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Chapter 8 - THE RED RITE

"AS THE FEEBLE sun set, I was ushered to the Cathedral by the song of mighty bells.

"Figures were answering the call from around the monastery, and I was struck by how few there were. Half a dozen silversaints, perhaps a dozen apprentices, workmen and servants and sisters of the Silver Sorority. But ascending the Cathedral's steps with Aaron de Coste beside me, I still had goosebumps on my skin. No matter how old or empty it appeared, I could sense the sanctity in this place. And stepping inside, I found my breath stolen from my lungs.

"The Cathedral was carved of dark granite, circular like the sigil of God's Holy Church. As was tradition, two pairs of great graven doors were set in its walls—one in the east, for the dawn and living, and one in the west, for dusk and the dead. Graven pillars rose up to the dome, taller than the grandest trees, and the space was softly lit by the same glass globes that hung from the Armory ceiling. Many of the windows were under repair, but those uncovered were breathtaking. Dark light struggled through the great sevenstar window in the façade, casting dim rainbows on the floor. Wooden pews were arranged in concentric circles around a stone altar at the building's heart, and above it hung a great marble statue of the Redeemer upon his wheel. His hands were bound, back flayed open, throat cut ear to ear.

"Upon that altar sat a brazier, and a glass bowl filled with bubbling silver liquid. Before it sat a single silver chalice.

"I'd no ken what the brazier was for, but every god-fearing soul knew the Grail. Like every other church in Elidaen, this was only an imitation, of course. But while that chalice was present in the room, so too was the Redeemer's spirit. And I swear, I could feel it.

"Despite the Cathedral's size, there were only four dozen at mass. Baptiste Sa-Ismael sat close by, along with three others who were certainly fellow blackthumbs. My master, Frère Greyhand, knelt in the front row among a handful of men in silversaint garb. They were dour-faced and black clad, and each seemed a living legend to me. But I noticed many were mutilated somehow; wrists absent hands and faces missing eyes. At the end of their row sat a silversaint with lank greying hair. I saw he was rocking softly, back and forth. His stare was deeply bloodshot, his face carved with lines of pain.

"The air was filled with ghostly music, angelic and beautiful. I saw sisters of the Silver Sorority in a loft above, clothed in black, singing all in unison. Their voices made my skin tingle, the beauty of their song filled my chest with ancient fire.

"From a spiral stair below the floor, Abbot Khalid ascended to the altar. He was clad in black robes, the scars in his cheeks twisting his lips into that odd forever smile. As he lifted his hands, I saw silvered ink on the dark skin of his forearms—Sanael, the Angel of Blood, a weave of swords and doves, the Mothermaid holding the infant Redeemer.

"'I am the word and the way, sayeth the Lord,' Khalid intoned. 'By my blood, the sinner shall find salvation, and the penitent, the keys to my kingdom eternal.'

"All in the Cathedral answered 'Véris'—the customary reply of congregation at mass. It was an old Elidaeni word, meaning A truth beyond truth.

"'We welcome a new brother into this, your house, oh Lord.' Khalid looked right at me. 'His birth, an abomination. His life, a transgression. His soul, bound for perdition. But we beseech you, give him strength that he might overcome the misdeed of his making, and stand tall against this endless night.'

"'Véris,' the brothers replied.

"The altar bell rang. I could feel the very breath of God upon my neck.

"'Gabriel de León,' Khalid commanded. 'Approach.'

"I looked to Master Greyhand, and he nodded once. Making the sign of the wheel, I found myself standing before that brazier and the bowl of silver liquid atop it.

"Six figures ascended the stair, bathed in the soft, warm light from those globes above. Prioress Charlotte stood at their fore, followed by three women in black habits, silver-trimmed. Their heads were veiled in lace, faces powdered white, crimson sevenstars painted over their eyes. But the two figures following wore novice white, their faces uncovered and unadorned.

"As they took up places at the altar opposite me, I recognized both from the stables that afternoon. The first was the tiny lass with the green eyes and freckles—Chloe, I remembered she'd been called. The second was the beautiful raven-haired girl who'd been beaten by the prioress for her disobedience. Her dark eyes once more meeting mine.

"Astrid Rennier.

"I watched Sisternovice Chloe unroll a leather satchel embossed with the sevenstar. A host of needles was arrayed within, long and gleaming in the honeyed light.

"'As he gave to the Redeemer upon the wheel,' Khalid said, 'we pray God gives you strength to endure the suffering of nights to come. For now, we grant you a taste.'

"I looked to the abbot, wondering what he meant.

"'Place your left hand upon the altar,' he commanded.

"I did as I was bid, placing my hand on the wood. It was only when Sisternovice Chloe gently turned my palm upward that I understood what was happening. She wiped a cool cloth over my skin, and I smelled strong, sharp spirits. Astrid Rennier dipped a needle into the metallic liquid bubbling atop the burner. And looking into my eyes, she spoke, echoed by the other sisters around her.

"'This is the hand,

"'That wields the flame,

"'That lights the way,

"'And turns the dark,

"'To silver.'

"Astrid stabbed the needle into my palm. The sensation was sharp and bright, but brief, and I flinched only a little. Looking down, I saw a tiny spot of blood and silver etched into my flesh. Prioress Charlotte leaned close to inspect the needlestroke, gave a curt nod. I drew breath, swallowed hard. Thinking the sting hadn't been all that bad.

"Astrid stabbed my palm again. And again. By the twentieth prick of the needle, discomfort had become pain. And by the hundredth, pain had become agony."

Gabriel shook his head, staring at the star tattooed on his left palm.

"It's a strange thing, being marked so. The hurt becomes delirium. The brief relief between each needle stroke seems both heaven and hell. My stepfather beat me like a dog on his bad days. But I'd never felt anything like the pain I knew at Astrid's touch. It was … incandescent. Like I stood outside my body, watching through a fever dream.

"I didn't know how I'd manage it. And still, I knew this was a testing—the first of many. If I couldn't endure a needle, how was I to face the monsters of the dark? How was I to avenge my sister, defend God's mighty Church, if I couldn't win through this?

"I tried to concentrate on the choirsong, but heard it only as a dirge. I closed my eyes, but felt only dread at not knowing when the next stroke might fall. And so, I looked to the Redeemer above.

"They'd flayed him alive, the Testaments said. Priests of the old gods, refusing to accept the One Faith—they hung him from a chariot wheel and scourged him with thorns, burned him with fire, then cut his throat and cast him into the waters. He could have called on his Almighty Father to save him. Instead, he accepted his fate, knowing it would be the catalyst that united this Church and spread his word to every corner of this empire.

"By this blood, shall they have life eternal.

"And now, that empire stood imperiled. That Church under siege by the deathless Dead. So, I looked up into his eyes, and I prayed.

"Give me strength, brother. And I will give you everything.

"I couldn't tell you how long it took. By the end, my palm was a bleeding, fucking mess. But Astrid finally leaned back, and Chloe poured burning spirits onto my skin. And through the boiling haze, I saw it, etched in my palm; the mark of the Martyrs, in silver ink.

"A perfect sevenstar.

"'Frère Greyhand,' said Khalid. 'Approach.'

"Master Greyhand made the sign of the wheel and stepped forward.

"'Do you vow before Almighty God to lead this unworthy boy in the tenets of the Ordo Argent? Do you vow before San Michon to be the hand that guides, the shield that protects, until his damned soul stands strong enough to protect this realm himself?'

"'By the Blood of the Redeemer,' Greyhand answered. 'I vow it.'

"Khalid turned to me. 'Do you vow before Almighty God to commit yourself to the tenets of our Order? To overcome the vile sin of your nature and live a life in service to God's Holy Church? Do you vow before San Michon to obey your master, to heed his voice, to be guided by his hand until you stand sainted yourself?'

"I thought of the day my sister came home. Knowing that among this brotherhood, within this holy order, I'd find the strength to stop such horror from ever happening again.

"'By the Blood, I vow it.'

"'Gabriel de León, I name you initiate of the Silver Order of San Michon. May the Almighty Father give you courage. May the blessed Mothermaid give you wisdom. May the One True Redeemer give you strength. Véris.'

"I met the abbot's eyes, and my whole body tingled with pride as his lips twisted a little further in his cutthroat smile. Greyhand gave a small nod—the first sign of approval he'd bestowed since saving me in Lorson. My head felt light, the pain now a benediction. But through that haze, I felt more at peace than I'd ever been.

"Greyhand returned to his place, and I walked beside him. A bell rang, signaling the congregation should rise. The sisters and novices around the altar bowed their heads. Khalid turned his eyes to the stained-glass window of the Martyrs.

"'From brightest joy to deepest sorrow. We beg you bear witness, blessed Michon. We pray you, Almighty God, to open the gates of your eternal kingdom.' His eyes fell on the greying silversaint at the end of our row. 'Frère Yannick. Step forth.'

"The choir had fallen silent. I watched the man clench his jaw, lift his gaze to heaven. Frère Yannick's face was gaunt, sleepless lines carved around bloodshot eyes. Beside him, a younger, sandy-haired lad squeezed his hand, pale with grief—another apprentice, I realized. And drawing a deep breath, Yannick stepped forward before Abbot Khalid.

"'Are you ready, brother?' Khalid asked.

"'I am ready,' the man replied, his voice like cracked glass.

"'And are you certain, brother?'

"The silversaint looked at the sevenstar in the palm of his left hand. 'Better to die a man than live a monster.'

"'To heaven, then,' Khalid said softly.

"Yannick nodded. 'To heaven.'

"The choir took up their song again, and I recognized the hymn sung at funeral masses; the grim and beautiful 'Memoria Di.' Khalid walked up the Cathedral's western aisle. Frère Yannick drifted behind like a man sleepwalking. One by one, the rest of the congregation followed, out through the doors of the dead to the courtyard beyond. I dared not speak and break the awful sanctity I could feel in this moment. But Master Greyhand knew the questions in my head.

"'This is the Red Rite, Little Lion,' he whispered. 'This is the fate that awaits us all.'

"We formed up in the courtyard, watching Abbot Khalid and Frère Yannick marching onto the stone span I'd seen earlier—the one de Coste had named 'Heaven's Bridge.' I saw the wheel on the balcony's edge, looking out over the drop into the river far below. And a part of me knew then, what was coming.

"'We are the children of a terrible sin,' Greyhand murmured to me. 'And eventually, that sin corrupts us all. The thirst of our fathers lives inside us, Little Lion. There are ways we can quell it for a time, that we might earn our place in the Almighty's kingdom. But eventually, God punishes us for the sacrilege of our making. As palebloods grow older, we grow stronger. But so does the immortal beast that rages within our mortal shell. The terrible thirst that demands to be slaked upon the blood of innocents.'

"'Yannick … he killed someone?' I whispered. 'He drank…'

"'No. But the thirst has become too much for him to bear. He feels it, spreading like a poison. He hears it when he closes his eyes at night.' My master shook his head, voice hushed. 'We call it the sangirè, Little Lion. The red thirst. A whisper at first, dulcet and sweet. But it grows to an endless scream. And unless you silence it, you will succumb to it, becoming naught but a ravenous beast. Worse than the lowest wretched.'

"Greyhand nodded to Frère Yannick, his voice thick with sorrow and pride.

"'Better to end this life than lose your immortal soul. In the finale, that is the choice before every paleblood alive. Live as a monster, or die as a man.'

"I could still hear the choir in the Cathedral. I watched Frère Yannick slip his greatcoat off, remove his tunic. His body was covered in beautiful silver ink: icons of the Martyrs and Mothermaid, the Angels of Death and Pain and Hope. That ink told the story of a life spent in service to God. Outside, he seemed hale and strong, but one look in his eyes told me all was not so within. And I remembered my night with Ilsa, then. The chorus of her veins flooding into my mouth. The beat of my raging heart growing stronger as hers weakened with every swallow. The thirst that had driven me to such depths.

"What would it become as I grew older?

"What would I become?

"'We beg you bear witness, Almighty Father,' Abbot Khalid called. 'As your begotten son suffered for our sins, so too shall our brother suffer for his.'

"'Véris,' came the reply around me.

"Yannick turned to face us, placed his hands upon the wheel. My mouth ran sour as I saw Prioress Charlotte approach with a leather whip adorned with silver spurs. But the prioress only pressed the whip to Frère Yannick's shoulders—seven ritual touches for the seven nights the Redeemer suffered. A candle was kissed to the brother's skin, to mimic the flames that burned God's begotten son. And then, Abbot Khalid lowered his head, drawing a silvered knife. The choir was near the end of their hymn.

"'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 toward 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."