‘She was still weeping, though. I have that effect on my friends.
‘“Oh, sweet and blessed Mothermaid, I thought I’d never see you again!”
‘“Chloe,” I murmured, my face still buried in her chest.
‘“In my heart I hoped. But the day you left—”
‘“Ch-chloe,” I wheezed, struggling to breathe.
‘“Oh, sweet Redeemer, I’m sorry, Gabe.”
‘She released her grip on my head, finally letting me inhale. I blinked hard, black spots clearing in my eyes as she patted my shoulder. “Are you well?”
‘“Still alive …”
‘She squeezed my hand, smiling wide. “And I thank the Almighty for it.”
‘I smiled thin, looked her over with a careful eye. She’d always been small, had Chloe Sauvage. Freckled skin and wide green eyes and a stubborn mass of brown curls. Her accent was pure Elidaeni, prim and nobleborn. If there was a woman under heaven more at home in a nunnery, I’d yet to meet one. But she seemed harder than she’d been back in San Michon. Nothing like the girl who’d stood at the altar the night I’d been branded with my sevenstar. Chloe was road-worn now. She wore no holy vestments, but the sevenstar still hung about her throat, etched on the pommel of that longblade at her waist. The sword was too big for her by far.
‘Silversteel, I realized.
‘She glanced across the commonroom, and I saw four figures had come in behind her. An elderly priest stood at their fore, grey hair shorn to stubble, his beard long and pointed. Like most of the folk around us, he was Sūdhaemi born, dark eyes and deep brown skin, wrinkled with age. But he had a bookish look to him – supple hands and spectacles perched on a pointed nose. I summed him up in a blink: soft as baby shite.
‘A tall young woman stood beside him. Strawberry-blonde hair was shaved on one side of her skull, knotted into slayerbraids on the other, and two red stripes were interwoven on her face, running down her brow and right cheek. Naéth, I realized; the warrior tattoos of the Ossway Highlanders. She wore a collar of tooled leather, a heavy wolfskin cloak on her broad shoulders, and more blades than a fucking butcher. An antlered helm was slung under her arm, and a battleaxe and shield at her back. I didn’t recognize the clan colours on her kilt at first. But she could crush a man’s throat between those thighs of hers, and no mistake.
‘A young fellow stood behind her, and I picked him for a soothsinger at a glance. He was perhaps nineteen, lock-up-your-daughters handsome – big blue eyes and a square jaw dusted with stubble. A six-string lute of fine bloodwood was slung on his back, he wore a silvered necklet with six musical notes hanging on it, and his bycocket cap was tilted in a fashion that could safely be described as “rakish”。
‘Wanker, I thought.’
‘And last among the group, stood a boy. Fourteen maybe. Thin and gangly, not yet grown into his bones. He was pale, pretty, maybe of Nordlund blood. But his hair was white – and I don’t mean blonde now, I mean white as a dove’s feathers. He wore it messy, draped over his eyes in a tumble so thick I wondered how he could see at all.
‘One glance at his wardrobe, you’d be forgiven for thinking him a princeling. He had a beauty spot on his cheek, and he wore a nobleman’s frockcoat, midnight-blue with silver curlicue, ruffled sleeves. But his leather britches were patched at the knees, and his boots were falling to pieces. He was gutterborn for sure, pretending to be something finer.
‘The boy saw Chloe standing with me, made to walk across the commonroom to us. But the woman held up her hand, almost too quick.
‘“No. Stay with the others, Dior.”
‘The lad glanced to my half-empty bottle, then fixed me with suspicious eyes. I met his gaze, and he squared his scrawny shoulders in his stolen coat and stared in silent challenge. But our contest was put to rest by the landlady’s shriek.
‘“Mother and blessed Maid!”
‘The commonroom filled with gasps as a final newcomer slunk over the threshold, dripping rain onto the boards as it shook itself, nose to tail. It was a cat. Well, a fucking lion, if I’m honest – one of the mountain breeds that used to haunt the Ossway Highlands before all the big predators died off for want of game. Its fur was russet red, its eyes speckled gold, a scar cutting down its brow and cheek. It looked a beast that’d gobble newborns for breakfast, then wash them down with a healthy serving of toddler.
‘Men about the commonroom reached for their weapons. But the Ossway lass with the slayerbraids only scoffed. “Take yer wobbling baps in hand, ye damn blouses. Phoebe here’d nae hurt a mouse.”
‘The publican pointed a shaking finger. “That is a mountain lion!”
‘“Aye. But she’s tame as a hoose cat.”
‘As if to prove the point, the beast sat on the doorstep and began cleaning its paws. I saw it had a leather collar, tooled with the same design the lass wore. But still, the publican remained on the safe side of unimpressed. “Well … it cannot come in here!”
‘“Tch.” The Ossian lass rolled her eyes. “G’wan, then. Oot to the stables, Phoebe.”
‘The big cat licked her nose and huffed.
‘“Don’t sass me, ye cheeky bitch! Ye know the rules. Oot!”
‘With a soft growl, the lioness hung her head and slunk back out into the rain. The Ossian lass settled into the booth with no more fuss, the priest and dandyboy slipping in beside her. The wanker called for drinks. As a semblance of calm returned to the commonroom, I turned my eyes back to Chloe, one brow raised.
‘“Friends of yours?”
‘She nodded, pulling up a chair. “Of a sort.”
‘I smirked, the vodka bringing a warm glow to my cheeks. “A nun, a priest, and a lioness walk into a bar …”
‘Chloe smiled briefly, but her tone was grim. “How’ve you been, Gabe?”
‘“All sunshine and flowers, me.”
‘“Last I heard you were living in Ossway?”
‘I shook my head. “South. Past Alethe.”
‘Chloe whistled softly. “What are you doing all the way back up here?”
‘“I know a leech who needs killing.”
‘“Eleven years, and you haven’t changed a bit.” Chloe brushed back her impossible curls and grinned. I saw the thought form in her eyes. The inevitable question.
‘“… Is Azzie with you?”
‘“No,” I replied.
‘Chloe craned her neck and searched the booths, as if expecting to see her face.
‘“Astrid’s at home, Chloe.”
‘“Oh.” She nodded, settling in her chair. “Of course. Where else would she be?”
‘“Oui. Where else.”
High in the reaches of that lovelorn tower, Gabriel de León leaned forward, rubbing his stubble, and he sighed from his very heart. The historian looked on in silence. The wind whispered about them as Gabriel hung his head, long locks of ink-black hair tumbling about his scarred face. Sniffing thickly. Spitting once.
‘Astrid Rennier,’ Jean-Fran?ois finally said. ‘The sisternovice who named your horse. Tattooed your palm. You still knew her then? After all those years?’