‘I tried to concentrate on the choirsong, but heard it only as a dirge. I closed my eyes, but felt only dread at not knowing when the next stroke might fall. And so, I looked to the Redeemer above.
‘They’d flayed him alive, the Testaments said. Priests of the Old Gods, refusing to accept the One Faith – they hung him from a chariot wheel and scourged him with thorns, burned him with fire, then cut his throat and cast him into the waters. He could have called on his Almighty Father to save him. Instead, he accepted his fate, knowing it would be the catalyst that united this Church and spread his word to every corner of this empire.
‘By this blood, shall they have life eternal.
‘And now, that empire stood imperilled. That Church under siege by the deathless Dead. So, I looked up into his eyes, and I prayed.
‘Give me strength, brother. And I will give you everything.
‘I couldn’t tell you how long it took. By the end, my palm was a bleeding, fucking mess. But Astrid finally leaned back, and Chloe poured burning spirits onto my skin. And through the boiling haze, I saw it, etched in my palm; the mark of the Martyrs, in silver ink.
‘A perfect sevenstar.
‘“Frère Greyhand,” said Khalid. “Approach.”
‘Master Greyhand made the sign of the wheel and stepped forward.
‘“Do you vow before Almighty God to lead this unworthy boy in the tenets of the Ordo Argent? Do you vow before San Michon to be the hand that guides, the shield that protects, until his damned soul stands strong enough to protect this realm himself?”
‘“By the Blood of the Redeemer,” Greyhand answered. “I vow it.”
‘Khalid turned to me. “Do you vow before Almighty God to commit yourself to the tenets of our Order? To overcome the vile sin of your nature and live a life in service to God’s Holy Church? Do you vow before San Michon to obey your master, to heed his voice, to be guided by his hand until you stand sainted yourself?”
‘I thought of the day my sister came home. Knowing that among this brotherhood, within this holy order, I’d find the strength to stop such horror from ever happening again.
‘“By the Blood, I vow it.”
‘“Gabriel de León, I name you initiate of the Silver Order of San Michon. May the Almighty Father give you courage. May the blessed Mothermaid give you wisdom. May the One True Redeemer give you strength. Véris.”
‘I met the abbot’s eyes, and my whole body tingled with pride as his lips twisted a little further in his cut-throat smile. Greyhand gave a small nod – the first sign of approval he’d bestowed since saving me in Lorson. My head felt light, the pain now a benediction. But through that haze, I felt more at peace than I’d ever been.
‘Greyhand returned to his place, and I walked beside him. A bell rang, signalling the congregation should rise. The sisters and novices around the altar bowed their heads. Khalid turned his eyes to the stained-glass window of the Martyrs.
‘“From brightest joy to deepest sorrow. We beg you bear witness, blessed Michon. We pray you, Almighty God, to open the gates of your eternal kingdom.” His eyes fell on the greying silversaint at the end of our row. “Frère Yannick. Step forth.”
‘The choir had fallen silent. I watched the man clench his jaw, lift his gaze to heaven. Frère Yannick’s face was gaunt, sleepless lines carved around bloodshot eyes. Beside him, a younger, sandy-haired lad squeezed his hand, pale with grief – another apprentice, I realized. And drawing a deep breath, Yannick stepped forward before Abbot Khalid.
‘“Are you ready, Brother?” Khalid asked.
‘“I am ready,” the man replied, his voice like cracked glass.
‘“And are you certain, Brother?”
‘The silversaint looked at the sevenstar in the palm of his left hand. “Better to die a man than live a monster.”
‘“To heaven, then,” Khalid said softly.
‘Yannick nodded. “To heaven.”
‘The choir took up their song again, and I recognized the hymn sung at funeral masses; the grim and beautiful “Memoria Di.” Khalid walked up the Cathedral’s western aisle. Frère Yannick drifted behind like a man sleepwalking. One by one, the rest of the congregation followed, out through the doors for the dead to the courtyard beyond. I dared not speak and break the awful sanctity I could feel in this moment. But Master Greyhand knew the questions in my head.
‘“This is the Red Rite, Little Lion,” he whispered. “This is the fate that awaits us all.”
‘We formed up in the courtyard, watching Abbot Khalid and Frère Yannick marching onto the stone span I’d seen earlier – the one de Coste had named “Heaven’s Bridge”。 I saw the wheel on the balcony’s edge, looking out over the drop into the river far below. And a part of me knew then, what was coming.
‘“We are the children of a terrible sin,” Greyhand murmured to me. “And eventually, that sin corrupts us all. The thirst of our fathers lives inside us, Little Lion. There are ways we can quell it for a time, that we might earn our place in the Almighty’s kingdom. But eventually, God punishes us for the sacrilege of our making. As palebloods grow older, we grow stronger. But so does the immortal beast that rages within our mortal shell. The terrible thirst that demands to be slaked upon the blood of innocents.”
‘“Yannick … he killed someone?” I whispered. “He drank …”
‘“No. But the thirst has become too much for him to bear. He feels it, spreading like a poison. He hears it when he closes his eyes at night.” My master shook his head, voice hushed. “We call it the sangirè, Little Lion. The red thirst. A whisper at first, dulcet and sweet. But it grows to an endless scream. And unless you silence it, you will succumb to it, becoming naught but a ravenous beast. Worse than the lowest wretched.”
‘Greyhand nodded to Frère Yannick, his voice thick with sorrow and pride.
‘“Better to end this life than lose your immortal soul. In the finale, that is the choice before every paleblood alive. Live as a monster, or die as a man.”
‘I could still hear the choir in the Cathedral. I watched Frère Yannick slip his greatcoat off, remove his tunic. His body was covered in beautiful silver ink: icons of the Martyrs and Mothermaid, the Angels of Death and Pain and Hope. That ink told the story of a life spent in service to God. Outside, he seemed hale and strong, but one look in his eyes told me all was not so within. And I remembered my night with Ilsa, then. The chorus of her veins flooding into my mouth. The beat of my raging heart growing stronger as hers weakened with every swallow. The thirst that had driven me to such depths.
‘What would it become as I grew older?
‘What would I become?
‘“We beg you bear witness, Almighty Father,” Abbot Khalid called. “As your begotten son suffered for our sins, so too shall our brother suffer for his.”
‘“Véris,” came the reply around me.
‘Yannick turned to face us, placed his hands upon the wheel. My mouth ran sour as I saw Prioress Charlotte approach with a leather whip adorned with silver spurs. But the prioress only pressed the whip to Frère Yannick’s shoulders – seven ritual touches for the seven nights the Redeemer suffered. A candle was kissed to the brother’s skin, to mimic the flames that burned God’s begotten son. And then, Abbot Khalid lowered his head, drawing a silvered knife. The choir was near the end of their hymn.