‘“F-friends,” Chloe winced.
‘“Chosen,” the slayer replied.
‘“Believers,” the priest murmured.
‘“Oh, Seven Martyrs save me,” I sighed.
‘“My name is Bellamy Bouchette,” the young rake declared with a small bow. “Soothsinger, adventurer, lover of women, and songsmith to emperors.” He flipped damp brown curls from sparkling blue eyes. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Silversaint. I’ve heard your exploits sung all the way from Asheve to the shores of the Mothersea. I fear your legend does your reality … no justice at all.”
‘Oui, I thought to myself. Definitely a wanker.
‘“This is good Père Rafa Sa-Araki,” Bellamy said, nodding to the Sūdhaemi priest. “Scholar, astrologer, and devout member of the Order of San Guillaume. Never was there a man under heaven more in need of having his lute professionally strummed, but he’s a splendid fellow beneath the repression, really.”
‘The old priest spoke with a voice that would’ve sounded like music on any pulpit in the land. “My thanks for your aid, Chevalier. Seven Martyrs bless you.”
‘“Our resident butcher, baker, and candlestick maker,” Bellamy said, waving to the Ossian lass. “Mlle Saoirse á Rígan. She’s terrible at baking and candles, by the by, but her skill at butchery more than makes up for it. Her four-legged companion there is Phoebe. I’d advise against trying to pat the little scamp if you’re at all fond of your fingers.”
‘The lass just stared at me, hands on her axe, while the lioness licked her chops.
‘“Our good S?ur Sauvage, you already know,” Bellamy continued. “Which leaves the youngest of our band.” The soothsinger waved to the ashen-haired boy. “Gabriel de León, may I present Dior Lachance, Prince of Thieves, Lord of Liars, and incorrigible little bastard.”
‘“You forgot whoreson,” the boy muttered around his smoke.
‘“Dior, a gentleman never refers to a lady plying honest trade as a whore.”
‘“My mother was no lady. And you’re no gentleman, Bellamy.”
‘“You wound me, monsieur,” the fellow grinned, tipping his idiotic hat.
‘I finished cleaning Chloe’s wound, a steel needle between my teeth as I fetched my spool of gut. “So now I’ve your names. But I still don’t know who the fuck you are.” I cast my eyes over the group, settling at last on the boy. “You in particular.”
‘“I’m no one special.”
‘“Is that so?” I looked to Chloe, hoping to slice through the bullshit. “Someone came to Dhahaeth looking for Monsieur Nobody Special after you left. And they’d have run through that town like a dose of the scratch if I hadn’t been there to stop them.”
‘“I told ye.” Saoirse glanced around the group. “Phoebe could smell them miles away. We’ve had coldbloods on our trail since Lashaame.”
‘“This wasn’t just a coldblood,” I replied. “This was Danton Voss.”
‘“… Who?”
‘“Sweet Mothermaid, you lackwits have no fucking idea what you’re doing, do you?”
‘“Mind yer tongue, Silversaint,” the lass spat.
‘“Danton Voss is the youngest heir of Fabién. A direct descendant of the most powerful vampire that walks this earth. If the Forever King wants someone found, Danton is the child he sends, and he’s not failed his father yet.” I glowered at Chloe as I began stitching her bleeding arm. “You want to tell me what you did to make the Forever King set his most faithful bloodhound on your tail?”
‘“Seven Martyrs.” Chloe made the sign of the wheel. “The Beast of Vellene.”
‘“I saw him off,” I said, still scarcely believing it. “But only because he came to those walls during the day and found me instead of you. Why would a creature as old as Danton risk himself like that, Chloe? Is it this Grail nonsense you were spitting last night?”
‘The group looked at Chloe, aghast.
‘“Ye told him?” Saoirse hissed.
‘“Not everything.” Chloe glanced about the company, wincing as I stitched. “But Gabe was the man who put me on this path to begin with. Years ago. And God brought him to us for a reason. He’s the greatest swordsman of the Silver Order who ever lived.”
‘“Fat lot of good swordsmen o’ the Silver Order have done ye so far, Sister.”
‘“We need him, Saoirse.”
‘“Why?”
‘“Because the Beast will be back. And next time, he’ll come at night.”
‘“What does Voss want with this boy?” I demanded. “It’s sure as shit got naught to do with children’s tales.”
‘“The Grail is no children’s tale, Silversaint,” Père Rafa said, cleaning the muck from his spectacles. “From holy cup comes holy light; the faithful hand sets world aright. And in the Seven Martyrs’ sight, mere man shall end this endless night.”
‘I glanced at Chloe. “We’re spouting shitty poetry now?”
‘Tis no mere poem,” the priest said.
‘“It’s a prophecy, Gabe,” Chloe said. “The Forever King. The Endless Legion. Daysdeath. The Grail can put an end to all of it.”
‘“This isn’t one of your library books, Chloe. I thought you’d have outgrown that shite by now. One of you mad fucks best start talking straight-wise.”
‘“The cup of the Redeemer’s blood can end this darkness,” the priest insisted.
‘“Bullshit,” I spat. “The cup has been lost for centuries! And even if you had it, there’s ten thousand Dead amassing north of Augustin. Nordlund’s gone. North of the Dílaenn, the bloodlords have torn the empire to ribbons! How is a fucking cup supposed to fix that?”
‘“Because it holds the Redeemer’s blood. God’s own son, who died upon the whe—”
‘“Spare me, god-botherer.”
‘“Gabriel, ask yourself this,” Chloe said. “If the Grail is such nonsense, if the prophecy such rot, why has the Forever King got his son chasing us?”
‘“I don’t fucking know! What’s the Grail to do with any of you?”
‘“He knows where it is.”
‘I looked to the slayer, who was watching me like a hawk watches a hare. Her strawberry-blonde braids hung about her eyes as she stared me down, her gaze finally flickering to Dior as the snow danced in the air outside.
‘“The bairn,” she said. “He knows where it is.”
‘I looked at the lad. Dior cast an accusing glare at the slayer, then at Chloe.
‘“You know where the Grail is?” I demanded.
‘The boy shrugged, blowing a plume of thin grey smoke from his lips.
‘“The silver chalice of San Michon,” I scoffed. “The cup the Crusaders carried before them as they fought the Wars of the Faith, and forged the five kingdoms into one empire.”
‘The boy crushed his traproot cigarelle underheel. “So the Testaments say.”