Chapter IX. A Small Price
IX
A SMALL PRICE
“RIVE NORD WAS yet in bloody ruins.”
The Last Silversaint leaned back in his armchair, leathers creaking, thumb tracing the silver of his daughter’s name beneath his knuckles as he stared into the past.
“It’d been near half a year since Voss struck the capital, but the scars of his attack still ran deep.
Most folk who’d called Augustin’s northern shore home had relocated to its heart, most of the buildings empty shells.
Isabella had ordered the outer walls repaired, the gatehouses too, and they stood strong and tall.
But Augustin’s norward shore was bereft of any save soldiers now—the few citizens who still dwelled there flooding back across Lastbridge as those bells rang.
There was something altogether strange about the thought of fighting to protect a city nobody lived in anymore.
“We should never have staged a defense of those walls. The Golden Host should’ve just pulled back to Rive C?ur and fought there.
The inner battlements were fully intact, the cannon were legion, and blowing Lastbridge would’ve forced the Dead to scale the cliffs up from the Béni’s surface.
If it were up to me, we’d have left Rive Nord to the Voss. ”
Gabriel sighed.
“Thing is, it wasn’t up to me. Twenty thousand men were mustering on the outer battlements, another ten in reserve at the Lastbridge walls across town. That was near half Augustin’s force, only forty thousand left to defend the C?ur if things went tits up.”
“You were a hero of the realm,” Jean-Francois said, sketching in his tome. “Slayer of Princes of Forever, victor of Dún Maergenn, liberator—”
“Weren’t you the one whining about me listing all my accolades not so long ago, coldblood? I thought we were running out of fucking time here.”
“My point is, in organizing the defense, surely your opinion held weight?”
“Barely a feather’s worth. Isabella was still pissed at me, the Inquisition beside her.
Though I was still technically a Sword of the Realm, I’d no rank in the Golden Host. And though every soldier in that army had been raised on tales of my old glories—of Tuuve and Báih Sìde and Triúrbaile—as far as the Empress’s commanders were concerned, I was a novelty, little more. ”
“Who then led the valiant defense of Isabella’s throne?”
“Maarten, Duke of Daggercoast, was put in charge of the Nord. Prince Philippe took command of the C?ur.” Gabriel shrugged.
“At first, we were just along for the ride. But Maarten wasn’t a complete twat.
He knew the value Dior held, how grand a banner la demoiselle du Graal would be to fight beneath.
And so he asked her—and by extension us—not to stray too far from his side. ”
“Lachance insisted on fighting? I’m certain you were pleased at that, de León.”
“Not like I could stop her. I’d failed every time I’d tried, and now I couldn’t even point out she was the one true hope of the realm.
Dior was just one young woman now. Still a duskdancer, of course.
Still a sanguimancer. Still a child of the Redeemer’s line.
But no hinge on which this all pivoted. She was harder to kill now than most men on that wall, so she resolved to save as many lives as she could. ”
“She cared, Historian.”
The silversaint and Marquis both looked at the monster across the river. Celene stared back with eyes black as night, edged with sadness.
“She truly cared.”
“Night had fallen hard, and the tempest with it,” Gabriel continued.
“That storm was a bastard, coldblood. Unnatural, even for wintersdeep. Wind like swords, snow like razors. We stood on the outermost wall above the Nord’s main gatehouse, the thoroughfare behind us leading back to Place San Antoine and Lastbridge.
The span wasn’t even rigged to blow anymore—the Dead could just march across the Béni to the C?ur’s walls now.
I’d wondered what they’d done with all that black ignis at the time.
“Phoebe stood to my right, Dior my left, Celene and Joaquin and the other Unbound all about us. Soldiers and battlepriests were arrayed across the ramparts, cadres of archers and cannoneers training their sights on the empty night. The dark was so thick you could’ve bottled it, and beyond the light of the braziers on the battlements, there was nothing save tumbling grey snows.
No stars above. No drymoat below. Just blackness and the song of those tolling bells, and the fear every little boy feels when he opens his eyes in the deepest dark of night and can still see nothing at all.
“‘Anyone scared o’ the dark?’ Phoebe murmured.
“‘Never used to be,’ Dior replied.
“‘I don’t suppose you’ve learned how to sprout those wings from your arse, Mlle Phoebe?’ Joaquin asked. ‘We could use that army of your kinsmen right now.’
“Phoebe patted her rump, tail switching back and forth. ‘Still wingless, alas.’
“‘Spectacular, nonetheless.’
“Phoebe scoffed at my jest, smacking my backside as Joaquin clenched his jaw.
“‘I hope Elaina will be aright.’
“‘She’ll be fine in the kennels. I’d be less worried about yer hound an’ more yerself.’
“Joaquin nodded, face gone pale. ‘The company’s magnificent, no doubt. But if I could choose any place in the world to be right now, the last of them would be here.’
“He shook his head, fists clenched to stop his hands trembling.
“‘God’s truth, I wish today had never dawned.’
“‘Don’t do that, lad.’
“Joaquin looked to me as I spoke, but my eyes were fixed on that darkness. I knew the fear he felt. The men around us felt the same. And while I was never really one for speeches, I knew the weight words could hold before the storm.
“‘Never regret a single day. The worst give us lessons. The best gift us memories. But all of them are sacred. And this day is the most important of your life. Make it count.’
“Joaquin smiled at that.
“Phoebe kissed my cheek.
“Dior squeezed my hand.
“A light flared then, pale and chymical. One tiny drop in that ocean of black.”
The Last Silversaint fell silent, blood-red eyes narrowed.
“What did you see?” Jean-Francois asked, voice hushed.
“Highbloods,” Celene replied. “A cohort of Voss knights in dark plate, at least twenty strong, mounted on thralled steeds but a few dozen yards from the drymoat’s edge.
Though we searched, we could not see Kestrel among them.
But another Dead capitaine with a greathelm wrought like a raven and a cloak of black feathers nudged his horse forward.
In one hand, he held that light, and in his other, he bore a cruel maul of black steel, twinned head fashioned like ravens’ beaks.
About its haft, a flag of white was bound.
“The highblood took off his helm and I saw a dark beard, thick hair swept back in a widow’s peak, marble skin and bottomless eyes.
“‘Ettiene,’ Gabriel growled. ‘The Black Crow. Fourth Prince of Forever.’
“‘Parley! ’ he cried, holding the maul aloft. ‘We call parley, mortals! ’
“All eyes turned to Duke Maarten, stood with his commanders but a few feet away. He was a bear of a man, clad in fine platemail and a blue tabard embroidered with falcons. He squared his bearded chin, breathing deep, calling into that bottomless night.
“‘Come forth then, leech! Speak your cursed piece!’
“The Black Crow looked to the night behind him.
More light flared then. Chymical, unwavering; another globe unveiled.
More globes followed, five in all, lighting up in a circle and spilling their pale glow into that gulf of perfect darkness.
Each globe was housed within a human skull, cupped in the hands of black-clad thralls, their robes whipping in the freezing storm winds.
And in the heart of them, he stood like death itself.
Pale as wintersdeep, and a thousand times as chill.
“Fabién Voss.
“We had never seen Forever’s King in flesh before, Marquis.
And as we gazed at him from atop those walls, he seemed to swell until he filled our sight and soul besides.
Eyes of night and skin of marble, flowing like iron molten.
He walked toward us, no footprints behind, fingertips pressed together as his five shadows writhed.
He was clad in white velvet and a mantle of terror, surrounded by figures in black, skulls aglow.
The walls seemed to shiver at his approach.
God Almighty, even the snows seemed frightened to touch his skin.
“‘Greetings to thee, sons and daughters of Augustin.’
“His words echoed on the winds and in our minds, and we could feel the fear about us, spreading like poison. Even the boldest heart quavered as his black gaze fell upon them. Even the most faithful man of God doubted the love of his Lord.
“‘With whom shall I treat? ’
“He looked across the walls, pausing brief upon my brother, the barest hint of a smile curling his lips. But Gabriel held his peace, looked instead to Maarten.
“‘I speak for Her Grace Isabella!’ the Duke called. ‘First of Her Name, beloved widow of Alexandre III, Protector of God’s Church and ruler of all Elidaen!’
“‘Maarten de La Fontaine, le Chevalier des Faucons. My honor, sir, to meet a warrior so esteemed. The cloak I shall craft of thy skin shall be worn only on grandest of occasions.’
“‘Bark as you will, dog! But I vow before God and Mothermaid you’ll set not one foot in sacred Augustin! If hollow threats be the best of you, then let’s be about it! These winds are cold, my bed is warm, and the company therein more pleasant than yours!’
“‘So we hear. And well hath Isabella chosen her champion. A capitaine so bold as to bring both wife and daughters to the city he be bound to defend.’
“That smile spread Voss’s mouth like a bloodstain.
“‘Forward look I, to making their acquaintance.’
“‘Keep him out of your head, Fontaine.’ Gabriel’s eyes were fixed on Voss, but his growl was for the Duke. ‘Think not of those you care for, nor your stratagems, lest he plu—’