Eve of Snows: Sundering the Gods Book One

by L. James Rice

  7

  DEAD MAN’S MESSAGE

  There is a Light darker than the Dark, a living not alive,

  Just as Fear is not alive but forces us to Live.

  —Tomes of the Touched

  Thirteen Days to the Eve of Snows

  Bells of the morning vigil passed her door, awakening Eliles before dawn, and she went to the First Hall for morning prayers. Hundreds congregated in this massive cavern every morning, and with its acoustics, they heard the speaker’s intonations from anywhere in the chamber. A hundred lanterns and a score of braziers standing between rows of kneeling faithful provided the light.

  Chanted prayers droned, enveloping the body’s senses beyond the ears. Eliles had never felt the powers of the gods when praying, but from bass to soprano these gathered voices brought drifting energies to wash over her skin, the unison vibrato easing the warmth of the gods into muscles and bones to relax the body and soul. It was a peace difficult to deny, to not fall in line with.

  She sang with distraction these past three mornings, fighting the chant’s tranquility, her eyes searching every hood for a face, but she’d yet to spot a stranger in the congregation. The lord priest’s entourage could hide in their cowls, no doubt, but every face she spied was familiar.

  The droning prayer echoed to an end and High Priest Woxlin stood, taking center on the dais, a spear plated with red-gold in his hand. “As you walk your devotions this morning, ruminate upon the pilgrimage of Meridi of Modon, who lost her faith and four children, before rediscovering the truth in Sol’s Fire.”

  The congregation spoke, “Sol’s fire and devotions.”

  Woxlin stepped from the dais and disappeared behind a tapestry with a string of priests in his wake. With the morning’s sermon ended most of the adherents didn’t kneel long, and the hundreds turned into a couple dozen within a handful of wicks.

  Eliles remained kneeling, taking any glance into hoods she got, but didn’t see a stranger’s face. She wrinkled her nose and sighed, curiosity about the Broldun lord priest ate at her, but being too nosy might reacquaint her with the inquisitor, a price unworthy of any reward. Still, the kitchens might be a good place to listen for rumors, and an inquisitor wouldn’t show his face in such a lowborn place.

  The swish of robes across stone came from behind, and someone kneeled so close they brushed her shoulder with their arm. “Ruminating well?”

  She recognized the sardonic voice and stifled a groan. Rovol was a priest in his third year, still in his brown robes, who served as an archivist in the book vaults. He was also a notorious cad renowned for trying to talk the robes off every attractive postulant in Istinjoln. “I was ruminating on Meridi of Modon’s rebellion and how well that worked out for her, crushed beneath a portcullis.”

  He dropped his cowl and flashed her the smile that reputedly worked on a lot of girls. He was handsome, she supposed, with a broad-round face and dark eyes, but how any girl saw past the two hairy caterpillars nestled above his eyes Eliles couldn’t fathom. Even then, his cocksure attitude made her want to vomit.

  “I’ve a couple candles before I need to be in the library, and you’ve not been assigned any duties since passing your trial—”

  “I need to walk my devotionals.” She stood and turned her back on him, but he was slow to take hints and followed.

  “I’m devoted to you, does that count?”

  She never quite decided whether he was attracted to her face, or if he was in it for the fame of being the man who blooded the sheets of One Lash. “Go away, Rovol. And if you won’t do that, at least shut your mouth.”

  She kept walking, but despite his obeying her second command, he stayed on her heels. She led him on a winding trail through lower Istinjoln to the Shrine of Burdenis, God of Winter and brother of Sol, and was disappointed to find they were alone.

  The alcove stood ten paces wide and twenty deep, and in the back stood a boulder of white marble carved into the likeness of a mountain with a swooping eagle soaring over its peak, and at its base was a carved bowl filled with water. Eliles dipped two fingers in the water and pressed them to her mouth for a kiss before touching her forehead.

  Rovol moaned at her kiss and she wanted to punch him, but she kneeled to pray. “Mighty Burdenis, may your winds be calm this year, and your snows light.” With their first snow already fallen in a freakish autumn storm, many priests were promising a bitter winter from this god. “But if cold it must be, may you freeze Rovol’s manhood off so he might never pee standing again.” She kissed her fingers and pressed them to her forehead as she stood and started to walk away.

  But a hand snagged her shoulder, pulled her into his chest. His smile was angry, and his brows bunched together. He was about to say something but feet came running, and a man’s voice echoed down the hall. “A dead bearer and wardens. Up top.”

  “Guntar.” Eliles ripped her arm from Rovol’s grip as three postulants trotted by and she fell in behind them, relieved to be away from the librarian, but worried who might’ve been killed. Guntar was one of her few friends in this horrid place and a bearer, and he’d ridden out a fortnight ago.

  She followed the others for a quarter candle before peeling off and taking a different route. She climbed into an empty building, the monk who should be guarding the door missing.

  A chilly morning greeted her as the sun edged over the eastern horizon, casting her shadow long in front of her as she jogged through the streets. By the time she arrived in the courtyard, a hundred or more adherents stood on its edges, mingling and staring.

  She craned her neck, spotting three horses with two riders, Estertok Wardens, judging by their heavy bear-skin cloaks and armament. She shuffled and nudged through the milling crowd and covered her gasp.

  A mountain pony pawed the cobbles with a dead priest draped over its saddle and leather straps dangling to the ground. She’d hoped the others had been mistaken, but the dead man was a bearer, and her hands shook.

  The bearer’s face remained hidden, and fear nibbled at her patience. Eliles spotted a familiar group of priests and postulants who mingled a polite distance from the riders, and she slipped among them. “What word?”

  Sufelu turned to her with swollen eyes. “Guntar is dead.”

  Eliles slumped, her air escaping her lungs and not wanting to breathe again. She had known Guntar for as long as she’d studied at Istinjoln; he’d been a postulant under Dareun before she’d arrived and had gained the priesthood only a few years ago. “How? When?”

  “I… I heard Colok, already four days past.” Sufelu appeared ready to say more, but she fell silent, as Woxlin entered the courtyard. The high priest crossed open ground with hasty strides to stand before the wardens. Their mouths moved with animated words and a nod passed between the men before Woxlin stepped beside the pony and yanked on the scroll tube strapped to Guntar, shaking the body to and fro. The high priest checked the message’s seal, nodded to the wardens, and headed back to the tower.

  Eliles didn’t hear a word, but she was aghast. This was the welcome for a murdered priest of Istinjoln upon his return? She expected Woxlin to demand answers, to call for monks to take the body away, something. Instead, Guntar remained tied to a horse’s back while a hundred or more people stared or milled about.

  What in the name of Sol?

  Eliles took advantage of the uncomfortable silence and slipped from the group, making her way into the tunnels beneath Istinjoln. She wound her way to a secluded alcove dedicated to Etinbin, Patron Goddess of the Dead, depicted here as an ivory skeleton with beckoning arms extended, and a black skull with eyes filled with crystals. She paced between two bowls, the fire of life and the water of eternity, light to see and reflection to learn. The pain she felt at the loss of a longtime friend withered beneath the anger growing within her.

  How important must a message be to warrant such a dismissal of his remains? And four days dead, it was wrong for the wardens to hold the body in such a manner, without prayers to guide
his soul along the Road of Living Stars.

  Four days. The seventh of Yistole.

  Lord Priest Dunkol arrived the night Guntar died.

  The notion of a connection felt faint at first, but grew by the flicker. Guntar was a respected bearer, he didn’t carry love notes or trivial disagreements over canon. The lord priest of Fermiden arriving at Istinjoln was important, but more important still, whatever brought him here to meet with Ulrikt. The murderer could come from within the Church, if the two sought to settle a canonical controversy. Would the Choerkin have killed him only to return his body? Many in Istinjoln would accuse the clan of any heresy or sin without a second thought. If it was political, the Broldun themselves were suspect.

  They’re connected. Her conclusion eased the rhythm of her thoughts, but didn’t soothe her curiosity.

  She kneeled before the skeletal depiction of Etinbin and prayed. Her eyes flew wide. She realized she prayed for answers rather than her friend’s soul. Humbled and embarrassed, she bowed her head and muttered a more appropriate prayer.

  “In honor of Guntar, Bearer and Servant of Istinjoln. May Etinbin see your soul across the Road of Living Stars. May Rettinu greet you in the Heaven of the Faithful, and provide you guidance unto and beyond the heavens of the Wealthy, the Loved, the Serene, the Provider, and the Wise. May the Queen of the Gods, Elinwe, greet you at the gates of the Conqueror Heaven where resides Sol, our heavenly king, and may you earn his forgiveness for any transgressions, and may your voice speak strong of your accomplishments and faith. May Sol accept your humility and pride as a man of faith and honor, so someday you may fight by his side.

  “In the name of Sol, may you live forever in his light.”

  She stood, pulled her cowl over her head and climbed back to the surface. Two monks tended the body, and the crowd had dispersed. The morning carried a chill she hadn’t noticed earlier, and a few flakes of snow drifted in from the heavens. Guntar wasn’t the first friend carried to their slumber in the catacombs beneath Istinjoln, but his was the first violent death.

  If Dareun stood beside her he would slap her for a fool after a single glance and rebuke her for every notion flitting through her head. Fortunate for her he was deep in prayer by now.

  Searching for answers was a dangerous game if she played it wrong, but she needed to find out how the message and the lord priest’s arrival connected. She considered the inquisitor in black and his threat; she couldn’t let herself get so caught up in the hunt she’d do something foolish.

  Woxlin was the connection, but getting close required careful thought.

  Subtle and savvy, these two qualities would keep her from the ledge Dareun always said she danced beside. Her master’s voice echoed in her head, “And remember, a ledge may give way any moment; if falls were predictable they’d kill nobody.”

  8

  FROZEN REPOSE

  A fire in the liar

  a thorn in the briar,

  welcoming blood of lovers and victims,

  feeding on flesh and decay

  of jumpers and thrown.

  Thorn thorn beware be aware

  of your nature used against others.

  —Tomes of the Touched

  Thirteen Days to the Eve of Snows

  No Choerkin lost their liquor on board a ship in three generations, or so spoke family legend, but Ivin couldn’t be sure he’d maintained the streak. The storms passed a candle out, and clear skies brought weak winds. A journey which could’ve taken a day took more than three, and there’d been nothing to do but drink. In the midst of his memory haze he recalled leaning over a rail, but didn’t know whether from retching or laughing.

  Something cool and wet pressed to his lips. “No, no. No more.” Laughter erupted around him, and a horn sounded in the distance.

  “It’s water.”

  Ivin opened his eyes, his head pounding in the sun’s morning light. Behind the water-skin an oarsman’s toothy grin.

  “Thank you.” He slugged water down until he gasped for air and rose to his knees.

  Ivin struggled to focus, but there was no denying the bad news: The Sea Owl was near docking at Choerkin Fost. The Fost’s trade and town districts rose from the bay, protected from storm and surf by a triple ring of concentric walls constructed of granite boulders and rubble that horseshoed the harbor. Within this secured bay a score of docks jutted into calm waters where trading vessels were tied off. Later in the day fishers would swell the number of boats, creating a racket as mongers dickered over prices and weights. Homes and businesses grew dense as you moved inland from the quays and reached a stark cliff face rising four hundred feet above sea level.

  The crowning glory of the Fost rested atop these cliffs, a fortress of white stone with high towers overlooking the city and bay. Supplies took two routes to the castle, pulled up the cliffs aboard what locals called the flying boats, or a long, winding road that led out of town before returning to the main gates.

  When Ivin first set eyes on the walls of the Fost as a boy it had taken his mother’s hand to close his gaping mouth, but even as a man who’d seen its wonders half a hundred times, the gleam of those walls and towers under a bright sun never failed to impress.

  The ship passed the breakwaters into the protected harbor and sailors cast mooring lines to rowboats to help guide the Sea Owl to dock. Eredin stood nearby in the mast’s shade. “I’m never drinking with you again.”

  Eredin peered at him from the slender shadow. “You said something similar last Eve of Snows.”

  “I may never drink again.”

  Eredin threw his arms in the air. “Your birthday, two years ago.”

  Ivin climbed to his feet, his head reeling as he wobbled. “Damn it! I’m still drunk.”

  “On the bright side, it might make dealing with the Wolverine more pleasant.”

  Ivin glared at his cousin’s smile and cursed himself for a fool. He splashed his face with water, ran his fingers through his hair, and chewed on a hunk of beru-root to kill the taste and smell of whiskey. By the time the ship docked he felt himself presentable, considering having slept drunk on a boat.

  When they disembarked Ivin took a step toward town, but Eredin tapped him on the shoulder and pointed. Ivin followed the finger and grimaced. “Twelve Hells.”

  The Wolverine sat on a bench at the end of the dock with his horse tied off beside him and an orange harbor cat napping in his lap. They walked his way, and if not for the sway of his jaw, a bull chewing cud, Ivin would’ve sworn the man was asleep. They had the horse’s attention more than Pikarn’s.

  Ivin cleared his throat. “Commander Pikarn.”

  His right eye squinted open. “Drunk. Damned near four days on the water and you come in drunk.”

  Ivin’s shoulders slouched. How the hells did he know that?

  Pikarn eased the cat to the dock’s planks and groaned as he stood. A bearded axe dangled from either side of his belt, their hafts long enough to use them as walking sticks in the mountains. The man was barrel-chested, with legs thick as trees. Despite the advantages of youth and towering over the man by a foot or more, no way Ivin wanted to tussle with him. Wolverine fit him well. “You slurred. And you came in with that one; the boy’s a walking still.”

  “He’s got me there,” Eredin said, “but most find it an endearing quality.”

  “If I were your father, I’d take a strap to your hide.”

  “It’s good your children are bastards, then.”

  Ivin watched as the two glared. He coughed.

  Pikarn swallowed whatever he chewed. “Get your soft ass back to your father, let him know your cousin’s heading north.” He turned his back on them both, cinching the saddle tight.

  Eredin clasped Ivin’s forearm and yanked him in for a head butt that rang Ivin’s whiskey-spun head. “You be careful out there. There are worse than crotchety old men.”

  “Aye, I’ll be careful.”

  Eredin strode the dock, hailing several sailors by name as
he went. Ivin admired his cousin for his bravado and easy-going nature, how he got on with people. They looked alike, but when it came to social banter they were stamped on the opposite sides of a coin.

  Pikarn swung into the saddle with surprising ease considering his stature, then spat into the bay. “When I heard I was getting Kotin’s youngest, I wondered what sort of spoilt turd I was getting. Prove you’re less your cousin and more like that rock you hail from, and we’ll do well enough, you and me.” The man eyeballed him. “So, boy, what’s your plan?”

  Ivin licked his lips, hoping to conjure a semblance of wisdom. “We speak to Istinjoln, convince the Church to assist in saving the miners.”

  The Wolverine’s deadpan stare froze Ivin’s lips. “A better answer woulda been ‘Whatever the hells I’m told.’ But please, do go on.”

  Ivin straightened his shoulders, determined. “I will bring cooperation between Istinjoln and the Choerkin.”

  The Wolverine’s face didn’t so much as twitch as he reined his horse, backing and turning before clopping down the dock. The horse’s tail raised and Ivin stepped over a steaming pile of dung; apparently man and beast shared a low opinion of his goals.

  “Straightaway to Istinjoln, then?” No answer, so he walked in silence for a quarter candle until they reached a small stable used by the wardens. A few boys tended a barn a quarter full with a red roan mare saddled out front.

  Pikarn motioned him to the horse. “Mount up.” A split flicker later. “You know how to ride, else-wise they wouldn’t have sent you.”

  Ivin was a quick learner: The Wolverine didn’t appreciate hesitation. He slid his spear and bow into their respective scabbards, attached his quiver to the saddle horn and leapt into the saddle.

  The Wolverine rode past him without a glance, he was quieter than Kotin and at least as surly. With light pressure from his heels and a shift of weight his roan followed the commander. Pleased with the quality of his horse, he patted the mare on her neck and scratched the ridge of her mane.