Empire of the Vampire

by Jay Kristoff

  “And besides, she was right. Forget enchanted. By then, I was damn near enthralled.

  “‘Have you ever heard the word sanguimancy?’

  “‘No. It sounds some measure of blood witchery?’

  “‘I don’t know what it is. But apparently, it’s a gift that’s been passed to me.’

  “‘But … you’re frailblood, aren’t you?’

  “I chewed my lip, remembering the tingle of her fingertips across my skin as she inked the lion on my chest. I reached down to my right hand, toying with the ring my mama had given me as a boy. Wondering why she hadn’t just given me the truth instead. ‘Seraph Talon told me I was frailblood. But Greyhand suspects I’m descended from another kith bloodline altogether. A fearsome one, and ancient, thought extinguished centuries ago.’

  “Astrid leaned forward, intrigued. ‘Your father…?’

  “‘I never met him. But I came here tonight in the hope I’d discover something of all this in these archives. I can’t ask Greyhand. He already lied to me about it. He and Talon were talking about killing me for it. But I need to learn about this sanguimancy if I’m to master it and understand the truth of what I am. The last seven months I’ve wandered about here thinking I was the lowest of the low. And now I discover I’ve some gift that might make me the greatest silversaint ever known?’

  “One eyebrow rose. ‘And is that what you want? To be great? To be known?’

  “‘My sister was murdered by a coldblood,’ I said, tone growing fierce. ‘She was twelve years old. And instead of being left to rest in her grave, Amélie rose again, nothing but a monster herself. If by being here, I can save one child, spare one mother the hell of what mine suffered, I’ll do whatever I can to do it well. And damn right I want to be fucking great. Don’t you? Don’t you want your life to count for something? To matter?’

  “‘More than anything.’ Her eyes were brief fire as she looked to the window. She whispered then, and her words sounded more like a prayer. ‘I’d tear the wings off an angel to fly this cage. I’d claw down the sky to carve my name into this earth.’

  “I nodded. ‘One day as a lion is worth ten thousand as a lamb.’

  “The sisternovice tilted her head, looked me over.

  “‘Interesting,’ she murmured.

  “‘What is?’

  “‘You are.’

  “I turned my eyes to the rows of countless tomes on the shelves about us. All those silent secrets. Astrid drummed her fingers on the book beside her.

  “‘Ask nicely,’ she said.

  “‘… What?’

  “‘There are far too many books in here for you to search alone. Even if you’d a thousand nights and could read all the languages they’re written in. And any day, you’re like to be sent off on another Hunt. So you’re thinking to yourself, If she’s already looking for word about daysdeath, she might keep one eye open for mention of this gift of mine?’

  “‘… You’d do that? Why?’

  “‘Perhaps I appreciate that you stepped to my defense in the stable that day. Perhaps your tale of your sister touched my black and withered little heart. Perhaps I just like those pretty grey eyes of yours.’

  “‘Or perhaps you like the idea of me owing you favors? Like Kaveh and Keeper Logan and God knows who else?’

  “Her lips curled into what was perhaps the first true smile she’d gifted me all night. ‘You know, privy-diving aside, you’re actually quite clever for a peasant boy.’

  “I rolled my eyes again. ‘Why do I feel like I’m striking a bargain with the devil?’

  “‘Oh, I’m twice as crafty as the devil, Gabriel de León. But we’ll not be striking anything lest you ask me nicely.’

  “‘What does that even mean?’

  “‘Say please, of course.’

  “I looked at her there in the gloom, again struck with the feeling that Astrid Rennier was toying with me. Back in Lorson, a lingering look was all it took to win favor from most of the lasses in my village. But here in Astrid’s presence, I felt a particularly plump mouse bargaining with an especially hungry cat.

  “But she spoke truth. This archive was too vast for me to search alone. And so, I got down on one knee. And I took her hand. And again, I brushed my lips against her knuckles.

  “‘Please, Majesty.’

  “‘Majesty?’ she scoffed.

  “I shrugged. ‘You’re a fucking queen, remember?’

  “She looked me in the eyes, her own glittering as she smiled.

  “‘Oui. We shall get along famously.’”

  Gabriel fell silent, refilling his drink. Lost in remembrance of an angel’s eyes, a devil’s smile. Despite the wine, the memory was sharp as broken glass. He feared he’d cut himself if he lingered in it too long. And yet he remained, holding tight as he could.

  “De León?” Jean-François finally asked.

  “We stayed up for hours,” he said, pale grey eyes coming back to focus. “Reading in silence. It’s strange how much you can learn about a person by just sitting together and shutting your fucking mouth. Astrid Rennier read swiftly, and in at least a dozen tongues. She sat straight-backed like a lady of breeding, swore like a taverneful of Ossian sailors, and chewed her fingernails like a girl with far too many secrets.

  “As she warned, most of the forbidden section read like the rantings of moonstouched fanatics. But I knew this search might take months. And so, undeterred, perhaps an hour from dawn, Astrid Rennier and I said our farewells.

  “‘Godmorrow, Initiate.’

  “‘Will you be back again this eve, Sisternovice?’

  “Astrid smiled. ‘That enchanted, are we?’

  “‘I’ve a will to get to the bottom of this swift as I may.’

  “She inclined her head. ‘I sneak out most nights for a smoke. If you think I’m bitchly now, you should see me after a few days without a pipe. I arrive around midnight. If you’ve a notion to meet again, might I suggest you climb through the roof on your return to Barracks? The tiles are old in this place. They come away easily.’

  “‘Merci, Majesty.’ I bowed. ‘God go with you.’

  “She curtseyed like a lady at court. ‘And you, Initiate.’

  “With nothing else to say, we stole out the front door, which Astrid locked firmly behind us. I’d no ken where she’d got her keys, but I suspected she’d lie if I asked. The wind was freezing after the Library’s shelter, cutting through my coat like knives as we parted.

  “Mornbells rang in the Cathedral belfry, rousing cooks to the kitchens, brothers to the breadbasket. I’d lingered longer than intended—I was supposed to report to the stables for my first date with a barrow and fucking shovel. I could see Logan by the sky platform, silhouetted by his chymical lantern. Cutting across the monastery, I approached as if from Barracks, hands in my leathers. The thin gatekeeper grunted greeting in his Ossway brogue.

  “‘Fairdawn, young cub.’

  “‘Godmorrow, good Keeper. I’m to report below to—’

  “‘Aye, aye, Greyhand tol’ me all aboot it. Yer first ’unt sounded a dark one, laddie. Dead chil’ren and all. Bad business.’ The keeper spat on the winch and unlocked it, squinting at my swordarm. ‘Decided what ye’ll ’ave inked yet?’

  “I shrugged, climbing aboard the sky platform. Skin tingling as I wondered if Astrid would again do the inkwork. ‘Almost.’

  “‘Well, my congratulations, young’un. Not all survive the Trial of the ’unt. An’ you pay nae mind to what those other lads say behind yer back neither. Yer blood might be thin as watered Sūdhaemi cat’s piss, and yer stock might be sheep-rutting Nordish trash, but yer doin’ God’s work. When ye die, I’ll say a prayer o’er yer stone, sure and true.’

  “‘… Merci, good Keeper.’

  “‘Too right, laddie.’

  “Logan gave a toothy grin and lowered me down. The valley was still shrouded in gloom and freezing mist, the platform alighting with a heavy thump. Kaspar and Kaveh would usually be at work already,
but Greyhand had informed the grooms of my punishment as promised. A shovel and barrow sat in the snow before the stable gates, a note pinned to the unlit lantern within.

  “GATE UNLOCKED. DOWN AFTER MORNMEAL. MERCI!—K & K

  “Cursing beneath my breath, I hung the lantern from the barrow, and wheeled through the creaking gates. I spared a hello for Justice, giving him a long hug and one of the sugar cubes he loved so much.

  “And spitting on my hands, I started shoveling shite.”

  IX

  BLOOD ON THE STAR

  “SUCH WAS TO be my life for the next two weeks. Horseshit in the morning, training during the day, and after a few hours of stolen sleep, dusty tomes and the company of Sisternovice Astrid Rennier. Truthfully, I could conjure worse ways to spend my evenings.

  “The days were another matter.

  “Even though we were only newly returned to San Michon, Greyhand gave Aaron and me no reprieve. Instead, he’d set us straight to work in the Gauntlet, working us until we were dripping, despite the chill. Though I knew Greyhand might have ended me if Khalid had ordered it, the fact that I’d not been taken to the Bridge told me his wisdom had won out over Talon’s fears about my lineage. Cruel and hard as Greyhand could be, he’d spoken my praises to the seraph in the Foundry. Some part of me yet wanted to please him. The rest of me just feared him. In truth, I knew not where I stood with my master now.

  “A few other initiates were returned from the Hunt, and the Gauntlet was almost crowded. We were training one day; de Coste and his fish-faced crony de Séverin working on the Scythe, me pounding away at the Thorned Men with young Fincher beside me. Our form was being studied by the watchful eyes of Greyhand and Fincher’s master—a hulking brother with a booming voice named Frère Alonso.

  “Alonso was broad, dark-haired, Nordish born. A long, jagged scar was torn down the left side of his face, giving him a frightening, feral mien. He’d cast off his greatcoat, revealing heavily scarred arms covered in beautiful portraits of the Mothermaid, Raissa the Angel of Justice, and my namesake, Gabriel, Angel of Fire. He watched Finch and me like a hawk, sipping occasionally from a silver flask.

  “‘You’re dragging that foot again, de León,’ Greyhand warned.

  “‘Oui, Master,’ I said, shifting my stance.

  “‘And tie those pretty locks back properly, or I’ll shear you like a sheep.’

  “‘Your boy moves well, Greyhand,’ Alonso muttered. ‘For a frailblood.’

  “I felt my hackles rise at that, pausing in my bladework to bow. ‘Merci, Frère. The highblood I kicked the shite out of in Skyefall single-handed certainly thought so.’

  “‘Enough of that, de León,’ Greyhand growled. ‘Pride is a sin.’

  “But big Alonso only chuckled as he took another swig. ‘You’ve spirit too, lad. Nordish fire. Think you’ve enough to best young Fincher here?’

  “I looked to my fellow initiate as Finch paused his practice, staring at me with his mismatched eyes. He was swift and sharp, but shorter than me. He had no reach. And the Voss blood in his veins wouldn’t make a difference to his bladework.

  “‘Enough to best Fincher,’ I declared. ‘And every initiate in this Gauntlet besides.’”

  Jean-François raised an eyebrow. “Really, de León?”

  “What can I tell you?” The silversaint shrugged. “I was still feeling a little full of myself after taking down the de Blanchet boy. But more important, I’d worked my arse off in that circle, and I was sick of being treated like shite for the blood in my veins. Especially if I wasn’t a frailblood at all.

  “Greyhand glowered at my boasts, but Alonso roared with laughter.

  “‘The balls on this little bastard! Come on then, Finch! In the circle. You lads!’ Alonso bellowed to de Coste and de Séverin, holding up a shining coin from his pocket. ‘We’ll have ourselves a tourney, eh? A gold royale for the victor, I say!’

  “Greyhand frowned darker, but if my mouth was big enough to bury me in shite, he wasn’t the kind to dig me out of it. De Coste and de Séverin made their way across the circle, standing at the edge of the pale sevenstar. Fincher squared up against me, lips pinched thin. Glancing to his master, he spat on the cold stone.

  “‘I’ma have to kick yer arse now, Lil Kitty. Nae offense, like.’

  “The boy moved quick as flies, darting forward and slashing at my throat. But swift as spiders, I blocked his strike, skipped sideways, and struck his sword from his hand.

  “Stepping back, I let him retrieve his blade.

  “‘None taken.’

  “Fincher scowled, slicing his sword through the air. He came on again, more cautious this time, weaving a blinding strike pattern, head, chest, head, belly. But I knew this song. I’d sung it so often by then, it was burned into my bones. Steel was mother. Steel was father. Steel was friend. And I struck the sword from Fincher’s hand again, and with a savage jab from my elbow, split his lip all the way to his chin, dropped him to the circle floor. Standing over him, I leveled my blade at his throat, heart thrilling at the sight of his blood.

  “‘Yield, brother.’

  “Fincher wiped at his split lip. ‘Best two ae three?’

  “‘Kittens can’t count that high,’ I smiled.

  “Finch glanced to his master, then grumbled. ‘Yield, then.’

  “I offered my hand, helped him up off the ground. Finch winced and rubbed his jaw, but to his credit, he didn’t seem too dark on it. Frère Alonso smacked broad hands together and grinned. ‘Fine strike, de León. Fincher, it seems we’ve work to do.’

  “‘Aye, Master,’ the lad muttered, eyes downturned.

  “‘De Séverin, you’re next,’ Alonso crowed, eyes on the bigger lad. ‘Let’s test this frailblood’s measure against a Dyvok, eh?’

  “De Séverin glanced to Greyhand as if to seek permission, but again, my master made no move to stop any of this. My mouth, he figured. My trouble. And so, the big nobleson hefted his training blades, smirked to de Coste, and strode onto the star.

  “De Séverin’s tunic was unlaced, and I could see a roaring bear etched across his chest—the sigil of the Blood Dyvok. All palebloods were preternaturally strong, but the Dyvok lads were fucking terrifying. Most wielded two-handed blades with only one, and there was an unspoken rule that they train with wooden swords in the Gauntlet, lest they cut their sparring partners in half.

  “De Séverin lifted blades big as small trees, one in each hand.

  “‘Au revoir, frailblood.’

  “The blades boomed as they cut the air, scything just shy of my head. I skipped backward, eyes wide as de Séverin came on like thunder, no room for quarter. We danced for a time, him swinging with measured fury, me staying out of his range. De Séverin’s blades were six feet in length, his strength fearsome, though truth told, he was mostly brawn, little finesse. But more, and truer still, there’s just no one with more to prove than the boy at the bottom of the pile. You feed a man your table scraps, he grows hungry long before he grows thin. And hunger can turn pups into wolves, and kittens into fucking lions.

  “I sideslipped a strike from de Séverin’s true hand, turned aside a blow from his off, and stepped inside his reach. This close, those big swords were too unwieldy, unholy strength or no, and he was too slow to stop me from bringing my pommel up into his jaw, sending him flying backward in an arc of saliva and brilliant blood. De Séverin struck the stones hard, spitting curses. And standing over him, I lowered my blade to his throat.

  “‘I yield,’ the boy growled, fangs glinting.

  “Alonso raised a bushy eyebrow at Greyhand. ‘Scrappy little bastard, this one.’

  “‘For a frailblood,’ I said, chest heaving.

  “Alonso smiled crooked at that, scar twisting his face. ‘De Coste. You’re next.’

  “‘I think we’ve seen enough,’ Greyhand said.

  “‘Ah, come now, brother,’ Alonso grinned. ‘A splash of claret is good for the—’

  “‘I said enough,
’ Greyhand repeated, meeting Alonso’s eyes. Though he was smaller, slighter, my master’s tone brooked no dissent. ‘These are my apprentices both, brother. I’ll not have them blooding each other for no good reason.’

  “I had to respect that—the fact Greyhand was ever looking out for us, despite his mask of cold cruelty. But there was still ill feeling between de Coste and me, so thick we could have cut it with our training blades. His beating and threats still burned in my memory. And I could see he was still salty about being overshadowed in Skyefall.

  “‘Master,’ he said. ‘I’ll happily teach this—’

  “‘I said no, Initiate. And I’ll not say it again.’

  “I stared into Aaron’s eyes, my lip curling. ‘Angel Fortuna smiles on you, dog.’

  “‘… What did you call me, Peasant?’

  “‘You threw me a dog punch the other day, and you know it. Come at me straightwise, I’d knock your fucking teeth out of your skull. You’re a coward, de Coste.’

  “And that was all it took. Aaron came at me, hammer-hard and serpent-swift. His handsome face was twisted with rage, and he swung at my throat as if he genuinely wanted to kill me. I knocked aside his blow, but he crashed into me, and like a pair of five-year-olds, we fell to brawling. Aaron grabbed my tunic, buried his elbow in my throat. I mashed my knuckles into his mouth, smiling as I felt his lips split against his fangs.

  “‘Enough!’ Greyhand grabbed our necks and dragged us apart. De Coste and I scrabbled for a moment more, until Greyhand dropped me on my arse and shoved Aaron backward with a snarl. ‘You are not mongrels in a robber’s yard!’

  “‘He fucking started it!’

  “‘And I’ll finish it too, you frailblood bastard! I’ll fucking kill you!’

  “‘Enough!’ Greyhand bellowed.

  “The rage in our master’s voice brought us to heel. Aaron and I stared at each other across the circle while Alonso, Finch, and de Séverin looked on in silence.

  “‘Remember yourselves, and where you are!’ Greyhand demanded. ‘You are initiates of the Ordo Argent! Both of you! Brothers in blood and silver. Your lives might be in each other’s hands one night. Never forget, the Dead care not for our creed or kin. To them, we all taste the same! Now make your pax!’