Chapter XIII. Red Ice #2
“Kestrel raised her scythe. But with a crash of silversteel, her deathblow was thwarted. Lachlan stood over me, gasping, the Maiden’s blade caught on his own. And lashing out, his sword split the marble of her cheek to the bone.
“‘Not tonight, Voss.’
“My old ’prentice smiled.
“‘His back. My blade.’”
Celene sighed, rising to her feet. Her motion was sinuous, serpentine, the grace of stolen centuries at her beck. She began to pace, slow, silken, along the rocky shore.
“Across the city, Dior and I now stood before a set of great double doors. They loomed twenty feet high, embossed with images of smiths at work. A basalt statue of Eloise, Angel of Retribution, stood beside them, cupping a font of holy water.”
Jean-Francois raised one brow.
“The Ironmongers’ Guildworks? La Rivière de Fer?”
“Just so.” The Liathe nodded. “The crush in the streets had been tight, and in the end, we had been forced to abandon the Unbound, lifting Dior and carrying her over the rooftops on our back. And now she pounded upon those doors with her fists.
“‘Open up in the name of the Empress!’
“A smaller slot in the doors opened wide, and beyond we saw even wider eyes.
“‘Mlle du Graal?’
“‘Open up, Guildmaster,’ she begged. ‘In the name of God and mercy.’
“The great doors cracked wide, and we recognized the portly man beyond—one of the seigneurs who had taken Dior on her tour of this facility with her Prince not so long ago. He looked at us with fear, Dior with question, a horde of terrified citizens and ironworkers gathered behind him. Though the night outside was freezing, we saw sweat on the guildmaster’s lips, the air within the foundry near sweltering.
“‘Seek you shelter? We have room b—’
“‘The pumpworks,’ she said, grasping his arm. ‘The water you bring up from the Béni for the canals. You heat it with the ironworks, oui? To keep it flowing all year round?’
“‘Oui,’ the little man nodded, utterly baffled. ‘Why?’
“She looked over her shoulder as someone called her name. We saw Prince Philippe dashing down the street with the Unbound and a cadre of soldiers. And behind him, we spied Inquisitrix Maya and a passel of breathless holy men.
“Dior turned back to the guildmaster, fire in her eyes.
“‘Make it hotter.’”
“I lay on the bloody stone,” Gabriel sighed. “Struggling just to breathe.
“My hands were covered in blood, punctured chest slurping every time I inhaled. All around, men were fighting, falling, breathing their last. Ash thick as the snows. And in the heart of the crossroads, Lachie and the Maiden danced.
“Lachlan á Craeg had been raised a son of Dyvok, trained a brother of San Michon. He’d been fighting the Dead more than a decade, and I know not the tally of vampires he’d ended.
But Kestrel had walked fields of battle for centuries.
Like powder and flame they met, steel crashing, sparks flying, snowflakes cleft in two by their blades.
The silver of his aegis burned like holy flame, the Maiden’s eye narrowed against that fire.
But still, she was old when this empire was young, and she had Lachie’s measure.
A blow from her scythe came close to taking his head off, and her longblade opened his forearm to the bone.
Strong as he was, fighting alone, Kestrel would’ve proved his match.
“But Lachie fought not alone that night.
“I’d asked her how she could still hold faith in God after all she’d suffered.
She’d asked how I could doubt it. I’ll never forget that moment.
And with men and coldbloods screaming and dying all around her, Charlotte raised that simple wheel of hand-carved rowan wood about her throat in one hand, stepping toward Kestrel without fear.
“‘The Lord is my shield unbreakable! ’
“The vampire hissed, hand raised against the light of Charlotte’s faith. Lachlan smashed Kestrel’s guard aside, delivering a blow fierce enough to shatter her plate. His greatsword bit deep into her flesh but then snapped, sparks flying, Kestrel staggering.
“‘Charli, I told ye to stay back!’
“‘And I told you, Lachlan á Craeg! I stand with you to the end!’
“He met her eyes, alight with love. A single perfect moment in all that horror.
“‘And I told thee. This be the end.’
“The scythe sang as it came, hurled from Kestrel’s outstretched hand.
The light from that wheel was blinding, but it made Charlotte an easy target in all that dark.
My cousin was many things, Historian; bold and bright and battle-hard.
But she was no paleblood. That dreadful scythe struck home, sinking deep into her chest, far, far too deep, Lachlan roaring her name as she fell, cleaved open like a doe on the butcher’s hook.
“Lachlan screamed. Fury. Heartbreak. Madness unbound. He’d never even kissed a girl before her.
And he threw himself at Kestrel then, utterly unmoored.
Our training to keep the Voss from our heads was drilled into us as boys in San Michon, simple at its heart—fill your mind with noise and nonsense, think not of your intent lest they sense it.
But lost in his rage as he was, all discipline abandoned, Kestrel could read my old ’prentice now.
“I dragged myself off the ice, snorting a draft of sanctus right from the vial, trying to raise my blade.
“‘L-Lachie!’
“He paid no heed, greatsword snapped in two, his broken heart aflame.
But the Iron Maiden was cold as ice. Hard as stone.
Swift as silver. I cried out as her longblade found his belly, spilling his guts across the snow.
I staggered forward, desperate now, tears freezing in my lashes as he twisted, blood spilling down his legs, trying to hold his insides inside him.
“Kestrel raised her sword.
“Lachie met my eyes then. Across those thousand miles between us. I’d raised him up from a pup. Rescued him from darkness. And in that darkest hour, he looked to me again. The brother who’d saved him, and had been saved in kind.
“But h-he was too far.”
The Last Silversaint hung his head. Tears falling as he stared into those dark waters.
“He w-was too far away.”
Silence fell in the cell of Sul Adair. Jean-Francois felt the familiar poison of sarcasm bubbling behind his teeth, a cutting barb just a breath away. But looking to Gabriel, gaze downturned as his tears fell, the historian could summon little will to twist the knife.
Besides, he had a more valuable vein to unearth.
“And Aaron?” he asked mildly, glancing to Celene.
“Hast thou not wondered?” the Liathe replied. “The real reason?”
The question echoed in the cell.
In Jean-Francois’s head.
Pale hands trembling with anticipation.
“So Morgane had asked the Lord of fallen Aveléne,” Celene said.
“And though he knew the Prince of Forever was both his enemy and a liar, truth was, of course he had wondered.
We all had. What was Dior to Fabién? A distant relative, perhaps.
A thorn in his side, certainly. Famille meant much to the Forever King, oui.
But why had Fabién been willing to give so much to own her?
“Yet Aaron shook his head as Morgane asked her question.
“‘Dead tongues heeded are Dead tongues tasted.’
“‘Wouldst thou taste mine, Aaron de Coste? ’ Morgane ran her hands over the translucent lace of her dress, the curves and shadows beyond. ‘Taste more of me? Thou art young in the blood. Yet possessed of a man’s hungers. And thou hast supped not of thy husband in moons for fear of breaking him.’
“Aaron was backing away now, carrying Patience, dragging the wounded Baptiste.
“‘Stay out of my head, whore.’
“‘What if thy husband were unbreakable? ’ Morgane asked, slinking through the dark behind. ‘His heart iron, his flesh marble, his body able to withstand the murderous passion in thee? I see the shadows of the Blackheart’s boudoir on thy soul, Aaron. Know I, what ye did.’
“‘… What do you mean unbreakable?’ Baptiste asked.
“‘Listen to not a word she speaks, love.’
“But the blackthumb ignored his husband’s snarl, eyes on Morgane.
“‘What do you mean, madame?’
“The Prince’s eyes flickered to the blackthumb’s, ruby lips curled. ‘How was it that the first vampires were made, Baptiste son of Ismael? How did we come to be? ’
“‘The Redeemer. With his dying breath, he cursed the ones who killed—’
“‘Not his dying breath. What were his words, Baptiste? ’
“‘Don’t listen to her, love,’ Aaron hissed.
“Baptiste lifted burning torch in bloody hand, whispering.
“‘By this blood shall they have life eternal.’
“‘His blood. The same holy blood that flows in that child’s veins.’
“‘You can use it…’ Baptiste realized, his pulse unmoored. ‘To grant the dark gift, just as the Redeemer did. No caprice of luck. No roll of the dice or threat of decay. You can use it to make vampires of whoever you choose.’”
Jean-Francois lifted his eyes from the page, fixed now on Celene.
“My God…” he breathed.
But heedless of the historian’s elation, the Liathe charged on.
“‘Not I,’ Morgane replied. ‘My dark father alone knows the how of it. The ritual through which forever might be gifted. The place in which that door might be unlocked. And e’en now, he reaches out to seize the key. Lachance will be his. The power to bestow eternity with her. All shall kneel.’ The Prince of Forever lifted one pale hand, beckoning.
‘Come back to the fire, Baptiste. Bring thy love and my sister both. Come back to forever.’
“‘Forever…’
“Baptiste looked to his husband. To the love that cruel fate had denied. His lip trembled, tears rising, the words he had spoken to my brother ringing in his mind.
“What do you think will happen to our love when I’m fifty?
“When I’m seventy?
“‘Aaron…’
“You think he’ll love me then?
“‘You Voss.’ Aaron glowered at Morgane, jaw clenched.
‘You think forever a prize. And all of us for sale. You call yourself royal. You name yourself high. But look around at the ruin you have made of this realm, Majesty. You are carrion eaters, one and all. Bottom-feeders and maggots. And I will be damned if I allow you to damn my beloved beside me.’
“Quick as flies, Aaron snatched the burning torch from his husband’s hand, hurled it at Morgane.
She was quick enough to step aside, but the long train of her gown moved not so swift as she, and in a blinking, the cloth was ablaze.
The vampire shrieked—centuries her tally, but still, all kith fear fire, hungry tongues licking at translucent lace.
“And husband on his arm, my niece on his shoulder, Aaron ran.”