‘Khalid nodded, as if the matter were already forgotten. Looking to the gate the sisters had left by, he murmured, “Prioress Charlotte is a godly woman, devoted to the Almighty and Mothermaid. And if she is of a temper this day, you must forgive her. Mass this eve will be painful for you, youngblood. But for most of us, it will be agony.”
‘“Why? What happens at mass this evening?”
‘“Someone dies, de León.”
‘Khalid heaved a sigh, and stared out into the cold.
‘“A good man dies.”’
VIII
THE RED RITE
‘AS THE FEEBLE sun set, I was ushered to the Cathedral by the song of mighty bells.
‘Figures were answering the call from around the monastery, and I was struck by how few there were. Half a dozen silversaints, perhaps a dozen apprentices, workmen and servants and sisters of the Silver Sorority. But ascending the Cathedral’s steps with Aaron de Coste beside me, I still had goosebumps on my skin. No matter how old or empty it appeared, I could sense the sanctity in this place. And stepping inside, I found my breath stolen from my lungs.
‘The Cathedral was carved of dark granite, circular like the sigil of God’s Holy Church. As was tradition, two pairs of great graven doors were set in its walls – one in the east, for the dawn and living, and one in the west, for dusk and the dead. Graven pillars rose up to the dome, taller than the grandest trees, and the space was softly lit by the same glass globes that hung from the Armoury ceiling. Many of the windows were under repair, but those uncovered were breathtaking. Dark light struggled through the great sevenstar window in the fa?ade, casting dim rainbows on the floor. Wooden pews were arranged in concentric circles around a stone altar at the building’s heart, and above it hung a great marble statue of the Redeemer upon his wheel. His hands were bound, back flayed open, throat cut ear to ear.
‘Upon that altar sat a brazier, and a glass bowl filled with bubbling silver liquid. Before it sat a single silver chalice.
‘I’d no ken what the brazier was for, but every God-fearing soul knew the Grail. Like every other church in Elidaen, this was only an imitation, of course. But while that chalice was present in the room, so too was the Redeemer’s spirit. And I swear, I could feel it.
‘Despite the Cathedral’s size, there were only four dozen at mass. Baptiste Sa-Ismael sat close by, along with three others who were certainly fellow blackthumbs. My master, Frère Greyhand, knelt in the front row among a handful of men in silversaint garb. They were dour-faced and black-clad, and each seemed a living legend to me. But I noticed many were mutilated somehow; wrists absent hands and faces missing eyes. At the end of their row sat a silversaint with lank greying hair. I saw he was rocking softly, back and forth. His stare was deeply bloodshot, his face carved with lines of pain.
‘The air was filled with ghostly music, angelic and beautiful. I saw sisters of the Silver Sorority in a loft above, clothed in black, singing all in unison. Their voices made my skin tingle, the beauty of their song filled my chest with ancient fire.
‘From a spiral stair below the floor, Abbot Khalid ascended to the altar. He was clad in black robes, the scars in his cheeks twisting his lips into that odd forever smile. As he lifted his hands, I saw silvered ink on the dark skin of his forearms – Sanael, the Angel of Blood, a weave of swords and doves, the Mothermaid holding the infant Redeemer.
‘“I am the word and the way, sayeth the Lord,” Khalid intoned. “By my blood, the sinner shall find salvation, and the penitent, the keys to my kingdom eternal.”
‘All in the Cathedral answered “Véris” – the customary reply of congregation at mass. It was an old Elidaeni word, meaning A truth beyond truth.
‘“We welcome a new brother into this, your house, oh Lord.” Khalid looked right at me. “His birth, an abomination. His life, a transgression. His soul, bound for perdition. But we beseech you, give him strength that he might overcome the misdeed of his making, and stand tall against this endless night.”
‘“Véris,” the brothers replied.
‘The altar bell rang. I could feel the very breath of God upon my neck.
‘“Gabriel de León,” Khalid commanded. “Approach.”
‘I looked to Master Greyhand, and he nodded once. Making the sign of the wheel, I found myself standing before that brazier and the bowl of silver liquid atop it.
‘Six figures ascended the stair, bathed in the soft, warm light from those globes above. Prioress Charlotte stood at their fore, followed by three women in black habits, silver-trimmed. Their heads were veiled in lace, faces powdered white, crimson sevenstars painted over their eyes. But the two figures following wore novice white, their faces uncovered and unadorned.
‘As they took up places at the altar opposite me, I recognized both from the stables that afternoon. The first was the tiny lass with the green eyes and freckles – Chloe, I remembered she’d been called. The second was the beautiful raven-haired girl who’d been beaten by the prioress for her disobedience. Her dark eyes once more meeting mine.
‘Astrid Rennier.
‘I watched Sisternovice Chloe unroll a leather satchel embossed with the sevenstar. A host of needles was arrayed within, long and gleaming in the honeyed light.
‘“As he gave to the Redeemer upon the wheel,” Khalid said, “we pray God gives you strength to endure the suffering of nights to come. For now, we grant you a taste.”
‘I looked to the abbot, wondering what he meant.
‘“Place your left hand upon the altar,” he commanded.
‘I did as I was bid, placing my hand on the wood. It was only when Sisternovice Chloe gently turned my palm upwards that I understood what was happening. She wiped a cool cloth over my skin, and I smelled strong, sharp spirits. Astrid Rennier dipped a needle into the metallic liquid bubbling atop the burner. And looking into my eyes, she spoke, echoed by the other sisters around her.
‘“‘This is the hand,
‘“That wields the flame,
‘“That lights the way,
‘“And turns the dark,
‘“To silver.”
‘Astrid stabbed the needle into my palm. The sensation was sharp and bright, but brief, and I flinched only a little. Looking down, I saw a tiny spot of blood and silver etched into my flesh. Prioress Charlotte leaned close to inspect the needle stroke, gave a curt nod. I drew breath, swallowed hard. Thinking the sting hadn’t been all that bad.
‘Astrid stabbed my palm again. And again. By the twentieth prick of the needle, discomfort had become pain. And by the hundredth, pain had become agony.’
Gabriel shook his head, staring at the star tattooed on his left palm.
‘It’s a strange thing, being marked so. The hurt becomes delirium. The brief relief between each needle stroke seems both heaven and hell. My stepfather beat me like a dog on his bad days. But I’d never felt anything like the pain I knew at Astrid’s touch. It was … incandescent. Like I stood outside my body, watching through a fever dream.
‘I didn’t know how I’d manage it. And still, I knew this was a testing – the first of many. If I couldn’t endure a needle, how was I to face the monsters of the dark? How was I to avenge my sister, defend God’s mighty Church, if I couldn’t win through this?