"DISAPPOINTING.
"That was the word hanging over my head later that night. If Master Greyhand was discouraged at the news about his new apprentice, he hid it well—remaining stoic as ever as he walked me back to Barracks. But still, Forgemaster Argyle's dark scowl, Prioress Charlotte's pursed lips, Seraph Talon's words—none of them would leave me. And as I sat on my bed cleaning the blood out of my new boots, I could still hear his voice ringing in my ears.
"Disappointing.
"'Should've knocked his fucking block off anyway,' I growled.
"'Well, look what the maggots left behind,' came a voice.
"I glanced up and found Aaron de Coste staring at me from the Barracks door. He stood with another initiate—a tall, dark-haired lad named de Séverin, who carried himself in the same silver-spoon-up-his-arse manner as de Coste. From the shit-eating grin on Aaron's face, word of my Trial had already circulated among the other initiates.
"'I knew you were lowborn, Kitten,' he sneered. 'But not so low as that.'
"'Eat shit, de Coste. I've not the patience for this now, I warn you.'
"'I suppose it makes sense,' the lordling mused to de Séverin. 'Vampire peasants bedding human peasants. All part of the gutter's rich tapestry?'
"His crony chuckled as the fire inside me flared.
"'My mother was no peasant. She was of the house of de León.'
"'Oh, madame of the manor, I'm sure. That squalid little hole we dragged you out of was her summer home, then?' Aaron frowned, as if in thought. 'Summer hovel, perhaps?'
"De Coste was older than I. Three years, give or take, and he had a few inches on me back then. I wasn't certain I could take him, but I swore to God if he made one more crack about my mama, I'd fucking try.
"'So I've not got a bloodline,' I snapped. 'I'm still paleblood. I can still fight.'
"De Coste chuckled. 'I'm certain the Forever King is trembling in his boots.'
"'He fucking should be,' I spat, returning to cleaning mine.
"The lordling wandered to his cot, picked up a copy of the Testaments by his bedside. But he still stared at me. 'That's how you see yourself, is it? Plucky little Gabriel de León, charging up to Fabién Voss's throne of corpses with his new silver sword and saving the realm single-handed?' Aaron chuckled. 'You really have no bloody idea what's happening here, do you?'
"'I know all I need to. I know I was fated to be here. And I know this Order is the one true hope against the Forever King.'
"'We're the true hope against nothing, Kitten.'
"I scowled. 'What do you mean by that?'
"'I mean that my brother Jean-Luc is a chevalier in the imperial army at Augustin. The Golden Host. The forces being mustered in the capital will annihilate the Forever King before his shambling mongrels ever reach the Nordlund. Oh, our cause might be righteous. But the sad truth is, nobody at court believes the silversaints will make a difference.' Aaron waved to the Barracks about us with lip curled. 'The only reason this monastery is being financed at all is because Empress Isabella is enamored of mysticism, and Emperor Alexandre enjoys getting his cock sucked by his new bride.'
"'That's horseshit, de Coste,' I said.
"'And what would you know about it, frailblood?' de Séverin sighed.
"'I know God meant for me to be here. My sister died at the hands of these monsters. And if I can do something to stop them, I will.'
"'Good for you,' Aaron said. 'But in the end, for all your faith and fury, you'll be nothing but piss in the wind. I mean, look at you. Ma famille can trace our lineage back to Maximille the Martyr. My mother is baronne of the richest province in Nordlund and—'
"'And yet she wasn't above bedding a vampire.'
"De Coste fell silent as Theo Petit stepped through the doorway. The big lad was dressed in his leathers, but his tunic was unlaced, and I could see a hint of metallic ink beneath. A beautiful angel was tattooed from knuckles to elbow on his left forearm, and what looked to be a snarling bear was scribed on his chest. He had a plate of chicken legs in hand, and he flopped into bed, chewing noisily.
"'That's the funny thing about highborn women,' Theo mused. 'They're the same height as any other when they're down on all fours.'
"'Blood from the gutter and a mouth from the sewer,' de Séverin sneered. 'If it isn't Theo Petit. The answer to the question no one was asking.'
"'We're all the Dead's bastards here, Aaron. We're all shit on the bottom of the Emperor's boots. We're all damned.' Theo stuffed a chicken leg into his face and spoke to de Coste with his mouth full. 'So give the tortured nobleson sermon a rest, eh?'
"Aaron only scowled. 'Just because you lost your master to the sangirè doesn't give you leave to forget your manners, Petit. I am the senior initiate of this company.'
"Theo stopped chewing a moment, eyes flashing.
"'You make mention of my master again, we might have to test that theory, Aaron.'
"De Coste looked the big lad up and down, but didn't seem keen to press. Instead, he lay back on his pillow, muttering beneath his breath. 'Softcock…'
"Theo scoffed, put his boots up on the bed. 'Your sister sings a different tune.'
"I chuckled softly, marking the ledger in my head.
"'What the hell are you laughing at, Kitten?' Aaron snarled.
"I shot a poisoned glance at de Coste, but the matter seemed settled for now. I met Theo's eyes, nodding silent thanks, but the big boy simply shrugged in return—I guessed the quarrel was less about Theo defending me, and more about his dislike of de Coste. And so, silent and bruised and still friendless, I returned to cleaning my boots, trying not to think too much about my failure in the Gauntlet. I had no line and no gifts to call my own, save that which we all shared. I'd learned nothing of my father. But despite all Aaron said, despite the Trial, I still felt I was fated to be there. God did want me in San Michon. Frailblood or no."
Gabriel paused a moment, lacing his fingers as he stared down at his hands.
"But you want to know the awful thing, coldblood?"
"Tell me the awful thing, Silversaint," Jean-François replied.
"I lay in bed later that night, my wounds nothing but a memory, and I thought on what de Coste had told me about his brother in the army. About the restoration of this monastery being only an Empress's whim. And my first thought wasn't for the people who might be spared if the Forever King was crushed by the Golden Host. It wasn't of the soldiers who might die defeating him, or the horror that this conflict had come at all. My first thought was to pray that the war wouldn't be over by the time I got there."
Gabriel sighed, and met the historian's eyes.
"Can you believe that? I was actually afraid I was going to miss out."
"Is such not the desire of all young men with swords? Win glory, or glorious death?"
"Glory," Gabriel scoffed. "Tell me something, vampire. If death is so glorious, how is it meted so cheaply and so often by the most worthless of men?"
The Last Silversaint shook his head.
"I'd no idea what was coming. No clue what they were going to make of me. But I did know this was my life now. And so, I vowed again to make the best of it. Whatever Aaron said, I felt in my bones that San Michon would be the salvation of the empire. I truly believed that I'd been chosen, that all this—my sister's murder, what I'd done to Ilsa, the cursed and bastard blood in my veins—all of it was part of God's plan. And if I trusted in him, if I said my prayers and praised his name and followed his word, all would be well."
Gabriel scoffed, staring down at the sevenstar on his palm.
"What a fucking fool I was."
"Take heart, de León." The coldblood's voice was soft as the scratching of his pen. "You were not alone in your hopes. But none can best a foe that cannot die."
"The snows at Augustin weren't soaked red with mortal blood alone. You died in droves that night, coldblood."
A slender shrug. "Our dead stay dead, Silversaint. Yours rise against you."
"And you believe that a good thing? Tell me, do you never wonder where all this ends? After the monsters you've birthed drain these lands dry of every man, woman, and child, all of you will starve. Wretched and highblood alike."
"Hence the need for a firm rule." Pale fingers brushed the embroidered wolves on the vampire's frockcoat. "An empress with the foresight to build, rather than destroy. Fabién Voss was wise to harness the foulbloods as a weapon. But their time is at an end."
"The wretched outnumber you fifty to one. There are four major kith bloodlines, and all have corpse armies in thrall. You think those vipers are going to give up their legions without a struggle?"
"They may struggle all they wish. They shall fail."
Gabriel looked to the monster then, cold calculation in his eyes. The bloodhymn still thrummed in his veins, sharpening his mind as well as his senses. The coldblood's face was stone, his eyes, liquid darkness. But even the barest rock can tell a story to those with the teaching to see it. Despite it all—the carnage, the betrayal, the failure—Gabriel de León was a hunter who knew his quarry. And in a blinking, he saw the answer, as clear and crisp as if the monster had written the words in that damnable book.
"That's why you seek the Grail," he breathed. "You think the cup can bring you victory against the other bloodlines."
"Children's stories hold no interest for my Empress, Silversaint. But your story does." The monster tapped the book in his lap. "So return to it, if you'd be so kind. You were a fifteen-year-old boy. The halfbreed bastard of a vampire father, dragged from provincial squalor to the impregnable walls of San Michon. You grew to be a paragon of the Order, just as you vowed. They sang songs about you, de León. The Black Lion. Wielder of the Ashdrinker. Slayer of the Forever King. How does one rise from beginnings so low to become legend?" The monster's lip curled. "And then fall so very far?"
Gabriel looked to the lantern flame, his mouth pressed thin. The bloodsmoke roiled inside him, sharpening not only his mind, but his memory. He ran one thumb across his tattooed fingers, the word P A T I E N C E etched below his knuckles.
The years at his back seemed mere moments, and those moments were clear as crystal. He could smell silverbell on the air, see candleflame reflected in his mind's eye. He could feel smooth hips swaying beneath his hands. Eyes dark with want, lips red as cherries open against his, fingernails clawing his naked back. He heard a whisper then, hot and desperate, and he echoed it without thinking, the words slipping over his lips in a sigh.
"We cannot do this."
Jean-François's head tilted. "No?"
Gabriel blinked, found himself back in that cold tower with that dead thing. He could taste ashes. Hear the screams of monsters that had denied death for centuries, delivered at last by his hand. And he met the coldblood's gaze, his voice tinged with shadow and flame.
"No," he said.
"De León—"
"No. I've no more wish to speak of San Michon just now, if it please you."
"It does not please me." A thin frown marred Jean-François's flawless brow. "I wish to hear of your years in the paleblood monastery. Your apprenticeship. Your ascendance."
"And you'll hear about all of it in time," Gabriel growled. "We have all night, you and I. And all the nights we'll need thereafter, I'd wager. But if you seek knowledge of the Grail, then we should return to the day I found it."
"That is not the way stories work, Silversaint."
"This is my story, coldblood. And if I have the right of it, these will be the last words I'll ever speak upon this earth. So if this is to be my last confession, and you my priest, trust that I know how best to impart the tally of my own fucking sins. By the time the telling is done, we'll have returned to Lorson. The Charbourg. The red snows of Augustin. And oui, even San Michon. But for now, I'll speak of the Grail. How it came to me. How I lost it. And all between. Believe me when I say your Empress will have her answers by the end."
Jean-François of the Blood Chastain was displeased, a hint of fangs in his silent snarl. But in the end, the monster ran his tapered fingertips over the feathers at his throat and acquiesced with a tilt of his chin.
"Very well, de León. Have it your way."
"I always did, coldblood. That was half the fucking problem."
The Last Silversaint leaned back in his chair, steepled his fingers at his chin.
"So," he sighed. "It all began with a rabbit hole."