by Tim Akers
Gwen couldn’t help herself. She rolled her head back and let out a long and hearty laugh. When she looked back down, the young knight was turning every shade of red his face could muster.
“Oh, gods, what a charming and brave fellow you are,” she said sharply. “Is it the custom of knights in Halverdt’s service to ride far and wide, to offend the ladies that they meet and insult the good servants of the gods?” She leaned forward, squinting at him. “Or are you simple?”
“Do not think a sharp tongue will keep you safe, child,” the knight hissed. “I’ve beaten prettier girls than you.”
“With every word you add greatly to your honor, and to the glory of your name,” Gwen countered. “Perhaps I shall give you a title, to commemorate your many victories against the whores of your land. Why, we could even have a ballad written in your honor! What is your name, brave knight?”
“I will not stand here and be insulted by a girlish whelp!” the man said.
“Sir Standhere, yes, a fine name. Sir Standhere the Whore’s Scourge. I like the sound of it. Now, how shall your ballad go?” Gwen cleared her throat and made a face to appear as if she was thinking deeply. “Sir Standhere was a mighty man, a wicked man, a childish man. Sir Standhere fought the ladies true, he beat them blue…”
The crowd that was gathering gave a polite and nervous laugh, until a smart bard behind the huntress took up the song on his lute and started adding his own verses. Soon the crowd was singing along, coming up with rhymes for “limp” and “bollocks,” to a point that had Gwendolyn blushing. As the song rolled on, the priest dismounted and came to stand beside her and her brother, looking out over the crowd.
“I swear to the gods, I have never been treated this way by a child,” the knight said, drawing steel. “You will learn the error of your—”
“Knave!” Sir Merret said, loud and plain. He had ridden to the edge of the tourney yard, and sat with his lance couched at his foot, his visor up. “That child is huntress of this clan, and the true heir of Lord Adair. Leave her alone, before she gelds you in truth rather than just in verse.”
The knight raised his brow and turned to face Sir Merret.
“Whom do I address?” he asked.
“I am Sir Alliet Merret, knight-marshal of Lord Adair, and sworn to the lady’s service.” He tipped his head. “And you?”
The knight was silent for a moment, sawing his horse back and forth between Merret and Gwen. The fury had faded from his lips, but not his eyes.
“Sir Yves Maison. Knighted of Halverdt, and sworn to the holy celestes in Heartsbridge.” The knight tilted his head, appraising Sir Merret as he would a prize calf. “There are Merrets sworn to Roard, I think, far to the south. A fine line of Suhdrin knights going back to the first crusade, brave men of proud blood. Are you of that noble line?”
“I have the honor,” Sir Merret answered.
“And how did such honest Suhdrin blood come to be subject to filthy Tenerrans? What sin did you commit, to be banished to the pagan north, good Sir Merret?” Maison leaned back in his saddle, resting his gauntlets on the pommel of his saddle. “Or could you simply not cut it among the true knights of Suhdrin name?”
“I will not rise to your childish barbs, Sir Maison. If you wish to partake of the baron’s hospitality, I would suggest you blunt your tongue, before I am forced to dull my blade with your blood.”
“The pagan’s dog has a bark! I have not come to partake in the hospitality of some mud-hut noble, if it can be called hospitality, and if you can call such as this—” he swung a hand at Gwen “—nobility.”
“Colm Adair is the celestially appointed baron of the Fen Gate, and his blood has held this honor for generations,” Sir Merret said tensely. “Longer than your name has spoiled the pages of the peerage, I assure you.”
“I will not take lessons in nobility from a pagan’s pet Suhdrin,” Maison spat. “Better that you change your name to reflect your station, jester-jouster. I think MaeMerret suits you better, don’t you agree?”
“You have twice named Lord Adair pagan, and that is twice more than I will allow. The baron prays in the doma, serves the gods of heaven, and is a more faithful, noble and holy man than you will ever know. If you won’t take lessons in nobility, perhaps you will take a lesson in steel?” Merret slid his hand to the hilt of his blade. “I have instruction here, if you are interested.”
“Gentlemen, please,” the priest said quietly, speaking with little urgency. “This is a festival day, and we are guests in Adair’s realm. Let’s not ruin the joy of the day with petty fights.”
“It is the festival of Lady Strife, priest,” Maison said sharply. “I can think of no better day to ruin with blood.”
“Yes, well. I had to pretend to try, didn’t I?” the priest said, giving Gwen a fatherly smile.
“Nor can I,” Merret answered Maison, ignoring the priest. “If you are brave enough to insult a child, perhaps you can muster the steel to face me, as well? Or do they not teach bravery at Greenhall, these days?”
Sir Maison sat, his chest heaving, his fine face shading from red to black and back again before he answered.
“I have no second,” he muttered.
“I will serve that function,” Sir Dobbs answered.
“As if I would trust a Tenerran savage to tie my boots, much less my armor.”
“Then your trust must fall to me,” the priest answered. “Unless you doubt the faith of the holy church?”
Maison stared at the frair for several breaths, then nodded. The crowd grew, a muttering wonderment rising into the air as the fight began to form up. The strange knight rode to the far end of the field, drawing his mule with him. The priest sighed and turned to Gwen.
“I apologize for this,” he said. “His business is not mine, nor his manner.”
“Why do you ride with such a man, if you don’t mean to support him?” Gwen asked the priest. He shrugged, an elaborate gesture that involved his shoulders, his face, and most of his chest.
“We met on the road from Greenhall, and were going in the same direction. The way was safer with me along, so I offered to accompany young Maison as far as your tourney ground. He is beyond my protection now.”
“Don’t you mean your way was safer with him along? Sure it is the duty of knights to protect the blood-sworn of Cinder?” Gwen asked.
The priest chuckled, gesturing to the blushing knight. “Do you feel safer with him around?”
“Should I instruct Sir Merret to go easy on him? We don’t want an incident.”
“This man needs humbling,” the priest answered. He gave Gwen an appraising look. “You are the huntress here?”
“I am.”
“Then my business is with you, once this nonsense is finished. You and your father. Speaking of whom, you should go find the baron and tell him what is happening. Then hide yourself away. This will go sour before it goes sweet.”
“I am as safe here as hidden away,” Gwen said.
“Perhaps, but I am trying to protect young Maison. Please.”
The priest gave Gwen the barest push. Clenching her jaw at being sent on an errand like a servant, she hesitated. She would rather stay and watch the bastard get beaten into a pulp, but was deeply uncomfortable with the knight’s constant accusations against her father. Someday, someone would ride into the Fen Gate and make that accusation with proof behind it.
Turning, she ran to find her father.
* * *
By the time she returned with the baron in tow, the two knights were facing off. The crowd was silent and tense, wondering what would come of this joust. There was a taste of great violence in the air, much worse than most tournaments Gwen had attended. She imagined this must be what a battle felt like, in the moments before the charge. Despite her trepidation, there was a thrill to it that made her heart sing.
She reached the front of the crowd just as the mysterious priest dropped the flag and the two knights charged. Merret, a veteran of the lists,
surged smoothly forward, dropping his lance to meet Maison’s shield. Both lances burst in the center of the lists, and a shower of splinters filled the air. When the horses had thundered past, Maison was on the ground, rolling groggily to his feet, and Merret was at the far end of the lists.
The crowd roared.
“I will save you the trouble of your duties, good priest,” Sir Merret announced. “I forfeit the right of second pass. On your feet, Maison.”
“I need no coward’s shield to guard me, fool!” Maison roared. “Bring your steel, and we’ll see who is better with the blade.”
“We have settled that, or did you fall so hard you forgot having ridden? Shall we try again? I’m sure I could find a child to lower a lance for you, if you prefer.”
“Enough of this!” Colm Adair shouted. He stepped into the open ground of the lists, the fine silk of his robes muddied at the hem. The false steel of his ornamental armor flashed in the light of the morning sun. He carried a sword, the bright blade bare and sharp. He turned to face the fallen knight, and then Sir Merret, and finally his daughter. “No blood will be spilled on this ground!”
“Aye, my lord,” Merret said tensely. “I beg your pardon.”
“Given,” Adair said. “And you, sir knight?” Colm asked, facing Sir Maison. “Will you seek pardon? Or do you have offense left to give?”
Maison stood quietly, his sword loose in his hand. He glanced around at the swelling crowd, the handful of knights who had gathered by their lord, and finally to Sir Merret, still in his saddle.
He shrugged. “I beg your pardon, my lord. The passion of the festival… I had the fire of Strife in my blood.”
“Strife’s pardon is not mine to give,” Colm said, “but you are welcome to this festival, and to my house. Will you accept our hospitality?”
Maison paused again, then walked to his horse and, without assistance, mounted. He sheathed his blade and trotted to where his pack mule waited. The knight rode back into the woods without looking back.
“That went about as well as I could have hoped,” the priest muttered at the baron’s side. Colm Adair turned to the man.
“I hope you at least will accept our hospitality, Frair…”
“Frair Gillem Lucas, most recently of Cinderfell, though I have not passed through that blessed gate in many years.”
“A traveler, then?” Grieg asked.
“Of a sort,” he answered. “I am sorry for the trouble I’ve brought to your celebration.”
“Not to worry,” Gwen said. “Brave Sir Maison seems to have been taken care of.”
“Oh, not that trouble, my lady.” Lucas squinted up at the castle. “I’m afraid that I have tracked something quite dangerous to your lands. A gheist, making its way from Gardengerry and through Halverdt’s territory. I believe it crossed into your lands last night.”
“It’s the Allfire, Frair,” Gwen said. “This is not the season for gheists.”
“Some heresies refuse to keep our calendar,” Lucas answered. “Damned inconvenient, I know. But many have died.” He turned to face Gwen squarely. “Call the hunt, Huntress. We have a god to kill.”
12
DARK RAIN ON thatch. The walls of the little hut creaking in the wind, water pooling on the floor, and Father yelling in the other room. Smoke in the air. Henri squeezed his tiny eyes tight and counted the heartbeats between lightning and thunder.
Not our house, he thought, curled up in the scratchy dry straw of his bed. They haven’t taken our house, not tonight. Not yet.
The sky rumbled again, and the sound of it echoed through the ground, shaking the hut. Henri whimpered, turning toward the wall and clenching his jaw. His father’s yelling stopped for a minute. He was listening. Mother’s voice slid into the silence, so quiet. Calm. When his father answered he was quieter, but Henri could still hear his father’s words.
“It’s just a storm. Another storm,” he said.
“That’s what you said the night they came for Jossie and her husband,” Mother whispered.
“Nobody came for Jossie or her husband,” Father answered. “You know that. No one knows what happened to them. Anything could have happened.”
“Don’t give me that. You know what became of them.” Mother sighed, a long shuddering breath that was laced with tears. “We all know.”
Father was quiet for a moment. The storm kept going outside, low, rolling thunder shaking the walls, keeping Henri awake. He wanted to sleep so badly. He wanted to squeeze his eyes shut as tight as stones and fall asleep, and then it would be morning and the storm would be gone. That’s all in mighty heaven that he wanted, and he just couldn’t do it.
“It mightn’t’ve been the storm,” Father said. “It was at least a week before Hadley went up there to gather wood. They could have been gone…”
“Please, just… just be quiet. I don’t want to hear—”
A sudden crash of thunder washed over the house, followed by a short, sharp scream from outside. Henri heard his mother gasp, and his father’s heavy footsteps went to the door.
“Was that—” he started.
“The Merrils,” Mother said. “That was surely the Merrils. Jacque, you can’t be thinking—”
“If we were out in the storm, you would want Jeb to come check on us. It could be anything.”
“It could be anything,” Mother agreed sharply. “Don’t go out there, I beg of you. It could be nothing, you said.”
“Never mind that. Martha, if it was us out there—”
Another sharp crack, this one nothing to do with the sky. Wood snapping, like a tree in a storm, but the wind wasn’t that strong. Mother gasped and started to cry.
“I can’t stay here,” his father said. “I can’t sit by while—”
“Please, no. Please stay here. Stay for little Henri, if not for me. You don’t have to go out in that. It could be nothing. They might be fine, Jacque, please.”
“Love, love, I’m sorry,” Father said, his voice muffled, as though his face was buried in Mother’s hair. “I’m sorry, but I can’t stand by.”
Suddenly the storm was inside, the wind and rain whipping through the tiny hut, and then the door banged shut. Mother was left alone with Henri, and he could hear her crying—big, jagged, gasping sobs that she tried to swallow into silence. He gripped the blanket over his head, tighter and tighter, listening to the rain. Listening to the thunder, and the incredible quiet in the hut that his father had left behind.
Hours it seemed. Days. Surely it was morning by now. Surely he had fallen asleep and the sun was out. But the rain still fell, the thunder still rolled. Mother was by the hearth.
The door opened.
“Jacque, what was… Jacque? Jacque!”
Henri opened his eyes for the first time that night, since his mother had tucked him in after dinner. There was light from the main room, and something in the air. Something sharp like lightning struck close. He sat up, sliding his naked feet to the dirt floor. The storm was strangely quiet outside, though he could still feel the wind pushing on the walls and see the lightning flickering between the gaps in the roof. In the main room his mother was crying uncontrollably, her sobs caught between shrieks and breathless wailing. It sounded like madness.
Henri picked up the heavy wooden stick his father kept by their bed, nearly as tall as the child and heavy in his numb hands. His whole body felt numb, unreal, like he was walking through a dream. A dream, a dream, let it be a dream. He crept to the door to the main room.
His father, what was left of him, hovered in the doorway. He hung limply in the air, one arm outstretched, mouth slack. Something stood behind him. Something Henri couldn’t look at, his eyes sliding to the side whenever he tried to fix it in his vision. Father came in, followed by the thing Henri could not see, came to his mother.
The floor beneath his father rippled like a pond. Small waves of dark energy, blue and crystal black, washed through the room, wave after wave. They lapped over Henri’s numb toes. So
mething about his mother changed. She began to flow into his father, as if she was drawn up into him. The nothing-thing behind Father grew. It stretched, and the ceiling shivered overhead. Henri dropped the stick and covered his face, but he could still see. Father and Mother, and the unseen thing.
Henri cried out.
Well into the room now, the thing turned to him, and he could see it for a second. It was a creature bound in white and blue lightning, a spirit shaped like a mockery of a man, and beneath its skin was another man, and then another, each one smaller and deeper, buried just beneath the spirit-man on the outside. It was like an onionskin of lost souls, each spirit wrapped in another, and Henri recognized the spirit on the outside.
Old Jeb Merril, loose skin hanging from his cheeks.
While Henri watched, old Jeb sank deeper into the spirit, and a new form grew around him. Father. Jacque Volent shivered and looked at his son, reached for him. The air around the spirit’s hand swirled with dark blue lightning, wrapped in a milky shroud. The bolt struck Henri, and his eyes and teeth felt frozen in his skin.
He screamed and ran, turning to the door and stumbling out into the storm. The sound was back, suddenly, as if an invisible wall had been keeping the howling wind away. The child ran through the rain and the mud, his fingers tingling, his feet numb. He ran and he ran, and the rain fell onto his face, mingling with the tears and the snot, running into his eyes and mouth as he ran screaming into the night.
It was only later, huddled in the lee of a broken oak, that Henri realized he couldn’t feel his face. That the skin was cold and dead.
* * *
Volent woke with a start, the memory of rain on his face fading as he sat bolt upright in bed, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps. He ran fluttering fingers over his cheeks, under his eyes. Nothing. He felt nothing, not even the damp of tears. The skin of his face felt like cold, stiff wax under his hands.
He struggled out of the twisted sweat-stained ruin of his bedding and went to the ceramic bowl in the corner of his room. A beaten metal mirror hung over the bowl. Henri stared into the smudged image as he splashed water over his head. Just a habit, the water. He never felt the chill until it reached his neck, ran in goose bumps down his chest, his arms. A sliver of light from the window illuminated the pale ghost of his body. He looked down at himself, trembling with the dream, the same dream, the every-night dream.
