‘I am the fire that rages between this and all world’s ending.
‘But the second blade was a wonder, the Angel Mahné upon the hilt, twin scythes bared, death’s head grinning, a grim promise from Laments etched down its length.
‘I am the door all shall open. The promise none shall break.
‘I threw on a new tunic, greatcoat, bandolier, and silver-heeled boots. And like all hell’s reckoning, I strode towards the Cathedral.
‘It rose into dark skies, seeming to glower at my approach. The northern wind pressed me back, whipped my coat about me. The angels in the fountain stared in reproach as I ascended the stairs – not to the dawndoors in the east, but those for dusk in the west. The doors for the dead. Such they’d left me for twice, these brothers of mine. And now, I’d see that favour returned. Here, I’d lay this to rest.
‘I could hear a voice within, raised up in prayer. A woman I’d taught the art of the blade, a woman I’d let myself believe in, a woman I’d called a friend.
‘“From holy cup comes holy light; the faithful hand sets world aright. And in the Seven Martyrs’ sight, mere man shall end this—”
‘The doors boomed like thunder as I kicked them in, smashing against the walls as I stepped into the Cathedral. The bells began ringing as the choir fell silent, as the Brothers in the front row rose to their feet, eyes wide at the sight of me: Finch and de Séverin, the youngblood, Seraph Argyle and a passel of smithies and watchmen and Brothers of the Hearth, and last of all, Greyhand, his pale green eye wide with astonishment. Chloe stood at the Cathedral’s heart, arms upheld towards the statue of the Redeemer, reading from the ancient tome on the podium beside her. Dior was laid out on the altar, strapped down like a young ’saint about to be gifted his aegis. She was dressed in white robes, ashen hair brushed back from bright blue eyes, looking up at Chloe with total trust. But she turned as I strode up the aisle, swords in hand.
‘“Let her go!”
‘“Gabriel,” Chloe whispered.
‘“Gabe?” Dior frowned. “What are—”
‘“Dior, they mean to murder you!”
‘“Almighty’s name, bring him down!” Greyhand bellowed.
‘Four ’saints charged me, and I silently thanked the Angel Fortuna that the rest of the monastery’s complement must have been abroad at the Hunt – I’d no knowing if I could have taken more of them. But that ancien strength burned in my veins alongside my fury at these bastards – brothers I’d once fought and bled beside, who’d now tried to murder me. They came not one at a time like in the theatre plays, no, all together, tooth and nail, but the aisle wasn’t wide enough for more than two at a stretch. The headstrong youngblood came first, de Séverin beside him, that Dyvok strength in his swordarm. But it wasn’t just in taverne tales and soothsinger songs that I was named the greatest swordsman of the Ordo Argent – I’d earned that part of my legend, sure and true. And hungry and strong and swift as they were, I left both those silvered ’saints in puddles of their own blood and shite, sprayed across the Cathedral’s blackstone floor. Finch came next – little Finch with his mismatched eyes locked on my own. The Voss blood in him had grown thick over the years, and I felt his mind pushing into mine, looking to see my strikes before I made them and counter with his own. But for all his faults and all his weaknesses, old Seraph Talon had trained me well. I called up a wall of noise inside my head, left a tiny crack for Finch to peer through – enough to see the feint I conjured to throw his way. But I feinted not at all, striking true instead, and the counter he’d readied was left unsaid as my swords plunged into his belly and chest.
‘Finch snarled in desperation, spitting blood, drawing that damned silver carving fork from his coat and thrusting it at my throat. But I grabbed his wrist, hearing bone splinter, stabbing back. And with the fork buried to the hilt under his chin, I left him split and bleeding on the Cathedral tiles.
‘A cry echoed on black granite – the screech of a snow hawk – and lines of fire were ripped down my scalp as Winter swooped from the gables. The silverbomb I lifted to hurl slipped from my fingers as a barrage of wheellock shots rang out from the choir loft; the assembled sisters unloading at my back with a dozen blasts of silver. My bomb exploded beside me, ripping my flesh and blinding me in a cloud of silver caustic, and through it charged my old master, his eye alight with fury, silversteel in his hand.
‘He’d taught me from a cub, this man. Singing me the hymn of the blade in the Gauntlet, day after day, until my fingers bled and my lungs burned and my hands grew hard as iron. And we crashed against each other now, like waves on a storm-tossed sea. I recalled the kindness and the cruelty he’d shown me. That he’d been more a father to me than any man alive. And in truth, a part of me still loved him like one, despite it all.
‘We danced back and forth among the pews, the stone ringing with the song of our swords. The sisters above risked a few shots, but most were afraid of hitting the abbot now. And though he was one-handed, I had a half a dozen silver slugs in my back, and the old bastard was proving my match. I risked a glance to Dior, saw that she was struggling with her bonds now. Chloe still stood with arms raised, still reading aloud in Old Talhostic from the tome, rushing through the final words of the Rite.
‘“Chloe, don’t you dare!”
‘“Sister Chloe, let me go!” Dior shouted.
‘“I’m sorry,” Chloe whispered, drawing a gleaming silversteel knife from her habit. “But all this was ordained, Dior.”
‘“No, don’t, let me go!”
‘“It’s for the good, love,” she whispered. “It’s God’s will. All on earth below and heaven above is the work of his hand.”
‘“CHLOE!”
‘Winter swept down from on high as I roared, slicing my brow open with her talons. Gasping, blood in my eyes, I felt another lucky shot from the loft strike me behind my knee. As I stumbled, Greyhand took his chance, spitting me in the chest and driving me back into one of the mighty stone pillars.
‘“I warned you about being a hero, Gabriel,” he growled, twisting the blade. “Heroes die unpleasant deaths, far from home and hearth.”
‘I grabbed his hand in one bloody fist, keeping it locked on the hilt. Drooling blood, I dragged myself forward on his sword until the crossguard was pressed against my belly, and with my other hand, I seized his throat.
‘“Who the fuck told you I was a hero?”
‘The old man’s eye grew wide, his mouth opened in a scream as the flesh of his throat began to blacken. Frantic, he tried to get his hand free of my grip, but I held on, grim, hateful. He’d chosen to grant me a silversaint’s death, this man, this mentor, this father mine; supposing that after all the blood and love between us, at least he owed me that.
‘But I owed him no such thing. Not a man’s death but a monster’s; a monster who’d cut my throat and given me to the waters, a monster who’d stand watch while a bride of the Almighty butchered a sixteen-year-old girl in God’s own house. And the blood boiled in his veins, and steam rose crimson and roiling from his eye, and the flesh of his throat turned to ashes in my fist. Ruined, smoking, he crumpled to the ground – the Abbot of the Ordo Argent, dead by my hand.