‘The sanctus they gave me to smoke every evemass was awaking the beast inside me: the strength, the reflexes, the sharpening of my paleblood senses. I felt like a blade that had been kept in a cold cellar, finally unsheathed in the sun. And yet, I knew I wasn’t as sharp as the other boys around me, and never would be.
‘Frère Greyhand made no mention of my frailblood heritage after the Trial of the Blood, but the taunting from Aaron and his cronies was reminder enough. Initiates at San Michon came and went, stopping days or weeks, then returning to the Hunt with their masters. Many were nobleborn, which made a kind of sense – highbloods usually liked to feed among high society. But in the end, what that meant for me was a constant stream of stuck-up tossers who looked down on me for my birth and my blood. Arseholes, all. I swear, there were more pricks in those Barracks than at a hedgehog’s bachelor feast.
‘When he could, Aaron kept company with a boy called de Séverin – son of an Elidaeni baronne. De Séverin had dark eyes and pouting lips; his face reminded me of a dead fish’s, truth told. Aaron’s other crony was a handsome nobleson, brown of hair and blue of eye. There was a cruelty to his stare – I reckoned the servants in his father’s house would’ve trod carefully around the heir apparent. His name was Mid Philippe.’
Jean-Fran?ois blinked. ‘Mid Philippe?’
‘Emperor Alexandre’s father, Philippe IV, sat upon the Fivefold Throne for twenty years. Some parents name their brats for the famed, in the hope that fame rubs off. There were three Philippes among the initiates. We nicknamed the smallest Lil, the tallest Big, and the one between, Mid.’
‘Ingenious, de León.’
‘There are worse nicknames teenage boys can conjure, believe me. And I heard every one. Of the two dozen initiates I met over those six months, there were only a couple who didn’t treat me like outright shite. Theo Petit, the big sandy-haired lad who’d defended me from Aaron when I first arrived at San Michon, and a wiry Ossian boy named Fincher. Finch had a face like a dropped pie and mismatched eyes, one green and one blue. Didn’t bother me much, but it made the other lads nervous.’
‘Why?’ Jean-Fran?ois asked.
‘Superstition. Some folk believe a blemish like that marks you as faekin. That someone back in your famille line was fucking with the wealdfolk. But I liked Fincher. He was of Voss blood, hard as nails. And he slept with a carving fork under his pillow. Even took it in the bath. Mad as a bucket of wet cats, he was.’
‘Why a carving fork?’
‘I asked the same. “Gift from me grammy afore she died,” he told me, twirling it between his fingers. “Real silver, boyo.”
‘But even Finch and Theo weren’t really my friends. They just didn’t outright fuck with me. Every other initiate in the monastery took the same road as de Coste. “Peasant”。 “Boylover”。 “Little Kitten”。 These were the names they called me, Aaron worst of the lot. Porridge in my boots. Shit in my bed. All my life I’d been no one special, and even there, among these chosen of God, it seemed I’d been relegated to the bottom of the pile for what I was. The name itself spoke of weakness.
‘Frailblood.’
Jean-Fran?ois nodded. ‘Hardly an auspicious beginning, de León.’
‘It was nothing to write home about, to be sure. So, even though I wondered about my true father, who he was and how he’d known my mama, I didn’t write home at all. My baby sister Celene sent me a letter every other month, keeping me informed of all that went on at home in Lorson. My little hellion sounded like she was getting up to no good, but I wasn’t in a position to change any of it. I had my own shite to deal with. So, I ignored her.’
Gabriel shook his head.
‘Shames me to think about it now. But I was young. Young and foolish.’
‘Can it really be true, though? The Black Lion, hero of Augustin, wielder of the Mad Blade and slayer of the Forever King himself … a water-blooded wretch?’
‘Some people are born lucky, coldblood. And some people make their own.’
‘Surely there was somewhere in San Michon you exceeded expectations?’
‘Not at first. I was good with a sword. But only because Papa had drilled me hard as a lad. I liked being in the Gauntlet. I loved learning the hymn of blades Greyhand showed us. Steel never judged me, see. Steel was mother. Steel was father. Steel was friend. But I never walked into anything and found I was simply good at it. The only way I shone at anything in my life was being too much of a stubborn bastard to quit.’
‘You are quite the bastard, de León, I shall grant you that.’
‘I don’t like to lose, coldblood.’
‘The sin of pride serves you well, then.’
‘See, I never understood that. Why pride is looked on as an evil. You work hard at something you’re not born good at? Damn right you should be fucking proud. There’s nothing comes of quitting besides the knowledge you didn’t finish.’
Gabriel shook his head.
‘It’s only in faerie tales that everything works out for the best with a magik spell or a prince’s kiss. It’s only in storybooks some little bastard picks up a sword and wields it like he was born to it. The rest of us? We have to work our arses off. And we might not ever taste triumph, but at least we dared to fail. We stand apart from those cowards whispering on the sidelines about how the strong did stumble, while never daring to set foot in the ring themselves. Victors are just folk who were never satisfied being vanquished. The only thing worse than finishing last is not beginning at all. And fuck finishing last.’
The vampire glanced to the night just outside the window, the empire rising beyond. ‘I’d have thought your kind accustomed to it by now, de León.’
‘Touché.’
‘Merci.’
‘Smartarse.’
‘So after six months, you were not yet a full-fledged ’saint of the Order?’
‘Not even close. I needed to complete two more trials before I’d even finish the bare bones of my aegis.’ Gabriel ran his fingertips up his left arm, over the silver tattoos. ‘This arm got inked after the Trial of the Hunt – presuming you survived. Your other arm would be filled after you’d killed your first horror with your own sword. The Trial of the Blade.’
‘What then, had you earned in the Trial of the Blood?’
Gabriel pulled down the neck of his tunic, showing a hint of the roaring lion on his chest.
‘That looks like it was painful,’ the vampire mused.
‘Didn’t tickle. But as usual, I’d no idea what I was in for the day I got it.’ Gabriel shook his head, smiling faintly. ‘I was so excited the night before, I couldn’t sleep. The inkwork on Greyhand and Abbot Khalid and the other silversaints had always held a fascination for me. But this was to be the first part of my aegis. The first true sign I actually belonged there.
‘As I marched into the great Cathedral of San Michon on findi morn, I saw four figures awaiting me at the altar, bathed in soft light and choirsong. Even beneath her veil, I recognized the scarred, dour face of Charlotte, Prioress of the Silver Sorority. She and the sister beside her wore black habits, faces daubed white, red sevenstars painted over their eyes. But the other two figures wore the dove-white robes of novices. The first was short, green-eyed and freckled, a rogue curl of mouse brown escaped from the edge of her coif.’