The Pagan Night

by Tim Akers

  Malcolm sat quietly, chewing the dry, flaky bread that the servant had brought. There was more wine on the table, but he had lost his taste for it. When the priest had finished his declaration, Malcolm dusted his fingers over the grass and sat back.

  “Gaspard was last of his name because the church broke the throne beneath his back and hung his royal head over the Celestial dome. You ended Suhdrin kingship for time eternal, formed the Circle of Lords, and gave them just enough power to have something to argue about among themselves—enough to keep them biting each other rather than defying the church’s power.”

  “The north has never had a king. What do you care if we destroyed a royal line in the south?” Beaunair asked with a laugh.

  “Just this—that the church intervenes when it pleases the church.”

  “And so it pleases us now,” Beaunair answered. “Is that not enough for you, Duke?”

  “It would have been, if you had been pleased to intervene earlier. Gabriel Halverdt sits upon his throne like a tyrant. His people die, not from pox or hunger or the gheist’s ravaging, but because Greenhall wills it. This is not news. He and I have argued more than once. His peace with Lord Adair is half as safe, and twice as bloody. So something has changed.” Malcolm folded his arms and stared a nail through Beaunair’s forehead. “Why are you involved now?”

  The priests on either side of the high elector glanced at each other and at their leader, looking flighty and nervous. Only Beaunair seemed calm.

  “There is movement in the Circle, Malcolm,” the high elector said. “Suhdra is stirring.”

  “Bassion or Marchand or Galleux are always clattering on about something,” Malcolm said dismissively. “They are no concern…”

  “Not in the chamber,” Momet said quietly. “In the corridors beyond. In hallways and bedrooms.” He paused, weighing his words carefully. “Among the shadows.”

  “They are making plans,” Beaunair rushed in, “and searching for excuses. Cinder has claimed another crop from Strife’s bounty. The farmers in the field are tilling dust and reaping blight. Not even Halverdt has escaped this time around.”

  “You can’t be asking for more donations,” Dugan hissed. “Our own harvests have been shallow. It’s better the farther north you go, but there the season is so short, the lack of blight matters little.”

  “Peace,” Beaunair said. “This cannot be solved with food. The fever of the land will burn out, but in the meantime, the people are mad, and madness leads to war.”

  “You are a priest of Strife, my frair,” Malcolm said carefully. “Surely war would please you.”

  “War pleases none of us—not in this case—but if the north lets itself be bullied into a fight, they will pay dearly. Especially along the border. Especially the houses of Adair and Blakley.”

  “So we line our border with steel, and our banners with Suhdrin blood,” Dugan said sharply. “If that is what they seek, they will have it.”

  “I am not asking you for war,” Beaunair said. He plucked an apple from the table, admiring its shine before eating half of it in one bite. His teeth snapped like a trap into the flesh. “I am asking you for peace, and leave the madness to us.”

  Malcolm nodded slowly. He watched the high elector finish the apple and begin another, drumming his fingers on the table. His masters sat beside him, tense, waiting for the response.

  “Peace, then,” Malcolm said. “What must I do?”

  * * *

  As soon as the procession ceremonies were over and the high elector’s lesser staff was all that remained, Ian left his sister in the care of one of the ladies-in-waiting and went to find his father. The lord of Houndhallow had disappeared into the council yard, along with the high elector and everyone else who was important or interesting in the castle. Ian wanted an ear in that meeting.

  Ian followed the cloister wall around the doma, away from the droning voice of Frair Daxter as he guided the lesser priests through the shrine’s many icons and dusty artifacts of the faith. The castle servants had descended on the high elector’s train of carriages, and was quickly dissecting his luggage and carrying it off into the waiting chambers of the guest tower. For only staying a night, Frair Beaunair carried a lot of clothes. Ian dodged around that procession, afraid of being wrangled into helping, sneaking around the stable yard to reach the keep beyond.

  He watched the passing of the guard from gate to garrison. Dugan had left the guard in some lesser sergeant’s care, meaning that even he was in council. Surely if Dugan were included, the matter was important enough to include Houndhallow’s heir.

  The great hall was as busy as a honeyed apple dropped on an anthill. The kitchen servants were swarming through the room, adjusting place settings and straightening tables. The air smelled like smoked sausage and stew, and a cauldron squatted over the fire pit, bubbling deliciously. On the dais above, the family table had been shoved to the side to make room for the visitors and their retinue. The wall behind was hung with the Blakley seal, flanked on one side by the smaller tapestry of his mother’s family and on the other by the holy banner of celestial Tener, the cluster of stars beneath a slivered moon, all swallowed by the sun’s embrace. It harkened back to the land’s icons from before the crusades, subsumed into the symbolism of the twin deities of Cinder and Strife. The hound of Blakley, standing rampant against the field of white and crowned in the holy symbols of the sun and moon, loomed over the hall like an angry god.

  “Are they coming?” a startled voice behind him asked. “Is it time? It can’t be time, we’re not finished! We haven’t even begun to be finished. We’ve barely started!”

  Ian turned to greet the master of the chamber, Phillipe Castagne, one of the few Suhdrin in his father’s service. The man stood nervously beside the stew, his hands clutching an ink-stained parchment and the remnants of a quill.

  “Not yet, Phillipe. I have stepped away early, to monitor the situation with my father. The others will be along in due time.”

  “You skipped out early, you mean,” Phillipe said sharply. “First your father packs himself away in the council yard, and then you slip away because you’re bored.” He made some notes on his parchment, as though he was calculating the degree of insult that had been done, and what he would have to do to balance the account. “The duchess will be in a fine mood, after that.”

  “She’ll be in a fine mood once she sees what a grand job you’ve done with the feast, Phillipe.” Ian snatched an apple from a passing tray and smiled. “And I’m sure the high elector will just be glad to be off the road and at a proper meal.”

  “You set the standards so high, my lord. How can I fail when the alternative is gruel, cooked beneath a wagon in the pouring rain? Honestly. As for the high elector…”

  “As for the high elector,” Ian said, biting into the apple. He immediately made a harsh face as the juice, thick and sweet as syrup, dribbled down his chin. “What is wrong with these apples?”

  “They have been infused with hartlife and sugar,” Phillipe answered without looking up from his ledger. “They were a specialty of my father, handed down to him by his father, and on down the line. Very popular in the court of King Bassion, in his day.”

  “Well, his day is long past.” Ian dropped the apple into the fire, where it hissed and burst, filling the air with the pungent smell of burning sugar. “I hope we’re able to find some regular apples, as well, or I may starve to death.”

  “You should really broaden your tastes, my lord. There is more to being the lord of Houndhallow than hunting elk and eating cheese pie. Your father has done much to edify himself in the ways of his wife’s family.” Phillipe finished with his calculation, then sniffed at the stew and gave it a stir. “You should do the same.”

  “Speaking of my father…”

  “The duke is not to be disturbed. He is discussing a matter of some importance in the privacy of his council yard.” Phillipe looked down his thin nose at Ian. “I believe I already mentioned that.”<
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  “Yes, but if it’s a matter of the realm, don’t you think I should be informed?”

  “It doesn’t matter one jot what I think. You’ve all made that perfectly clear in my time in this…” He paused, fixing a smile on his face. “What matters is that your father has not chosen to include you in his council. If you have trouble with that, you should take it up with him.”

  “I will. Immediately, in fact. In the council yard, you say?”

  “Where he has demanded absolute privacy.”

  Ian grimaced but looked away from the older master. Phillipe was not the sort of man to be persuaded, especially in matters where he had received direct orders from the lord of the estate. Ian would have to wait.

  “Priests never bring good news,” Ian muttered.

  “They bring the light of Strife and the judgment of Cinder,” Phillipe said stiffly. “No need for heresy.”

  “But what could he want? Why would the high elector come all this way, only to depart the next day?”

  “It is not my privilege to know such things, Master Ian, as it is not my responsibility. I am charged with the running of the house, which today includes the proper presentation of this feast. To that end,” Phillipe said, bowing and backing away, “I must be about my business.”

  Ian leaned against one of the tables, chewing his lip nervously as the servants buzzed around him. He was still standing there, thinking about the sort of trouble the high elector could visit on his house, when his mother cleared her throat. He turned around to discover that the servants were gone, the feast was prepared, and the delegation of lesser priests had arrived. Sorcha Blakley stood just inside the door to the great hall, Nessie, and a half-dozen men and women of the church standing awkwardly behind. His mother fixed her son in her gaze, a look of disappointment on her fine face.

  “Dear Mother,” he said stiffly, straightening up and fixing his collar. “I have been overseeing preparations for the feast. I am pleased to announce that Phillipe has done his job with exceptional skill, as is his custom.”

  The duchess of Houndhallow rolled her eyes and marched past her son, taking him by his braids and dragging him to the dais. Nessie was tittering hysterically. When they reached the dais, and without the presence of the lord of the castle, the duchess called for the rest of the attendees to be let in, and for the feast to begin.

  5

  DARKNESS FELL AND the minstrels played on, but it seemed as if the feast would never end, and still the duke of Houndhallow didn’t appear. The lesser priests of Strife, all holy men and women, were working their way up to the feast of the Allfire, a week-long debauch that marked the height of summer and the reign of Lady Strife. Ian stayed as long as he felt was proper, and then a good deal longer when his mother caught him trying to sneak off.

  Sometime after Nessie had fallen asleep in her chair and the priests of Strife had sung the evening down, off-key and without half the words, he managed his escape. He went straight to the council yard.

  There he found several empty bottles and a guttering lantern, but no council. His father was gone, along with the high elector. The guard at the door said that all but Malcolm and High Elector Beaunair had left hours earlier, and the duke and his guest had stayed and talked and drunk until just half an hour earlier.

  “I’m surprised Father didn’t come to the feast, then,” Ian said. “Mother will be unhappy.”

  “His lordship seemed in no mood for feasting. The high elector saw to that.”

  “Trouble?”

  The guard shrugged. Ian began the search for his father.

  Figuring the lord of Houndhallow would head to his chambers, Ian rushed up the stairs to where his parents slept. The door was shut, and the guard on duty insisted that the lord had not retired for the evening.

  Confused, Ian began to wander the castle. He couldn’t very well return to the feast after having successfully slipped away, and his father probably wasn’t there anyway. It worried Ian that his father had spent so much time alone with the high elector, and had come away burdened. What could the church want to discuss with the lord of Houndhallow that couldn’t bear the company of Sir Dugan and Master Tavvish? And why hadn’t either of them come to the feast?

  This was all very peculiar.

  Wandering both in mind and in body, Ian found himself on a curtain wall, overlooking the great hall and the yard before it. The wagons that had brought the high elector to Houndhallow were tucked beside the stables, taking up more than their fair share of the training grounds, and some of the kennel runs. The yard itself was trampled, and by the looks of the stables, there were more horses in the castle than Houndhallow had seen in years. He leaned against the wall, resting in the noise and business of the castle yard, watching the servants scamper around while the family and their guests ate their meal. He found comfort in knowing that the castle continued working, even when the Blakleys were occupied elsewhere.

  Then he noticed the shadow looming on the castle wall not far away, leaning against the crenels, a bottle in his hand. His father, duke of Houndhallow and lord of the Darkling March, looked like the town drunk as he rested his elbows against the stone wall and swilled wine. He was facing away from the castle.

  “The council is over? I thought you would be in your rooms,” Ian said as he approached his father.

  “I knew you’d come looking for me, eventually. You or your mother… and I needed some space,” he said, quietly. His breath stank of wine. Ian wondered how much his father had consumed while the council was still going on.

  “Should I leave you here in peace, then?” Ian asked.

  “Too late for that.” Malcolm looked his son over blearily. “You’ve cut your hand?”

  Ian ducked the bandage behind his back. “It’s nothing.”

  Ian leaned on the wall next to his father and looked out. Hallowton rested below them, across the river that served the castle as a moat. Beyond, the forest stretched for a great distance, farther than either of them could see even in the daytime. Malcolm offered his son the bottle. A harsh wine, black on the tongue and bitter, it was a welcome change from dinner.

  “What business did the high elector have?” Ian asked. “Is he really only staying for the night?”

  “Aye.”

  “Does he travel north?” Ian asked.

  “He travels to Greenhall. He means to celebrate the Allfire with Gabriel Halverdt.” Malcolm took the bottle back from his son and drank from it, grimacing as the wine hit his throat. “He means us to go with him.”

  “Go with him? But the Allfire is less than a week away. We’ll be hard pressed to make it in time.”

  “Which is why we leave in the morning. Early,” Malcolm said. “You should find your way to bed.”

  “But why?”

  “Because bed is where we sleep, Ian. Unless you mean to pass out here on the wall.” Another drink, then a smirk. “Which is sounding pretty good right now.”

  “You know what I mean. Why are we going to Greenhall? Preparations have already begun for our own celebration. Mother will be furious to miss the feast Phillipe has prepared, and Nessie…”

  “They aren’t coming with us. It is you, and me, and a small contingent of knights. We mustn’t threaten Greenhall with our numbers.”

  “He would be threatened by our ladyfolk?” Ian asked with a grin.

  Malcolm looked sideways at his son. “We mustn’t give him a way to threaten us, either. Mother will be safer here. Any woman who travels with us will need to carry a sword, and not a gentle one, at that. We’ll bring Sir Doone. She can enter the lists.”

  “If it’s so dangerous then why are we going?”

  “We go because the church asks us to go. That’s all you need to know.”

  “Surely there’s more…”

  “That’s all you need to know,” Malcolm repeated, almost angrily. “Now give your father some peace. Night has fallen. I have my prayers to say.”

  Ian shook his head and grimaced.

>   “How do you expect me to learn anything if you won’t let me inside these sorts of meetings? If I’m to be the next lord of Houndhallow…”

  “If you’re to be the next lord, then I’m to die first, and you’ll forgive me if I’m not anxious to play that out,” Malcolm said sharply. “Besides, you’re still a boy. What counsel do you expect to give?”

  “I’m a man of sixteen, grown enough to take the vow if I chose, and yet…”

  “A boy of sixteen, and grown enough to know he knows nothing.” Malcolm finished the bottle and tossed it out into the river. It disappeared from sight long before it reached the raging waters below. “Honestly, son, you have enough to worry about without adding these things to your table.”

  “What? What have I to worry about? I spend my days practicing the sword, riding the lists, and dancing. It’s ridiculous, and while it might be enough for a child of the south, groomed to walk the courts of Heartsbridge, I’m not interested in that life. I want to be a lord of the north, Father, like a man of the old tribes. A leader! And I can’t begin to be that if you don’t let me learn to be a lord.”

  “You can learn the way I learned, boy. The same way you learned to fall off a log—by falling off a log.” Malcolm rubbed his face. “It’s just, you understand, that I was as anxious as you, when I was your age. Anxious to be about my business.”

  “Then why do you keep pushing me back?”

  “Because my father never did,” Malcolm said sternly. “Because he took me to every council meeting, sought my advice on matters of state, taught me how to dance with a lady and greet the ministers and address the Celestial throne. And then, when he died and I was the one truly in command, it was all…” He stared down at his hands. “It wasn’t enough. It was worthless. They never teach you what you need to know.”

  “Then teach me that,” Ian said, after a moment of silence. He didn’t like seeing his father like this. “Whatever it is, whatever grandfather didn’t teach you. Teach me that. That’s what I want to learn.”