At Faith's End

by Chris Galford

  Alviss had warned him off. There was reason to that call. But even so: it was so very hard. After all, could a man who had once tasted of the sea’s fair breeze ever convince himself a pond would do? Essa had been a daily part of his life for so many months—and now? Now there was only pity, and work, and even he hated himself for how they painted him.

  At the edge of camp, a woman caught his eye. She stood before the tents, red hair askew, cloak-smothered but shapely. She was a pale mirage that enticed men with wanton looks. She caught his eye and held it. Purpling lips pursed into a smile and she tipped back the folds of her cloak, revealing merely cloth, cold and grime having pulled it tight to ample features. A finger hooked toward him, as she openly ogled.

  What women might tempt us to. For a moment, he wavered. Then he hurried on, temptation’s laughter haunting him through the man-made alleys of the tent city.

  “Ser? The commander?” one of his guardsmen asked.

  The Gorjes watched them hasten on. More than one blew him a mocking kiss.

  Without worry of horses or men upon their paths, the trek to the town gates was swift. Within their embrace, it also seemed as though he had crossed the threshold of one world into another. Peasants mingled amiably enough with the soldiers, and hoes and sickles were more commonplace here than blades. Here, all the able-bodied men were of like mind—bound, as they were, in dedication to the Bastard.

  With Othmann’s departure, not one noble soul remained housed within Pasłówska’s walls.

  Polarized. They fear a revolution of a sort, and so you give them a symbol for the effort.

  He knew that he would die, the Bastard had said. Even emperors lie. Why should good men be any different?

  Boderoy stopped them just inside the gates, his thinning features bowing ever-so-slightly to a more proper greeting. As good as his master’s orders, the man put a hand to Rurik’s chest as he tried to continue on. “Tessel has gone to meet with Lord Pordill in the chapel,” he informed them. “No steel.”

  Only once Rurik relinquished his blade and pistol both did the attendant turn to guide him on.

  Unmistakable amidst the stone hovels that surrounded it, the town’s small church lay open to their arrival. Two soldiers stood outside the doors, their own steel as unmistakable as the church. Joining them was a tawdry assembly of men-at-arms, their emblazoned surcoats and surly demeanors leaving no doubt that these were nobles’ men, or lesser nobles themselves. No three wore the same sigil, save the half-dozen bearing Pordill’s goat.

  While it was comforting to know that Tessel hadn’t forsaken safety entirely, it was somewhat distressing to think how tipped the numbers were. A word from Rurik added his own guards to the door as he tugged Boderoy aside.

  The meeting was planned. The crowd was not. “I thought we were meeting with Pordill.”

  “You are. It would seem others came along for the pleasure.”

  Casting a wary glance over his shoulder, Rurik added, “So should some of ours. I would have you bring some of the men from the gates to—”

  “All the other captains are inside already, young master. There are more than enough bodies. I would suggest you go to join them. You fret too much over details.”

  “I fret too much over my neck, Boderoy. Would you…?”

  “Go, go,” the man said, making shooing gestures with his hands. “I will see who I can wrangle.”

  Appeased, but far from settled, Rurik crossed the icy glares of the nobles’ men and mounted the church’s stairs. Even from outside, he could smell the stench of disinfectant and rot alike. Sickness. Blood. His nose curled at the thought of all the sick, but if the nobles could brave it, he supposed he could as well. Truth be told, the thought of seeing his brother again was more unnerving than the blood.

  Assal give me the strength. A foot inside the door, he hastily added: And the wisdom to carry a closed mouth.

  Cots lined the circling wall, to provide relief to those overflowing pews that had survived the hunt for firewood. Even so, the floor held the excess, forming a macabre scene of wracked lungs and twisting flesh. It was a sea of horrid, bloodshot eyes, and Rurik felt his stomach lurch involuntarily at the sight. You can do this, he reminded himself. Even so, he made it a point to hurry down the aisle.

  A short walk through the chapel made Tessel’s choice of venue all too clear. If sickness didn’t deter any unnecessary guests, the altar likely would. Ringed in the manner of all such homes to Assal, the altar was bound by silver—or painted to look like it—with white linen covering its broad expanse. The statue of the prophet at its center would call any Orthodox to peace. Tessel may have been a Farren, but most of the nobles were pure Visaj.

  A perfect, if distressing setting.

  Though the altar did not have its own separate room, it was set in a sizeable alcove that formed the rear of the chapel. Larger samples of the sort often came with confessionals, as well as back rooms for the priests, and even classrooms, in certain cities. This, however, was extravagant enough for Pasłówska.

  True to Boderoy’s word, Tessel stood beside the altar, ringed by his other captains, save one—Narve—who had the day’s watch in camp. By Rurik’s opinion, they were none the less for the priest’s absence. A few additional guardsmen stood clustered about the dais, apart from the gathering, but Pordill and a small train of nobles were entwined with Tessel and his, arguing, apparently, over a large map. On closer inspection, it was Effise.

  As he approached, the normally calm Pordill slammed a gauntleted fist into the wood. “Reason is the cornerstone of the great. Take the chip from your shoulder and open your ears. You cannot arrest people in the night.”

  “And I have told you before, Erim. I did not arrest the Lord Marshall. I reassigned him. He is in good health,” Tessel replied, not pausing even as his head dipped in greeting to Rurik.

  “The Lord Marshall is answerable only to the crown. Remember your own title, ser,” one of the younger nobles snipped. One of Huwcyn’s admirers. “Which ranks higher before Assal?”

  “I should presume all men are equal, Gerrin, for we are all of us flesh and bone,” Tessel said testily, “But so too do I remind you that as appointed by an emperor, my own station temporarily supersedes his own. For that matter, as acting commander, I do have the right of lawgiver. And I act—”

  “Carelessly,” Pordill grunted. “What of Ferrigus? Or Matair? You discard our advice. You bar us from your quarters. Yet you meet with thieves and exiles and all manner of filth.” This he added with a wave across Tessel’s captains.

  “Ivon?” Rurik asked, alarmed. All octave his brother had evaded him. For eight days, only silence greeted him from the reduced camp of Verdan’s men. He had assumed there had been desertions, just as he had assumed his brother merely didn’t wish to speak to him. He stepped toward the table, though no eyes turned at his approach. “What happened to Ivon?”

  They ignored him. Talked around him.

  “I had nothing to do with Matair. He deserted. Far from the first—”

  “An honorable man! So either it’s a sign our army is truly forsaken, or a lie,” Huwcyn Ibin boomed, to make himself heard. He stood at the center of the gathered nobles, and raised his warrior’s hands theatrically. “Ivon Matair is not the sort to cut and run. While you cannot even tell his brother.”

  Pordill nodded assertively. “And you expect us to believe this? Even as your knives wander our night?”

  “What happened to Ivon?” Rurik asked again, louder.

  There was a knife in his gut. His father’s death had planted it there. Essa’s turn had twisted it. He felt it digging deeper now, and though he felt his sense of calm slipping with it, he feared the worst, and could not hold himself back. Absently, he wished that Berric were here to advise him, but Berric was doing his duty, and he was alone, and none of these men listened.

  Tessel waved them off. “I find we’ve many nobles afoot here, but tragically few noble men.”

  This jab drew Huwcy
n forward. Even without a blade, the man cut an imposing figure. He looked like one of the northmen, and singly among his lot, like a man born to war. Wisely, two of the captains drew between him and Tessel, jaws squared for a fight. They sized one another up over the long moments.

  “I did not call this meeting to trade barbs,” Tessel sighed, falling back to his diplomatic nature. He gestured his own men off—a command obeyed with reluctance. Only Boderoy remained close at hand, having sidled more-or-less silently up to his master while everyone else stood distracted. “Pordill. Please. Be reasonable. This camp is becoming armed camps, and the divisions of necessity do not aid matters. Do not blame me for vigilantes, as I do not blame you and yours for the vigilantes among your own names. We need to make plans for Mankałd. We need to march.”

  Pordill stared down at the map on the table. He shook his head, mumbling something under his breath. Rurik turned between them, still confused. Ivon? Where are you? He thought of his conversation with Tessel, of the rage and the lies and the wavering of certainty—would he lie about his brother too? He looked into the general’s eyes and hoped he could see something, some flicker of knowing, but all he saw was doubt and anger.

  A new voice beckoned from the throng of nobles. “My lord, please, hear me out.” The speaker was a slip of a man, probably only a few scant years older than Rurik. He had no hair, but his eyes, puffed and reddened by an obvious lack of sleep, made him appear even more the boy—a fact accentuated by the robes he bore. Robes that clearly did not fit him. Rurik didn’t recognize him—a remarkable feature in its own right.

  And yet, he had a familiar quality. A certain vulture-like figure Rurik did not particularly admire. One of the man’s own companions laid a hand against his arm as he stepped forward, and he shrunk like a wilted flower, uncertain.

  “I am no lord, Ser Frechauf.”

  The name was more telling than the features. It lifted the man back to the general, and drew Rurik’s eyes in scrutiny. Haber’s brother. A hunched bull of a man from the south. He could picture him from the training grounds, snarling commands without ever having to raise his voice. Gruff—far more peasant than noble—but one of Othmann’s staunch courtiers. One of Ivon’s friends.

  The hand fell from Frechauf’s arm. He stepped forward, brushing past Pordill with such uncalculated fervor it seemed as if he would throw himself to Tessel’s knees. But he hesitated, hands shaking.

  “Lord, ser, whatever you will have, Tessel! But please, I beg you, release my brother. At least let me see him. I was there when your men took him away.” He took another step forward, hands coiling together. “I saw the crest they bore.” Another step. His head snapped back on his party—a plea as much to them as any. “They said he was a traitor!” A hand flung, frantic and true, and his sleeves shook beneath the fervor.

  Tessel’s eyes did not waver as his did. “A question only the man himself could answer. Could you name the ones that took him?”

  “Could any name a peasant for a man?”

  By a trick of light, something flickered as a sleeve stirred. That’s not his arm.

  Frechauf had crossed within a breath of Tessel when the dagger flashed from the folds of his robes.

  * *

  By the time they pulled the two men from one another’s throats, Essa was wondering if Rurik realized he was not cut out for his lot in life. There had been nearly a dozen brawls over the course of the octave—only half of which the Bastard’s aide-de-camp had actually caught.

  But he tried. As he tried with her. As he tried with his brother. It was more than she could say of most.

  She had to wonder if he knew his brother was gone. He went to the edge of that camp every day, and every day the guardsmen turned him away. Orders were orders. They were not to speak of Ivon’s departure. They were to turn aside any that did not belong. They were to do as they were told.

  Which was just as well, considering they didn’t know anything. Not really. Ivon had simply slipped away in the night, along with Vardick, a token assembly of soldiers, and a handful of Witold’s bannermen. There had been no word, and as far as she could tell, nothing but their horses removed. In brighter times, it should have never gone unnoticed. With everyone else making islands of themselves, the fool could be gone a month before anyone noticed.

  Unfortunately, this left Witold’s retainers with few visible commanders. While most were loyal to Ivon, few had any desire to stay if he wasn’t. Men trickled out daily. And then there were the Gorjes.

  Marvelle leered out of the crowd at her. “See something you like?”

  With eyes of carefully shaped ice, she slid out and carefully wiggled a dagger at the would-be Eagle. The man’s grin only widened, before he turned away again.

  “Charming creatures, those,” Rowan quipped, laying a comforting hand against her shoulder. “I should say you could have him for dinner, if I didn’t think he’d give us all the pox.” His hand slid down, following her arm to the dagger, and gently lowering it toward her belt. “Rats always do, you know.”

  She let him guide her back to caution. This time. There was a day she would kill them all. Men such as these wished to be lords of war, armed and armored, and glittering like peacocks. She was content to be a dagger in the night. It could wait, but it would always fall. So help her, not one of them would escape when it did. There were crimes she needed to right, and if they so willingly strode into the role of scapegoat, the problem was not hers.

  With a huff, Essa slid the dagger into its place and leaned back into her cousin. Her eyes rolled down his length, and a frown was the result. For once, he was dressed in something more akin to their place: dark, damp, and not the least bit ostentatious. It felt remarkably out of self.

  “Some things simply make a good mantelpiece.”

  “And that’s called wasteful, girl. Come now. There’s nothing more for us here. Let us go before the young master sees.”

  She lingered longer than she should have. She always did, in moments like this. Half of her wanted to beat the boy senseless—to take him by the hair and pull until he felt as she had felt in the long nights after the rape. Even the word was enough to poison her spit. The other half hoped simply that he would see her. A morbid, somewhat masochistic side perhaps, but all the same, she hoped it. What would happen if he did, though—that she could not say.

  Nor could she say if she hoped to see sorrow or pain in his eyes. All she knew is she wanted him to see the same in her.

  Betrayal sowed only bitter oats.

  Which was precisely why she did not trust the Gorjes. Looking around, nearly half the crowd was Gorjes—appropriate, considering it was one of theirs that started today’s beating. Though they allegedly owed their oaths to Count Witold, they were sellswords at heart. And sellswords, with nothing to fight and no coin to pay them, were nothing more than murderers in wait.

  Ivon was the man with the coin. He was their broker, their wrangler. Without anyone to give them orders, they would make their own—and that would likely mean selling out the rest of them as soon as the reward grew shiny enough. Thankfully, they were not privy to Ivon’s departure. They, like the rest of the camp, seemed appropriately duped.

  It would be easy to know the day they learned the truth. If they didn’t sell out the rest of Witold’s men, they would certainly string the Eagles up. Threat of intervention from proper law was about the only thing that kept those vultures from their door.

  What they needed was to go. Go like Ivon. Go like Roswitte. Go from this place and leave them to die or live and see the world and to never look back. But they wouldn’t. For some reason they couldn’t. Sense demanded it, but still she loitered, looking for something that did not exist. Yet that only infuriated her more, because she knew it was illogical, but she did it anyways. The gods were cruel.

  She rubbed her eyes against the latest migraine. Sometimes it seemed she could scarcely go a day without them any longer. Hunger, most likely. It made her almost miss the numbness of app
etite that had followed the arasyl. Talking helped. Not that she did much of that. Roswitte would have made her. She blinked away spots and stared skyward. But Roswitte was gone. That notion gathered more weight in her gut than she would have expected.

  Overhead, the sky shone blue and wide and clear, like a reflection of the sea. Somewhere in the distance, a gryphon’s warbling cry split her head anew. Were they younger days, she might have saddled the creature. She might have mounted it, and through it, mounted the sky and the world and left it all behind.

  Dreams—they were troubling things.

  “Need attendance?” Marvelle called after them as they walked away. He often proved more observant than his lousy demeanor implied.

  “With walking? I think we have the gist of it. Boots and everything.” Rowan did not stop, even as he answered.

  In spite of the sarcasm, she could hear Marvelle share words with his brothers. There was laughter—they would follow in time. She groaned inwardly at the thought. Time alone was far too precious to waste on fools.

  They paralleled Rurik’s own path through the early part of his trek, splitting from it as a whore caught his eye. So that is love now, is it? She wanted to spit on him. Rowan, noticing the redhead, guided her skillfully away from that particular shipwreck, and straight back for their own end of camp. To food, and to company.

  Or at least, to company. Essa’s stomach growled. It had been three days since her last solid meal. Far from the longest ever, but still not desirable. When she made water now, even her body’s leavings seemed to reflect that fact.

  “He’ll have nothing for us, Rowan.”

  Her cousin shrugged his slender shoulders. “I trust the smell shall give us strength.”

  “The smell of tack?”