Chapter XVI. Toward the Fall
XVI
TOWARD THE FALL
“PEOPLE TALK ABOUT the loyalty of dogs, Historian. But God’s truth, three cheers for horses.”
The silversaint raised his goblet to his lips, only remembering as it arrived that the cup was already empty. And with a heartfelt sigh, he set it aside.
“When I’d walked out onto the Béni the day I’d stolen into the capital, I’d honestly not known if I’d ever return.
And so I’d left my brave Argent untethered by the river, the gelding free to wander as he chose.
But trudging down those broken banks, the shadow of wounded Augustin behind me, astonishingly, there he was.
His hide looked silver in the falling sun, and he snorted for joy when he saw me, stomping one hoof in the snow.
Pressing my brow to his, I whispered, my voice near cracking.
“‘Good to have one brother left.’
“‘You have two.’
“I turned at those words, not daring to hope. Yet there he stood, eyes haunted, hands and cheeks smeared with old blood, his great black steed Eclipse at his back. I’d just helped save a city.
Rescued thousands from the jaws of death.
And still I wondered in that moment what the hell I’d done to deserve a friend like him.
“‘Aaron…’
“He embraced me, squeezing so tight, I couldn’t breathe.
“‘Forgive me, brother. God Almighty, I beg you…’
“I looked about us then, heart running cold.
“‘Where’s Patience? Where’s Baptiste?’
“‘He has them,’ Aaron whispered, his voice trembling. ‘Voss has them both. I failed you, Gabriel, God forgive me. I stole Patience away the first chance I had. Baptiste at my side, just as we planned. We reached the river, but they…’
“He shook his head, bloody tears spilling down his cheeks. And he told me then. Of Baptiste’s fall to temptation, and the awful truth behind it.
The reason why Fabién Voss had pursued Dior across the empire since the moment he learned she lived.
The reason he was prepared to sacrifice an army to hold a single girl in his power.
“‘What matter a legion of foulbloods?’ I breathed. ‘If he can make a legion of highbloods to replace them whenever he chooses?’
“I looked to the falling sun, my very bones gone cold.
“‘My God, we’ll never stop him now.’
“‘Whenever he chooses, perhaps,’ Aaron said. ‘But not wherever, I think. Morgane spoke of it, Gabriel. The ritual through which forever might be gifted, and the place in which that door might be unlocked. I know not where they are bound, brother, but I think it’s only there more highbloods might be made.’
“And I remembered then. My waking dream born of Dior’s blood.
“That hand, rising above the city where the curse was first laid upon the Five.
“‘Charbourg.’ I met Aaron’s eyes, swallowing hard. ‘He’s taking her to Charbourg.’
“‘That sounds a long ride…’
“I turned at the voice, spotting a figure pushing through snow-clad scrub downriver, a gear-laden horse behind him. He was wrapped head to foot in heavy winter clothing, but I knew him for the twinkle in his dark eyes, the Nordish in his accent.
“‘Well, well. Young Joaquin Joaquin Marenn.’
“‘I know I said it twice when we met in Maergenn, but it’s just Joaquin. There’s no—’
“‘Don’t spoil my fun, boy.’
“‘I know you,’ Aaron frowned. ‘You worked the kennels in Aveléne.’
“Joaquin bowed, smiling. ‘Good to see you again, Capitaine.’
“I looked the youngblood over, folding my arms slowly. ‘Awful chilly out here, M. Marenn. Where you headed in weather so grim?’
“‘With you. To save Dior.’
“I raised one brow, eyeing the laden mare behind him. ‘Where’d you get the gear?’
“‘Dead men. They don’t need it. We will.’
“‘The Empress has forbidden any man of fighting age to leave Augustin, you realize.’
“‘I swore to no Empress, Chevalier,’ Joaquin declared. ‘I serve Dior Lachance. And unless you’ve got a few spare silversaints lying about, or some way to get word to Brynne and the army of the Moonsthrone, I’m about the only help you’re likely to get.’
“I glanced to Aaron, who replied with an almost imperceptible shake of his head.
“Too dangerous, his eyes told me.
“‘You’re riding into hell, boy,’ I told Joaquin. ‘With a vampire, and a vampire’s son. You’re as like to get ended by wretched as not. And if they don’t eat you, we probably will.’
“The former houndboy patted his rump.
“‘Then might I suggest you start with my spectacular arse.’
“I couldn’t help but chuckle at that. I did like the swagger on this lad. Yet the youngblood wasn’t smiling anymore, raising forefinger and thumb over his heart.
“‘For the Grail, Chevalier.’
“I glanced to Aaron again. Back to Joaquin. And finally looking north, I sighed.
“‘For the Grail.’”
Silence fell in the belly of Sul Adair, Jean-Francois finishing his chapter with a flourish. The historian’s belly thrilled with the flights of a thousand butterflies, his hands trembling as he reached into his frockcoat to fetch an ink-stained kerchief.
He understood. He understood at last.
Why Voss had coveted Lachance.
What role the Grail had played in the Forever King’s design.
The power in the Redeemer’s blood.
The power to turn kith at will.
The Last Silversaint’s gaze was fixed upon that pale moth, tracing its useless courses upon the chymical globe. But Gabriel glanced up now, face crusted with dried blood, frowning as Jean-Francois began cleaning his quill.
“Going somewhere?”
“I think perhaps we should take a spell,” the historian declared, packing away his writing implements.
“The Battle of Augustin was a tale long in the telling, and noon has come and gone while you shared it. I have affairs that need tending, and you should get something in your belly besides blood and wine, Chevalier.”
“Last meal for the condemned? Your concern is touching.”
“He’s off to sing a lullaby to his Empress of Wolves and Men.”
Jean-Francois looked across the river, bristling. The Liathe was watching from her shadows, black eyes fixed on his, lip curled in a sneer.
“I think perhaps Margot is upset with him. If there is one thing our dear Marquis desires more than the sins of the flesh, it is dear Mama’s approval.”
“Watch your tongue, whelp.”
Celene raised pale hands in surrender, gaze slipping to the fresh torches being handed out among his men.
“You know the Grail’s worth now, Marquis,” she said. “The truth at the heart of her story. But do you really not wish to know how that story ends?”
“I already know how it ends, Mlle Castia. Your brother was kind enough to inform me at the beginning of all this. The cup is broken. The Grail is gone.”
Celene looked to her brother, black gaze aflame. De León had gone suspiciously silent now, avoiding Jean-Francois’s gaze. He could see the lines of pain carved in the man’s features, the set of his shoulders, the dim spark in his eye as Celene whispered.
“Do you not wish to know how he broke it?”
“Go to hell,” Gabriel spat, glancing up.
“You have ensured that, brother mine. Sure and true.”
“Bullshit. You’d earned a hundred eternities in the abyss before I set foot in Talhost.”
“Do you fear what they will think of you, Gabriel?” Celene asked. “Those who’ll read your tale after you’re dead? Pride was always the Black Lion’s greatest sin, no? Are you frightened for them to see that in the end you were nothing but a monster like me?”
Fury flashed in the Lion’s gaze then, and he rose slowly to his feet.
“I am nothing like you.”
“That’s quite enough, Chevalier,” the historian warned.
“You cost us everything!” he spat. “Cost ME everything, and for what? Every lie you’ve hissed, every life you’ve snatched, and what did it get you in the end? A brother who loathes you as much as your worthless fucking God does!”
“Your petty hatred holds no—”
“Petty?” He crowed with laughter, bitter and black.
“Seven Martyrs, there is nothing petty about my hate for you, Celene. Do you not understand that? I don’t just want you dead, sister.
I wish you’d never been born! Every moment of warmth we ever shared is a lie!
Every drop of affection I ever had for you is poisoned!
And the only thing I have left to live for now is the hope I get to watch you die before I do! ”
The siblings stood a few feet apart across that river, but the gulf between seemed an ocean. Jean-Francois was surprised to see bloody tears spilling down the Liathe’s cheeks at Gabriel’s words. Even more intrigued to note the silversaint seemed near crying himself.
“I pray you get your wish, brother,” she whispered.
The silversaint’s lip trembled at that, and he withered back into his chair, hand to his bloody brow. Jean-Francois found himself regarding Celene in silence.
It was true what he’d told her. Though the nature of Lachance’s fall was still unknown, the girl was definitely dead—Nicolette had seen her corpse when she captured the ’saint and his sister, testified to the Empress as to the state of it.
Dead as a rather unsightly doorknob, if he recalled correctly.
And now that Jean-Francois understood Lachance’s power, it mattered little how the girl had met her end.
Her value had been in her blood, and that blood was spilled into the earth now; no use in bringing the other lines to heel.
Politics would have to serve his Empress instead, but she was no novice in that arena.
Jean-Francois was yet certain by convocation’s end, Margot’s reign would be assured.
All that remained was to inform his Empress of the truth. Then perhaps a nice long bath before the evening’s entertainments. But still …
I will miss this when it’s over.
He looked to Gabriel, slumped in his chair.
And it will be over very soon now.
There was still the question of daysdeath’s birth.
The Forever King’s death. A few scant hours remained before the sun set on this pair for the last time, but it would likely be enough to reach this history’s end.
And Jean-Francois supposed if he was chronicling the lives of Gabriel de León and Celene Castia, he owed them a decent finale.
“The sun is sinking,” he declared, chin held high.
“And I have little desire to hear a full and complete accounting of your brother’s monthslong trek through the wastes of Elidaen in the company of his plucky young houndboy and brooding blood brother.
A fellow can only tolerate so many mother jokes. ”
Celene sneered, nodding once.
“I can take you swift to Talhost.”
Black eyes fell on the lion.
“I can tell you what he did.”
“And how do you know, Mlle Castia?”
“Because we were there, Marquis. We were there for all of it.”
Sighing, Jean-Francois returned slowly to his seat.
With a meaningful stare at the empty bottle, a glance to Dario, he sent the thrall off to fetch another.
From his coat, he produced a wooden case carved with two wolves, two moons.
Drawing his long quill from within, he placed a fresh bottle upon the armrest of his chair.
Dipping quill to ink, Jean-Francois looked up with dark and expectant eyes.
Celene drew a deep breath, the taste of an ending in the air.
“Finish it,” the vampire said.