Eve of Snows: Sundering the Gods Book One
Page 23
The morning hymnals closed with a bass drone.
Eliles remained kneeling as the front rows exited. Lord Priest Ulrikt made his threats clear, nibbling around the edges of the mystery would prove poison if caught. Get through the Divination of Bones tonight, then run, run as soon as the opening came. The entire monastery would be drunk on the Eve of Snows, giving her what might be her first and best chance.
A hand touched her shoulder, and Eliles froze despite wanting to lurch to her feet. Gods, let it be Dareun.
“You must be excited.” Woxlin stood above her.
She rose slow and controlled, heart pounding, gathering her thoughts. “Excited?”
He laughed. “Yes, of course. Your vows are days away! With your holy gifts you might sit beside me in no time at all.”
She blushed. Her a high priestess, it would be a mockery of all things holy. “I could only dream of the high priesthood.”
“Modesty, or you sell yourself short. The gods and the lord priest himself favor you.”
He rubbed her shoulder and she cringed at his familiarity. “As you say. You are far more worthy to judge the gods and his Holiness than I.”
He smiled, crooked lips and crooked yellow teeth, and she knew he judged her.
“I believe your master now. Dareun has long said your modesty was true, but no one believes him.” He took her hand and kissed it, a disturbing gesture that brought bile to her throat. “Count me as a believer.”
Woxlin departed to visit with a young priestess and her heart slowed, eyes drifting to the stone floor. Woxlin had spoken maybe ten words to her in twelve years. To turn up singing her praises, and his kiss, no way by the Twelve Hells were they coincidences. Keep your eyes down and your prayers vocal, two rules to stay alive by.
“I stopped by your cell this morn, you rose early.”
Her heart lurched at the sound of Dareun’s voice. By the Slave Fields! Did the world set out to sneak up on her today?
“Yes. I admit, I’m anxious for the Night of Bones.”
“I can’t blame you, my dear. The breaking of bones will go smoothly, my girl. Ah! A glorious day. The priesthood for so many.”
She struggled to smile. No way he’d forgive her for botching everything, but she could never even apologize, because he could never know. The Night of Bones should be their crowning achievement in twelve years of hiding her curse, maybe it could still, but the trajectory was a disaster.
“Glorious, yes. Let us pray it’s so.”
“Go. Go my girl, enjoy the day. The Night of Bones will be here soon enough.”
A smile and a hug, he deserved them. She gripped her old master tight. “I’m sorry for the troubles I’ve brought you.”
Dareun patted her on the back. “No troubles at all, dear girl.”
Eliles stepped back, fought the tears in her eyes with a smile. What a tremendous lie he’d just blessed her with. But that’s why she loved him.
27
RIDER’S RETURN
Horses afield, no pride in duck and hide, pennants flutter
bright for the houses of men,
Dyes paint hues on cotton and silk and leather.
Brushes paint shields in depictions of fanciful life.
Steel paints only in red dries black, the favorite colors of the gods.
—Tomes of the Touched
Six Days to the Eve of Snows
The world shook and threatened to collapse, and Fronk stood over Ivin kicking his bedstead. “Time to wake, the old man’s getting food.”
Visions of wedding the girl faded, and he wished he still slept. The bed creaked, one odd twist from breaking a leg, as he swung his feet over the edge. When the Wolverine returned, Ivin told him about the pretty postulant over hard bread and beef stew, but he left out the flame. A living ball of fire would make him question his own credibility.
Pikarn stared with unquenched skepticism. “You sure you weren’t dreaming, Choerkin?”
Fronk chortled. “He’d been dreaming he woulda taken the pretty priestess right there.”
Ivin blushed, if it’d been a dream he would’ve married her. “It wasn’t a dream. Which means there’s a Broldun dog in Istinjoln.”
Lidin said, “Way I hear, Fermiden’s lord priest is a Broldun.”
“Lead dog or shit end of the team, they’re Broldun.” Pikarn cracked the door, the sun creeping over the horizon to light the bailey. A monk stood across the way, faceless in a cowl, but watching. Pikarn called out, “Hungry for a roll?” When the monk looked but didn’t answer, Pikarn closed the door. “That holy was out there the whole night, leastwise each time I checked.”
“You don’t believe me?”
“It ain’t I don’t believe. But we can test the truth of the dog easy enough.”
And test it the Wolverine did. Woxlin had no more opened the door when Pikarn said, “We were heading up this way anyhow, ’cause scouts saw Broldun making their way to Istinjoln.”
The high priest stood straight-faced, weighing his response. “Does our Lord Choerkin now forbid Broldun dignitaries?”
The Wolverine frowned. “Of course not. But a twittering bird in Fermiden Abbey suggested it be the lord priest himself lugging his fat, powdered ass all the way here.”
Woxlin smiled through his rancor. “Now, old friend. We all know the Lord of the Abbey does not travel. Particularly nowhere in reach of the Choerkin.”
“You saying the brothers would murder a lord priest?”
Woxlin dismissed his words with a wave. “I will have your horses saddled and ready, as clearly you seek to wear your welcome thin.”
Pikarn ripped a piece of jerky. “On the contrary, old friend, I think our welcome is fattening up. We’ll be staying another day, see if we spot a fat dog taking a walk.”
The priest nodded. “As you will. We’ve gruel enough to keep you fed.” He exited, the door closing behind him with a rattle.
Pikarn turned to Ivin. “The bastard’s here all right, and the whispers are true, the new lord priest is Dunkol Broldun. Which means his entourage of little boys and girls are with him.”
Ivin cocked an eyebrow. “What now?”
“We wander the yard, eyes open… but no poking the bees in their hive. I’m the only one to open his yap, got me? That goes double for you, Choerkin. That name of yours could get you killed as easily it saves you.”
IVIN TOOK up whittling during the morning. His goal was to turn a hunk of wood into a smaller hunk of wood with a less natural shape. By setting his goals low he achieved in spectacular fashion, even smoothing out notches to make a better fit for his hand.
Why, it might make a nice toothpick if he kept on.
He tossed whatever it’d become to the ground and kicked it. He took aim and threw his knife, the tip striking the hard ground and somersaulting to a skidding stop across the yard.
Bells chimed from the main gatehouse as he bent to grab his knife. A wick later riders entered the monastery, saving him from finding another hobby. Modan led the wardens, including Puxele, and they rode straight to Ivin. “Where’s the old man?”
Ivin pointed to their housing and Modan dismounted in a hurry, his steps threatening to break into a trot. Ivin’s feet fidgeted with curiosity to follow, but he wasn’t sure if it was his place.
“Come on, Choerkin. You need to hear this.”
Ivin broke into a jog, enthusiastic for damned near anything after standing around all morning. After reaching the door he waited as Fronk and the other wardens exited. Whatever Modan had to say, it wasn’t for everyone’s ears.
Jerked beef lofted through air, a flicker from hitting Ivin’s face before he snagged it.
“We were outside the cave when there was, I don’t know, this feeling, like a breeze down your spine.” Modan rubbed the back of his neck as if he still felt it.
The pulse that birthed the Shadow, I’d wager. Ivin worked strands of meat between his teeth instead of his vocal cords.
“The horses spooked,
but they calmed. Didn’t see nothin’ right off. Herin was standing by the cliff and called out. Damned if there weren’t Shadows climbing, coming for us. I put an arrow right through one’s head, and it didn’t flinch. We tacked up and spurred out of there hard as we could, but the damned things were fast. We lost Herin and Dere before we made the Omindi and godsdamn us if there weren’t Colok on the road south, so we rode north. Even hoped the Shadows might go after the Colok but the cursed things came on after us. Once in the Pass, the horses outpaced the things.”
Modan wrestled a canteen from his hip and took a drink as the Wolverine got in a question. “The Colok?”
“I’m a-gettin’ to them. We slowed and stopped round about Baer’s Rock, thinking maybe we were safer there than moving into the Treaty Lands. Seemed that way, too. The sonsabitches came on the sides of the ravine like spiders, crawling in the shadows until they surrounded us. Larsin dismounted for a fight and one landed on him, drug him off. I told everyone to hold their positions and ride hard when attacked. They didn’t come for us.”
“Why?” Ivin couldn’t help himself, despite the mouth full of jerky.
“Best I can figure is they knew we weren’t alone. The Colok surrounded us, squaring themselves against the Shadows. Never seen nothin’ like it.”
“And the Shadows?” Pikarn asked.
“They did nothin’. We stood there for candles, surrounded by two enemies until the Shadows went away. Not a damned thing we could’ve done against either except fight and die.”
“The Colok saved you.” Ivin said.
“Aye, because of you. But it’s your last name they were after, not so much you.”
Rinold’s eye twitched and he rubbed his scar. “Whoa, how the hells you know that?”
“My tale gets nothing but nuttier, Squirrel. The lead Colok is Zjin—”
“Colok have names?” Ivin blurted, and he apologized to both men with bowed head and silence.
“Yeah, turns out they do. They had a priest with ’em, name of Tokodin. Said the Colok took him, to use him to speak with the clan. We weathered three days of storm in one of their caves before riding out and stumbling on Puxele north o’ the Crack.” He grinned. “Anything stronger than water here?”
“When your story’s done,” Pikarn said. “What do they want with the Choerkin?”
“The priest said it was to do with the Shadows. A common enemy if I’m put to a guess.”
Pikarn grunted. “Colok never minded our dying to Snow Daevu.”
It occurred to Ivin they were neglecting a potential foe. The thought brought a spasm that choked his breath. Every cherished memory of his mother and him at prayer stood tarnished if his fears were true. “What if our shared enemy is Istinjoln?” The moment the words left his mouth he wanted to take them back, but the spoken word wasn’t a hook to be pulled back to shore empty.
Pikarn’s voice was soft, but edged. “Don’t speak them words again.”
“The boy’s right. What if Istinjoln is headed for open rebellion?”
“I ain’t saying he’s wrong, I’m saying don’t speak them here, the stones might have ears.”
Modan grimaced. “Anyhow. The Colok want to meet at a tower the priest called Snow’s Eye.”
“I know it,” Pikarn said. “Two, maybe three days ride. Not another word of this here. Modan, gather the men and get the horses ready; Choerkin, you stay with me.”
“Godsdamned good to see you alive.” Pikarn filled a mug of ale for Modan from their small cask, putting a foamy smile on Modan’s face as he strode outside. The Wolverine stared at Ivin, a smirking crinkle on his face. “Sick of that name of yours yet?”
Ivin stifled a laugh with a snort. It wasn’t the first time the name had given him grief. That honor belonged to the evening he’d met a lovely lass who knew his brothers’ reputations. So much for stealing that kiss. At least this time his name afforded him a mixed reward. Sure, he might die, but it’d be interesting. A man must be born with powerful luck to have a name imbued with such power.
“Might be one of the few times I liked it, actually.” He poured a pint of ale. No hot meal anytime soon, he may as well drink. “Why the hurry?”
“If this turns out to be more than Istinjoln’s typical poke in the Choerkin eye I don’t wanna be behind these walls when they find out we know.”
No point in arguing such wisdom. But if Istinjoln and the Choerkin were about to collide that’d make it right difficult to court the pretty postulant. His brow scrunched. It was for the best; she’d likely laugh at him behind his back, anyhow.
Ivin asked, “So, we’re headed to Snow’s Eye? If we get hung up out there, we’d miss whatever’s happening here.”
“Aye, we should make it back, but ain’t no guarantees. You think we should stay closer?”
Ivin grimaced, it sure felt like the better option. “We can’t pass up this chance, whatever the hells it turns out to be.”
He sighed, poured ale, but the Wolverine yanked it from his grip and drank it himself. “Let’s get a-movin’.”
They mounted in the bailey, joining Modan, Puxele, Rinold, and the other wardens. Woxlin made his way to see them off, but he didn’t approach, and Pikarn wanted nothing to do with the priest, either. Ivin looked for Eliles’ familiar face among the holies, but they hid under their cowls and he couldn’t tell if the girl was there or not. He wanted to believe she watched them. Him.
The Wolverine spun his horse to give Woxlin a wave. “We’ll be back by Eve of Snows.”
The high priest raised a hand, but didn’t say a word.
When the portcullis remained open at their approach Ivin breathed easier, and as hooves clattered across the drawbridge, he let himself smile. An attack would’ve been more a surprise than being allowed to ride free, but these days surprises were lining up.
Once on the narrow road they passed a small wagon that rattled and clanged, pulled by a two-donkey team. The driver was a rotund man Ivin recognized as a tinker with a quality reputation. Unlike the last time he saw the man at the Fost, he wasn’t alone. An attractive woman, tall, with her hair wrapped in a fancy braid rode beside him, while relegated to the back of the cart lay a man tall enough to be a Choerkin. An old sword lay beside that one. He didn’t recognize the two, but he wished them well on their journey into the hornet’s nest.
28
FORTRESS OVER MAZE
Rain falls from the clouds of her stormy wings,
Riding bands of lightning through turbulent winds,
Soaking boiling stone.
Hiss and Pop, a calamitous roar of combative Elements
Preparing the skein of a thousand Worlds
To receive the Eggs of her children to be.
She never asks why the universe created a nest so perfect.
—Tomes of the Touched
Six Days to the Eve of Snows
Turned out Lelishen told the truth: She could be quiet. Whether she sat staring into the distance marveling over the scenery, or pondering whatever her pilgrim’s mind bothered to think on, she remained a pleasant traveling companion. But gods forbid you ask what she was looking at or thinking, because once her lips flapped open it damned near took the next meal to shut them. If it weren’t for the fact his body distracted him with aches and pains in places he never knew could hurt, he might’ve let himself fall off the wagon to follow from a quieter distance.
Still, she was an attractive gal. Solineus assumed it was her looks which kept her alive when folks wanted her to shut up.
The day had been peaceful, nary a word over breakfast and only a few stray thoughts flung from her lips until Ilpen broke the pleasant knocking and creaking rhythms of the wagon.
“Only a couple candles out from Istinjoln, now.”
“Do you fine gentlemen know much about the monastery?”
Was she looking to impart a candle’s worth of knowledge or did she fish for information? The answer that kept her quiet was what he shot for. “Nothing much.”
Solineus groaned; another wrong choice in a fifty-fifty game. Of course, the game could be fixed and unwinnable.
“A fortress like none other, she always said… Etinbin, guard her soul from the Vainglorious Hell, which she probably deserves mind you, yet, all people deserve peace eventually, don’t they? Anyhow, she was always saying how the fortress sat above ground, but the tunnels are the true redoubt of the holy.”
Maybe this woman’s mouth wasn’t worthless. Solineus rolled over, propped on his elbows. “Tunnels?”
“Oh, yes! A maze like you ain’t never seen, so she always said. Filled with shrines to all the gods. Priests walk miles on their devotionals, but I’ll be lucky to see one or two, I suspect. And of course the great halls.”
A maze, perfect. “So the Eve of Snows, what should we expect?”
Ilpen chimed in. “Food, booze, and hangovers a-plenty. Older I get, more I try to stick with the food. Not you can’t tell.” He patted his belly.
“Prayer services?”
“Oh, I hear those are just lovely,” Lelishen said. “Inspirational.”
Ilpen glanced to Solineus. “You don’t seem the praying kind.”
Solineus grinned. Pray for a shot at a lord priest’s life. “A man can have a bout of religion if he likes.”
“Praise Sol, yes, of course he can! Any man, even the most heathen.”
Ilpen grunted at both of them. “Food is my devotional, as it were. But a high priest holds a ceremony outside the bailey for the lay folk.”
Damnation, there went one hope. “Mightn’t the lord priest bless the flock?”
“Not I ever seen, and I were in Istinjoln for the Eve the past decade.”
“Well, ain’t unheard of, neither. Lord Priest Hevlin, who I might add had his eye on my mama’s cousin’s great aunt for something a little extra devotional, you know what I mean… Firde said he’d oversee some prayers on the Eve for the small folk. Which reminds me of a great story.”