‘“Why did old Yannick name you Greyhand, Master?”
‘“Mmm. A tale not worth the telling, Little Lion.”
‘“You know, the stonemasons in San Michon have a wager. Whoever learns your real name wins a whole week’s coin without labour.”
‘“Gambling is ungodly. And last I heard it was only three days’ worth.”
‘“It seems your legend grows in the telling,” I smiled.
‘“Legends always do, Little Lion. And ever in the wrong direction. But a man who sings his own song is deaf to the music of heaven. How shall I hear the word of God, if I am in love with the sound of my own voice?”
‘I could feel Greyhand’s quiet confidence. His unshakeable faith. He’d no need for mortal accolade or to strum his own lute – his service to the Almighty was enough, and sweet fucking Redeemer, I envied him that humility. But Talon spoke, eyes on our master.
‘“I’ll tell the story, then. Yannick shared it with me one eve over a cup of wine.”
‘“Ah, such impeccable sources,” Greyhand scoffed. “Drunken gossip around the tankards of San Michon.”
‘But Talon spoke regardless, his voice dropping as he leaned into the tale. “This was back when Greyhand was still an apprentice, see. Tale has it, he and his master were attacked by five coldbloods, deep in an old ruin near Loch Sídhe. His master Michel was slain in the ambush, and Greyhand retreated. But at dawn, he returned alone, nothing but his sword and faith to guard him. And when he emerged from that pit, the ashes of those five leeches were caked so thick on his fists, you couldn’t see his skin. So.” Talon nodded to our master. “Greyhand.”
‘“Mmf,” he scowled.
‘“I note a marked lack of denials, Master,” I said.
‘“What point denial? When the gossips have already made up their minds? When next you tell the tale, Seraph, have me slay a dozen. Makes the number rounder.”
‘“’Tis a heavy burden, Master,” I smiled. “To be a hero.”
‘“Hero,” he scoffed. “Mark my words, youngblood. You don’t want to be a hero. Heroes die unpleasant deaths, far from home and hearth.”
‘I looked into the flames. Thinking about what I was. The fate that had befallen old Yannick, and the madness that awaited us all. Greyhand spat into the fire, flames hissing.
‘“Enough idle chatter. We reach Coste amorrow. What should your fellows know of the town that birthed you, Initiate?”
‘All eyes turned to Aaron as he took another sip, grimacing as he swallowed. Again, the notion that I was stepping into this bastard’s birthden felt like a stone in my belly.
‘“Coste is the richest town in the province,” Aaron said. “Its fortune made in silver and iron. The Baron is favoured at court, friend to Emperor Alexandre. My brother Jean-Luc is capitaine in the Golden Host at Avinbourg. My mother, His Imperial Majesty’s second cousin. And then, there’s me.”
‘“We’ve gained ground on our quarry this last month,” Greyhand said. “It may be our Raven Child awaits us within the walls of Coste. And the Feast of San Maximille falls in two days. No doubt the town will be indulging?”
‘Aaron sneered. “The Baron de Coste is never one to miss a chance to feast.”
‘“Be of good cheer, then. Our quarry is a bon vivant, lured towards the finer things like a bowerbird to shine. If she lurks in Coste’s shadows, she should have occasion to be drawn into the light. So sleep now. Fear no darkness.” Greyhand threw a warning glance to me. “And dream not of heroism, but of faithful service to the Lord your God.”
‘We settled abed. I listened to the crackling fire and tried not to think about the cold, the serpent sleeping across the flames from me. I knew not what awaited us in Coste, nor whether Aaron would try to finish what he’d started in San Michon, but I could sense our prey was near. I’d let impatience get the best of me during our hunt in Skyefall, and I was determined not to fail again. But despite Greyhand’s warning, still I dreamed of glory.
‘Glory, and a smile framed by a beauty spot, and locks of raven black hair.’
II
UNWELCOME GUESTS
‘WE ARRIVED IN Coste the next day, just as the sun was sinking to sleep. The city was a grander affair even than Skyefall; a beautiful sprawl of dark stone and pale roofs carved at the banks of a magnificent waterfall. Winter hadn’t yet turned the falls to ice, but they were almost there – huge sculptures of frozen water hanging over the drop, glittering like diamond. The great city was split in two, three bridges crossing the freezing river. A princely keep sat on a ridge above it all, flying flags of a quartered green field graced with two crossed warhammers – the crest of the famille de Coste. As we rode through the mighty gates, the whole city was ringing with song despite the chill.’
Jean-Fran?ois wordlessly tapped his quill, raising one brow.
Gabriel sighed. ‘The Feast of Maximille the Martyr is the grandest piss-up in the Elidaeni calendar. Less solemn than Firstmas or Wheelsday – the feasts of the Redeemer’s birth and death – it’s one of the most important festivals of the year. Maximille de Augustin was a warlord who, depending on who you believe, either received his commands direct from the mouth of Almighty God, or was just goat-fuckingly insane. Either way, he raised an army and seized control of Elidaen, Nordlund, and Ossway in the name of the One Faith.
‘He was killed in battle by an arrow to the eye, which you’d think would be the sort of thing Almighty God would warn his Chosen One about. But his sons went on to conquer the Sūdhaem and Talhost, finally uniting the warring kingdoms into a single empire under the banner of the Wheel. They forged the Fivefold Throne, carved out the Augustin dynasty, and named dear old Papa the seventh martyr. Folk have been getting bowel-bustingly shitfaced on the anniversary of his death ever since.
‘Aaron pulled his tricorn low as we rode beyond the walls, collar laced high so none could see his face. Some folk were suspicious at the sight of us, making the sign of the wheel as we passed. Others stared with want in their eyes, sensing the beast beneath our skins. But most were into their cups, and paid little mind. Coste was the biggest city I’d seen in my life. Thirty thousand people called it home, and most were in the streets that night. If a vampire hid among this multitude, it’d take the finest hounds to sniff her out.
‘But I fancied us that and more.
‘Riding through those gates, I was struck by how strange a turn my life had taken. Nine months back, I’d been sleepwalking; a blacksmith’s boy with no clue of the future rushing at him headlong. And now, here it was, swathed in black and etched in silver. I confess I’d never felt so alive. A young lion at hunt, nose to the wind. And though I caught no hint of our quarry yet, if nothing else, I was awake.
‘We took the winding roads up the hill, past overfull tavernes and rollicking bawdy houses. Aaron nodded to the keep above. “My stepfather throws a feast for his lords every year on this eve. Those halls shall be crowded with Coste’s finest tonight.”
‘“So you’re planning to wait outside, then?” I growled.