“He is the Serpent.” Daisani answered when Chelsea’s silence had gone on too long, and drew all eyes to himself by doing so. To Margrit’s astonishment, the vampire sounded very nearly reverent as he spoke, but recalling her own emotional reaction, she understood. “The same who litters your holy books and the same who entwines your healing staves. He is more than one of us, more than one of anything you might quantify. He is the beginning and the end of time, eternal in a way no other thing is. And he never lets go of his tail,” he added more prosaically, which earned a snort from Chelsea.
“He’s never had hold of his tail,” she said briskly, then shot a sharp-edged smile toward Daisani. “But they do say he knows the truth about where the vampires came from.”
Daisani’s gaze narrowed. Chelsea huffed an unimpressed breath, but Janx took attention from them with a murmur as soft and awestricken as Daisani’s own.
“They say he’s the counterpart to the mother of us all. That one can’t exist without the other, and neither of them can die until the end of the universe. No one in the history of the world has ever spoken with him.”
“The mother of us all? There’s a mother of us all?” Margrit came to her feet, her boots and clothes squishing.
“You would call her Gaia. Mother Earth,” Chelsea said with a degree of impatience. “A legend from which everything is born.”
“Her—mother—but—!” Margrit reined in her spluttering and lifted her hands to her head. “And this serpent is her counterpart? What, the death of us all? And I found him in the gargoyle memories? How’s that possible if nobody’s ever talked to him?”
Chelsea rolled her eyes. “Dramatics. First, he’s touched many people through the aeons. Your mythologies come from somewhere, after all. Second, I think it’s clear you went well beyond the gargoyle memories, Margrit. No one returns from those adventures drenched in seawater or missing items they took with them into memory. It’s a psychic journey, not a physical one. However.” Her voice sharpened and Margrit came to attention, feeling young and small all over again. Chelsea repeated, “However,” more gently, and smiled. “Insomuch as anything can be, the serpent is the truth at the heart of everything, and if he accepted a gift from you, you’ve been honored beyond any other living being in this world.”
“Oh,” Margrit said faintly, and all the other questions that had been raised fell away. “Does that mean I win?”
Even Biali conceded, grudgingly, that it did, and Margrit left the tribunal chambers to the argument of what wisdom was meant to be derived from her experience. Grace led her back to Alban’s room, where Margrit dried herself and changed into her own clothes, now that the protective leathers were no longer needed for fighting.
Grace was still waiting when Margrit emerged, toweling her hair dry. The tall vigilante was more swollen and bruised than Margrit: she’d caught a glimpse of herself in a mirror, and Daisani’s gift was doing its work. By morning she doubted she’d see any marks left from their battle. Grace noticed it, as well, and looked sour. “Vampires.”
Caught off guard, Margrit laughed. “The worst thing about living in Santa Barbara.”
Grace’s bruises creased with confusion and Margrit waved it off. “Never mind. I’d think you were the right demographic to have seen—Well, never mind. Are you okay?”
“I’ll heal. Didn’t know you had that much fight in you.” Grace gestured toward the hall and took the lead, much to Margrit’s relief. She still hadn’t spent anything like enough time in Grace’s domain to know where she was going, though at least a few hallways were beginning to look familiar.
“I didn’t know I had that much fistfight in me, anyway. I kind of wish I still didn’t know.”
“Sometimes it’s good to know how far you’ll go.”
“Yeah? How far will you go?”
Grace paused outside the chamber door, leaning on the handle as she gave Margrit a light smile. “To the edge of heaven, so I can earn the kiss of angels, love. And yourself?” She pushed the door open, ushering Margrit in before she could reply.
The air within the meeting room felt like Janx’s alcove often did, as if it had a personal grudge and intended to hold Margrit back. Margrit caught a quick sharp breath, gaze skittering from one face to another as she tried to ascertain what she’d missed. Biali scowled furiously, arms folded against his thick chest; Alban looked poleaxed, his own gaze roving from one member of the tribunal to another. The selkies and djinn whispered amongst themselves, while Janx and Daisani eyed each other as if one had done something unspeakable, and the other didn’t wish to speak of it, but couldn’t let it go. Behind Margrit, Grace let go a soft whistle. “Wonder what we missed.”
“Enter, Margrit Knight.” Eldred’s dark, chocolate voice rolled over her and Margrit scurried forward, feeling as though she’d turned up late for an important test. She bobbed her head, nearly cutting a clumsy curtsy when she came in front of the tribunal, then bit back a laugh at her own nerves.
“Sorry if I—”
“Silence.”
Margrit swallowed hard enough to hurt her throat trying not to repeat her apology. She still had the towel clutched in both hands, giving her the silly but reassuring idea that everything would be all right. Eldred waited on her for long moments, clearly expecting his edict to be broken, but Margrit remained quiet, and the djinn and selkie whispers died away. Margrit regained some measure of composure, familiar enough with gimlet-eyed judges to be comfortable in Eldred’s imposed hush. Finally the silence grew sufficiently profound that even Janx and Daisani broke off their wordless exchange to pay heed.
Eldred, with the art of a showman, held his place and the quiet to the breaking point, waiting until Margrit, at least, fidgeted internally, though she didn’t let it seep through physically. Then, sonorous and deep, he announced, “The trial is ended—”
“What?” Despite her best intentions, Margrit’s voice shot up. “I only went to change clothes! I haven’t stood the third—”
“Margrit.” Alban spoke from behind her, soft and calming. Margrit knotted her hands in the towel and set her teeth together, forbidding any more words from escaping. Eldred glowered at her until satisfied she wouldn’t interrupt again, then started over.
“The trial is ended. We demand tests of strength, of wisdom and of compassion. Of these tests two are decided at the heart of the tribunal, and we name those two as strength, gone to Biali’s champion, and wisdom, gone to Alban’s. But for the third, the trial of compassion, we must look beyond our trials and determine the larger actions of our combatants.
“Margrit Knight has, at great risk to herself, taken Alban Korund’s place in this trial. Why have you done this?”
“Because it’s wrong not to fight for what’s right,” Margrit replied, then winced at the rhymed phrasing. Eldred, though, nodded acceptance, so she pressed her lips shut against trying for more eloquence.
“Biali’s champion should not have won the battle of strength. Why did she?”
Margrit shot a guilty look toward Grace, whose expression remained neutral beneath the bruises. “Because I threw the fight, Your Honor. Eliseo Daisani gave me a sip of his blood a while ago, and I heal faster than any human should. Grace couldn’t hurt me enough to win, but she wasn’t going to betray Biali’s honor by not trying. I wasn’t going to let her kill herself on the moral high ground.”
Eldred nodded a second time. “And why are you part of these proceedings at all?”
“What, beyond Alban throwing himself on his sword? Because he needed help a few months ago, I guess. Because he asked me to help clear him of the suspicion of murder.” Her answers had none of the polish of a prepared ending argument, and the lawyer in her cringed at how raw and inexperienced she sounded. But once more, Eldred nodded.