anymore. But she could be a martyr.
“Yet in that quiet, the eyes of every guest upon her and the ashes of prophecy scattered at her feet, one figure stepped forth. He was still little more than a boy, truth told. A boy who’d ridden with her through fire and blood.
“‘Bleed for me. As I bleed for you.’
“Joaquin Marenn looked only upon Dior. But he raised his voice to all.
“‘So you asked us at Lastbridge. After you freed us from bondage beneath the Blackheart’s boot. Before you struck the Iron Maiden’s claw from her wrist and risked everything for the sake of this city.
I’ve watched you every day, walking among the wounded and making them well.
I’ve seen you give your every waking moment for the betterment of people you’ve never met, strangers you owe nothing.
I’ve seen you bleed an ocean, Dior Lachance.
And I will bleed no less. You are still a savior to me. ’
“Joaquin raised hand to heart, forefinger and thumb outstretched.
“‘La demoiselle du Graal.’
“His eyes shone with unspent tears, but jaw clenched, the houndboy didn’t let them fall. Another man stepped forth, clad in Dior’s cloth, finger and thumb to his heart.
“‘For the Grail.’
“And so it went, Dior’s Unbound all stepping forward with undimmed love in their eyes.
She’d saved them from the abyss, remember—none could fault their loyalty, nor love.
But a strange thing happened then, coldblood.
My heart warming as I saw one of those knights in Augustin colors lifting forefinger and thumb to his heart.
“‘For the Grail,’ he declared.
“As I watched, more folk around that hall did likesame. Parents of lads she’d revived at Lastbridge.
Comrades of those healed by her touch. Folk whose lives she’d saved.
But this was more than simple restitution—these weren’t just people who’d benefitted from her sacrifice.
They saw what she represented. The grace that resides in the heart of all goodness.
A faith beyond scripture or Testament or heavenly law.
It matters not what you believe in, Historian. But you must believe in something.”
The Last Silversaint smiled.
“And like me, they chose to believe in her.”
“We stepped forward with the others,” Celene said.
“Unworthy though we were. The voices within me were as quiet as I could remember—silenced both for Maryn’s absence and the shock of all that had transpired.
We knew not what we were now. Liathe? Lunatic?
The foundation of our faith had been smote to ruins.
I had given up all I believed. But placing our hand over our Dead heart, we spoke those same words.
“‘For the Grail.’
“My brother met my eyes, that red sword in his hands. I could see the question in his stare—if I could be trusted after all I’d done.
Uncertainty still hung over the feasting hall, even as Prince Philippe pressed forefinger and thumb to his chest. But beneath the call of Dior’s name in Chateau Impérial, we heard it then, cutting through all doubt like a blade of silver.
A song, growing louder as it spread across ice-struck battlements and the snow-thick streets of Rive Nord, echoing now among the drunken revelers in Rive C?ur.
“The song of warning bells.”
“Two days and nights I grant thee.” The historian looked up from the page he’d thumbed back to, meeting the silversaint’s eyes.
“And he’d camped but one night’s march from the River Béni.
You’d done all he’d asked, de León. Like a faithful hound.
Saved the realm from the threat he himself couldn’t snuff out directly.
Saved the life of the girl he prized above all.
Your friends and daughter in his clutches still.
And just as your brother á Craeg had promised, just as you knew he must, he’d betrayed you. ”
The Last Silversaint held out his goblet.
Jean-Francois poured the bottle’s clotted last into the cup.
“The Forever King was coming.”