Eve of Snows: Sundering the Gods Book One

by L. James Rice

  Solineus hadn’t a clue. “You were on the Resten?”

  The man cocked his head. “You all right, friend? It’s me, Hadin Elost. Yeah, we’s on the Resten when we rammed that berg. Me and a few others made it to a dinghy. The Imidki damned near struck us in a fog next morn, but they done saved us. How the hells you make it?”

  “I don’t know, don’t remember a thing ’til I woke up on a beach.”

  ‘No joshin’? Son of a… That’s a long float with kind currents, my friend.”

  The memory of his made-up story for Ielu flashed in his mind. “Was the captain’s daughter on board?”

  The sailor’s eyes struck the street’s cobbles. “Yeah, yeah. I know you were sweet on her. Detu were sailing with us. Less she had your luck, she didn’t make it. Cap’n Biun, neither.”

  Solineus’ false story for Ielu took on new life, maybe buried memories after all. “Sorry to hear it.” His mind scattered with a hundred questions, and he found it hard to focus on one. “I— Do you know, was I working on the ship, or… what?”

  “You? A sailor? Son of a bitch, no.” He laughed. “I’ve no idea why, I assumed your father or one of the Emudar done sent you to the Choerkin fer somethin’, but I weren’t fool enough to ask.”

  “My father is?”

  “Godsdamn, man, yer ain’t kiddin’, are you? You’re Adinvan Mikjehemlut’s eldest boy, second cousin of Lidin Emudar, lord of the clan.”

  “I’m clan blood?”

  “Holy hells, man. I need to be gettin’ you home.” Solineus shook his head as the man continued. “Me and the boys gonna jump the Swane tomorrow, if’n you’re wantin’ to head back to Emudar Fost, I’m sure we can sign you on.”

  Solineus glanced to Ilpen and the strange woman. “No, I’ve got a few things to take care of before I head home. How well did you know me?”

  Hadin chuckled. “Well enough to know not to try ’n drag you home when you got a sword.”

  Solineus’ breath left him as his heart sank, and he looked into the man’s eyes with a solemn gaze. “I’m a right dangerous man, I reckon.”

  Hadin’s lips stretched taught, any lightheartedness gone. “Yeah, I reckon that’s no lie.” He shifted his weight and crossed his arms. “Look, I don’t know what you’re thinkin’ or what you’s done, maybe, but you ain’t no bad man. A hard man, true, but not bad.”

  Solineus stared at the scrawny man, more grateful for those words than he would’ve expected. “I thank you for that.”

  “Sure, sure. Still thinkin’ home might be a better remedy than this Choerkin dirt.”

  “I’ve no doubt, but I got myself into something. I’ve got a hundred questions—”

  Hadin threw his hands in the air and laughed. “Whoa, I probably couldn’t answer a dozen, if’n that. But me and a couple of the other boys’ll be throwin’ a few pints and sleepin’ at the Bronze Beggar tonight, buy us a drink and we’ll see what we might know for ya.”

  “Aye, that’d be handy. If I don’t see you tonight, ride the waves safe to home.”

  “Sure. Hey, I’ll be sure your family and the Emudar know you made it.”

  Solineus smiled. “Appreciate it.” He offered the sailor a silver coin, but the man turned his hands palms down.

  “Nah, my family owes yer pa more than you can pay. You better make sure to make it home safe, hear?”

  “I’ll see you back home.”

  Solineus gazed after the sailor as he merged and disappeared in the crowd. His name was Solineus Mikjehemlut of the Clan Emudar, any uncertainty lay quashed. The man knew him, his family, the ship, and the captain’s daughter whom Solineus had thought to be nothing more than a figment of a hypothetical lie. He couldn’t deny his own name and whatever lost history was his; it’d be irrational in the face of everything the world was telling him. But, somehow it still felt wrong.

  “Solineus!” Ilpen waved him over, his crooked teeth on full display between heavy jowls, as the woman climbed onto the wagon seat. “You’ll be happy to hear we’re heading for Istinjoln straightaway. But, uh, this one pays better than you. Hop on back.”

  So much for a hundred questions and pints of beer. The woman handed Ilpen a coin from her purse and Ilpen bit it as if it were a savory sweet. Its gleam explained Solineus’ demotion and the speedy departure: Gold. Whoever this woman was, she knew the straightest route to Ilpen’s heart was through his pocket. She also knew his favorite color.

  Solineus climbed onto the back of the wagon’s box, the boards creaking under his weight, and copperware rattling. He sat with his arms wrapped around his knees, lay on his back, his side, then resigned himself to sitting with his arms splayed for balance. The donkeys jerked the wagon and a wheel slammed a pothole, jarring his spine; teeth bared, he cursed under his breath. As much as he’d groaned about his sore ass while bouncing along rocky roads, he knew after a few rattles and shakes how good he’d once had it.

  23

  DIGGING DEEPER

  Craven Raven, black of feather and black of beak,

  of what today shall we speak?

  The universe. The Universe?

  Dark and Glow, the Balance.

  Yes, I hear you, I heard you, I will hear you again.

  The Raven’s caw, caw, kraa I hear you

  But do you, noisy bird, understand what you say?

  -Tomes of the Touched

  Seven Days to the Eve of Snows

  Eliles awoke exhausted, unable to sleep through blood-filled dreams. She pulled on her robes and stumbled with groggy steps to the First Hall for morning prayers. She bowed her head dutifully but let others chant their sonorous devotions. By the gods, how could she not sleep at night, but feel she should curl up for a nap in the middle of this mass of people? It was perverse.

  She yawned and stretched, her mouth wide open when she spotted Woxlin standing at the fore with the Speaker’s Staff in hand. She snapped her jaw shut and dipped her head to its proper prayerful repose. She couldn’t escape this priest for the last week. When the final hymnal ended, Woxlin struck the floor with the iron-shod butt of the staff three times.

  Heads raised, and the room went silent.

  “As most have heard, Rovol of Teverle was Thrown to the Thorns. This was not, as so many expected, a repentant suicide nor murder. It was a duly sanctioned execution.”

  A murmur passed through the congregation.

  “The night before last, while delivering materials to the Sealed Rooms, the lord priest’s Keeper of Histories herself witnessed Rovol falsifying documents in such manner that might bring embarrassment to Lord Priest Ulrikt of Bain, and the Pantheon itself.”

  The chamber echoed with gasps and whispers. Woxlin banged the Speaker’s Staff three times, commanding silence.

  “With a witness undeniable, Rovol received the sentence of Thorns by the lord priest’s decree, and the execution was carried out at dawn’s first rays. If any should find a bearer’s message purporting to be written by or sent to His Eminence, let it be known that it is false. Written in Rovol’s hand, likely to impress an unknown woman. In Sol’s name, we brand his name forgotten to the Slave Fields.”

  Woxlin’s eyes scanned the kneeling adherents, and when they landed on her, she met his gaze without a flinch. Her heart told her he knew, but the voice in her head rationalized it as impossible. No, improbable. Impossible no longer existed. If they knew and did not come after her, they played a game, but to what end? She didn’t know, and no longer wanted to know. She’d learned her new lessons: Stay small, stay humble, and stay out of the business of lord priests.

  Woxlin handed off the Speaker’s Staff and slipped behind heavy velvet curtains. She rose and departed with the flock, another obedient duck waddling her way to weekly devotions. She prayed the Sequence of Fire, kneeling before each God in turn. She arrived at the Alcove of Sol last, the opposite of most to avoid a crowd, but the lack of even a single monk startled her.

  She took a deep breath and kneeled, gazing into the blazing oil at
the Fire Shrine of Sol. The traditional chant of observance struggled to pass her lips, then died.

  “Do not turn around. Do not speak. Do not think. Do listen.” The voice was a force, one impossible to resist. Her every muscle stalled in time with her voice choked, and her thoughts, even fear, scattered, but her ears remained keen. She knew the voice but couldn’t attach a name. The prayer enthralling her was more powerful than she’d ever experienced.

  “It was you at the library. Others say I should punish your curiosity, have you lashed until your ribs show, or bled to feed the hogs. I demanded mercy before the gods upon this Eve of Snows. Tampering with scrolls sealed for Sol is sacrilege, one I could not forgive. But curiosity is a fault, not a crime, even when soliciting sacrilege. If you asked, and he did not comply, would that be a crime?”

  A hand enveloped her shoulder, gentle, but sending chills down her back as strong fingers kneaded her taut muscles. “No, my child. Is asking a crime because he chose to be a fool? Still no. So you shall live while he falls through the Road of Living Stars to a hell of his earning. It would, however, be a crime to discuss the contents of the scroll. Oh, I could force you to forget, as you did the Forgotten Sinner, but I need you to forget of your own will. This proves devotion. For my part, I, too, will forget. Until you make me remember. Causing me to remember would be disappointing and make the Thorns a gentle exit.” His grip freed her shoulders, but a hand rested on her head, a gesture of imparting blessings on the devout. “You and I are the favored children of the gods, Sol grants our prayers on a whim. Yet there is a difference: I took three licks from the Maimer’s Lash to prove to myself and my elders I had the mettle to lead. You still lack this strength.”

  His hand lifted and a boot ground on the floor’s pebbles as he spun on a heel. But he stopped. “You have an idea something is coming, but you do not know its extent. Show your wisdom and demonstrate your strength at last, prove you are the cut diamond among soft cabochons, and someday you may succeed my rule. You have great potential; don’t see it wasted by dying this young.”

  The paralysis of her fingers and toes faded, her throat able to swallow, her mind capable of reasoned thought, as the sound of footsteps trailed away. The obvious coalesced into her doom: Lord Priest Ulrikt. She’d heard his voice a hundred times delivering sermons meant to inspire profound reflection and a deeper faith in the gods, or to paint evocative pictures of the torments of the Twelve Hells. It was the second time he’d saved her, first from the Maimer, now from a fate more wicked.

  She didn’t bother to ask why, instead she fell to her face and wept, the only reasonable response to an emotional flood. When others came to pray she crawled into shadow, covering her face and tears and shame.

  The oracle of bones would reveal her future tomorrow but even if Dareun were correct about the Traveling Wisdom, Ulrikt wouldn’t allow her to leave Istinjoln. How did he know of Rovol’s crime? If the lord priest’s spies were so effective, was her feral magic “forgotten,” too? It had never occurred to her before. If he believed her chosen, with a higher purpose, could he look past her feral magic? No impossibilities remained. None.

  She stood, straightening her spine and setting her jaw. I have possibilities too. If they denied the Traveling Wisdom, she’d leave on her own. She wiped her tears as her strides carried her toward upper Istinjoln.

  Priests be damned. Their gods didn’t speak to her, anyhow. She didn’t need them any more than they needed her. Curse them to the Slave Fields. She could’ve left any time, but she didn’t want to fail Dareun. If the tinker and his donkeys arrived for the Eve of Snows, she’d meet up with him in a nearby town.

  Still, a girl needed to stay alive to leave. She stepped into an alcove, closed her eyes, pushed her senses into the halls. A split-flicker to see if anybody followed her. She felt nobody and drew her senses in. Would the lord priest bother to have her followed? Was her knowledge so dangerous? Just scribbles on a scroll discredited by a lord priest’s decree.

  She climbed a ladder to upper Istinjoln, ignoring the monk and stepping straight into brisk afternoon breezes. Refreshed and goosebumped, she strode to the northern wall’s allure with her eyes locked on the gatehouse. The portcullis stood open, so easy to step outside the walls, so difficult to disappear.

  The temptation to flee taunted her over the years, but by the time she grew old enough to survive on her own, Dareun had become her family. She blamed neither the walls nor Dareun for the hell the priests made here and tried not to blame the gods.

  As a child, she’d believed escape a matter of time: Time was running out. All she needed to do was show the courage to turn her back on one life for a new one. She survived banishment from her village, she’d survive flight from Istinjoln.

  The gatehouse chime signaled riders and her heart lurched. It could be Ilpen and Ears. No. If she gambled, she’d put her coins on guests arriving for the Eve of Snows. She leaned against the cold parapet, waiting to see if a friendly face entered the monastery.

  This is why I never gamble. Seven palfreys came through the gates, a single priestess and the rest Choerkin Wardens. The Wolverine lead the group which meant no ordinary visit. The old man wouldn’t remember her from a hill of manure, but he’d saved her from the inquisition days after she’d fled from her father. Ilpen’s cart had been stopped by an inquisitor and his hunters, and Pikarn and his Wardens had stood between them daring the inquisitor to arrest her. Gruff and blustery, but she held a soft spot for him in her heart from that brief meeting. Meliu, a studious young priestess known for her knowledge of languages, her looks, and sharp tongue, rode with them. Of the remaining five she recognized four, but the only one she had a name for was a tracker known in Istinjoln as Rat. The final man she’d never seen.

  They waited in the bailey, and she needed to know why. Eliles’ legs carried her to the stables before she knew what they were doing. If gods gave her wisdom, she’d stop her feet right now, but she bore a curse, not wisdom. She hid in the stables and none other than Woxlin greeted the wardens. The second time in half a day she noted how wrapped in the mysteries of Istinjoln he was.

  Woxlin haled Meliu and dismissed her after taking a book from her hands. Eliles castigated herself before she even thought it. No way in the Twelve Hells! I am not going after that book. Suicide, or worse. A brief conversation between Woxlin and the Wolverine ensued. Did she know his real name? In Istinjoln Wolverine was the only name he bore.

  With the conversation finished, the priest strode toward the Long Hall. To her delight the wardens headed for the stable. The Wolverine’s hatred for Istinjoln made him a tacit ally.

  She hustled to the loft and hid in the stacks of loose hay. The men dismounted, and the one she didn’t recognize was different: tall and blond. He handed the reins to a stable boy, as did the Wolverine, rather than unbuckling tack as the other four. He carried himself with self-importance, a confidence rivaling the Wolverine’s, but more formal. He wasn’t Modan Heklar, the Wolverine’s second, famous as a priest killer, she’d recognize him by his smell if not his face.

  The Wolverine’s stern voice carried, and she ducked for no good reason. “More horses than I’ve ever seen in Istinjoln; it’s lookin’ like a right grand party for the Eve.”

  She’d been so busy sneaking she hadn’t noticed. The number of riding and draft horses swelled every year for the Eve of Snows, but the Wolverine had the right of it.

  “See to the horses, make certain they’ve oats, then meet Choerkin and me at Long Hall. We’ll stay the night and see what morning brings, so take all the food and ale they’ll give us.”

  Men laughed, and even stable hands dared grins.

  Her eyes widened, and she ducked deeper. The Wolverine and a Choerkin? Whether coincidence, fate, or luck, new allies were in Istinjoln. If the Wolverine hated priests, it was because the Choerkin hated priests. In Istinjoln, Choerkin were famous for three things: bearskin cloaks, a disdain for the gods, and executing Lord Priest Imrok of Girn for treason.
Or as the priests of Istinjoln said: a Holy War.

  Istinjoln’s whispers spoke of five Choerkin boys, two at the Fost and three on the Watch. Two were blond, and one stood second-in-line to the Clan Head; they wouldn’t send kin so close to the head of the clan. This Choerkin belonged to Kotin, his youngest.

  It’ll be nice to meet you, Ivin Choerkin. Oh, even echoing in her head it sounded insane after the lord priest’s threats, but she needed to talk to someone. As the men brushed their horses, she constructed her plan. If she made herself at home in the stables, didn’t return to the tunnels, they couldn’t watch for her to leave. It’d be easy to find the building the wardens slept in, and there’d be a guard to deal with. A simple dweomer sending them to the latrine, and she would have time for her talk.

  All she had to do was wait for nightfall, and for upper Istinjoln to sleep.

  24

  FAILING VISIONS

  Doom-Makers and Doom-Breakers

  Fighting the same War from opposite ends.

  A war, the War, for this time and all time,

  battles destined to meet in the middle

  where the Doom-Speaker sits and the Doom-Taker

  takes.

  —Tomes of the Touched

  Seven Days to the Eve of Snows

  The halls of Istinjoln were colder than Meris remembered, or her aging flesh and bones took their chill deeper. She’d arrived in the middle of the night like a thief, or more accurately, a treasure the thief carried. Her ninety-fifth birthday had passed unmentioned while jostling for days to and fro in a frigid, covered wagon. They stopped only to relieve themselves and change horses, and she wondered more than once if the journey wasn’t meant to kill her. Alas, she made it alive for whatever fearful duty the Lord’s Face put before her.

  Nerves made her pace dark chambers beneath the monastery in her youth, unable to sleep. Aged hips, knees, and ankles kept her from walking the halls now, but she hated this dark without stars. She’d lived in black the past fifty years, but her darkness bore the pinholes of the heavens. She smiled as she closed her eyes, envisioning Skywatch, her heaven in the mortal realm.