Eve of Snows: Sundering the Gods Book One

by L. James Rice

  Solineus rolled onto his back, tucked his hands behind his head and hugged his ears with his arms. It didn’t deafen him to every word, but muffled them. He closed his eyes, hoping maybe the Lady would reveal a way to get to the lord priest.

  If this pilgrim got permission to visit the shrines, it gave him a chance. A chance at getting lost in a labyrinth with a bunch of holies. The Lady in his dreams sent him here, and so far she’d proved she knew pieces of the future; maybe she knew a way through the fortress, too. He opened his eyes and watched the clouds and sun pass through the sky.

  The wagon creaked and groaned, and gravity tugged him toward the back of the wagon. They made a steep climb. He sat up and laid eyes on Istinjoln.

  “Son of a godsdamned… Sorry.” Good thing he had a way past those gates, else he’d have to be a spider to get in. The monastery didn’t compare to the size of the Fost, but its crenelated walls were as impressive.

  Horsemen bundled in thick furs rode from the gate as they approached, the wagon’s width forcing them to ride single file past them as the road narrowed. They didn’t have the look of priests, with their swords, bows, spears, and determined faces set in stone.

  Ilpen extended a friendly wave and sucked his teeth. “That were the Wolverine and his boys.”

  His memory drew its expected blank. “Wolverine?”

  “Aye, heads the Estertok Wardens. Choerkin loyalists to a man and none too friendly with Istinjoln. Musta been a Colok attack nearby or something of the sort.”

  Solineus nodded as if he knew what the man talked about and the woman kept mum. They passed through the shadows of the looming gate and into the bailey, flagstones rattling the wagon and his bones until they came to a stop in front of the stables. He groaned and rolled from his perch, his joints popping as his aching muscles propped him upright. He grabbed hold of a wheel, its iron skein chilling his fingers as he brought one knee to his chest, then the other. Stretching hurt, but in a relieving sort of way.

  Istinjoln’s central tower drew the eye first, with its height and crenelated white marble crown sitting atop its head. Squat buildings surrounded the tower in what appeared random placement, but they were that way to force an enemy’s approach to the keep confusing and more dangerous. Every bit of this fortress loomed as a trap to ensnare and defeat an invading army, but where an army would fail, a lone man might prove deadly.

  He turned to Lelishen as she slid from the wagon without so much as a hitch in her stride, smiling at him. He’d feel better if she groaned as if something ached. He smirked at her, but her head snapped to gaze across the courtyard. Lelishen stared at a pretty young girl with long blond hair, a postulant if he understood the meaning of her white robes. Something passed between the two, and the girl bolted into the shadows of nearby buildings.

  What’d I miss? “You know the girl?”

  Her words came slow and measured, not her usual cadence. “Hmm? No, no.” Lelishen’s lips were tight around those perfect white teeth. She recovered. “The darling did remind me so of my second cousin, also named Firde, I might add, that it gave me a start.”

  It wasn’t the first time he wanted to call the woman on a lie, but it was the most obvious. “Pretty lass.” He didn’t need to poison the waters, he needed answers. Lelishen portrayed the simple pilgrim, but there was a puzzle beneath the pretty. If he solved it, it might help him get close to the lord priest.

  Ilpen startled Solineus with a hand on his shoulder. “Let’s find ourselves a meal and a pint.”

  Food sounded good, and oddly enough, so did chatty feminine company. “Aye. You joining us, Lelishen?”

  “Why absolutely, I’d be delighted to join you good men.”

  Lelishen’s facade resurfaced strong as marble, but Solineus knew now to watch for cracks. Good thing the woman was pleasant to look on since he wasn’t going to take an eye off her.

  29

  BREAKING BONES

  Glory speaks a language all its own,

  a tongue dripping sweet saliva sugar on your soul,

  A grander Grandeur of greatness over

  the little man with his knife in your belly, the demon’s kiss

  and the Dragon’s lick, fire, flier, Liar,

  So tired.

  Sleep and slumber eyes wide to die,

  I’ve failed the hundred ways I’ve tried.

  —Tomes of the Touched

  Six Days to the Eve of Snows

  The Night of Bones began in the evening, and Eliles had few duties during the day. Sure, she should be meditating in prayer to thank the gods for their generosity, but by late morning she succumbed to temptation to spy on the gates. And the handsome Choerkin. It was fine to think of him as a Choerkin in this way, but she reminded herself his name was Ivin.

  She followed the Shrines of Fire after morning prayers, faithful to propriety on such an important day, but afterwards she made her way to the northern wall. She smiled, watching him work far too long on a piece of wood with his knife only to throw it in the dirt. A handsome boy, but she could throw a knife better.

  The gate bells rang and more wardens arrived, and after a brief meeting in their barracks, they rode out, with the Wolverine hailing Woxlin on the way. The wardens would return by Eve of Snows.

  Her enthusiasm deflated. She couldn’t stomach the notion of being weak for a boy, so she determined her reaction was from losing her new allies. Their return still might provide a chance for escape.

  She climbed from the wall, figuring she’d finish her devotionals, but the gate bells rang along with a clatter in the air, which stopped her in stride. Her eyes widened. Ilpen! The tinker had found her wandering the wilds as a child, and it had been his idea to hide a defiled girl in a place where the miracle of Fire was commonplace. The man and his donkeys were better family than her own blood.

  Two sets of donkey ears came through the gates, Ilpen sitting on the wagon with a gracious smile for every guard. Same as he ever was, only more gray hairs, and maybe an extra hole in his belt.

  Her feet wanted to run to him, but she stopped. Ilpen brought passengers she’d never seen before. Who were they? What were they doing with her Ilpen?

  The man rolled from the cart to land on his feet with a stiff stretch. In his twenties, maybe thirty, he was tall and rangy with sandy hair, and a sword slung over his shoulder. It’d make sense for Ilpen to hire a guard if bandits were thick this year.

  The woman, on the other hand, defied explanation. An inch, maybe two, from being as tall as the man, braided golden hair rested on her head as might a crown, and she carried herself with a noble’s grace.

  Eliles couldn’t resist. She stared and nudged her senses to the woman to see if she could gain a feel for her. A round face with deep brown eyes and a pleasant smile for the swordsman, she was attractive in a docile, sweet manner.

  But something was wrong, the woman’s eyes flickered, shifted. Eliles’ vision of the woman warped, a mirage waving into a new reality. The woman turned and caught Eliles’ stare with midnight blue eyes flecked with silver. Soft round features turned chiseled with high cheekbones. Gorgeous, the word rang hollow, and insufficient. Inhuman was fitting.

  Eliles panicked and strode away, drawing her senses into herself. Fool girl be damned! The woman came from Eleris Edan, a Trelelunin, if the books she read were right. Pagans with a foreign god, but they lived for centuries and drew on skills developed over an immense time. This foreigner had caught her in an instant where human priests hadn’t noticed her spying trick for twelve years. If she told anyone of Eliles’ little game? Death.

  She hurried for lower Istinjoln, making sure not to break into a trot, and only breathed again when safe in the tunnels. Her thoughts slapped back and forth in her brain. The woman didn’t hide who she was; she hid what she was. Hiding meant she wouldn’t reveal Eliles’ trick—or so she tried to convince herself. The woman would have to give herself away to reveal Eliles, wouldn’t she? For the love of Januel! Why couldn’t she keep her nose out
of trouble?

  She huffed and as she rounded a corner, she collided with another postulant.

  “Sorry, so sorry,” came the squeak from the youngster.

  She didn’t bother to look at his face, just continued along the tunnel cursing herself. She needed to stay out of trouble. Do as her elders commanded and be early.

  By the time she reached the Hall of Bontore to await the breaking of bones, she’d calmed and refocused her mind. If the foreign woman proved a problem, she’d handle it then, allowing her heart to race over a possibility was foolish.

  The Hall of Bontore was a semi-circular cavern with the dais and the Shrine of Bontore standing at the straight edge of the chambers, across from her entrance. Lanterns burned along the walls, ringing the Hall beneath a railed balcony, and two chandeliers hung high in the domed ceiling, ambiance more than effective lighting, as they lit veins of silver minerals to twinkle in the carved stone.

  Four steps led to the top of the dais, at the center of which stood the altar. Solid silver polished to a sheen and set with carved amethyst, the favored gem of Bontore, every year this shrine hosted the breaking of bones. To the side hung curtains, which concealed ranking priests.

  Postulants preparing for their vows of priesthood on the Eve of Snows, high priests, and the lord priest himself received their divinations tonight, a special honor for those successful in their trials. Everyone was welcome to attend and the balconies and room filled with the holy.

  She remembered the years of squeezing between people to get a better view, the stink of sweating men and women, of incense. But she held the best seat in the house this evening.

  Eliles knelt in the front row of ascendant postulants and waited. She relaxed every muscle in her face as she sought to become a vision of patience and confidence, but her calm was resignation. She accepted her fate however written by the bones and Bontore. Dareun’s success or failure didn’t matter, her future belonged to her.

  A grizzled old woman with pasty-white, wrinkled skin sauntered into the chambers and the observing postulants and priests hushed. Her toes scraped the ground with truncated strides, carrying her across the Hall to the marble Dais of Bontore. Her hips twisted and knees buckled as she climbed the steps, but she kept her pain silent.

  Meris of Esedon. Whispers of her arrival had traveled fast. Revered and renowned as the master of Skywatch for the past forty years, and master of bones for seven decades, her reputation bordered on legendary. A divination by her hand honored the recipient.

  Meris’ home caught her ear also, another coincidence? What possible connection did she have to Ivin Choerkin’s arrival? She shook her head. Not a single wild-haired conspiracy came to mind.

  “Sodole, twelfth year postulant, come before me and listen to Bontore’s words.”

  Meris’ voice betrayed what her body hid: power. Shriveled by time, her voice still held the impact of a hale and gifted oracle. She must’ve been a sight in her day. Eliles imagined the crone was at least cute in her youth.

  Sodole bounced to the dais, eager to hear his fortune. The boy had taken the brunt of many jabs over the years being scrawny and freckled, with a crooked nose broken and left unset in his youth. Eliles always thought him odd, with an unnerving cast to his beady eyes.

  Kneeling before the oracle, the crack of the bone resounded throughout the room, and only flickers later the High Oracle broke into her spiel. Eliles gave the old woman credit, at least she didn’t waste time on theatrics.

  “The gods have spoken well to you, Sodole. Here we see a line passing through the Heart of Januel and splitting. You will know two potential loves, but I can not tell you which is prettiest and which will bear you the most sons.”

  Sodole bounced on his knees, nodding at the woman’s humorous play.

  Eliles rolled her eyes, no doubt such a creepy fellow would buy into this future. She’d heard thousands of readings over the years, set up or kindness?

  “And here, the line passes near the Sun’s Spear, brave deeds are in your future, and how that line connects to the loves of Januel? This tells me that your deeds earn your chances at love. With this crack, too, by the Anvil? Have you considered serving as a bearer? You should.” The postulant nodded, eager for his future.

  Eliles wanted to giggle. She ignored the remainder of the prattle, the divination directed him with subtlety, and a hammer. The rest of the woman’s words meant nothing until the finish.

  “Rise, Sodole, and take your name. What name did you bear to Istinjoln?”

  “Sodole Henstikir.” The boy’s excitement made her want to puke.

  “What name do you bear at Istinjoln?”

  “Sodole.”

  “When your vows are spoke on the Eve of Snows, you will forever be known as Sodole of Inkris so you may be the pride of your village.”

  “Thank you, venerated master.”

  Eliles stifled a yawn, bowed her head, and meditated to quiet the annoying prophecies. The lies. The manipulation.

  The crack of bone wiggled into her consciousness, and a small piece of awareness listened to the ancient priestess muttering to postulants, senseless murmurs on the fringe of her consciousness. Postulants came and went without interest; her divination was last, the only marker of time she needed. A benefit of her lone scar.

  With her name called she rose without hesitation, as if she’d paid attention to every fortune read. Dignified strides climbed the dais, and she took the old woman’s hands, knelt before her. Meris’ eyes were kind, more gentle than expected. With hands entwined instinct pushed her senses into the ancient woman, she felt darkness, and retreated. Regret lived within her soul, but the dark was pervasive, murderous. Her eyes told lies her soul didn’t conceal.

  The oracle’s hands slid from hers and Meris smiled, another lie, as she brought Bontore’s needle to a glow between rubbing hands. She jammed the needle into the bone with a flourish, the crack sending shivers down Eliles’ spine.

  “Bontore has spoken with us, young Eliles, look as I read to you his words.”

  The bone cradled in the woman’s frail hands fractured in peculiar ways. The engraved Wanderer’s Star bore no crack: an ill portent.

  “My child, Bontore smiles on you.” A chill struck her spine as the oracle pointed. “Here we see a line crossing Januel’s Heart, a love in your future. But here! Oh here, here, such a strong crack across the Fires of Sol, linked both to Rock of Besi and Eye of the Winds, your destiny is cast in fire and stone, raised by the ten winds to greatness.”

  Her brown, wrinkled finger traced another strong crack. “And here the Crown of Sol, your favor will rise in the eyes of the King of Gods and His lord priests’. My girl, stand and take your name.” Short, imprecise, and unexpected. What did it mean?

  She rose and turned, her eyes landing on Dareun. Her master stared wide-eyed. Who rewrote her future and why?

  Meris’ voice reverberated through the chamber. “What name did you bear to Istinjoln?”

  “Eliles Hunvad.”

  “What name do you bear at Istinjoln?”

  “Eliles.”

  “From this day forward, you are known as Eliles of Istinjoln, Priestess of Sol’s Fire.”

  Her knees buckled. Of Istinjoln. Most took names from the village or region of their birth, to take Istinjoln to name meant direct service to the lord priest. No doubt now who smoothed her fortune. And the oracle named her priestess before she took her vows. Unheard of. Escape became damned near impossible; she’d be living in the heart of Istinjoln.

  She stepped from the dais and stumbled with wobbly knees. She should’ve said words, thanked Sol or Meris, maybe even Lord Priest Ulrikt, but her tongue was tied in the same knots as her thoughts.

  They had anticipated and severed her path. She’d been a fool to think she could escape.

  She returned to kneel among the postulants, but without taking a vow, Meris had decreed her a priestess. She sat as an outcast among her peers again. Hundreds of eyes bore into her. She felt
the jealousy and hatred rising in the room. Eliles wanted to disappear more than ever, but she couldn’t leave this Hall any more than she could fly from Istinjoln. The divinations of the high priests and the lord priest himself were yet to see bones.

  Her swirling thoughts and panic defied meditation, but still, she found herself lost in a trance of sorts. The dark robes of high priest after high priest knelt on the dais and bowed their heads to their fortunes, but the words drowned in the frantic screams of her mind. She cared not a twig for any of them. As a girl enthralled with hearing people’s futures, even knowing the truth of smoothing, she listened intent for candles. But now, only one interested her.

  “Lord Priest Ulrikt, come before Bontore, kneel and know the glory of Istinjoln.”

  Ulrikt stepped through a wall of tapestries depicting the hallowed history of Istinjoln and the Gods of the Pantheon of Sol. Clad in pristine white robes threaded with strands of gold and silver, he shone as a beacon of light in these dark chambers. Tall and thin, with a nose and ears grown long by age, he carried himself with an aura of confidence personified by intense blue eyes capped with silver-white brows. Dignified, handsome even in his advanced years, and powerful in both the ways of prayer and men, he was her master now.

  Dareun always said the lord priest’s bones were honest, and she hoped the divination spoke of ill winds for this vile man. His vile monastery. May a single crack lead to Etinbin and the Road of Living Stars. Too much to pray he fell into the hells?

  Meris rose for the lord priest, then knelt before him. Ulrikt did not take a knee.

  A young postulant brought Meris a large clavicle for the last divination of the night, and the ancient bone-reader took it with reverence, resting it on a cushion gentle as an infant being put to bed. She rubbed the needle between her hands and raised it for the crowd, revealing the intense star-white glow with a theater reserved for the final show.

  “Mighty Bontore! Reveal for us the future and glory of Ulrikt and Istinjoln!” The needle plunged and struck.