‘“About the road to San Michon?”
‘“About finding some soldiers to escort you there.”
‘“… You mean to come with us?”
‘“I mean there’s bound to be a few of the officers I served with in the Ossway campaigns still hanging around in a fort this big. I can put in a good word. Get you some well-hard bastards to watch your back. A solid horse, some—”
‘“Wait …” She stared hard, all her world falling still. “You’re leaving me?”
‘“Not alone,” I insisted. “These are good men. Veterans. They’ll see you through t—”
‘“You’re leaving me.”
‘I clenched my teeth, hung my head. This wasn’t why I came here. Babysitting this girl wasn’t why I’d left home. I had a famille. A debt, dark as night and red as murder. No matter the blood in Dior’s veins, this task wasn’t mine. I was no believer. No zealot. Prophecies were for fools and fanatics, and after all God had done to me, I was the last bastard alive he’d be choosing to safeguard his own flesh and blood.
‘I had a daughter of my own to think about.
‘But still, the look in Dior’s eyes struck me to the heart. So wounded that I had to turn away. A tear spilled down her cheek – the first I’d ever seen her cry, even with all the blood and pain we’d lived through. And her lip curled, and she looked down to those knife scars carved across her palms, and she sighed.
‘“I fucking knew it—”
‘The door smashed off its hinges, crashing along the floor. I rose to my feet as a dozen soldiers burst into the room, dressed in scarlet, cudgels in hand. Ashdrinker was leaning against the wall, and I lunged for her, desperate. But the thirst was still red and raw within me, my muscles weak as four of the bastards crashed atop me.
‘“Get off me!” Dior screamed. “Let go!”
‘I heard a crunch, a deep-throated squeal that told me someone’s crotch had met Dior’s boot. I thrashed, feeling a jaw pop as my elbow crashed into it. But the cudgels fell like rain, and above the sound of my pulping flesh, I heard slow footsteps coming along the boards towards me. They stopped just before my face, and I squinted through the bloody haze: tall-heeled, knee-high, wrapped in strips of spiked hide. My eyes roamed the leather-clad legs beyond, up to their owners.
‘Their hair was black, cut in pointed fringes, eyes hidden by tricorns with short, triangular veils. Ornate black gauntlets covered their right hands, fingertips sharp like claws. And my belly ran cold as I saw that their blood-red tabards were marked with the flower and flail of Naél, the Angel of Bliss.
‘The first inquisitor stalked into the room, lifted Ashdrinker from the floorboards where she’d fallen. “You’ve done the Almighty’s work this day,” the woman declared.
‘“Merci, godly daughters,” said the second, glancing over her shoulder.
‘I heard Dior curse as I saw two refugee lasses in the doorway, staring with eyes of old sky blue. The eldest nodded, made the sign of the wheel. “Véris, Sisters.”
‘“You treacherous fucking sows!” Dior roared. “I saved your papa’s life!”
‘The first inquisitor slapped Dior. The girl’s head whipsawed on her shoulders, blood spattering. “Silence, witch. You’ve led us a merry dance. But now the song is done.”
‘I sighed, looking up at the other. She was staring at me, finger toying with the ragged boulette hole in her tabard. “Had a f-feeling I’d see you bitches again.”
‘“Bitches?”
‘The woman smiled, lifting her foot.
‘“Oh, the hymns we shall sing, heretic.”
‘And her boot came down like thunder.’
VI
CHURCH BUSINESS
‘ICE-COLD WATER CRASHED into my face, and black flared into burning white.
‘Sputtering, spitting, I tossed sodden hair from my eyes. I was in a dark room, freezing – underground, from the sound. Iron hooks were fixed in the rafters. The walls were red stone, and through the heavy door, I could hear women singing hymns above.
‘This was no prison cell, I realized. I was beneath the San Cleyland Priory mostlike, in what looked to be their old meat cellar.
‘And I was the meat.
‘I’d been stripped naked, wrists manacled, dangling from one of those iron hooks so only the tips of my toes touched the flagstones. My head was throbbing, my thirst a living, breathing thing. The inquisitor who’d danced on my skull stood before me, clad in black leathers and her blood-red tabard. She still wore her tricorn, features mostly hidden by her veil, but I could see red lips, curled and cruel.
‘Her sister was nowhere to be seen, but a brick mansion of a man stood at a butcher’s bench along the wall. Beside a bundle wrapped in burlap, I saw an impressive collection of real and makeshift torture implements. A ten-tail whip, a bonesaw, a hammer, thumb screws. A poker was thrust into a brazier of burning coals, the iron red-hot.
‘“All the makings of a jolly weeksend,” I hissed.
‘The inquisitor tilted her head. “You can last longer than that, surely.”
‘“My wife b-been telling stories about me again?”
‘“Your whore, you mean?”
‘My face darkened at that, my soft smile vanishing.
‘“Oh, oui,” she said. “We know who you are. What you are.”
‘“If that were true, you’d be speaking more polite about my wife.”
‘“I am S?ur Talya d’Naél.” She raised her right hand, scraping one iron claw along my whiskers. “It will be a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
‘“Where’s D-dior?”
‘The inquisitor ignored my question, eyes shining behind her veil. “You … shot me.”
‘“Not well enough, apparently.”
‘“It hurt. A very great deal.” She dug the claw in, lifting my chin and staring into my eyes. “Merci, Monsieur de León.”
‘“That’s Chevalier de León to you. I s-suppose that’s why you’ve got me stashed under a nunnery, instead of taking m-me up to the keep? The local capitaine might not appreciate you baby-killing bitches torturing a Sword of the Realm.”
‘“You are no Sword,” Talya scoffed. “You are an apostate. Disgraced and excommunicated. This is Church business. To be conducted upon Church grounds.”
‘“Like the business you conducted in San Guillaume?”
‘Talya smiled, dark and bleak. “We supposed your priest might seek succour there. A drowning man will clutch even at straws. But straw burns, halfbreed. Just like heretics.”
‘I swallowed hard, my stomach full of broken glass. This close, I could see the vein thumping along Talya’s neck, smell her blood under her perfume of leather and misery. Her razored claw drifted down my collarbone, tracing the lines of the lion inked on my chest.
‘“Beautiful,” she breathed.
‘And with a small smile, she pushed one sharp claw right through my nipple.
‘I gasped in pain, bucking against my manacles. The inquisitor’s claw dug through muscle, scraping bone, blood spilling down my belly. She leaned in close, whispering in my ear. “I owe you pain, heretic. I owe you bli—”