Eve of Snows: Sundering the Gods Book One

by L. James Rice

  The lord priest stood and his face shifted, the skin slithering over shifting bones until Eliles gazed at him with innocent eyes and a smile for her master. The voice remained deep and calm, Ulrikt’s. “You will either confess and face summary execution, or you will confess after torture and face the Sundering of the Ten Winds, along with your pet defiled.” The voice changed to mimic Eliles, the precision of tone and cadence disturbing. “You risked death for me all these years, accept this fate to save me.”

  Rumors of the so-called Lord Priest’s Face had persisted over Dareun’s decades in Istinjoln, but never once had he heard of Ulrikt himself being capable of the feat. It was difficult to believe that Ulrikt, a man studied in Fire, could also master prayers of Life to conquer this trick.

  “How do I even know it’s you? You might be Ulrikt’s Face. His double come to trick me.”

  The vision of Eliles rubbed its eyes with a wrinkled man’s hand, and the girl dissipated into the lord priest again. “Dear, dear Dareun. How do you even know if the man you knew as Ulrikt was ever me at all?” He rubbed his temple as if fighting a headache. “None of this matters. What matters is how you choose to die, and whether you die alone. I am trying to save your soul, not your life. Choose nobly.”

  The lord priest patted him on the head like a pitied hound, pulled his hood over his face—whichever one he might choose to wear—and exited, the door creaking closed.

  Dareun had never imagined his life coming to this. He sat on damp straw in the midst of rat scat and the reek of urine, choosing between executions. To Sunder a person meant breaking the invisible tie between the immortal soul and the gods. Wicked for anyone, but anathema for a priest, damning the soul to never reach the Road of Living Stars. No heavens, no hells, not even the Slave Fields for redemption, he’d find himself a severed spirit, a ghost, until fading into nothingness.

  He could deny his hand in the death of a man still alive, but only until the torture grew too great. By then, he’d have dragged Eliles into his pitiable fate. He struggled to his feet, his body aching, and stumbled into the door. “Guard.”

  A face appeared in the barred window. A thick mustache, and day-old beard, dark brown eyes, and a scarred nose, but for all Dareun knew, it was the lord priest himself. “Send word to Woxlin, I’ve decided to confess. And, who left my cell a wick ago?”

  The guard laughed. “You’ve gone soft in the head. You’ve had no visitors since Woxlin.”

  Saliva blinded Dareun’s good eye before the guard turned and walked away. A rare opportunity for a prison guard to spit on a priest; Dareun hoped he’d enjoyed the moment.

  He moved to the back of his cell and slid down the wall to take a seat. He’d lived a good life, spent decades doing a thing he loved, touched the lives of a great many people. An inglorious end, but he knew the truth. It couldn’t save him, nor dull the pain, but the truth would serve him well on the Road of Living Stars.

  A WHITE HUMAN skull with black stars for eyes stared at Eliles. Carved from white marble, and four times larger than her own skull, it was a work of art with its eyes filled with sparkling, crushed black diamond. Never having born flesh or skin, nor any other burden of being alive, was perhaps why its vision of death appeared so peaceful.

  Eliles kneeled before Etinbin’s altar and its ominous stone head, praying for the lord priest’s soul. As Patron of the Dead and Overseer of the Road of Living Stars, Etinbin sat at the fore of everyone’s prayers when ranking priests passed from the mortal world. A priest who served the Pantheon of Sol could rely upon Etinbin’s judgement to assist in walking the Road without falling into one of the Twelve Hells, and prayers of the devout encouraged the kindness of the Overseer.

  True, she didn’t care for the man’s soul, but appearances kept dissenters alive.

  Scant few priests were here when she arrived to mouth her prayers. Most didn’t have the lord priest strike the ground right in front of them. She knew what others didn’t: Ulrikt died before hitting the ground. Only a miracle from the Age of God Wars could return the man to the living, and then only if you believed the stories of resurrections. Most spoke their prayers at the shrine of Erginle, daughter of Sol and Elinwe, the Patron of Healers.

  The smell of lilacs and the rustle of kneeling robes beside her caught her attention, but she didn’t dare interrupt her prayer by opening her eyes. A man’s voice entered into prayer, soft and sincere. So quiet she couldn’t say for certain whose voice, but she feared she did.

  Her prayer finished, she prostrated herself on the ground, pressing lips to the cold stone. The adherent was polite enough not to interrupt her grieving, but determined enough to stay; she curled back to her kneeling stance and turned to blink into Woxlin’s solemn face.

  She’d become accustomed to his showing up everywhere these days, so she managed a straight face. “High Priest Woxlin, this is a surprise… Does this, I mean, Lord Priest Ulrikt?”

  Woxlin nodded, whispering. “You were right to seek Etinbin’s hall; His Eminence has passed on to the Road of Living Stars.”

  “When I saw him… I knew, I hoped I was wrong, but…” She’d wanted the lord priest dead, but it was like wishing a pox on your master, if it happens, you still feel bad. Yet, if she’d had the power to the save the man, would she have?

  “His death came with mercy, quick and painless. I have a question to ask of you.”

  Years of hiding secrets paid off. Her thoughts buzzed, but her heart and face stayed relaxed. “Of course. I was close, but I saw nothing more than anyone else.” It also helped not to have to lie.

  “No, I suspect not.” He rubbed his chin, which strengthened the smell of flowers in the air. She realized the odor came from mortuary perfumes, meaning Woxlin had visited the lord priest’s remains. “Still, there’s a puzzle that needs solved here. I always liked Dareun, thought he was a good man, a great instructor, and faithful.”

  “He is all those things.” The conversation’s direction scared her. Dareun’s words, the lord priest’s death not boding well for him or her, resounded in her mind.

  “Yes, which is why I find it hard to ask this. Do you know of any reason he would visit the Hall of Bones in the dead of night?”

  “He never mentioned such to me. I know he studied the Oracle’s ways in his youth, and spoke in reverence of those days, easing my fears of seeing my future as a child.”

  The high priest’s face remained solemn, respectful. “Yes, the future can be terrifying, but it’s the past as concerns me now. Several nights ago someone saw him leaving the Gate of Bones. We discarded it as nothing. Rubbish, some quirk, or a romanticism of his youth to visit the Hall.”

  She stared, her thoughts a barrage of screams and denials, of hopeless excuses. The only reason she could give was the truth, and honesty killed him quicker than a lie. It might also kill her. She gnawed truth from her tongue, took a deep breath, but words didn’t come. She looked away, pretending to think, taking another breath so she could speak in normal tones. “I wish I had an answer, but nostalgia, as you suggest, is the only reason I can think of.”

  “I want you to know I don’t believe he is guilty of vaticide, but if he is, I regret to say I will be his confessor.”

  “He is not!” Her words echoed through the chambers, and she regretted her outburst. She mellowed her tone. “No, it’s not possible.”

  “Someone turned the lord priest’s divination into murder, and he was the only one seen entering the Hall without cause to be there. You tell me, what else should we think? I can’t find the real killer if they torture an innocent man into confession.”

  The beating of her heart shredded her ability to think straight. Nothing, she could give the man nothing without killing Dareun. Hope lay in finding the real killer, as Woxlin mentioned, so no matter what wanted to blurt from her lips, she needed to swallow her confessions without choking. Exasperated, cheeks quivering to fight tears, she muttered, “I have no idea. I wish I did.”

  His hand came to rest on
her shoulder. “I understand. If you think of anything, please, come and tell me. I fear we have a guest who would serve as Inquisitor, and I’d rather not see the Broldun get his hands on your master. I—”

  “High Priest Woxlin!” A young priest, breathless, jogged into the hall, his shoes flapping on the stone. He rushed to Woxlin to whisper in his ear, but Eliles could hear. “The Master of Fire wishes to confess.”

  A wave of tingles washed her body, her heart choking her senses. Confess? She stared in horror at the high priest. The stunned gaze Woxlin’s face left no doubt to his surprise.

  Woxlin bent over, scratched his face, eyes darting back and forth. “Hmm, uh. Yes, tell him I will be there shortly.” The young man trotted away. Woxlin couldn’t meet her gaze. “I know this may be difficult to believe, but I am extraordinarily sorry. If it’s any consolation, this will save him pain, and his soul.”

  Eliles couldn’t manage a word when he stood to leave. After all these years, she’d gotten her master killed.

  “Again, I am most sorry.”

  He turned and took several steps, but hesitated, then spun on his heel to face her. “A peculiar thing, isn’t it? If he’d chosen not to confess, as a postulant you would’ve come before the inquisitor yourself, but as a priestess they would’ve needed proof of collusion before calling you to an inquisition. It seems the gods are looking out for you.”

  She watched as he walked away, her throat aching as she fought tears. There was no joy in his steps, nothing eager to his strides, but still she hated him. Hated him all the more for his parting words; the gods didn’t watch out for her, and the vile man who did so twice lay dead. She fought the urge to visualize Woxlin’s eyes burned from his head for fear her friends might comply, but she swore, she’d burn everyone of them straight into the hells if it saved her master.

  Her life had fallen apart around her brick by brick, and the blame rested with her. She was the mortar of her own life, and she’d always been weak, flawed.

  She stood before she realized where she intended to go. Ilpen, she had to see him. A simple man with the simple gift of easing her worries and pains. She needed to talk to someone, but she couldn’t get the old tinker killed, too. Even if she only spoke to Ears, at least someone would hear.

  A youthful hand snagged her arm as she exited the hall. Sandele held a finger to her lips, glancing around, nervous. “Your master wants words with you.”

  She wanted to believe the girl. “What? How would you—”

  “My cousin is a guard, but there’s no time to explain. He’s hurt bad.”

  There wasn’t time to think, her feet moved on hope alone. Eliles followed the girl’s mousy brown hair until they descended a set of stairs leading into the prison vaults. She’d passed these halls a hundred times but never found cause to venture where they led. They stopped, the girl pursing her lips.

  “What now?” Eliles asked.

  “Jant said, let’s see… Down until you see a boulder painted red, a right turn, then the second right after. He’s in the fourth cell on your right.”

  “You’re certain?” Too good to be true.

  “No, I’m not. But that’s what he said. I’m sorry, I gotta go.” She smiled. “You wouldn’t get me down there, anyway.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Good luck.”

  Eliles watched her ponytail sway until she disappeared into a turn. Instinct told her she was a starving bear stumbling into honey bait. Too simple. Too convenient.

  She pushed her senses into the stairwell: Nothing from the ordinary. If a trap, it was the undeniable honey.

  Trepidation slowed her first steps, but a sense of rhythm grew and sped her down the spiraling climb. An old saying came to mind: Death finds the coward as surely as the brave. Philosophers argued whether the scripture spoke of destiny, or if it were inspiration for battle.

  Sparse lanterns lit the stairwell, but their light was sufficient to note the color of the rocks marking passages. When she reached the red, her count reached five levels, and still the hole twisted into the depths. She poked her head through the arching stone portal on her right, not a soul in sight, just rows of doors carved into stone with barred windows. Her senses reached out; the hollows in the stone were tiny and empty, but she felt breathing, two individuals maybe twenty paces around the second corner on her right, one behind a door, precisely where the girl had said they would be.

  Eliles took the first turn and skulked through the darkness, stopping before the second passage on her right to glance down the corridor. A guard stood in leather and mail across from a door on the right side of the hall. The man rocked on his heels, fidgety. Nervous because he set a trap, or because he allowed a visitor? She called to her fiery friend, sensed the reassuring warmth before she risked anything. “Jant?”

  The guard spun to look her way. “Aye. Hurry girl, we don’t have long. Don’t like risk’n my head for a few songs.”

  “Eliles? You there?” She recognized the voice and dashed down the hall, peered into the dark cell. Her master dragged himself from the straw-piled floor. “I promised this man silver, in my chest at the foot of my bed, get the girl Sandele the coins for him.”

  Tears washed her cheeks as she nodded. She reached fingers through the bars to touch his bloodied and broken face.

  “I’m fine, my girl.”

  “I can get you out.”

  “And what, carry me into the mountains and hide? No. You must promise me, whatever they do to me, don’t try to help. I no longer matter.”

  “I will find a way—”

  “You won’t! Promise me. I need to know you will live.”

  She stared into his eyes. The old man recognized her lies, and the deception struggled to her lips. “I swear by Januel, I will not risk my life for yours.” Despite her inner battle, she knew the words true once uttered. She owed dedication to his final wish, she wouldn’t break the vow.

  Intense eyes held her gaze. “Good. Even with Ulrikt dead, many will seek to use you. They see divinity in your skills.”

  “A Choerkin was in Istinjoln the other day—”

  “No! Trust them less than anyone. They would see the Church in ruins.”

  She nodded, but these words struck an ill note with her. Her master had spoken of Clan Choerkin once or twice over the years, but when he did, the words were more gracious. Plus, she refused to believe this of Ivin. “I will do as you say,” she lied.

  The old man showed a smile made crooked by his broken face. “That’s a good girl. Now, go. Honor and remember me as I was, not as I’ve become.”

  She sniffled, breast quaking as she staved off sobs. She touched his face once with a kiss on her fingers and departed.

  Eliles rubbed her eyes and steeled her will with clenched teeth. She promised to not risk her life to save him, but he mentioned nothing of revenge. If she found who framed her master, no power would protect them from her wrath. The only person in Istinjoln she could trust was Ilpen. Folks trusted the tinker with more than their kettles and pans, they blathered to him for candles on end, more gossip than the kitchens, she wagered. A rumor wouldn’t give an answer, but it might point in the right direction.

  Find Ilpen, let him know what happened, and make sure he listened for loose words. He’d be more than happy to help. She passed the Hall of Etinbin, filling with mourners as word of Ulrikt’s death spread, and made a beeline for Upper Istinjoln.

  Two guards with crossed spears and a monk barred the door. The monk said, “No one is allowed into Upper Istinjoln for a time.”

  She grimaced and turned, heading for her cell. It made sense to lock the exits, but with so many trapped underground, they couldn’t keep them penned for long before mice became badgers. In the meantime, she needed to fight her every instinct and keep quiet.

  HINGES CREAKED and groaned and Woxlin entered Dareun’s cell for the second or third time, depending how you kept count. Dareun studied his mouth, thinking maybe he’d find a clue in his crooked teeth
to determine who he spoke with. No luck. Hells, he’d swear they both smelled of mortuary flowers, one from visiting, the other from being dead.

  “You look peaked, are you yourself?” Dareun never considered himself a funny man, but he chuckled at his joke.

  “You summoned me to confess or to make japes?”

  Dareun rolled his one good eye. “I will sign whatever you want me to sign. I’ve no reason to dawdle.”

  “Ah, well, good then.” Woxlin stretched the scroll on the table, dipped the pen in ink and offered it to him.

  Dareun scoffed. “Write whatever you will; it no longer matters to me.”

  “I’d prefer it were in your hand. Sin is a malady, and confession a salve for the soul.”

  “I’m admitting guilt. I don’t know how I did it, nor why. But by the gods I murdered him, write it down.”

  The pen dangled idle in Woxlin’s fingers. “Bearing false witness might find you in the Liar’s Hell, among the others you’re bound to suffer.”

  “And if I don’t I will never see a hell, nor be able to earn redemption in the Slave Fields. You see the truth.”

  “You killed the lord priest, this is the truth I’m here to witness. I will write it.”

  The pen scratched its mark.

  A lanky man clad in black stood in the door. No priest, but he served one.

  “Mmm, I will handle the writ, if it pleases.”

  The Broldun inquisitor. Torturer might be more accurate.

  Woxlin stood, relinquishing his seat, and the ugly man put pen to vellum in a hurry.

  Dareun mumbled, “My apologies for confessing, disappointing you.”

  “You ain’t disappointed no one yet, no.”