‘My mind was racing now, and I thrice cursed myself a fool. I thought back upon that dusty tome in the Library, the word Aavsunc scribed on the faded pages. Again, I remembered Rafa explaining the word’s meaning in Winfael, but this time, I remembered true. Aavsunc wasn’t Old Talhostic for Essence. It was the word for Lifeblood. And that was what they intended to spill in this ritual come the dawn.
‘“You’re going to kill her,” I hissed.
‘“… Such is the price.” He turned his head to avoid my gaze, his voice a wet-gravel snarl. “For the end of daysdeath. For the salvation of the empire.”
‘“Does Chloe know about this?” I demanded, incredulous.
‘“’T’was she who unearthed the ritual, Gabriel.”
‘My heart felt cleaved in two at that, my belly turning cold and hard. “And what about Dior? Does she know? Did you tell her?”
‘Greyhand glowered, his silence speaking all.
‘“Fuck me,” I hissed. “Fuck me, you cannot do this. She’s sixteen years old!”
‘“One life,” he spat. “One life for the sake of thousands … nay, hundreds of thousands! I have been sending men to their deaths for a decade. I am fighting a war against an enemy who does not die, who turns our own dead against us. Think of the suffering that could be averted! If the sun rises true on the morrow, the war is over, Gabriel! Every coldblood abroad in the land, wretched and highblood alike, will be burned to ashes with a single stroke of the blade!”
‘“The blade! At the throat of an innocent child!”
‘He raised his chin, defiant. “Almighty God will forgive us our trespass.”
‘“No, this is wrong. This is purest evil, Greyhand, and you know it! Better to die a man than live a monster, you taught me. Well this? This is fucking monstrous!”
‘“I vowed to defend this empire, Gabriel. To be the fire between this and all world’s ending.” Greyhand scowled, dark as dusk. “And unlike you, I keep my vows.”
‘My fist crashed into his jaw, splitting his lip. Greyhand staggered, the sanctus in his veins keeping him on his feet. But my sword was drawn now, Ashdrinker gleaming in the light of the chymical globes, that silver dame seeming to glower at my old master.
‘Broken-black, twisted-true, rotten rotten rotten to the core.
‘“I won’t let you do it,” I growled. “There’s no chance in hell I will let you do this.”
‘I backed away down the aisle, eyes locked with Greyhand. I’d not smoked since morning, and he’d a duskmass dose in him, but I had two hands, not one. And so, he simply followed, roaring, “Gabriel, don’t be a fool!” as I turned and ran. I burst from the dawndoors as he dashed into the belfry tower. Bells began ringing; an alarm echoing across the monastery, entwined with the bitter, howling wind. I ran, ran from the Cathedral and across the rope span towards the Priory, shouting at the top of my lungs.
‘“Dior! Dior!”
‘I heard running feet, Greyhand bellowing, circling off to my right and moving sanctus-swift. The nightswatchman loomed out of the dark ahead, lantern high, sword in one hand as cries of “traitor!” and “treachery!” rang on the walls. I’d no wish to hurt him, swooping low and kicking his legs out from under him, breaking his nose with a punch that left him senseless on the bridge. But I could see silversaints now: Finch and de Séverin, that Sūdhaemi youngblood, all descending. I ran, but Winter swooped out of the dark, carving a furrow down my cheek with her talons. I gasped and lashed out, the snow hawk retreating quick as lies, and when I’d blinked the blood from my eyes, I saw that Finch stood before me, sword drawn and feet apart, his faeling eyes on Greyhand.
‘“Abbot, what the hell—？”
‘“Take him in hand!” Greyhand bellowed, running towards us.
‘“Get out of my way, Finch …”
‘“By the Blood, man, I said bring that oathbreaker down!”
‘“They’re going to kill that girl, Finch. Get the fuck out of my way!”
‘We’d fought side by side, Fincher and I. He was at Triúrbaile with me when we liberated the Dyvok slaughterfarms. And like I said, there’s a bond between men who’ve placed their lives in a brother’s hands, and asked that brother to do the same. But there’s fanaticism, too. There’s faith unbridled and minds unquestioning; the soldier at the order of his commander, the faithful at the word of their priest. And after breaking my vows, my brother trusted me not so much as once he had.
‘In truth, I couldn’t fault him for it.
‘Finch raised his sword, and though I was his better with a blade, he was dosed with the sacrament. We clashed, both bled, both cursing. I struck again, and he fended me off, roaring, “Have ye gone fuckin’ mad?” as Winter struck again at my back. I lashed out again, furious, smashing Finch’s blade from his hand and slicing his arm bone-deep. But by then, the youngblood had arrived, and Greyhand too, and the old bastard slung his flail and caught my sword hand at the wrist. I roared again, “Dior!” and flipped Ashdrinker to my left, spitting the youngblood as he came on headlong and leaving him in a bleeding puddle on the stone. I whirled on Greyhand, trying to wrest my hand free from his accursed flail, and finally, de Séverin arrived, striking with the strength of the Dyvok blood in his veins.
‘“DIOR, RU—”
‘De Séverin’s blade plunged through my back, out through my belly, and I gasped, coughing blood. He hauled me up off the ground as I tried to gut him on the backswing, sliding down that great two-hander until my spine was arched upon the crossguard. I swung again, and de Séverin slung me into the wall with the strength of the Untamed, the brick smashed to powder where I struck it. And wild-eyed, furious, Finch loomed up over me, his silversteel raised in his bloody hand and his fangs bared and gleaming.
‘“HOLD!” Greyhand bellowed.
‘I tried to get to my feet, bleeding and spitted, but Greyhand’s boot crashed into my jaw, sending me sprawling. Again, I tried to rise, and again he kicked me, splintering my ribs. I clawed snow and stone, tried to call for Dior, but I couldn’t drag breath enough into my punctured lungs. And Greyhand kicked me again, again, again, so fucking hard I saw black stars, felt bone crack, tasted hot blood; his old boots dancing, and all the fury of a former master upon his most disappointing student ringing on my skull.
‘They stood about me, gasping, bloodied. They could have killed me then and there. But for all his faults, all his flaws, old Greyhand was ever an adherent of San Michon’s law.
‘“This man bears the aegis,” he growled. “We will not despoil this holy ground by murdering him like a dog in the street. Though he has fallen far from grace, Gabriel de León was once our brother. He will not die as a monster. He will die as a man.”
‘De Séverin hauled me to my feet, bloody drool at my chin.
‘“That is the best I can offer you, Gabriel,” the abbot said.
‘They dragged me half-senseless, cracked skull still ringing with the dance of Greyhand’s boots, long spools of blood swinging from my chin. I could say my mind was racing, desperately searching for some way out of this. I could say I roared again for Dior, my thoughts only for her. But that would be a lie. In truth, the old bastard had kicked the living shit out of me, and I could barely conjure my own name, let alone hers.