Eve of Snows: Sundering the Gods Book One

by L. James Rice

  “Get yourself to the healers, my girl. Off now.”

  Meliu disappeared into a dark building and behind them a portcullis ground to a close. Ivin glanced back, hoping he wasn’t a witless rat caught in a trap, but the priest’s smile as he turned eased Ivin’s rodent worries.

  “Pikarn, truly, it has been too long.”

  The two men shared cordial nods.

  “High Priest Woxlin, this is Ivin Choerkin, my new hand.”

  “Modan is well, I pray?” The priest’s concern seemed genuine.

  The Wolverine grumbled. “The boy’s not a replacement, leastwise not yet.”

  Woxlin turned to him and offered his ringed fingers. Ivin bowed his head until his forehead touched the man’s ring, and thanked the gods Kotin wasn’t here to witness this obeisance, even if it was an act to gain trust.

  “We don’t see many Choerkin in Istinjoln these days.”

  Ivin managed a smile. “I wish it were under more pleasant terms. My mother spoke well of Istinjoln.”

  “She is remembered as a devout and gentle soul, surely settled well in the Seven Heavens.” To Ivin’s relief the priest maneuvered to a topic which promised to thaw his toes. “Tend your horses, then meet me at the Long Hall for food and drink.”

  Pikarn led them to an impressive stable pressed against the northwest wall. The building was long and two-storied, capable of holding maybe two hundred horses, but at least half the stalls stood open and empty. Still, it was an impressive number of horses to see in one place. Considering what a decent horse fetched at market, a fortune in horseflesh. He handed his reins to a stableboy and waited as the Wolverine eyeballed the stalls.

  “More horses than I ever seen in Istinjoln, lookin’ like a right grand party for the Eve.” Pikarn spoke to himself as much as anyone else, then turned to Rinold. “See to our 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.”

  Ivin chuckled along with the other men and caught a stable boy grinning.

  Pikarn nodded to Ivin and strolled to the door, leading him across the bailey and into dark, winding streets. The buildings were dark and windowless until they came to what must be the Long Hall. Stone with tiled roof, it sported glowing windows every couple strides down its length and two chimneys puffing smoke.

  Scattered inside were several long tables seating a host of monks and postulants, who ate porridge and bread, drinking beer. Woxlin cleared a table in the corner with a glance. Monks brought them food and drink.

  “The fare is unspectacular, but there is plenty. How did you come across our young priestess?”

  Pikarn related the tale from the Ihomjo mines, while Ivin spooned his porridge and watched among the hooded holies for anyone who might pay too much attention. He caught one glancing more often, but his only glimpse beneath the cowl was a flash of pale skin and blond hair. He kept his eye on this one, but likewise, they seemed to have an eye on him, and that first glimpse was the only one he caught.

  Pikarn kept his voice quiet as he reached the meat of their story, but didn’t hide an angry growl. “There were Shadows that took the bodies of men, and those men eat the dead, best we can tell. Trouble is, this has been happening for damned near a year and not so much as a courteous whisper from Istinjoln.”

  “I only heard about troubles at the Shrine recently myself—”

  “Horseshit.”

  Pikarn’s voice carried too far for Woxlin’s taste. The priest stood. “My apologies, please everyone, excuse yourselves.”

  Benches ground on the stone floor as everyone rose and exited without finishing their meals. Ivin caught sight of the watcher: Beneath the cowl a lock of blond hair and a comely face. A young woman, and unless she had a twin, she’d be easy to pick out in a crowd.

  Woxlin sat after the room cleared. “It is not the duty of Istinjoln to inform you of all goings on.”

  “It damned well should be when people are being killed and eaten! For Sol’s sake, Priest—” The Wolverine took a couple deep breaths. “And what about that cursed book?”

  “Book? Oh, nothing more than a treatise on the history of the Shrine.”

  “Horseshit and donkey piss.”

  Ivin stuffed his mouth with bread to keep from smiling.

  “That tome may as well’ve been written on her own skin as much as she wanted to part with it.”

  Woxlin kept calm, his demeanor unflinching. “Histories carry important information.”

  “What kind of information we speaking of?”

  The priest sighed and shrugged. “So then… these things appeared at the shrine last year, out of nowhere. They took our people by surprise, and some escaped.”

  “Some? How many?”

  “Impossible to say. A dozen? A hundred? Only two priests made it here with the news. The book spoke of something similar, during the Age of Warlords, and suggested the prayers to seal our world from those of the Shadows. We managed to close the door, not lock it. So to speak. We studied the tome and gathered priests from across the island, and we sent them to lock the door. Apparently—”

  “They failed.”

  “Yes. And the book is our hope, so you can understand her commitment to it.”

  The Wolverine leaned back in his seat, staring down his nose at the priest. “Those… things, are still coming out. We saw one.”

  “We’ll contain the shrine, as we did before, and we will figure out how to close it, I assure you. Our people will hunt the Shadows and destroy them.”

  “I’d like a bed for the night to think on things.”

  “Of course, I will have quarters prepared for you and your men. We’ll speak again on the morrow, after you rest.”

  Woxlin departed with the other priest and Rinold led the remaining members of the wardens into the hall for a meal. The Wolverine gnawed on jerked beef, spitting splinters of rock-hard meat into the cook fire while conveying Woxlin’s words to the others.

  Rinold picked his teeth and downed beer before saying a word. “So, what ya thinkin’, then?”

  “I’m thinkin’ we’re covered in horseshit and half truths. What’s in your head, Ratsmasher?”

  Ivin grunted at his new name. “I don’t think he spoke enough truth to know what kind of shit we’re covered in.”

  Rinold cracked a grin. “I might take a liking to you yet, boy.”

  The Wolverine guffawed and thumped Ivin’s shoulder. “You might be right, Choerkin. Too damned right. We’ll see what we can dig from his compost tomorrow, beggar another night. Either way, we want eyes on this place come Eve of Snows, but we don’t wanna be inside.”

  Ivin smiled, proud to feel like a member of the wardens for the first time. “In, out, what’s it matter?”

  To a man they laughed, but it was Rinold who answered. “Istinjoln on the Eve… Hard to keep eyes on the holies when yer blind drunk, and ain’t no way in the hells they’d let us stay sober.”

  Pikarn said, “Aye, it’ll be a shame to miss, but missin’ it’s the wiser.”

  They finished their meals, and a monk guided them to a windowless building with cots to bunk them for the night, and a fireplace with plenty of kindling. The sagging bedstead didn’t help Ivin’s aching muscles a lick, and amid the snores of the other men, sleep was fitful and filled with disquieting dreams. After midnight he awoke to the flutter-rush of fire in his ear, first passing it off as an awakening dream, but as he closed his eyes again, a crackling voice spoke: “Choerkin?”

  He sat straight and glanced around the room. Everyone slept but him. His ear was warm.

  “Choerkin?” asked the voice.

  He turned and clung to his cot to keep from falling out. A tiny flame hovered a moment then dipped through the air to slip under the door. Uncertain whether he was dreaming or awake, he stood and stared, and in a moment, it peeked under the door, and zipped out again. It wanted him to follow.

  If the noti
on of a tiny ball of fire wanting him to follow its trail wasn’t disturbing enough, traipsing after it into the dark of Istinjoln should’ve terrified him. With his heavy cloak already wrapped around his shoulders, he realized how foolish he’d become.

  Ivin slipped into darkness with tentative steps. Lanterns burned by guards atop the towers, but the bailey was blacks and grays. Had it been a dream? No. His eyes adjusted and he spotted wind-blown robes in the shadows. A dark arm gestured to him. Killing Lokar’s nephew in the middle of a monastery seemed a dangerous ploy, but he couldn’t discount it enough to keep his heart from pounding as he approached.

  “You are Choerkin?” The voice was soft and female.

  “Ivin, yes.”

  She took his hand with a touch that made his heart race and pulled him into a dark building, windowless like so many here. A ball of fire appeared, larger but otherwise identical to the one he’d followed, lighting the room enough to ease his mind. There were no furnishings of any sort and they were alone. Except he didn’t feel alone. He had the inexplicable sense that the hovering fire watched him. Judging him?

  The postulant lowered her white cowl, revealing the young lady who’d watched them earlier. Her golden hair framed the gentle curves of her face, and her eyes caught the light of the fire in such a way that even from a distance, he noted they were blue. If they were on the docks of the Watch, Rikis would be showing off his strength and Roplin impressing her with his glib tongue and parlor tricks, while Ivin sat in the corner wishing she’d notice him. She’d noticed him, but he didn’t know if she wanted to kill him.

  With no idea what to say, his first words blurted out. “Is that… alive?”

  She smiled. Damn, she had to smile. She must think him an idiot.

  “My name is Eliles.”

  “Ivin.” He coughed, clearing his throat. “Ivin Choerkin.”

  “Yes, you said that before. Kotin’s third son. Why are you here?”

  His head cocked, a trick question? “Ah, well, I don’t know how much to say. I—”

  “We’ve both things maybe we shouldn’t say, and either we do or we don’t. I found you, so you first.” She smiled, disarming him with a few words and a twitch of her lips.

  He wanted to put his lips to hers. Ivin stammered before getting a grip on his voice. “Okay. Fine.” Where to start? Where to stop? “Creatures, Shadows, killed a group of priests in the Omindi Pass and we tracked them back to a place called the Crack of Burdenis. A shrine. We found one survivor.”

  “Meliu, yes. She carried a book. What was it?”

  This holy had been watching them longer than he knew. What was her game? “The high priest told us it was a history of the shrine.”

  She stared at him so hard he wondered if she wasn’t trying to work some sort of prayer on him. “Guntar bore a sealed message from the Crack, and he died to deliver it. He was a friend of mine. Was it these… Shadows or Colok that killed him?”

  She sought answers in a friend’s death. A lover, maybe. Strange, experiencing a pang of jealousy for a dead man. He took her hand without thinking, feeling her warmth and pulse, shocked and euphoric she didn’t pull away. “Colok, but Shadow-Taken priests fed on the others later. The body count was short one priest.”

  Her brow wrinkled. “Who?”

  He wouldn’t surrender every secret. “I’d ask you the same thing.”

  “It’s not an answer I can find. What did Woxlin say about the Shadows?”

  “He didn’t say a word.” Her lips curled, teasing him; she knew he lied. “Fine, they appeared at the shrine a year ago, they tried to use that book to keep them from our world. Damned if I understand any of it.”

  “We’re taught the universe is full of worlds, near but unseen… like the heavens and the hells. And the Road of Living Stars is a path for the soul to these worlds.”

  Ivin didn’t like the direction the conversation took. “These Shadows come from the Twelve Hells?”

  She pulled her hand from his, the look on her face suggesting surprise at having her hand held. “No, no. In Ages past, priests could connect to these worlds with powerful prayer. But this was during the God Wars.”

  Ivin scratched his cheek. “Why, for what purpose?”

  She looked at him cockeyed as if he were a child asking a silly question. If she were the Wolverine, he’d be biting jerky about now.

  “They summoned the servants of the gods to battle, and sometimes the gods themselves. Opening Celestial Gates.

  He’d heard of such things, in fireside tales, stories woven from myth for children. Only now he’d seen one of these gates, and the Shadows coming through. “Did these gates, did they ever appear from nowhere?”

  She smiled, and he realized she’d led him to this point. “No.”

  “Woxlin lied to us.”

  “Yes.” She leaned in, her blue eyes intense. “I managed a glance at the message Guntar died for.” The words hung in the air as she appeared to weigh her next words. “As I understand, they meant to speak with Sol, but instead the Shadows came. The scroll read that the lord priest would be pleased, the ritual went well until the end. The final words called for destruction of the shrine.”

  Ivin mulled these tidbits. “Speak with Sol? Why?” There might be a million reasons to speak to the King of Gods, but he doubted their cause was idle banter.

  “I don’t know. Not exactly. But why does anyone ever speak to the gods?”

  His father’s words came back to him: People praying to their gods are as children beseeching their parents, the kindest words come when they want something. “Power. To rule the clans.”

  “Istinjoln has a guest, the Lord Priest of Fermiden Abbey. Here for the Eve of Snows.”

  Fermiden Abbey sat at the foot of Broldun Fost, blood enemy of the Choerkin for a hundred years. Triwan Broldun’s mother was a high priestess, and rumors abounded of his son Dunkol ascending to lord priest in a secret ceremony.

  “You’re sure the Shadows weren’t intentional?”

  “Yes. But not much else.”

  “You should speak with Pikarn—”

  “No. No one else.”

  He cringed. Who outside the wardens would believe this? Pikarn might even balk. “Can you get a look at that book? Find proof?”

  “Too dangerous.”

  Gazing into her eyes, there was no way he’d want her to risk herself. “I understand. Can keep your eyes and ears open?”

  She nodded and pulled her cowl over her face, then said, “Yes, it is alive.” The ball of fire disappeared in a blink and she walked into the night, leaving Ivin to contemplate how to share her message.

  He skulked back to bed, surprised to find everyone still asleep, and tried to close his eyes. Slumber eluded him with visions of the girl, but not a girl, a holy of Istinjoln he reminded himself. But her smile and blue eyes haunted his waking and dozing mind no matter how he tried to forget her. The oracle had spoken of love and false love, and possibilities. As his mind slipped into slumber, visions of Eliles as his bride danced through his dreams.

  26

  NEARING THE SON

  The Worlds sit in a sea of outshining stars.

  Pale we wail, shrinking and shrieking, in the naked eye,

  the taken eye,

  Of the one-eyed Eternity, She! She knows the truth

  But even when she speaks it we can not understand

  We the incapable of comprehension,

  We who lack the context

  To know what is real and why

  —Tomes of the Touched

  Six Days to the Eve of Snows

  Eliles awoke at dawn covered in itchy hay. A night in the stables was an imperfect plan, but it kept her from having to explain her comings and goings if someone bothered to notice her. Speaking with the Choerkin was worth the risk only if she didn’t end up feeding the thorns or meeting some other horrible fate.

  She scurried from the mounds of hay in the loft to find Feres, marshal of the stables, gnawing on a loaf o
f bread. She slipped past the old woman, but scuttled back to nab a saddle brush to clean hay from her robes. With a mane pick and fingers she made herself presentable enough to slip from the back of the stable. She skulked through shadows before sauntering into the morning sun with a straight face.

  She climbed to the allure where guards would pay her no mind. A stroll at dawn fit her routine, and when the faint drone of morning prayer rose from vents in the bailey, the timing was perfect.

  She trotted, bumping into a guard and flashing a smile, kissing her fingers and touching her forehead. “Sorry, I’m late.” With this seed planted in the guard’s memory she found the nearest entry into lower Istinjoln and slunk into the back of the morning’s hymnal chant.

  Head bowed, she managed to relax. A smidgen. The Choerkin—

  Why did she think this way? Because that’s how she always heard clan-blood named. The Choerkin were a faceless mass without first names, a hornet under the Church’s saddle.

  She didn’t have to think this way.

  His name is Ivin. A right fine young man, some might say. Tall, good looking, even if he did smell a bit like a horse—

  She snuck a sniff of her robes. Hay, fine, but not horse. Hay would be easier to explain as it lined garden beds; horse manure would be trickier.

  And Ivin’s blond hair. Unusual for the Choerkin men if rumor held truth. He seemed sweet, not at all as the Church elders painted the clan. She recalled his touch, the sweat of his palms, and stealing a kiss crept into her mind. She blanched. No. Whatever kindness she saw resulted from her dweomer.

  Whatever girl he saw who softened his eyes, made him feel for her, didn’t exist. Did he dream of her? She chided herself for a silly girl. There were far more important matters to attend than some boy’s lips. Stop! No more lips.

  She should focus on Shadows and Celestial Gates, but what she knew wouldn’t fill a single parchment. Meddling with this arcane art resulted in excommunication from the Church, or worse. Celestial scholarship wasn’t banned, but those partaking in its study spoke of such things only among themselves and in hushed tones. The library concealed knowledge, but even if she had the time, she’d see the hells before stepping in there again.