‘A monastery, Ashdrinker asked, or a mausoleum?
‘More bodies. Dozens and dozens, most dressed in monk’s robes. They’d been dead a week or so by the look, left to rot where they fell. The floor was thick with rats, black-eyed and plump. Crows sat upon the bodies, pecking at treasures in half-frozen troves. More men were strung up on the walls in here, inverted like those poor bastards on the battlements.
‘“Bladework,” Bellamy reported, kneeling by one of the bodies.
‘“The men on the walls look flayed to the bone.” I spat the taste of death off my tongue, my belly aching. “Tortured and left to bleed out.”
‘“What in God’s name happened here, Gabriel?”
‘“A massacre …”
‘“Silversaint.”
‘I looked to Saoirse, standing on the battlements above the gates. The slayer was pointing to the bodies and bloodstains on the bailey floor. It wasn’t until I climbed the stairs beside the gatehouse that I understood what she saw. From the ground, it appeared a simple carnage, but from on high, there was a method to this madness. Stomach turning, I realized the corpses were arranged in a pattern – a grim signature in dead meat.
‘Flower and flail, flail and f-f-flower.
‘I nodded. “Naél, Angel of Bliss.”
‘“This is the work of the Holy Inquisition,” Bellamy whispered.
‘“Oh, dearest God …”
‘I glanced downwards at the moan, saw old Rafa in the gateway, dark skin blanched with grief. He stumbled into the bailey, holding the wheel at his throat so tight I thought the silver might bend. “Oh Heavenly Father, what hell is this?”
‘He ran to the closest corpse, the rats scattering. Falling to his knees, he turned it gently, a long, shuddering moan slipping over his lips. “Ohhhhhhhh, no. Alfonse …？” He turned to another body, just a boy by the look, and Rafa’s face crumpled like old vellum in a tightening fist. “Jamal? Jamal!”
‘He seized hold of the body, rotting and lolling in his arms.
‘“What is this? WHAT MADNESS IS THIS?”
‘“Rafa!” Chloe ran to the old man’s side, horrified. The priest clutched her, spittle on his lips as he began to come apart at his seams. “Oh, Rafa, Rafa …”
‘“Ch-chloe, th-this is Jamal. He … writes poetry. H-he … Oh, God … oh God …”
‘Dior stood at the gates, sleeve pressed to his lips. A bitter wind blew in from the valley below, the boy’s magik frockcoat billowing about him as he met my eyes. And he knew it as sure as I did. As sure as the dark sun sinking towards the horizon must set. Every single person in this monastery had been slaughtered. And somehow, some way …
‘“This is because of me,” he whispered.
‘The slayer took the boy’s scarred hand. “Don’t say that, flower.” And as Dior met Saoirse’s eyes, I saw tears welling in his lashes with the truth none could deny.
‘“Saoirse,” I murmured. “Stay here and watch the others. I’ll look for survivors.”
‘Rafa began howling, gut-deep, animal sobs. I shared a glance with Chloe as she pressed the old man to her breast, hushing and rocking him like a mother might. The atrocity of it all was etched in her eyes, bloodshot and brimming, and my jaw was clenched as I lifted Ashdrinker and strode into the library.
‘The door was burned to char, old smoke in the air. Ashes danced about my boots, windows blacked with soot. My heart sank, some part of me aching worse than I had at the sight of those slaughtered men. The sword in my hand whispered, silver and full of sorrow.
‘Blasphemy …
‘Books. Thousands of books. Brass-trimmed codices and woodblock cuts. Vellum scrolls and parchment tomes, each illuminated by loving hands. And they’d been hurled like dross to the library floor, and there, set ablaze. Every one of them. Burned to fucking ashes.
‘I knelt by the charred pile, flipping through ruined pages. The knowledge of geniuses, holy men and heathens, thousands of truths and thousands of lies, each of them a story worth the telling. And now, they were nothing but soot in my mouth as I whispered.
‘“A life without books is a life not lived.”
‘Searching the other buildings, I found only bodies and the leavings of lives undone. Plates with half-finished meals. A partly woven wreath in a monk’s cell, never to be completed. I trudged out of the empty cathedral, my thirst stabbing at the relentless scent of old, wasted blood. Fountains carved in the likeness of angels spilled brackish water into long ponds. Beyond the cathedral, a tall wall ran along the lips of the cliffs. Beyond it, a drop waited, perhaps a hundred and fifty feet, down to the frothing rivers below.
‘Rafa stood atop it, looking down into those grey, freezing waters.
‘As I walked to the battlements beside him, the old priest met my eyes. He clutched the wheel strung about his neck, rubbing the silver between his fingers. His face was harrowed, cheeks wet with tears. I said not a word. I’d none in me for horror like this.
‘And then … music.
‘It began soft at first. A few notes echoing on bloodstained stone. But the chords slipped together into a bar, and the bar wove itself into a tune, and soon, I stood silent and amazed as that smattering of notes reached into the awful stillness and filled it.
‘Young Bellamy was sitting up on the wall, playing his lute.
‘But not just a song. A spell. Begun in the string-struck spiral of a melancholy refrain but ending, shivering upon my skin and loosing the anchors on the whole of my heart. It was a song I’d never heard like of, a song that might make stones weep and the wind cease its sighing for fear of missing one gentle, soul-sick moment. It was ache and longing, fulsome and wanting, each swell and shift sweeping you higher as it spoke – through no tongue of man or way as weak as words – a truth beyond telling. A sorrow-sweet circle, like the pearl-white crescent of angel wings, curving upwards towards crescendo and then down, soft and softest, back to those same few ember-warm notes that began it all. It whispered at the edge of hearing, and it pressed lips smooth as silk to your aching brow and told you that though all things must have their ending, so too must then end darkness, and here, now, in this bright and blessed moment, you were alive and breathing.
‘Bellamy struck one final chord, like the warmth of a kiss lingering after the lips have left your own. And he hung his head and was still. Chloe sat with face upturned, weeping. Rafa and I had followed the song back to the bailey, entranced, Dior mopping his lashes on his sleeve. Even Saoirse was pawing at her eyes. And reaching up to my cheeks, I was astounded to find them wet. But somehow, no sadness in my heart.
‘“Seven Martyrs …” I breathed.
‘“That was … beautiful, Bellamy,” Chloe whispered.
‘“Merci, S?ur Sauvage.”
‘“Does it have a name?”
‘Bellamy’s fingers trailed along his silver necklet, lingering on the sixth of the musical notes strung upon it. “A soothsinger must pen seven songs to be considered a master by his peers in the Opus Grande. Seven songs through which they might speak the truth of the world. That was my sixth. Sorrow and Solace.”