‘“Silversteel,” I repeated, enjoying the word on my tongue. “How is it made?”
‘Baptiste’s grin widened. “We all of us have secrets within these walls, Gabriel de León. And that secret belongs to the Brothers of the Hearth.”
‘“I have no secrets.”
‘“Then you’re not trying hard enough,” he chuckled.
‘At first, I suspected he might’ve been mocking me, but there was a warmth in the blackthumb’s eyes I took an instant liking to. Folding his arms, he looked me over, toe to crown. “De León, eh? Strange …”
‘Turning to the weapons behind us, Baptiste walked down the row. Almost reverently, he took a blade from the wall. And returning to me, he placed it in my hands.
‘“I forged this beauty only last month. I knew not for who. Until now.”
‘I looked at him in utter disbelief. “… Truly?”
‘In my shaking hands was the most beautiful sword I’d ever seen in my life. Eloise, the Angel of Retribution, was wrought on the hilt, her wings flowing about her like silver ribbons. Bright whorls of silver rippled along the blade’s darker steel, and I could see beautiful script from the Testaments engraved down the length.
‘KNOW MY NAME, YE SINNERS, AND TREMBLE. FOR I AM COME AMONG THEE AS A LION AMONG LAMBS.
‘I met Baptiste’s dark eyes and saw him smile. “I think perhaps I dreamed of you, Gabriel de León. I think perhaps your coming was ordained.”
‘“My God,” I said, all awonder. “Does … does it have a name?”
‘“Swords are only tools. Even those wrought of silversteel. And a man who names his weapon is a man who dreams others will one day know his name too.”
‘Baptiste glanced about us, his eyes twinkling as he leaned close to whisper.
‘“I call mine Sunlight.”
‘I shook my head, unsure what to say. No blacksmith’s boy under heaven had ever dreamed of owning a sword as peerless as this. “I’ve … I’ve no way to thank you.”
‘Baptiste’s mood grew sombre. His eyes were far away then, as if lost in distant shadow. “Kill something monstrous with it,” he said.
‘“There you are …” came a voice.
‘I turned and found Aaron de Coste at the door he’d left by. The dark mood that had fallen on Smith Baptiste vanished as if it had never been, and he strode across the room, arms open. “Still alive, you bastard!”
‘Aaron grinned as he was caught up in the older boy’s bear hug. It was the first genuine smile I think I’d ever seen on his face. “Good to see you, brother.”
‘“Of course it is! It’s me!” Baptiste released Aaron from his embrace, nose wrinkling. “Sweet Mothermaid, you stink of horse though. Time for a bath, methinks.”
‘“Such is my intent. Once this filthy peasant is situated. You,” Aaron growled. “Little Kitten. Come grab your damned gear.”
‘De Coste carried black leathers, a heavy greatcoat, stout boots with silvered heels like his. Without ceremony, he dumped the lot onto the floor. But I’d no interest in new boots or britches. Instead, I hefted my magnificent new sword, testing the balance.
‘The silversteel gleamed in the dim light; the angel on the crossguard seemed to smile at me. The uncertainty I’d felt as I stepped into the monastery faded just a breath, the thought of home made me ache just a little less. I knew I had much to learn; that in a place like this, I had to walk before I ran. But truth was, despite the sin I was born of, the monster that lived inside me, I still felt God was with me. This sword was proof of that. It was as if the smiths of San Michon knew I was coming. As if I were fated to be there. I looked down at the beautiful scripture on my new blade, mouthing the words to myself.
‘I AM COME AMONG THEE AS A LION AMONG LAMBS.
‘“Lionclaw,” I whispered.
‘“Lionclaw,” Baptiste repeated, stroking his chin. “I like it.”
‘The smithy handed me a belt, a scabbard, a sharp silversteel dagger to match the blade he’d gifted me – the Angel of Retribution spreading her beautiful wings along the crossguard. And looking at the sword in my hand, I vowed I’d be worthy of it. That I would slay something monstrous with it. That I’d not just walk. Not just run.
‘No, in this place, I’d fucking fly.’
VII
SHAPED LIKE HEARTBREAK
‘IT WAS LATE afternoon of that first day when I met her.
‘I’d washed the filth of the road away in the bathhouse, changed into my new gear. Black leather britches and tunic, heavy boots, knee-high and silver-heeled. The soles were embossed with the sevenstar, and I realized I’d leave the mark of the Martyrs wherever I walked. In casting off my old clothes, in some way I was casting off what I’d been. I’d no idea what I might become yet. But as I returned to Barracks, I found Abbot Khalid waiting, a smile in his eyes to match the one that haunted his cut-throat’s face.
‘“Come with me, Little Lion. I’ve a gift for you.”
‘I followed the abbot to the gatehouse, marvelling at the sheer size of the man. He was a mountain walking, long knotted braids trailing down his back like untamed serpents. The elevator swayed in the chill wind as we descended, and I watched him sidelong, eyes drifting to the horizontal scars bisecting his cheeks.
‘“You’re wondering how I got them,” he said, eyes on the cold valley below.
‘“Apologies, Abbot,” I said, lowering my gaze. “But Frère Greyhand … he said we palebloods heal as no ordinary men do. The night he took me from my village, I was cut so deep the knife struck bone. But now, there’s barely even a mark.”
‘“You shall heal all the faster as you grow, and your blood thickens. Though we do share some of the weaknesses of our accursed fathers – silver will cut us deeply, for example, and fire will leave its mark. But you are wondering what scarred me so?”
‘I nodded mutely, meeting his green, kohled stare.
‘“The dark is full of horrors, de León. And though coldbloods concern us most these nights, brothers of the Silver Order have hunted all manner of evil, and been hunted in kind.” He traced his scars. “These were gifted to me by the claws of a duskdancer. A monster, accursed, who could take the form of beast and man. I sent her to the hell she deserved.” His scarred smile widened a fraction. “But she refused to leave without a goodbye kiss.”
‘We touched down, and with a soft chuckle, Khalid patted my shoulder and led me onwards, a hundred questions brawling behind my teeth.
‘The stable was carved within the heart of the Cathedral’s pillar, supported by columns of dark rock. It stank inside, as stables do: horse and straw and shite. But ever since the night I’d drunk Ilsa’s blood, I could swear my senses had grown sharper, and beneath the everyday stink, I caught a whiff of death. Decay.
‘Two boys were saddling a shaggy chestnut mare near the entrance – dark-skinned Sūdhaemi lads like Khalid. The first was around my age, the other, perhaps a year younger. They were fit, dressed in homespun with dark curls cropped close to their scalps. By the shared hazel of their eyes and the cut of their chins, I guessed they were famille.