by Jay Kristoff
“She watched me with cool eyes, scratching her she-lion’s ears. ‘So I can—’
“‘Kill people with it. Very clever. You know, someone once told me a man who names his blade is a man who dreams others will know his name one day.’
“‘Good thing I’m no’ a man, Silversaint.’ Saoirse sniffed, green eyes falling on the broken blade at my hip. ‘Is that why ye named it Ashdrinker?’
“‘I didn’t give this sword a name, girl. She came with one.’
“‘An’ so did I. So I’ll thank ye to use it an’ leave that “girl” shite right out.’
“‘Ashdrinker.’ Bellamy cooed the name as he wandered over from the horses. ‘I never thought I’d live to see her in the flesh. They still sing songs about you and that sword in Augustin, Chevalier. The Black Lion and his bloody blade.’ He tipped his cap back, flashed me a smile most would have described as dashing. ‘Good God, the stories I’ve heard…’
“‘An’ what have ye heard?’ Saoirse asked.
“‘My heart sings to hear you ask!’ Bellamy sank by the firepit and took his lute off his back. ‘But there’s no story sweeter than a song, Mlle Saoirse. So, behold! I heard this one in Ossway, in the court of Laerd Lady á Maergenn. They call it, The Battle of Báih Sì—’
“‘No, you fucking don’t,’ I spat. ‘You want to make yourself of use, balladboy, gather more wood. Or I’ll put that lute to proper service and burn it.’
“Young Bellamy flashed me a grin, unflappable. ‘After dinner, then?’
“Père Rafa was well provisioned, and he set a pot boiling, mixing a soup that would’ve smelled delicious if I didn’t have another hunger in mind. I fetched my small chymist’s foundry from my saddlebags, set the cast-iron contraption near the fire to heat. Rafa and Bellamy watched in fascination as I filled the outer sphere with salted water. And with shaking hands, I reached into my greatcoat, withdrawing a glass phial brimming with bright and beautiful red.
“‘What’s that?’ Dior asked, staring across the flames.
“‘All that remains of Danton Voss’s daughter,’ I replied.
“I poured the blood into the foundry’s inner chamber, tweaked the pressure valve. It’d take hours for it to desiccate enough to blend with the other components in my bags, so I took out my pipe and tipped a peck of my dwindling sanctus into the bowl. Just enough to kill the thirst while the good batch cooked.
“‘That’s blood,’ the boy realized. ‘You use blood like them.’
“I struck my flintbox, pipe to my lips. ‘I’m nothing like them, boy.’
“‘The silversaints are good men, Dior,’ Chloe said, wrapping the lad tighter in her furs. ‘They may be born of vampire fathers, but they fight on the side of the light. Sanctus is a holy sacrament, keeping their unholy thirst at bay. Gabriel is a faithful warrior of God.’
“I dragged the smoke into my lungs, and I saw the boy’s eyes widen as my own flushed crimson. The blood was pauper’s quality, but still, I felt that need drift off my bones, all the night growing bright and beautiful, sharp as pins and soft as petals and deep as dreaming.
“Père Rafa made the sign of the wheel. Saoirse watched with curious eyes. Bellamy’s gaze was on Ashdrinker as he strummed a few chords, and I sighed red, red smoke.
“‘How long have those inquisitors been hunting you, Chloe?’
“The sister met my eyes. Dragging a curl from her cheek, she glanced around the fire. I felt the secrets under their skins then. It’d been a long time since I’d seen her, but there was history between us, so it stung a little to realize Chloe didn’t trust me as she once had. ‘Almost two months. Since Lashaame.’
“‘And what happened in Lashaame?’
“‘Ye’ve no need for the knowing o’ that, Silversaint,’ Saoirse scowled, her big lioness purring like thunder as the girl scratched under her leather collar.
“‘Do I look a fucking mushroom to you? You’re the people who asked me to this dance, so if you plan to keep me in the dark and feed me shite all day—’
“‘I dinnae ask ye the color o’ sky, Silversaint. Yer here at the sister’s request, nae mine. And if ye’ve a will to plod along with us to the Volta and chock that sword at the bastards tryin’ to gaff us, so be it. But ye know as much as ye need to fer that.’
“Bellamy gave an uncomfortable cough. I glared at Chloe, but she remained mute. She was saved from a bollocking by the intercession of Père Rafa, who tapped his steaming cook pot and smiled. ‘Soup’s ready.’
“The priest served his fare in wooden bowls, and after a day without a morsel, I had to admit it smelled good enough to marry. I put my back against one of the broken walls, all set to tuck in when Rafa cleared his throat and held up the wheel strung about his throat.
“All about the fire bowed their heads, eyes closed for the Godthanks.
“‘Heavenly Father,’ Rafa said. ‘We thank you for this bounty, gifted by your hand most divine. We thank you for this fellowship, assembled by your will most holy. We welcome our new friend, Gabriel de León, and we ask you gift the chev—’
“‘Oi!’
“Rafa flinched as a chunk of broken brick crashed into the fire, sparks scattering skyward. He looked to me, silent and shocked as I raised another chunk in warning.
“‘Don’t you pray for me, old man. Don’t you dare.’
“Silence rang around the flames. Rafa glanced to Chloe, watching with worried eyes.
“‘Forgive me, Chevalier. I sought only to seek the Almighty’s bless—’
“‘You want to waste your breath, have at it. Just leave me out of it.’
“‘No breath is wasted that sings the praise of Almighty God. And no—’
“‘—no call unheeded that by faithful hearts is sung to heaven. I know the Testaments, priest. Sell that horseshit to the rubes on prièdi.’
“Rafa glanced to the sevenstar on my palm. ‘Are the sons of San Michon not faithful servants of the Lord most high?’
“‘Servant?’ I scowled, blood-red. ‘Do I look a man on his fucking knees to you?’
“The crackle of flames filled the cold quiet between Rafa and me. I gobbled down my soup, tossed the empty bowl at the old man’s feet, and rose to mine.
“‘You want to spit in the dirt and call it an ocean, so be it. You want to sing songs to the deaf, I’ll find not a care to give. Just keep my name out of your fucking mouth when you do it. You hear me, god-botherer?’
“‘I hear you, Chevalier. And the Almighty hears you too.’
“‘I’ve no doubt he does, old man. I just doubt he gives a shit.’
“I struck my flintbox again, breathed down the last of my dose. Reaching into my saddlebags, I fetched one of the vodka bottles I’d brought from Dhahaeth.
“‘Get some sleep. I’ll take first watch.’
“Hand on Ashdrinker’s hilt, I trudged out into the dark. I could feel their stares between my shoulderblades, but paid them no mind. The night was alive and singing, bloodhymn rushing in my veins. And by the firelight at my back, I heard Dior mutter to Chloe, soft enough no ordinary man would’ve heard.
“‘Faithful warrior of God, my arse…’”
III
MONSTERS WHO WEAR THE SKINS OF MEN
“IT WAS SOMEWHERE near dawn when I awoke.
“The bloodhymn was soft in my veins, stale vodka on my tongue. My slumber had been haunted by dreams that made me wish I’d just stayed awake. I needed sleep, though, curling beneath my furs and trying to burrow back into it. But looking across the embers, I saw Dior’s bedroll was empty.
“Muscles aching, I stood in the bitter chill. The dark before dawn was the kind that seemed made of glass; still and black and sharp. The snow had ceased. Rafa, Chloe, and Bellamy were curled close to the smoldering coals, the horses huddled together for warmth, Jezebel right in the middle. Saoirse had volunteered for dawnwatch, but I could see no sign of her. And kicking Dior’s furs with one silver-heeled boot—oui, they were empty.
; “I checked my foundry by the firepit, saw the fledgling’s blood had reduced down to a thick dark scab. Nudging the contraption away from the heat, I went for a look-see.
“Saoirse’s scent was easy to follow, iron and leather through the mournful trees. I wound my way up the gully, eyes bright in the dark. And perhaps a hundred yards from the camp, I found her, leaning against the corpse of an old oak.
“Dior in her arms.
“Their lips were pressed together in a tender kiss. She was taller than him, arms about his shoulders, the boy’s around her waist. Saoirse’s fingertips traced Dior’s jaw, threading up through his pale curls. The boy pulled her in gently, their kiss deepening. Dior’s hands roamed lower, and Saoirse laughed as he reached the edges of her kilt.
“‘Slow down, flower,’ she whispered. ‘Nae rush.’
“His eyes shone as he smiled at her. ‘You’re beautif—’
“‘Not interrupting I hope?’
“The pair hissed and broke apart, and Saoirse’s axe was off her back in a blinking. Her eyes narrowed with soft rage as she straightened her kilt, lips bruised pink from the press of Dior’s mouth. Behind her, the boy looked aghast, hastily fixing his buttons.
“‘You’re supposed to be on watch,’ I said, staring at Saoirse.
“She wiped her chin and scowled. ‘Ye seem to be watchin’ enough for both o’ us.’
“‘Get a good look?’ Dior demanded.
“‘If the things hunting us strike us unseen in the night, you’re going to get a good look, boy. At your fucking insides.’
“Saoirse shook her head, tucking a knotted braid behind her ear. ‘There’s nae a mouse within a mile of us hasn’t already been marked, Silversaint.’
“‘I waltzed right up behind you, and you’d no ken I was here.’
“‘P’raps not. But she did.’
“I smelled her before I heard her—a hint of feline musk and a low growl at my back. Turning to the dead trees behind, I saw golden eyes, slitted and glittering. As Phoebe prowled out from the darkness, I had to admire the beast—paleblood senses or no, I’d no idea the lioness had been stalking me.
“‘She’d have carved your pretty backside up like saintsday cake if she fancied you a threat.’ Saoirse smiled. ‘Phoebe sees what I don’t, Silversaint. Nae fear with us awatch.’
“Dior had finished buttoning his coat, hissing through clenched teeth. ‘So perhaps you’d best mind your fucking business in future?’
“Cheeks still burning with embarrassment, the lad shot me a look to kill by and stomped back toward camp. I watched him stumbling over uneven ground in the gloom, cursing up a storm. Stone-faced, I turned back to Saoirse’s cold, green gaze.
“‘He’s a little young, isn’t he?’
“The lass leaned on Kindness and tossed her braids off her shoulder. Mute and fierce as the lioness now circling through the rot-roots to my left.
“‘There’s not many lads his age with sense enough to rebuff a tumble from a pretty girl. But I’d have thought you’d know better than to offer one. What are you, twenty? And him maybe fourteen?’
“‘I’m nineteen.’
“‘Oh, well, pardon me all to hell.’
“‘Yer nae his da. Yer nae his friend. Why do ye give a shit, Silversaint?’
“I chewed on that a minute. Saoirse hadn’t been shirking her watch as I’d suspected. That lioness of hers moved softer than I did and probably saw just as well in the dark. So finally, I shrugged. ‘You know, you’re right, Mlle Saoirse. I don’t give a shit.’
“And turning on my heel, I made to leave.
“‘Why are ye here?’ she demanded.
“I turned back to face her. Studying her like hunter to prey. She was tall, broad-shouldered, hard-muscled—she’d likely trained with that axe and shield all her life. Her wolfskin cloak and mail were adorned with trinkets of red moons in crescent, her braids threaded with gold rings. Her leathers were embossed with patterns of entwined claws, the collar about her throat woven of everknots—the same design that graced the neck of her lioness. All that to say, she came from wealth. And perhaps, a little bit of witchery.
“‘Just helping an old friend,’ I replied.
“‘Bollocks,’ Saoirse sneered. ‘Ye were quick enough to turn that old friend aside in Dhahaeth. More concerned with helping yerself to the bottom of a bottle, way I remember it. And yer surely nae stickin’ around out of religious sentiment.’
“‘Same could be said of you.’
“‘Oh, aye?’
“I pointed to the patterns of black and green on her kilt. ‘Took me a while to remember the weave. It’s similar enough to á Rígan. But I met one of your lot at the attack on Báih Sìde. You lied to Chloe and the others. You’re not Clan Rígan. You’re Clan Dúnnsair.’
“Phoebe growled at me, low and deep.
“I bared my fangs at the she-lion and growled right back.
“‘So what?’ Saoirse yawned.
“‘So while you might mime along while old Rafa mumbles the Godthanks, we both know you’ve as much of the One Faith in your whole body as I’ve in my little toe.’
“‘I’ve faith aplenty, Silversaint. Just nae fer Almightys and Martyrs and suchlike.’
“I nodded, looking at the two stripes of ink woven down her brow, eye, cheek. ‘Keeping it all for the Mothermoons, eh?’
“‘I keep it for them who deserve it.’
“‘But that boy is supposed to know the wheres of San Michon’s Grail. The chalice that caught the blood of the holy Redeemer himself. Which begs the question: Why the fuck is a godless pagan risking her life to find a cup she wouldn’t even believe existed?’
“‘Risking my life?’ Saoirse bared her teeth in a bright, feral smile. ‘I risk naught, Silversaint. It’s not my fate to die today. Nor tomorrow, neither.’ She tapped the tattoo on her face. ‘Nae man can kill me. And nae devil would dare try.’
“‘No jest now. Why are you traveling with Dior?’
“‘He’s a fine kisser.’
“‘Depends how raw you like your meat, I suppose.’
“‘Nice and bloody like you, eh, halfbreed?’ Saoirse’s eyes drifted to the pipe in my coat. ‘You know, me grammy warned me about folk like you.’
“‘Folk like me?’
“‘Monsters. Monsters who wear the skins of men.’
“Saoirse stepped closer, just a few inches away now, six foot if she was an inch. I could hear the lioness circling at my back, feel the heat of her breath.
“‘You’ve nae need to know my reasons for being here, Silversaint. We reach the Volta, and ye’ll be back home to yer pretty wife and pretty daughter and a nice deep bottle, no a care in the world. ’Til then, keep yer eyes to yerself and yer opinions likesame, and we’ll get along smashing well. Fair enou’?’
“The slayer didn’t wait for a reply, tossing her braids and stalking past me. The lioness lingered a moment before slinking into the shadows after her mistress.
“Following along behind, I sighed.
“‘Fair enough.’”
IV
ONE CAPITAINE, ONE COURSE
“‘WITH ALL DUE respect, good Father, you’ve your head square up your backside.’
“‘With all respect due you, good Sister, a man my age simply isn’t that flexible.’
“I returned to the gully and found Chloe and Rafa debating around the burning fire. Chloe was finger-combing her hair, head circled with a halo of impossible curls. Saoirse was still out somewhere in the woods, Bellamy strumming his lute—quickly stowed as he heard me stomping back toward camp. Dior was sulking in his furs, dragging on a cigarelle and looking at me with the exact measure of fury you’d expect a fourteen-year-old boy to have for the man who’d just scuppered his chances of getting his taddies tickled.
“‘San Michon is our path, Rafa,’ Chloe was saying. ‘Our answers are there.’
“‘Of that I’ve no doubt,’ the priest replied, stirring a steaming pot. ‘But San Michon
is over a thousand miles away. San Guillaume is far closer.’
“‘San Guillaume is a distillery, Rafa,’ Chloe sighed. ‘San Michon is a fortress. When the Forever King swept through the Nordlund, he took one look at those spires and decided it was easier simply to go around them. It’s there the end to daysdeath awaits us.’
“‘If we’re to trek a thousand miles, we’ll need to resupply. We cannot eat snow, Chloe.’
“‘The good father raises an excellent point, Sister,’ Bellamy said.
“‘But we’ll need to trek weeks out of our way just to get there,’ Chloe said.
“‘The good sister raises an excellent point, Father,’ Bellamy nodded.
“‘Is that fucking potato?’ I scowled, peering at Rafa’s soup.
“‘Oui, Chevalier,’ Rafa nodded. ‘My specialty.’
“‘Of course it is.’
“‘What do you think, Gabe?’ Chloe asked.
“I looked between the pair as I served myself a steaming bowlful. In truth, I didn’t care where they headed—the boy would serve as bait for Danton just as well on either path. ‘I think the best way to steer your ship onto the rocks is to have two capitaines at the wheel. So one of you should take the helm. And the other should shut their noisemaker.’
“Chloe squared her jaw, stared Rafa down. ‘San Michon, then.’
“The old man pushed his spectacles up his nose, scratched the grey stubble on his scalp. ‘As you like it, good Sister.’
“‘Accord!’ Bellamy cried. ‘Huzzah!’
“‘Shut the fuck up, Bouchette,’ I growled.
“We took to our horses, Saoirse leading us through the gloom. Snow began falling again, and we trekked through the wood for two days before spilling onto a muddy northbound road winding into the Ossway. I could see what would’ve been rolling green hills, now run to muck and mushrooms. Another deadwood awaited like a stain on the horizon. We passed a crow-pecked gibbet at a crossroads, creaking in the bitter wind. The word WITCH was carved into the rusting metal. Rafa and Chloe made the sign of the wheel as we passed, Dior staring with his jaw clenched tight.