‘“Blessed Mothermaid …” I breathed.
‘“From suffering comes salvation,” Khalid intoned. “In service to God, we find the path to his throne. In blood and silver this ’saint has lived, and so now dies.”
‘“Into your arms, Lord!” Yannick cried. “I commend my unworthy soul!”
‘I flinched as the blade flashed in the abbot’s hands, slicing the frère from ear to ear. A great rush of blood spilled from the wound, and Yannick closed his sleep-starved eyes. The final notes of the Memoria Di rang out over the congregation. I couldn’t find air to breathe. And with a gentle shove, like a father guiding his son to sleep, Khalid sent Yannick tumbling off the balcony, down towards the waters five hundred feet below.
‘About me, the gathering made the sign of the wheel. Cold horror had settled in my belly. Among the novices, I saw Sisternovice Astrid, watching me again with those dark eyes. Abbot Khalid looked about as the bells tolled. And he nodded, as if content.
‘“Véris,” he said.
‘“Véris,” the others echoed.
‘I looked down to the new tattoo in my palm. Throbbing with pain. Burning like fire.
‘“Véris,” I whispered.’
IX
SWEETEST AND DARKEST
‘THERE WAS NO sleep for me that night. I bedded down in the Barracks, listening to the old oaken rafters creak overhead. True silversaints had individual cells on the floors above, but we initiates slept in a communal room. There were more cots than needed – enough for fifty at least. But as we returned from mass, only a dozen or so came with me.
‘I lay down, my head reeling. In the space of a day, I’d been gifted the finest possessions I’d ever owned, been inducted into a holy order, promised my life to God. But I’d also seen a member of that same order ritually murdered before he succumbed to the madness within him, and learned that eventually, the same fate awaited me.
‘Not if. When.
‘“The first day is one of the strangest.”
‘I looked to the initiate in the cot beside mine. He was the boy who’d squeezed Frère Yannick’s hand before he approached the altar – the dead brother’s apprentice. He was a big lad, sandy-haired, and his formal accent told me he was Elidaeni born. His blue eyes glittered as he glanced at me sidelong. I could see them bloodshot from tears.
‘“Quite a day,” I agreed.
‘“I wish I could promise it gets easier. But I’ve no liar’s tongue.”
‘“I’ll not fault you for it,” I nodded. “My name is Gabriel de León.”
‘“Theo Petit,” the boy said, shaking my hand.
‘“My condolences for your master. I’ll pray for his soul.”
‘His eyes flashed then, voice growing hard. “Save it for yourself, boy. Pray you live long enough to face the same choice as he. And show the same courage in the making of it.”
‘Theo blew out the lamp, plunging the room into darkness. I lay there in the gloom, staring up into the black. Tossing and turning until de Coste eventually growled from the bed opposite mine.
‘“Go to sleep, Peasant. You’ll have need of it amorrow.”
‘I’d no idea how true Aaron’s words would prove. Next morn, I was roused by the Cathedral bells, and felt I’d hardly slept at all. I was half-eager, half-terrified, wondering what was to come. The tattoo on my hand was aching, bloody, and after a sombre dawnmass, Frère Greyhand gifted me a jar of sweet-smelling salve.
‘“Angelgrace,” he explained. “The silver in your ink means it will heal slower than a regular wound. The ’grace will help until your blood does its work. Now, follow me. And leave that sword here. It’s not your todger, you can take your hand off it occasionally.”
‘I did as my master bid, following him into the morning air. I remember it was so cold that day, my bollocks felt like they’d crawled up inside my body. The dim morning light across the monastery was frail, beautiful, and making our way along the rope bridge towards the Gauntlet’s silhouette, I could feel butterflies warring in my belly. Archer cut through the chill air around us, calling to Greyhand as he soared overhead.
‘“Master … where do we go?” I asked.
‘“Your first trial.”
‘“And what should I expect from this trial?”
‘“What you should always expect from this life, Little Lion. Blood.” Greyhand looked to the river winding through the pillars below and sighed. A fey mood was on him, but whether it was thoughts of the Red Rite last night or other troubles, I knew not. “A part of me envies you this day, boy. The first taste is ever the sweetest. And the darkest.”
‘I’d no idea what he meant, but Greyhand seemed in no mood for questions. As we strode through the great double doors of the Gauntlet, I saw that San Michon’s proving ground was fashioned like a vast arena; circular, open to the sky. Its flagstones were granite, but a great sevenstar was wrought in pale limestone on its surface. Training mannequins and strange apparatus skirted the edge, and banners with unfamiliar crests adorned the walls.
‘In the centre of the star, a group awaited, their dim shadows reaching out towards me. The foremost was Abbot Khalid, standing with arms folded, his greatcoat billowing in the wind. A beautiful silversteel sword was slung at his back – double-handed and deadly, taller than I was. The big man nodded as we approached, and Greyhand and I bowed low.
‘“Fairdawning, Initiate de León. Frère Greyhand.”
‘“Godmorrow, Abbot,” we replied.
‘Khalid motioned to the people about him. “These are the luminaries of the Silver Order, de León. Come to bear witness to your Trial of the Blood. Good Prioress Charlotte, head of the Silver Sorority and Mistress of the Aegis, you already know.”
‘I bowed to the dour woman, eyes downturned. She was clad head to foot in her black sister’s habit, and her skin looked waxen in the thin dawn light, those four scars cutting angry pink lines across her face. I idly wondered how she’d earned them as she gave me a thin, bloodless smile. “Fairdawning, Initiate. Mothermaid bless.”
‘Khalid nodded to an elderly man in a black robe beside him. “This is Archivist Adamo, master of the Great Library and keeper of the history of the Ordo Argent.”
‘The fellow blinked at me, looking slightly befuddled behind his thick spectacles. His skin was wrinkled like waterlogged paper, his hair, white as the snows of my youth. His back was bent with age, and I could see no silver ink atop his liver-spotted hands.
‘“Argyle á Sadhbh,” Khalid said, motioning to a towering fellow among the group. “Seraph to the Brothers of the Hearth and Forgemaster of San Michon.”
‘The huge man met my eyes, nodding greeting. He was Ossway born for sure – flaming red stubble covered his scalp, and his jaw was heavy as a granite brick. But his left eye was milky white, the left side of his face was marred by a deep burn, and strangest of all, his left hand was metal, not flesh – some clever simulacrum forged of iron, strapped to his forearm with a leather bracer. His biceps were thick as a man’s thighs, his fair skin pocked by spark scars from his forge. He was a smith, through and through.