Chapter 42 | Sephania
Sephania
I’m standing at the north end of the eating hall a few days later, staring out at everything and nothing. I’m particularly anxious today, because I feel like everyone is waiting for me to make a decision on when we’re going to act.
Our plan has been going “swimmingly,” as Antones put it.
Silverblood is in circulation. Dhampir are being pumped into wombs thanks to said Silverblood.
Countless letters tell us of the changing affections between vampires and humans, with hardly any bloodshed.
There’s a great transition going on in Nuhav and Olhav, and it can’t be denied.
I imagine Aramastun Wyvox is privy to this change, and that he’s also waiting for the right time to strike the peons working against him. It’s partly what makes my nerves so frayed, wondering when that nobleblood bastard is going to drop the other boot.
In front of me, the eating hall is packed. Hundreds of rebels sit shoulder to shoulder among the numerous benches, which have been rebuilt, fortified, and rearranged since Lukain and Skar’s heated duel blew this chamber apart.
These days, it’s hard to tell who’s a Chained Sister, who’s a Grimson, and who is completely unaffiliated. Everyone commingles. Laughter and conversation fill the hall, food laid out in broad platters, mead and watered-down ale aplenty, sloshing over the rims of mugs, dirtying the ground.
“Not a bad thing we’ve done, eh?” says a voice behind me.
I smile as Antones limps up to me, his cane clacking. “Look how far we’ve come, Ant.”
“Quite good, as your nobleblood mate would say,” he answers with a chuckle. “Seems my foolhardy pacifist enclave might one day become a reality after all.”
“And half of these boys and girls are training with the sword every day, to protect the ones who don’t. Vall, Skar, and Lukain are making sure of it, heading the tutoring. They’re hard-asses, but efficient ones.”
In terms of the peaks and valleys the Firehold has faced over the years, with Old Endolf’s death, Jinneth’s capture, and Alacine Mortis’ attack being a low point, this certainly feels like a high-water mark.
Antones and I have become self-appointed secretaries of Nuhav, sifting through paperwork and liaising with the many guilds and gangs inhabiting the city, to make sure everyone works together and things remain civil.
There are of course transgressions, complaints, and pockets of disputes, because any societal transformation has its share of bumps in the road.
But they largely remain solitary and confined, not spreading or bringing the city to near-daily riots and hangings like they used to.
The Bronzes and Silverknights signaling a truce has certainly helped things remain orderly.
Vanison’s vaunted escape at the eleventh hour put a twist on the truce, yet it was handled easily enough.
Once it became clear the populace didn’t much care to single out a bit player in the silver trade, when his execution was framed with hypocrisy due to the Silverknights doing the same thing he was accused of doing, the issue swiftly died a silent death. The truce remains.
Ant and I revel in quiet camaraderie at the eating hall full of people. A wrestling match breaks out somewhere, drawing an audience. It’s quickly settled.
“Some things never change,” I chuckle, shaking my head.
With a nod, Antones relaxes against the nearest wall, leaning, hanging his cane precariously at the end of his fingertips. “You mentioned three of your men teaching the younglings how to swing a sword. What of your fourth mate, the bald one?”
“He’s been on the Floorboards helping to network with the guilds and gangs. After witnessing Vanison’s escape in the town square, he felt he needed to play a more direct role in simmering nerves.”
“Seems wise.” Antones grunts as he pushes off the wall. “To think, Seph, we’re running the city from the underground. The Grimsons aren’t the undiscussed, overlooked, ignored organization it once was under Master Lukain, full of vagabonds and outcasts.”
“No, I suppose it’s not. We’re still outcasts, Ant. We’re just the good guys now. So long as we’re helping the people.”
“Might be that a new central headquarters is needed for you soon. Something on the Floorboards. Larger. Closer to the people. Your bald dhampir won’t have to play damage control if you’re out among the public.”
I get the hint he’s telling me my time in the Firehold is coming to a close.
I don’t want to dig into that. Can’t we just have this nice thing for a moment, and not speak of the future in such cryptic terms?
“Skar and Lukain would say putting me in the public eye would put me in harm’s way.
Vallan would grunt in agreement. Garroway would make a lewd joke about it.
Probably something about too many cocks being too close to me for their liking. ”
Antones smiles. “You aren’t getting evicted, lass. It was just a thought. Think nothing of it.”
I match his smile, and for a moment, staring at my aging friend with his stooped shoulders and leathery face and bristly gray beard that’s been growing in patches over the past month, I want to hug the man.
Before I can, he says, “There’s other good news, I think. You have a surprise visitor. I nearly forgot why I dragged my gimpy ass all the way out here.”
“Oh?”
He shoots me a mischievous smile that reminds me of the younger Ant, the one who would haul dresses over his shoulder to take to the distraught Grimdaughters down here, to try and show them some semblance of nicety before they were whisked away as broodstock at the Olhavian shadowgalas.
Yes, I think, we truly have come a long way, dear Antones.
Captain Rirth waits for me in Antones’ personal living quarters.
The vertically challenged man has a head newly shaved of hair, bristling at the ends, and there’s a slight tilt to his lips.
He seems . . . different. Not quite as scowly and angry as he’s been ever since I riled him from his drunken stupor, gifted him a silver dagger, and inadvertently set this whole Silverknights operation into motion.
“Rirth,” I say warmly, walking forward to greet the man.
Though I’m a head taller than him, he still has an intimidating aura because I know how good he is with a sword.
That, and he’s quite handsome, even in his middle age now.
There are deep grooves in his cheeks, a firm mouth and set jaw, and deep, chestnut eyes.
I hesitate a few feet from him, not sure if we should embrace or if we’ve crossed that threshold yet in our tenuous alliance.
At the end of the day, my mates are still his enemies. And his Silverknights can’t be trusted to do the right thing—not if the Truehearts are involved. They follow Rirth, and Rirth is but a man, not a paragon.
“Well met, Sephania,” he says with a formal dip of his chin. “Will you walk with me?”
We leave Ant’s quarters and head through the halls, walking abreast. When it gets narrow, he takes the lead, and when the corridors widen, we resume our lax pace.
“The first battles have begun outside the eastern flank of Olhav,” Rirth explains to me like the general he is, the general he’s become.
He raises a hand before I can express shock, adding, “Skirmishes, so far. Nothing centralized or too concerning. The Three Ministries’ army is growing antsy.
They see the changing lines on the field, and know something is up with the commonblood vampires. ”
“Do you still hold the same hate for them, Rirth, after seeing how Silverblood has the ability to change them?”
“Of course,” he grunts. “Once a bloodsucker, always a bloodsucker.”
I chuckle nervously. I’m not sure how this is “good news,” as Antones put it. To me, it feels like Aramastun is finally dropping the aforementioned Other Boot.
“It’s not the skirmishes concerning me. Not yet.
” He furrows his brow, waving the torch in his hand with a brushstroke of orange across the darkness.
I notice we’re walking deeper into the Firehold, past our territory, and deeper into the underground city labyrinth. “No, it’s something else I’ve noticed.”
“What is it, Rirth? I need to know.”
“My soldiers have noticed something on the eastern front. We’ve communicated with your allies in the various countryside castles—thank you for telling us which ones we can trust, by the way—and they’ve noticed the same thing we have: a swelling of inhabitants along the eastern ward in Olhav.”
My head lurches. “That’s . . . the Faith Ward.”
“Sure.” He shrugs. It’s all the same to him. Olhav is one big clusterfuck of rampant vampirism that must be quelled.
To me, it’s passing strange. Valenthia Yurlyth’s district has always been the least-talked-about, most clandestine and eerie territory on the Peaks. The Faith Ward is to Olhav what the Grimsons has historically been to Nuhav. Secretive, mysterious, dangerous.
My mates blowing up one of their towers to kill Cyprilis’ rapists certainly didn’t help our relations with the Sister of the Damned. As I understand it, that decrepit tower held some significance to their twisted faith.
“We’ll keep an eye on the Faith Ward, see what it means,” Rirth promises.
He stops at a fork in the road. I become aware this is near the same place Skartovius and I, uh, apologized to each other .
. . with Lukain and Garroway joining shortly after our sweaty apologies.
“For now,” the captain says, “I have another surprise.”
With my nerves jumbling all over again, fully aware this was the man who betrayed Vanison Shirin, I hear padded footsteps—
And look over to see Palacia exiting the same alcove Skar and I defiled.
The slight vampirex is dressed in a regal golden gown and looks better than she ever has, with her beautiful face crowded with rosy rouge that makes her look like she’s been Liolen Sesk’s makeup mannequin.