NOVEL NEXT Chapter 30 - Bloodshed
dwelling in lands with sorrow on the throne
the Lady Loss, with mournful eyes so keen
her touch a whisper, turning hearts to stone
a weaver of the grief that lies unseen
with every tear that falls, her spirit wakes
she dances in the echoes of our pain
a ghostly presence in the paths we take
her silent steps imprint a darkened stain
she steals the joy that once did brightly burn
and leaves us with memories of what was
a lesson harsh that all must one day learn
the bitter truth within her gentle cause
yet in the realm of sorrow, wisdom grows
for Loss is but the gift that Life bestows
- "Throne of Sorrow," A Sonnet by Aminder Darkbloom
We return to the First Circuit the evening before the Day of Fate, and as I lie in Jebah's bed staring up at the top bunk, I think to myself that I can't possibly attend another party. There are only three days left of Veneer Week, and classes resume on Monday. I tell Killián the next morning that I have too many essays to complete—one on a titan, which I've only written three pages of. The second outlining the first four generals of lore—Yosif, Aleric, Adelia, and Médéric the First. The third on critical territories in the realm and how to best defend them. The fourth, for Lanista Velma, on present-day rank structure and leadership in Lady Death's guard. All of them are five pages, I tell Killián—and I've only got three days to get them done.
"Are you certain?" he asks. We're at the table in the di Vivar private quarters, eating salted meat and toast with the twins. "Segolé's been readying Baumé's palazzo in Lefe's absence, and it should be quite the social event. There will be palm reading. Tapestry weavers. The priestesses always do a play about the seven heirs—it never fails to delight. You might learn something for your first paper."
"I shouldn't." I pick at the toast. "Thanks for the invite, but if I'm going to type seventeen pages in three days, I need to get working."
Twenty pages. Yosif's voice, in my mind. I don't want you writing about Marix. Your goal is to succeed Killián, not conjure larvae and other Hel-spawn. You should be writing about me.
I already have a paper on you, I protest.
It's a shared paper. I want one to myself.
I've already written three pages. It took hours.
Well, then you better start working. I'm not asking. This is an order.
Judging by the way Killián's lips are quirked, he's listening in on the conversation. I don't know how he's doing it, or why, but I can't shake the feeling that my conversations with Yosif aren't private. Maybe Killián can read my mind, or maybe he can't—I would never, ever, ask him directly—but he knows more than I want him to. Frowning, I take a bite of the pork strip. The sting of salt coats my tongue.
After breakfast is over, Killián leads me down the flight. He turns right and leads me through a second-floor corridor I haven't been down. The walls are lined with sconces that cast a flickering light on door after door. Each is marked with a plaque. General Killián. Across the hall from that—Staffmaster Bardic. Staffmaster Segolé. Staffmaster Belén.
"Staff offices," he throws over his shoulder as we pass the door labeled Staffmaster Torrense. "Yours is down here—Brayden's old chambers. I cleared out most of his personal items last night, and you're free to decorate it as you wish. It will be a quiet place for you to work—although you're welcome to take up residence in the library if you prefer. It's between the petit parlor and the kitchens on the first floor—I can take you there after I show you the room, if you wish."
"I know where it is." We pass Staffmaster Péri, Staffmaster Lefe, Staffmaster Linden, Staffmaster Kempe, and a room with no plaque. Beyond that, a golden metal rectangle engraved with black calligraphy—Staffmaster Ko. "Whoa."
"Here we are," Killián says, and pushes open the door. Inside the room is spacious—I'm guessing all the offices are, judging by how long the hallway is and how far apart the doors are. High ceilings and long windows on the far wall—natural light spills onto the wooden floorboards. The walls are adorned with intricate molding and frescoes of Lady Death—skeletal, painted like Angeliana, portrayed as Brid Naya'il. Bookshelves line one wall, empty except for a few strategic volumes on tactics and strategy. A large, sturdy desk dominates the center of the room. Its surface is clean and uncluttered, bearing only a large typewriter, a brass oil lamp, a blotter, and an inkstand. Behind the desk is a high-backed leather chair. Two comfortable looking chairs are positioned in front of the desk, both at slight angles. A low table nearby holds a decanter of water and glasses. A framed map of the realm hangs on the wall behind the desk, and a finely crafted di Vivar coat of arms hangs above the doors—a deadcrow with a scythe clenched in one taloned foot.
"Whoa," I say again.
"Make yourself comfortable here," Killián says. "When you graduate from L-DAW, you'll be spending a considerable amount of time in these chambers."
I sit behind the desk, grip the armrest, look up at him.
"Thank you," I say. "For everything."
"You've earned this," is all he says, and he leaves me to my work.
###
I scrap the three pages I wrote about Marix—they weren't very good, anyway, but I've gotten sort of attached to them. They traveled with me in my kitbag to Bathune, to Valenès—my kitbag and scythe made it home with me, but my leathers didn't. Right now I'm still waiting for a replacement pair, and I'm uncomfortably aware of the fact that I'm wearing clothes stolen from Jebah's wardrobe. Black trousers, a gray Ivo Lorsan sweater. No one commented on it at breakfast, but I'm willing to bet Jebah would have something to say if he stopped by. I have the disheartening impression that I'm pretending to be Killián's brother—like he fucked up the first relationship so badly he's trying to recreate it with me—but that's stupid.
No one thinks you're Jebah. Yosif tells me when I have this thought. For one thing, he's a few seeds short of an apple. For another, Killián knows who you are. He's not trying to recreate anything—and he wouldn't be trying to marry his brother to his daughter. We aren't Darkblooms.
One thing I've come to learn about Yosif is he really loves taking shots at the Darkblooms.
I find two books about Yosif on Brayden's old shelf—The Second Titan by Ludovic di Vivar, written in 76 GKE, and Yosif the Great by Rarre Lucci. It was published only eight years ago by the same guy who wrote The Leaders of Yesterday and Tomorrow. From these books I'm able to learn more about the titan who's taken up residence in my mind. Yosif di Vivar, also known as Yosif the Great, holds a legendary status in the annals of history as the first general of Lady Death's guard. According to Lucci, his life and accomplishments have been passed through generations, serving as both a source of inspiration and a standard of excellence for those who follow.
He was born to Lady Viva, the God King's second wife—apparently the guy had three. L'Angly's mother, Lady Darkbloom, and Leclère's mother, Lady Skylarosa, were the other two. Viva died when Yosif was three, leaving him what would later become the duke's chateau in Bathune plus a considerable inheritance. From a young age, Yosif exhibited an extraordinary talent in both physical combat and strategic thinking. He married Angeliana, Lady Skylarosa's oldest, when he was 17—she was pregnant. I can't help but notice he makes a lot of incest jokes about the Darkblooms considering they were half-siblings, but to each their own. In any case, the revolution to gain freedom from the Xobratic realm started in earnest two years later, when Yosif was 19. He was named the God King's lieutenant almost immediately and founded the elite guard soon after—even though L'Angly was older and the God King's firstborn, he worked for Yosif while the war was happening. Handpicking the finest soldiers—including the other titans—and implementing rigorous training programs, Yosif was the one who suggested returning to the bunker to "put leashes on the fifth-dimensional beings who weave Fate's tapestry and the cosmos at large."
The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.
I'm able to fill up most of the five pages with stories from Yosif's campaigns—there were dozens in the seven years of combat before the revolution ended and the never-ending war began. It doesn't even take me that long—the books are much thicker than Seventh and contain many more details than I was able to glean about Marix. Yosif doesn't offer to take me into the mirror and show me his backstory, and I don't ask—I've got what I need in the texts. I break for lunch at 1300, heading down to the kitchen to grab a hunk of bread and some cheese, and I've finished by 1500. Since I already know a lot about Yosif, I decide to start on my second essay about the first four generals—I crack open The Leaders of Yesterday and Tomorrow to see what I can learn about Yosif, Aleric, Adelia, and Médéric the First.
Yosif isn't happy when I start reading about Aleric, his son. This book makes him seem like he was competent, Yosif complains. He wasn't. The generalship should've gone straight to Adelia.
Is he the son you killed? I ask.
Write your damn essay.
I shrug and turn back to the book.
Di Vivars can be so crotchety when people call them out for homicide.
###
I've nearly finished my second essay by the time the sun sets over the Volterras. A little after 2000, there's a knock on the door of Brayden's office. My office, I remind myself, although that still doesn't feel real.
"Come in," I call.
Brid enters. She's wearing the same lacy black dress that she wore on the Day of the Deceased, and her face is painted similarly—powdered, with black lip paint. Her shiny hair is pulled back into two plaits, and her father's leather jacket is slung over her shoulders. She's practically swimming in it—the thing hangs to her knees.
"How goeth the writing?" she asks.
"Almost finished my second essay," I ask. "How was the Day of Fate?"
"According to my palm, I'll bear you sixteen children and our marriage will be fit for the lore books." She makes a face like she's tasting something deeply unpleasant. "Clearly palm reading is a load of shite, because I'd take dismemberment over pushing a living creature out of my lady bits. The miracle of life can go eff itself."
I laugh a short, surprised laugh. "Yeah—you don't seem like the maternal type."
"If you want a wife who will give you children, find someone else." She sniffs. "Feel like taking a break?"
"Sure." I push back from the desk. "What do you have in mind?"
In answer, she holds up a basket.
She leads me up the stairs and out onto a balcony—we have a great view of the starry sky, not to mention this terrace looks down the street toward Baumé's palazzo. Fireworks are going off, a spectacular display of color and light. The sky is bursting with vibrant hues—crimson, emerald, sapphire, gold—each explosion blossoming like a radiant flower before fading to a shower of glittering sparks. Ascending rockets trail silver tails as they soar high into the night sky, sending cascades of sparkling light in all directions. The next one that explodes is shaped like a chrysanthemum, spreading out in a shimmering circle. The one after that takes the form of a willow, glowing tendrils gently trailing down as if reaching for the Earth below.
Interspersed with the larger explosions are smaller, quicker bursts of color—blue stars that twinkle briefly before disappearing, red comets that streak across the sky, green peonies that unfold in a slow, deliberate bloom. The grand finale is a synchronized display of multiple explosions, filling the night sky with a dazzling array of colors and patterns, illuminating Baumé's palazzo and the surrounding grounds in a brilliant, awe-inspiring light. Smoke rises, drifting toward us on the breeze, along with the acrid stench of powder.
"That was amazing," I say.
"You're a man nearly grown," she says. "You shouldn't say 'amazing.'"
"Says who?"
"Grandfather Médéric. 'Amazing,' 'incredible,' 'inspiring.' All words for little girls and schoolboys, according to him. Men should not be impressed by anything other than a nice defeat on the battlefield—and even that should be labeled respectable."
"All my respect to your grandfather—" Not that I have any for the man, I think, "—but I don't think being amazed by fireworks makes me a little girl."
"Suit yourself." She burrows deeper in the jacket, kicking her legs out in front of her. "Want something to eat?"
"Please."
She digs in the basket and extracts a roll of bread, buttered down the center. I take it gratefully—it's fresh, still warm from the oven. The salty twang fills my mouth, smears across my lips—I lick them, and her eyes follow the movement of my tongue.
"I want you to stop by the finishing school next Monday," she says abruptly.
"Excuse me?" I pause, the roll halfway to my mouth.
"Bring me flowers." She sounds bossy, impatient. "Dead ones, preferably—the living ones make me sneeze, and it's the thought that counts. A stuffed hound too. Leave them at the front desk—they won't let you up—with a nice note, and make sure to greet any vestal that you see. I'm hoping you'll bump into Coraline. You're quite fit, and her fiancé—that's Prince Lucian—looks like a birthmarked worm stuffed in silk. I'm hoping to make her jealous."
"Um," I say. "Okay."
What else is there to stay? We're engaged, I guess. If Brid wants flowers, I'll bring her the damn flowers—and the mutt.
"You'd actually do that?" She squints at me. "No lordheir would. They'd be too embarrassed. Girls like it. Boys don't."
"Sure. Why not?"
"If you do, I'll forgive you for the friendless ne'er-do-well lament," she mutters, then turns back to her own roll. She rips a hunk off of it with her hind teeth. "Lefe said something to Linden about you getting your soul back when you were away."
"Oh. That."
"I didn't know it was missing."
"It was."
"Is that why you were so prissy when you left L-DAW?"
"I didn't know it was missing then."
"Oh."
We sit in silence for a few minutes, and then she says, "Will you actually help me make it to Bathune?"
"Of course." I nudge her with my shoulder. "We'll get you into black leathers for real, Briddy—not just borrowing your dad's stuff. We'll end the never-ending war together. You'll see."
What the actual fuck. Yosif's voice in my mind. Flat, not a question. Do not make my descendant that promise.
I ignore him. "Paint ourselves in Xobrite blood, yeah?"
Her lips curl back into her twisted excuse for a smile—teeth bared, unnaturally sharp canines on full display. "We'll violate their corpses and put their heads on stakes. We'll make suits from their skins and weave tapestries from their intestines. We'll use their teeth for necklaces and their toe bones for rings. We'll—"
We'll get married and have babies like a nice, proper couple. Yosif's voice, again in my mind. Don't let this get out of hand, Whoreson.
Again, I ignore him. "You'll succeed your father and become the general. I'll be your lieutenant."
She beams at me with her warped smile, and that itself is worth defying Yosif. "We'll figure out who killed Brid Naya'il and bring justice to her memory."
"I think Lefe and Akeeva already did that."
"Maybe—but they're sitting on it. I asked Uncle Lefe what he found out in the web, and he went quiet as a corpse. Completely clammed. Something strange is happening—we need to find out what."
"We'll add it to the list." I nudge her with my shoulder again, and she giggles. "What else?"
Her eyes drift toward the sky—there's a thin layer of smoke in the air, but the stars are clearly visible. "We'll find out what the stars are made of," she says. "We'll rename the constellations and make a story for each and every one. Better stories than the ones that are currently out there—like, see that one up there? Lore says that's Lady Fate's coalpot, and the end of it is true north. It's called Finery. I don't think so. It's a tub of Xobrite heads, and it should be called Festerville."
I think about it for a long time, everything that's left for me to do. Not just finishing my essays and graduating from L-DAW, but what comes after—serving Killián, obeying Yosif, learning how to lead. Next time there's a battle of Valenès I won't be watching over justices like a bodyguard—no, I'll be on the frontline, leading a den of my own. In between combat tours I'll help Brid train—I owe that to her, owe it to myself to help her get there. I'll graduate from L-DAW with honors and start my career a five-titled denmaster—maybe a hivemaster, since I'm already an elite. I'll keep an eye on Jebah and Genevieve, make sure they don't get up to too much trouble.
I'll spend time with my sisters.
I'll hang out with my friends at L-DAW.
I'll end this stupid war and bring peace to the realm.
I'll rename the stars with Brid.
"Tell me about the other constellations," I say, unable to pull my gaze from her twisted smile, her sparkling eyes.
If I could stay in this moment for eternity, I think, it wouldn't be so bad. The morning will come, and I have work to do—but for now, I'm here with her. The silver, twinkling stars are beyond beautiful, and we're young and free and not damned.
For tonight, it's enough.