Chapter XIII. Red Ice
XIII
RED ICE
“BLOOD FREEZES WHEN it falls on fresh snow.”
Gabriel’s voice hung in the dark, gaze fixed on the empty goblet in his hand.
“A splash of it will crystalize. Like rubies scattered on a bedsheet, or shards of a broken window on a cathedral floor. Legend had it we killed so many vampires at Crimson Glade that the snows were still stained red thirteen years later. But so much blood was spilled in the streets of Augustin that night, the snows melted to water before freezing solid again. And in the end, we found ourselves fighting on ice.”
He shook his head and sighed.
“Red ice.
“We’d taken back Lastbridge, the soldiers of León pushing slow into Augustin’s streets.
The worst of the wounds I’d suffered were healed now, thanks to the three pipes I’d smoked and the remnants of Phoebe’s blood.
But her loss still cut bone-deep. I fought alongside Lachie like we’d done in days of glory, back when there still seemed a chance of victory in all this.
But the icy red cobblestones were covered in corpses, so many slain I wondered what victory might even look like anymore.
“One thought kept me going. One light in all that darkness.
“The bulk of the legion were stabbing toward Place San Maximille, but some had remained behind to stymie our push.
Every foot we won seemed a mile, yet even in the longest night, the sun must rise, and with it would come a sort of hope—the Dead weakened in its feeble light. And to that grim promise, I clung.
“‘We’re coming, Dior,’ I vowed. ‘Just hold on.’
“But cutting our way into a crossroad a few hundred yards into the city, I felt what little hope I had fade.
The space was broad; the meeting of four roads near a wide canal, once the site of a broad granite bridge leading farther into the C?ur.
The bridge had been destroyed—black ignis shattering ancient stone like the fist of God.
But I saw with horror the solution the Dead had fashioned to replace it.
“Corpses, Historian. Corpses by the hundreds.
The bodies of slain soldiers and thralls, weighed down by their armor and thrown into the canal, piled atop each other until they formed a horrid span of dead flesh over that running water.
The legion had flowed across it, pushing farther into the bleeding city.
But a host of leeches had stayed behind to guard it, their commander now fixing cold eyes on Lachie and me.
“She was drenched in blood, the skull she’d daubed upon her face now lost beneath a mask of dripping red. Some of that blood was Phoebe’s, I knew, rage boiling my veins as she stalked forward, scythe in one hand, longblade the other.
“‘The Lion and his cub.’ Kestrel smiled. ‘Who shall fall first, I wonder? ’
“‘Stay back, Charli,’ Lachlan warned. ‘This is fer Gabe and me.’
“My cousin bristled, soldiers fanning out about her and sizing up the Dead.
“‘There seems enough for all of us.’
“‘I’d not see ye harmed, love. This cunt is the devil herself.’
“‘I will not be sat on the sidelines like some wilting maid, Lachlan á Craeg. If such is your wish, seek a bride whose name be not de León. I stand with my men to the end.’
“‘I asked the kit I slew.’ Kestrel’s eyes fell upon my cousin. ‘Ask now the same of thee. O ashen fool, O mother of slaves unborn, know ye not, what ye now behold? ’
“Kestrel glanced to the horror about her with dripping smile.
“‘This be the end.’”
“Near Voss’s tent,” Celene said, “the snows ran also red. Aaron de Coste and Baptiste Sa-Ismael fought a running battle away from the Forever King’s command post, our mote following in their wake.
Baptiste carried a burning torch, swinging it desperately at anything that moved.
Aaron fought one-handed, the longblade he’d stolen snapped in half on the skin of some Ironheart highblood.
And over his shoulder, thrashing and kicking against his unholy strength, was my niece.
“‘Unhand me, villain!’
“Their escape had been mostly due to surprise—none really expected this son of Dyvok to be foolish enough to attack the brood of the Forever King.
But de Coste and Sa-Ismael had cut a bloody swathe through Ironhearts and tent wall both, bursting out into the night and running now toward the burning city, Patience squealing all the while.
“‘Let me down, I said!’
“‘Hush, child,’ Aaron hissed, dashing through the dark.
“‘When Papa Fabién catches you, he will be so cross!’
“‘We take you to your true father now! Be silent, I beg you!’
“A crossbow bolt flew out of the night, skimming Aaron’s ear.
He cried warning, shoving his husband aside as another hissed through the air.
Baptiste struck the snow, Aaron hurled his broken blade, punching clean through the chest of one of the thrallswords now emerging from the darkness.
Unarmed, Aaron charged the other three, Patience wriggling like a landed fish upon his shoulder.
Even unarmed, one hand holding the shouting girl, his form was brilliant, and in a handful of heartbeats, all three men lay crushed in the bloody snow. But turning to his husband …
“‘Oh God,” Aaron whispered.
“‘I’m aright,’ Baptiste hissed. ‘It’s n-not bad.’
“The crossbow bolt protruded from the blackthumb’s thigh, blood steaming in the night. Patience’s eyes fixed on the sluice of delicious red as Aaron helped his husband to his feet. But torches were cutting through the dark behind now, drawing ever closer.
“‘Can you walk?’ Aaron asked.
“‘I think s-so…’
“Cursing, Aaron dashed back to the fallen thralls. As Patience writhed and hollered, he bound the child in steel, bending the blades of those dead men about her wrists and ankles like manacles, and stuffing fabric into her mouth to stifle her cries. Dragging the bolt loose from his husband’s leg, he made a swift binding of a ripped cloak.
And one arm about his love, the other slinging the hog-tied Patience back over his shoulder, Aaron turned to run.
“‘Whyfore dost thou flee? ’
“Aaron’s jaw clenched, and turning, her saw her. Chocolat curls and gown of translucent lace and eyes of midnight. Prowling like a wolf on the edge of ancient firelight. Hundreds of years her tally. Thousands of murders her sin. Fifthborn Prince of Forever.
“‘Whyfore wouldst thou run from happiness, Aaron Dyvok? ’
“‘Happiness?’ Aaron scoffed. ‘What madness do you spit now?’
“‘No madness,’ Morgane breathed. ‘Truth speak I. ’Pon my royal blood, I vow it. Lay down thine arms and return with me now, and I tell thee true, thou shalt before this year’s end taste happiness beyond thy brightest dreams.’
“‘But I do not dream, madame. Not since I became what you behold.’ Aaron shook his head, blue eyes afire. ‘You can give me nothing I want.’
“‘But to thy love, we can give everything.’
“Morgane’s gaze drifted to Baptiste, dripping blood into the snow.
“‘We can give forever.’
“Aaron’s eyes narrowed. His fists curled closed. More courtiers were slinking from the darkness now, thralls drawing near, torches ablaze. Patience wriggled upon his shoulders, Baptiste whispered his name. But Aaron spoke not a word.
“‘Hast thou not wondered? Why my dread father pushes in a battle he may actually lose? Why he be prepared to sacrifice a legion of Dead built over decades? Consign his children to the fire? Risk his own flesh on the field to attain one single, mortal girl? ’
“Morgane tilted her head.
“‘Hast thou not wondered? The real reason? ’”
Jean-Francois glanced up as Castia fell silent, butterflies taking wing in his long-dead belly.
Here it was at last—the answer his dread Empress sought.
Not some addle-witted nonsense about reunited famille, but the true secret at the heart of Voss’s desire for Lachance.
But into the quiet between them, the silversaint slipped.
“At the crossroads,” Gabriel said, “our advance had halted in the face of Kestrel’s cadre, and against her wall, we crashed.
It was whispered the Iron Maiden had slain ten thousand men, Historian, and while I know how legends can swell in the telling, I’ll tell you now—Kestrel Voss was the most fearsome swordswoman I ever faced in battle.
“She was yet blind in one eye—blown out by Joaquin’s lucky silver shot.
Still wounded as I was, I took her sightless side, Lachie her other.
Ashdrinker yet slept in my scabbard—I dared not risk her against Kestrel’s skin again, fighting instead with some fallen fool’s silvered sword.
All about us, the men of León pushed, battering against her Dead.
“‘Thou art weak, de León. Tired. Old.’
“Kestrel stepped aside my thrust, striking at Lachlan.
“‘Do ye not desire sleep? Darkness? Peace? ’
“Lachie parried her blow, answered with his own, easily thwarted. And with a hiss, she kicked him in the chest, shattering ribs and sending him flying across the cobblestones.
“‘All this can I grant thee.’
“Though our training as ’saints helped keep her out of our heads, still she had a sense of our thoughts.
Not enough to see our blows coming, surely, but enough to see our hearts.
And talking true, coldblood? Kestrel was right.
I was tired. Hurt. Thirsty. Worn all the way down to cracking bone.
I felt like I’d been fighting these things all my life.
“And in the end, what had it got me?
“I know now she was playing me. Preying on the weariness she sensed in mind and body. But that night, it was enough to wrongfoot me. And as my silver-heeled boot came down hard on a slick of that red red ice, it slipped. Just an inch. But enough.
“Palebloods die hard, they say. And Phoebe’s blood still burned in my veins.
But as Kestrel’s longblade pierced my chest, I wager I came as close to death as I’d ever been.
Dark steel sliced up through my ribs, perhaps an inch from my heart.
With a cry I fell, blood spraying like rubies across a bedsheet, collapsing facedown on the cobblestones.