‘“A geas.”
‘“Aye.” Saoirse traced the tattoos on her face. “My oath is sworn to end the Blight, by the spirit of the Rígan-Mor and the All Mothers, carved in my own moonsblood upon my sacred skin. And until my vow is fulfilled, nae man can kill me. And nae devil shall dare try.”
‘I glanced to Dior, the boy patting and cooing to Jez to calm her.
‘“And I take it little Lord Stickuphisarse is the secret to ending this Blight?”
‘Saoirse dragged a braid from her eyes, still scowling.
‘“Dead shall rise, an’ stars shall fall;
‘“Weald shall rot to ruin ae all.
‘“Lions roar an’ angels weep;
‘“Sinners hands our secrets keep.
‘“’Til Godling’s heart brights hea’en’s eye,
‘“From reddest blood comes bluest sky.”
‘I shook my head and sighed. “Always a fucking poem, isn’t there?”
‘Rafa had picked himself up off the ground, brushing the snow from his furs. He was a holy man, a believer who held no truck with ungodliness. Still, he was a scholar too, with all a scholar’s wisdom burning in those dark eyes.
‘“You see, Silversaint? Even those who worship false faiths believe we can end this darkness. These prophecies are scribed in the bones of this world. Words of power. Words of truth. When the sun shines bright in the sky once more, all this suffering shall end.”
‘“And Dior is the key,” Chloe said, squeezing the boy’s hand.
‘I looked down to the infected stag at our feet. The dream of roast venison was long abandoned, and only faint horror remained, keeping company with the thirst in my veins. Perhaps this Blight was the reason no wretched entered these woods. Maybe because people didn’t come here any more, there was no prey for coldbloods to hunt. Whatever the reason, the ache in me was spreading like burning poison. When I looked to Chloe, my eyes couldn’t help but drift to the arteries pulsing swift below the line of her jaw. When Bellamy stepped up behind me, I couldn’t help but hear the song of his heart, lub-dubbing under his rasping breath.
‘My teeth were sharp against my tongue. My throat, ashen.
‘“Let’s get the fuck out of this forest.”
‘We trekked onwards, not daring to forage any more. We lit a fire, beacon be damned, and slept only a few hours a night, all of us unnerved. The dark was full of whispers, the sound of soft feet. Phoebe never roamed far, and I hadn’t the heart to tell the others about the silhouettes I saw creeping around the edges of our firelight. But though they followed, watched, nothing actually moved on us. We were interlopers here, unwelcome, but the Forest of Sorrows seemed content to let us leave. I rationed my sanctus, keeping myself just above the precipice, my mood souring more each day.
‘“Those spiders have human hands.”
‘“Shut the fuck up, Bouchette.”
‘“That tree … its face looks like … my mother’s.”
‘“Shut. The. Fuck. Up. Bouchette.”
‘“Is it me, or are the feathers on that bird … tiny tongues?”
‘“SHUT THE FUCK UP, BOUCHETTE!”
‘Atop Jezebel, bowed against the cold, Père Rafa sighed. “The Book of Vows speaks that we are not made more by the God above us, but by the friends beside us. Yet in this case, Bellamy, I must concur with our good chevalier. Please, for the love of God, shut up.”
‘The forest about us deepened, the strangeness with it, and after a fortnight our tempers were frayed to single threads. We were almost out of food, and I was down to my last peck of sanctus – just a few blood-dark flecks in the bottom of my phial. But at long last, we emerged from the weald onto a snow-capped tundra, a long plane of undulating grey before us. Phoebe bounded through the snow like an overjoyed puppy. Rafa clutched his wheel and turned his eyes skywards. Dior only sighed.
‘“If I never see another tree in my fucking life, I’ll die happy.”
‘To the south, the Dílaenn River could be dimly seen – a thin strip of silver in the noontime grey. And in the distance ahead, we saw a sight that birthed a collective sigh of relief. A series of hills – once barley fields, now thick with potato scrub. A long road wound up to a tall peak, and atop it, like the Laerd Lady of all the surrounds, stood our goal.
‘It was tall walls and good stone. It was stout gates and civilization. It was food. It was fire. It was liquor. It was sanctuary.
‘“At last.”
‘Rafa smiled and made the sign of the wheel.
‘“San Guillaume.”’
XIII
SORROW AND SOLACE
‘SAN GUILLAUME WAS a monastery, but it would still pass for a fortress in a pinch.
‘The structure crowned a steep rise, unassailable save by the thin road winding up to its walls. On either side, the ground dropped away in sheer cliffs, the Dílaenn River branching away from the Volta at the fork and flowing towards the sea. The walls were pale limestone, battlements crusted with grey snow. Murder holes looked out like dark eyes on the ascent beneath. Around the walls stood a sea of shanties and tents – commonfolk seeking shelter in the monastery’s shadow, by the look. San Guillaume stood, silent and imperial, a monolith to God’s majesty in this wilderness.
‘But I knew, as soon as I caught the scent on the wind …
‘“Something is wrong,” Rafa murmured.
‘We quickened our pace, the ache in my belly and in back of my eyes worsening as the smell of stale blood thickened. Drawing nearer, I saw that those tents and shanties were all empty, and dark shapes hung on the walls – wagon wheels lashed to the battlements with iron chain. Upon them, nailed upside down so that their souls would be steered towards hell, hung the bodies of a dozen men in the same pale robes as old Rafa wore.
‘The songs of fat, sable crows hung on the wind with the stench of death. The priest breathed deep, eyes welling with tears. “What devilry is this?”
‘“Gabe …” Chloe whispered, drawing her silversteel.
‘I hauled Ashdrinker from her sheath, my grip tight.
‘There are seven quarts of b-blood in a full-grown man, did ye know that?
‘“That I did,” I murmured.
‘Although, it depends on whether one uses the Elidaeni or N-n-nordlund quart, I suppose. The commonly accept—
‘“Ash,” I growled. “Eyes open, eh?”
‘… I have no eyes, she whispered.
‘I glanced to Saoirse as she slung Kindness off her back. Phoebe was a bloody shadow at her side, the lioness’s hackles rippling as we drew up to the gates. They were broad, iron-clad, carved with the circle of the wheel. But they creaked open at my touch, and the slayer and I exchanged a grim glance.
‘“Rafa, Chloe,” I said. “Stay here with Dior.”
‘Phoebe loped inside, silence itself, and Saoirse and I followed with Bellamy behind. Stepping into a broad bailey that was quiet as graves, I could taste soot, rot, strong spirits. Buildings rose either side of us; the arched vaults of a library to the west, dormitories and distillery to the east. Ahead, the bailey opened into a broad, round garden – now snow-clad and silent. The great circle of a cathedral stood at the heart of it, all limestone and thin stained-glass windows. Beautiful mosaics depicting the lives of the Martyrs were set in the stone at our feet. But they were stained now – old blood soaked into the tiles.