by Jim Butcher
Fidelias frowned. He didn’t trust the water witch. Aldrick seemed to control her, but she was too clever for his liking. “Fine,” he said, shortly. After a moment, he asked, “Why, Aldrick?”
The swordsman watched the night around them with neutral disinterest. “Why what?”
“You’ve been a wanted man for what? Twenty years?”
“Eighteen.”
“And you’ve been a rebel the whole time. Fallen in with one group after another, and they’ve all been subversives.”
“Freedom fighters,” Aldrick said.
“Whatever,” Fidelias said. “The point is that you’ve been a thorn in Gaius’s side since you were barely more than a boy.”
Aldrick shrugged.
Fidelias studied him. “Why?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“Because I like knowing the motivations of the people I work with. The witch follows you. She’s besotted with you, and I have no doubt that she’d kill for you, if you asked her to.”
Again, Aldrick shrugged.
“But I don’t know why you’re doing it. Why Aquitaine trusts you. So, why?”
“You haven’t worked it out? You’re supposed to be the big spy for the Crown. Haven’t you figured it out yet? Analyzed my scars or poked into my diaries, something like that?”
Fidelias half-smiled. “You’re honest. You’re a murderer, a sellsword, a thug—but an honest one. I thought I’d ask.”
Aldrick stared up the hill for a moment. Then he said, tonelessly, “I had a family. My mother and my father. My older brother and two younger sisters. Gaius Sextus destroyed them.” Aldrick tapped a finger on the hilt of his sword. “I’ll kill him. To do that, I have to knock him off the Throne. So I’m with Aquitaine.”
“And that’s all there is to it?” Fidelias asked.
“No.” Aldrick didn’t elaborate. After a moment of silence, he said, “How are your feet?”
“Let’s go,” Fidelias said. He started back up the hill again, though the pain made him wince with every step.
Perhaps ten yards short of the summit of the hill, a pair of Marat warriors, male and female, rose out of the shadows around the base of the stones at the top of the hill. They came down toward them, through the snow, the man holding an axe of Aleran manufacture, the woman, a dark dagger of chipped stone.
Fidelias stopped short of them and held up his empty hands. “Peace. I have come to speak to Atsurak.”
The man stepped up close to him, his eyes narrowed. He had the dark, heavy feathers of a herdbane braided through his pale hair. “I will not permit you to speak to Atsurak, outsider, while he is at the horto. You will wait until—”
Fidelias’s temper flashed, and it was with a flicker of annoyancethat he reached down into the earth to borrow strength from Vamma and dealt the axe-wielding warrior a blow that lifted the Marat’s feet up off the ground and stretched him out senseless in the snow.
Without pausing, Fidelias stepped over the silent form of the fallen Marat. He limped up to the lean female warrior and said in exactly the same tone, “Peace. I have come to speak to Atsurak.”
The Marat’s amber-colored eyes flicked up and down Fidelias, bright beneath heavy, pale brows. Her lips lifted from her teeth, showing canine fangs, and she said, “I will take you to Atsurak.”
Fidelias followed her up the rest of the hill and to the great stones there. The smoke from the torches, heavy and dark along the ground, held a curious odor, and Fidelias found his head feeling a bit light as he stepped into it. He glanced back at Aldrick, and the swordsman nodded, nostrils flared.
Seven stones, smooth and round, their surfaces protruding above the heavy smoke, sat around a pool of water, somehow unfrozen despite the cold. The smoke seemed to sink into it and swirl beneath its surface, leaving it shining and dull, reflecting back the light of fires and the dull night glow of snow and ice.
Scattered around the pool were perhaps a hundred other Marat, their hair plaited with herdbane feathers, or else showing the shagginess of what Fidelias assumed to be the Wolf Clan. Male and female, they ate, or drank from brightly painted gourds, or mated in the sultry, dizzying smoke with animal abandon. In the shadows stood the tall, silent shapes of the herdbane warbirds and crouched the low, swift shapes of wolves.
On one of the stones lounged Atsurak, his bruises all but gone already, the cuts bound in strips of hide and plaited grass. Aquitaine’s dagger rode through a strap at his waist, the blade contained within a rawhide sheath and positioned to be clearly on display. On either side of him curled a female Marat warrior, of the heavy-browed and fanged variety. Both were naked, young, lithe.
The mouths of all three were smeared with fresh, scarlet blood. And bound over the stone beside them was the shivering form of a young Aleran woman, still wearing the shreds of a farm wife’s skirts and apron, and still very much alive.
Aldrick’s mouth twisted with disgust. “Savages,” he murmured.
“Yes,” Fidelias said. “We call them that because they’re savage, Aldrick.”
The swordsman growled in his throat. “They have moved too soon. There aren’t any Aleran settlements on this side of the Valley.”
“Obviously.” Fidelias stepped forward and said, “Atsurak of Clan Herdbane. I understood that our attack was to begin two dawns from now. Was my understanding in error?”
Atsurak looked up, focusing on Fidelias, as an older woman, also showing the signs of Clan Wolf, rose from the smoke at the base of one of the stones, coated liberally in blood, and crossed to him. She folded her arms casually over his shoulders, amber eyes on Fidelias. Atsurak lifted his hand to touch the woman’s, without looking at her, and said, “We celebrate our victory, Aleran.” He smiled, and his teeth were stained scarlet. “Have you come to partake?”
“You celebrate a victory you do not yet have.”
Atsurak waved a hand. “For many of my warriors, there will be no chance to celebrate, after.”
“So you broke our agreement?” Fidelias asked. “You struck early?”
The Marat lowered his brows. “A raiding party struck first, as is our custom. We know many ways in and out of the bridge valley, Aleran. Not ways for an army, but for a scouting party, a raiding party, yes.” He gestured toward the bound girl. “Her people fought well against us. Died well. Now we partake of their strength.”
“You’re eating them alive?” demanded Aldrick.
“Pure,” corrected Atsurak. “Untouched by fire or water or blade. As they are before The One.”
As he spoke, a pair of Herdbane warriors rose to their feet and moved to the prisoner. With casual, almost disinterested efficiency, they drew her up, tore the clothes from her, and bound her back down over the stone again, belly up to the stars, arms and legs spread.
Atsurak looked over at the captive and mused through bloody lips, “We take more strength in this way. I do not expect you to understand, Aleran.”
The girl looked around, frantic, her eyes red with tears, body shaking in the cold, her lips blue. “Please,” she gasped, toward Fidelias. “Please, sir. Please help me.”
Fidelias met her eyes. Then walked over toward the stone upon which she was bound. “Matters have changed. We must change the plans to suit them.”
Atsurak followed him with his eyes, expression growing wary. “What change, Aleran?”
“Sir,” the girl whispered up at him, her expression desperate, ugly with tears and terror. “Sir, please.”
“Shhhh,” Fidelias said. He rested his hand on her hair, and she broke down into quiet, subdued sobs. “We have to move forward now. The troops at Garrison may be warned of our coming.”
“Let them know,” Atsurak said, lazily leaning against one of the women at his side. “We will tear out their weak bellies regardless.”
“You are wrong,” Fidelias said. He raised his voice, enough that all of the Marat around the pool would hear. “You are mistaken, Atsurak. We must strike at once. At dawn.”
Silence fell over the hilltop, abrupt, deep, almost as though the Marat were afraid to breathe. All eyes went from Fidelias to Atsurak.
“You call me mistaken,” Atsurak said, the words low, soft.
“The younger of your people listen to the elder, headman of Clan Herdbane. Is that not true?”
“It is.”
“Then you, young hordemaster, listen to me. I was there when last the Alerans fought your people. There was no glory in it. There was no honor. There was hardly any battle. The rocks rose against them, and the very grass beneath them bound their feet. Fire was laid on the ground, and fire swept over them and destroyed them. There was no contest, no trial of blood. They died like stupid animals in a trap because they grew too confident.” He twisted his lips into a sneer. “Their bellies too full.”
“You dishonor the memory of brave warriors—”
“Who died because they did not use what they had to fullest advantage,” snarled Fidelias. “Lead your people to death if that is your wish, Atsurak, but I will be no party to it. I will not waste the lives of my Knights in an attempt to neutralize the Knights of a forewarned and prepared garrison.”
Another Marat, a Herdbane, rose and snarled, “He speaks the words of an Aleran. The words of a coward.”
“I speak the truth,” Fidelias said. “If you are wise, young man, you will listen to the older.”
Atsurak stared at him for several moments in silence. Then he exhaled and said, “The Alerans fight as cowards. Let us force them to the trial of blood before they can prepare their spirits to hide behind. We will attack at dawn.”
Fidelias let out a slow breath and nodded. “Then this celebration is over?”
Atsurak looked at the captive, shivering beneath Fidelias’s hand. “Almost.”
“Please sir,” the girl whispered. “Please help me.”
Fidelias looked down at her and nodded, touching her mouth with his other hand.
Then he broke her neck, the sound sharp in the silence of the hilltop. Her eyes looked up at him in shock for a few seconds. Then went slowly out of focus and empty.
He let the dead girl’s head fall limply back onto the stone and said, to Atsurak, “Now it is over. Be in position when the sun rises.” He walked back across the circle to Aldrick, working to hide the limp.
“Aleran,” snarled Atsurak, his voice heavy, bestial.
Fidelias paused, without turning around.
“I will remember this insult.”
Fidelias nodded. “Just be ready in the morning.” Without looking back, he walked, with Aldrick, back down the hill and toward the litter. Aldrick paced beside him, silent, scowling. Halfway down the hill, Fidelias’s belly rolled violently, out of nowhere, and he had to stop and squat down, weight on his injured feet, his head bowed.
“What is it?” Aldrick asked, his voice quiet and cool.
“My feet hurt,” Fidelias lied.
“Your feet hurt,” Aldrick said, quietly. “Del, you killed that girl.”
Fidelias’s stomach fluttered. “Yes.”
“And it doesn’t even bother you?”
He lied again. “No.”
Aldrick shook his head.
Fidelias took a breath. Then another. He forced his belly back under control and said, “She was dead already, Aldrick. Chances are, she’d just seen her family or friends eaten alive. Right there in front of her. She was next. Even if we had taken her out of there in one piece, she’d seen too much. We just would have had to remove her ourselves.”
“But you killed her.”
“It was the kindest thing I could do.” Fidelias stood up again, his head clearing, slowly.
Aldrick remained quiet for a moment. Then he said, “Great furies. I’ve no stomach for that kind of killing.”
Fidelias nodded. “Don’t let it stop you from doing your duty.”
Aldrick grunted. “You ready?”
“I’m ready,” Fidelias said. They started back down the hill together. “At least we got the Marat moving.” His feet still hurt horribly, but going back down the hill was easier than going up. “Get the men ready. We’ll hit the Knights at Garrison just as we planned on the way here.”
“We’re down to the fighting, then,” Aldrick said.
Fidelias nodded. “I don’t think there are any major obstacles to the mission now.”
CHAPTER 32
Tavi’s teeth chattered together, and he hugged himself beneath his cloak, as he and Fade were shown out of the tent they had been kept in. He wasn’t sure if it was the cold that made him shake, or the sense of raw excitement that filled him, made him eager to move and burn away the chill of the winter in motion.
“M-m-more snow,” Tavi noted, as he crunched along behind the silent form of Doroga. Great white flakes drifted down in a calm, heavy curtain. Already, the snow had gone from a thin coating of ice on the ground, the night before, to a soft, heavy carpet as deep as Tavi’s ankles. He slipped on a thin patch where the ice was barely covered, but Fade reached forward and caught his shoulder until he could regain his balance. “Great.”
Doroga turned back toward them without stopping. “It is,” he said. “The snow and the darkness may help more of the Keepers to sleep.”
Tavi frowned at the Marat headman. “What Keepers?”
“The Keepers of the Silence,” Doroga said.
“What’s that?”
“You will see,” Doroga said. He kept pacing through the snow, until he reached an enormous old bull gargant, placidly chewing its cud. Doroga went to the beast and gave no visible signal, but it knelt in any case and let him use the back of its leg to take a step up and seize the braided cord dangling from the saddle. Doroga swarmed up it easily, and then reached down to help Tavi and Fade up behind him.
Once they were mounted, the gargant hauled itself lazily to its feet, made a ponderous turn, and started rolling forward through the snow. For a time, they rode through the night in silence, and though the warmth of the beast and the riders on either side of him had chased the chill away, Tavi still shook. Excitement then. He felt his mouth stretch into a smile.
“So, this thing we’re supposed to be getting,” Tavi began.
“The Blessing of Night,” Doroga said.
“What is it?”
“A plant. A mushroom. It grows in the heart of the Valley of Silence. Within the great tree.”
“Uh-huh,” Tavi said. “What good is it?”
Doroga blinked and looked back at him. “What good, valleyboy? It is good for everything.”
“Valuable?”
Doroga shook his head. “You do not understand the meaning of the word in this,” he said. “Fever. Poison. Injury. Pain. Even age. It has power over them all. To our people, there is nothing of greater value.”
Tavi whistled. “Do you have any?”
Doroga hesitated. Then shook his head.
“Why not?”
“It grows only there, valleyboy. And only slowly. If we are fortunate, one person returns every year with some of the Blessing.”
“Why don’t you send more people?”
Doroga looked back at him for a moment, then said, “We do.”
Tavi blinked, then swallowed. “So, uh. I guess something happens to the ones who don’t come back?”
“The Keepers,” Doroga said. “Their bite is a deadly venom. But they have a weakness.”
“What weakness?”
“When one falls, the Keepers swarm the fallen. All of them. They will not pursue anyone else until that one has been devoured.”
Tavi gulped.
“This is the trial of my people before The One, valleyboy. It is newly night. You will go into the Valley of Silence and return before dawn.”
“What if we don’t come back before dawn?” Tavi asked.
“Then you will not come back.”
“The Keepers?”
Doroga nodded. “At night, they are slow. Quiet. No one escapes the Valley of Silence while The One fills the sky wi
th light.”
“Great,” Tavi repeated. He took a deep breath. “So where is your son?”
Doroga blinked up at the sky and then back to Tavi. “My what?”
“Kitai. Your son.”
“Ah. My whelp,” Doroga said. He moved his eyes back to the ground before them, expression uncomfortable. “Hashat brings Kitai.”
“He’s not riding with you?”
Doroga remained silent.
“What?” Tavi asked. “Is he fighting with you? Hanging around with the Horse Clan?”
Doroga growled in his throat, and the gargant beneath them let out a rumble that shook Tavi’s teeth.
“Never mind,” Tavi said, quickly. “How far is it to this great tree and back?”
Doroga guided the gargant down a long slope and pointed forward. “See for yourself.”
Tavi strained to look over Doroga’s broad shoulders, finally resorting to planting a foot on the broad back of the gargant bull and half-standing, with Fade steadying him by his belt.
Down a long slope of land, dappled in patches of shadow next to round, ice-covered boulders, the land fell off and down as abruptly as if some enormous hand had gouged out an inverted dome from the earth. A low ridge rose all around the precipice, which was a circle that stretched so wide in the falling snow that Tavi could not see the majority of its curve or the circle’s far side. A dull, greenish light licked up at the edges of the pit from below, and as the Gargant plodded closer, Tavi could see its source.
The bottom of the pit, a great bowl gouged into the earth, was covered with a valley of trees—trees the likes of which Tavi had never seen before. They rose up, their trunks twisted and gnarled, stretching many branches each high into the air, like the reaching hands of a drowning man.
Covering the trees was the source of the light. Tavi squinted and peered, and it took his eyes a moment to sort out what he was seeing. Covering the trees was some kind of growth that gave off the faint, menacing luminescence. It seemed to cover the trees as might some kind of fungus, but rather than simply existing as a light coating of some other plant, it had grown over them in a thick, gelatinous-looking mass. As the gargant drew closer to the edge of the precipice, Tavi could see that the growth had runnels and areas that looked as though bubbles of air had been trapped beneath it, and for all the world looked like melted wax had been dripped over the surfaces of the trees, but for the desperatelyreaching branches high up in them, layer upon layer, until the whole resembled some fantastic, bizarre work of art. As far as he could see, in the faint light of the glowing wax, those odd trees writhed and twisted, their branches and trunks hung in festoons and swirls of the waxy growth.
