‘“… Sisterhood?”
‘Aaron sighed as if I were somehow supposed to know all this already. “The Silver Sorority of San Michon. Before our Order found patronage in good Empress Isabella, it was their work keeping this entire monastery afloat.”
‘I saw small figures in long black habits walking out from that grand and gothic building. Their cloth fluttered in the mountain wind, lace veils whipping about their faces.
‘“Are they palebloods like us?” I asked.
‘“There are no female palebloods. The Almighty saw fit to spare his daughters our curse. These Sisters are godly women, devout in the One Faith and brides of the Almighty.”
‘“I’d not expected to find nuns among an order of warrior brothers.”
‘“Mmm.” De Coste eyed me sidelong. “And you’ve spent a great deal of time among warrior brothers, Little Kitten?”
‘I blinked at that. “I—”
‘“The Great Library.” De Coste nodded to the sixth pillar, the beautiful hall of stained-glass windows and tall gables atop it. “One of the finest collections of lore and learning in the empire. There is a forbidden section within, and if Archivist Adamo catches you even looking at it, he’ll skin your hide and use it for book binding. I’d normally recommend you investigate the general shelves in your free time, but I doubt you can actually read.”
‘“I can read fine,” I scowled. “My mama taught me.”
‘“Then I’ll be sure to send you a letter when I start giving a damn.” Aaron waved back at the Library. “Books are kept on the lower level, and the Silver Sisters work in the bindery above. Along with the Brothers of the Hearth, they create the most beautiful tomes in the empire.” He raised his hand to interrupt my question. “There are two castes within the Ordo Argent. The Brothers of the Hunt are palebloods like me and Greyhand, men who get their hands dirty stalking horrors in the dark. The Brothers of the Hearth are simple men of faith who keep the Library, craft our weaponry and … other tools. Speaking of …”
‘De Coste pointed at a sprawling building ahead. It had few windows, but many chimneys. They all spat black smoke, save one, which trailed a thin finger of red fumes.
‘“The Armoury.” Aaron squared his shoulders and smoothed back his thick blonde hair. “Follow. You’ll want to see this.”
‘“Wait,” I said. “What is that?”
‘I pointed to a stone span jutting out from the Cathedral’s pillar. It seemed a bridge, save that it led nowhere at all, ending in a balcony without a railing and a plunge down into the river Mère. A large chariot wheel sat at the edge, locked in a stone frame – the same kind of wheel the Redeemer had been flayed upon, and that now graced the necks of every priest and holy sister in the realm.
‘“That,” Aaron said, “is Heaven’s Bridge.”
‘“What’s it for?”
‘The young lordling clenched his jaw. “You’ll find out soon enough.”
‘De Coste turned on silver heels and marched to the Armoury. Pushing open great double doors wrought with the sevenstar, he led me into the vast entrance hall. And there, I breathed a sigh of wonder.
‘The space was lit by myriad glass spheres suspended from the ceiling. I knew not how, but each glowed like a burning candle. It was as if the long-lost stars of my youth had come back to the sky, bathing the hall in honeyed light. And looking about, I saw that warm glow playing on a multitude of weapons, lined up in vast racks along the walls.
‘I could see swords like the ones Greyhand and de Coste carried, the steel run through with traceries of silver. Longblades, bastard swords, axes, and warhammers. But there were stranger weapons too – the kind I’d only heard whisper of. Wheellock pistols and rifles and pepperboxes, wrought of beautiful metal and engraved with scripture.
‘I AM THE SWORD THAT LAYS THE SINNER LOW. I AM THE HAND THAT LIFTS THE FAITHFUL HIGH. AND I AM THE SCALE THAT WEIGHS BOTH IN THE ENDING. SO SAY’TH THE LORD.
‘If I was in love with the monastery before that moment, now I was utterly smitten. I’d been raised the son of both a blacksmith and a soldier, remember. I’d been drilled hard in use of a blade, but I also knew the art of making weapons this beautiful. The smiths who worked this armoury were geniuses …
‘“Wait here,” de Coste ordered. “Touch nothing.”
‘The lad stepped through another set of doors, and I caught the familiar song of hammer and anvil beyond. I saw figures in leather aprons, muscular arms glinting in forgefire. I ached with homesickness at the sight. I missed my sister Celene, Mama, oui, even my papa. I supposed I needed to stop calling him such in my head, but Seven Martyrs, that was easier said than done. I’d lived my whole life thinking of Raphael Castia as my father. Never once guessing I was the son of a real monster.
‘As the heavy doors swung shut behind Aaron, I stepped closer to the longblades, marvelling at their beauty. Each pommel was decorated with a sevenstar, the crossguards all some variation of the Redeemer hanged upon his wheel, or angels at wing. But the silver patterns in each blade were like whorls in lengths of fine timber; each subtly different from the next. I reached for the closest sword, and brushing the back of my hand against the edge, I was rewarded with a sliver of pain and a thin line of red across my skin.
‘Razor sharp.
‘“You have fine taste,” came a deep voice behind me.
‘I turned, startled to find a young Sūdhaemi man watching me. He’d entered the hall through a second doors, lithe as a cat and quiet as a mouse. He was in his early twenties, ebon-skinned like all his folk. He wore no tattoos on his flesh, but the scorched hairs on his forearms and the leather apron he wore told me this young man was a smith, through and through. He was tall, crushingly handsome, hair worn in short, knotted braids. Striding across the hall, he took the sword from my hand.
‘“Who told you how to test a blade like that?” he asked, nodding to my cut.
‘“A swordsman’s strength rests in his arm. But his finesse lies in his fingers. You don’t risk them on the blade’s edge. My papa told me that.” I caught myself then, clenching my teeth. “Well … the man I thought was my papa, anyway …”
‘He nodded, soft understanding in his eyes. “What’s your name, boy?”
‘“Gabriel de León, my lord.”
‘The young man laughed then, so deep and loud I felt it in my own chest. “I’m no lord. Although I am his devoted servant. Baptiste Sa-Ismael, Brother of the Hearth and Blackthumb of the Silver Order, at your service.”
‘“Blackthumb?”
‘Baptiste grinned. “It’s Forgemaster Argyle’s expression. They say a man with a love for growing things has a green thumb. So we with a love for the anvil and the fire and the rule of steel …?” The smith shrugged. Cutting the air with the longsword, he smiled at it fondly. “You’ve a keen eye. This is one of my favourites.”
‘“You forged all these?”
‘“Only some. My brother smiths crafted the rest. Every blade in this hall was made for recruits like you. A tiny piece of the maker’s heart left in every blade. And once forged and cooled and kissed farewell, the silversteel waits here for the hand of its master.”