by Tim Akers
It was spreading. A blossom of icy dark veins flowered across his chest. A small area, hardly larger than the palm of his hand, but when he ran a blade across it there was no feeling, no pain. On his thigh, too, and inside one forearm. The veins crept up from the depths of his bones like spidery tentacles emerging from a still sea, stealing the feeling in his skin.
Volent splashed more water on his face, shivering as it froze the skin on his shoulders. His arms and hands were shaking as he raised the water to his head, matching the mad beating of his heart. Silence, Henri, he thought, staring at himself in the smudged mirror. Achieving calm, he dried off and got dressed. The numbness had spread enough that he could keep most of this shaking in his bones. The mornings were always the worst, with the dream and the fear fresh in his waking mind.
A knock. Volent shied away from the sound, then limped to the door and opened it a crack. There was a servant in the corridor. The boy looked terrified.
“Sir Volent? My lord has summoned you to his throne.”
“What time is it?” Volent asked. His voice was as soft as velvet, his lips barely moving with the words.
“Nine bells, sir.”
Volent nodded and closed the door.
* * *
He stood outside the great hall of Greenhall, waiting for an audience with his liege lord. He was making the other courtiers nervous. The court was already in a state of nervous shock, the gheist horn still echoing from the walls and in their minds, the avenue outside lined with the bodies of those who had died in the attack. He stood silently in front of the door to the chamber, his hands folded comfortably at his waist. Waiting. He wore dingy gray armor, the plate unadorned and poorly maintained, the sleeves of chain frayed and unraveling at the cuff. Even his blade was of poor quality—hardly what would be expected of the favored servant of a duke of Suhdra, much less the knight-marshal of his master’s realm.
It wasn’t those things that discomfited the other courtiers, in their bright robes and holy vestments. Nor was it his manner, calm to the point of death, so still that you might think him a statue. No, what caused the courtiers to avoid him, what left the priests muttering silent prayers as they passed, what gave the children nightmares and made the whores down in the village charge extra, was his face.
His pale, still, beautiful face.
He heard the whispers, knew the rumors. Ignored them. No one at the court was sure of his age, and there was nothing in his features to give any indication. He had the look of a young man, not yet reached his naming day, a face that would draw the girls and delight their mothers. The problem was that his visage wasn’t natural. The skin was cold and soft. Dead. When he talked, nothing moved except the barest flicker at his lips. He never smiled, he never frowned, never showed surprise or fear or excitement. His face, pale and beautiful, was dead yet undying.
A plume of dark veins danced under the translucent skin like cracks in the icy surface of a frozen lake, hinting at the dark waters beneath. The spider web was centered just beneath his right eye, and traced its way across his cheek and forehead, fading gently as the fractured lines reached his jaw. Though they never seemed to move, those who watched the man closely claimed the shadowy veins were different from day to day, sometimes darker, sometimes wider, sometimes reaching all the way across his face and down his neck.
As for Volent, he was silent about his face, and the origin of his pain—as he was about most things. He kept the dreams to himself. Fear was never an honorable thing in a knight. Henri made a practice of creating fear in other men, and his numb face and quiet voice never betrayed the terror that crept beneath his skin.
Finally, the wide door to the great hall groaned open, and a wave of smoke billowed into the hallway. The duke was in the middle of one of his sessions, apparently. The smoke smelled of frairwood and damp grass, spicy and thick. A servant, his eyes watering, motioned for him to come inside.
“Sir Volent,” he said, nodding, “his lordship awaits.”
Henri Volent did not acknowledge the man, did not bow or nod, but walked briskly into the chamber. As he entered, a knight of the winter sun passed him on the way out. Her face was ruddy, the skin across her cheekbones pocked and red, as though she had recently been burned. The locks of her hair was twisted and crisp. As she passed, the knight gave Volent the barest of glances. Her eyes glittered copper and red.
The servant shut the door, trapping them with the smoke.
The duke of Greenhall sat at the center of the room, attended by a priest. His scryers, men of the Celestial church who had taken vows to Lord Cinder in his aspect as visionary, stood around a fire pit at his feet. Plumes wafted out of the pit, the fire stoked flameless, and the men talked in hushed tones. They waved their hands through the smoke, swirling curls in the air with their fingers as they made the holy signs of the gray lord.
Volent stopped at a respectful distance and dropped to one knee, peering at the floor but listening intently.
“Enough of that,” Gabriel Halverdt said, waving his hand and fanning the smoke away from his face. “I have heard your signs and seen your scryings, old man. You didn’t warn me of this, did you? It took a vow knight from Lady Strife to do that, and still there were eight lives lost—and during the Allfire, no less.
“What am I to make of that?”
“My lord, you must understand,” the priest responded, “the sight of Cinder extends only so far and so clearly. His vision is best used for decisions, for clarity of thought, for reasonable—”
“I’ve had enough of being reasonable, Frair Julian.” Halverdt flicked his cloak irritably over his knees, as if he was cold despite the stuffy, incense-choked air, and rested his head on one meaty fist. “As I have of your excuses. I bring you here to scry my life, to protect my realm. I expect more than this.”
“It is summer, my lord, and the days are long. Lord Cinder’s rule does not begin for nearly three months. Until then, we must make do with what power we can glean at night.” The priest bowed his head. “I am sorry.”
“Sorry will not do,” Halverdt said. “It will not do at all. And must we have more of that?” he complained, waving as one of the priests dropped a handful of frairwood splints on the fire. A gray cloud of smoke blossomed into the air, pluming to the ceiling. “It’s hard enough to breathe in here, much less think.”
“No gheist can stand the frairwood’s essence, my lord.” The older priest crept forward, his hands cupped before him.
“Oh, enough… fine. What do you think of that, Deadface? Do gheists fear such a foolish thing as smoke?”
Sir Volent had spent this time on one knee. He didn’t mind, as there was less of the pungent smoke near the floor. At his lord’s question he stood and spared the priests a glance.
“Knowledge of such things is beyond me, my lord,” he answered. His voice, much like his face, was still and soft around the edges. The limited movement of his lips gave his words a hollow sound. “If the holy men of Cinder say it is so, then I accept their word. They have always been faithful to a certain kind of honesty.”
Halverdt smiled, but the priests looked distinctly uncomfortable. With a nod, Halverdt dismissed them and turned his attention to Sir Volent. The priests crept out, making holy signs as they retreated into the shadows. One of the priests paused at the door, the hood of his robe pulled tight to his head. Volent didn’t recognize the man, and he thought he knew all of Halverdt’s pet priests. The priest’s face appeared briefly, shaded by the hood. Sharp features, dark hair and, surprisingly, the pagan ink across his cheeks. Volent was about to stop the man when suddenly he was gone, retreating into the hallway without a sound.
“You think I waste my time with them, don’t you?” Halverdt asked when the holy men were gone. He stood and stared toward his knight-marshal, awaiting the answer.
“It is not my place to say, my lord, nor is it why you called for me.” Volent paused, considering. “I would not speak against the church. Nor would you.”
�
��Nor would I, indeed,” Halverdt answered, smiling. “But I don’t think they’re listening now, Henri. You may relax.”
Volent made no move to relax, nor was he tense. He just stood there, his hands at his waist, his head slightly bowed. Halverdt laughed, his voice booming through the smoke-filled room.
“Always the lively one, my friend,” he said. “Always the jester.” Volent tilted his head in acknowledgement.
“The vow knight who just left, my lord. Is she the one who rode against the gheist?” Volent asked.
“Sir Elsa LaFey, yes. She rescued that fool Blakley child and then sought to destroy the god. To an unsatisfying result, if you ask me.”
“She wasn’t able to destroy the demon?” Volent asked.
“No, but she wounded it, and drove it away. It took flight, and she wasn’t able to keep up.”
“It escaped?” Volent said. “You have to travel fast to outrun the sun.”
“Travel fast or be the night, eh?” Halverdt asked with a twisted grin. “But that isn’t why I have summoned you, either.”
“If the gheists aren’t reason enough, then I worry at your purpose.”
“More than gheists haunt my forests, Henri. Peasants haunt my forests. Peasants and pagans. You know how they are—put on a black mask and some antlers, rape some women, burn the grain that’s meant to keep your family alive during the winter. Idiots.” Halverdt leaned against his throne, his head tilted to one side. For a moment, the duke of Greenhall looked as if he’d been hanged and was twisting on the wire, like some snared rabbit. Volent shook the image off. When Halverdt continued, his voice was far away. “They don’t need their gods to ruin my mood, do they?”
“No, my lord,” Volent answered as quickly as his numb lips would allow. He wanted to shake Halverdt out of this mood. The duke was dangerous when he was melancholy. Even to a favored servant.
“No, but something useful has come of it. You have heard of the matter in Gardengerry?”
“A group of pagans attacked the city’s doma. Killed the priests, the celestes, and disappeared into the night. Took the bodies with them, if the reports can be believed,” Volent answered. “Did Sir LaFey think this attack had something to do with that?”
“Something, indeed. Everything.” Halverdt paced around his simple throne, hands clasped behind his back. His cloak, heavily embroidered and nearly thick as a tapestry, dragged on the ground behind him. The cloak had been a gift from the holy Gaston LeBrieure, celestriarch of the church. Halverdt wore it as a symbol of his piety, and a ward against the shadows in the corners and the pagans at his gate. “Did you pass the bodies on your way in? Did you count their number?”
“A dozen, perhaps? Maybe more?”
“Yes.” Halverdt held up his fingers and began counting them off. “The five fools of House Blakley. The scout who originally sounded the alarm. Grandieu and his horse are gone or not yet found. So who are the others?” Halverdt stalked closer, a mad look in his eye. “Do you know?”
“No, my lord.”
“Priests, celestes, and pagans.”
“The dead of Gardengerry?” Volent asked. Even in his dead tone, there was a hint of surprise. “How is that possible?”
“It is possible because there is more to the story than the church has been telling. That vow knight just gave me what she knew, but only if I swore to keep it quiet. The pagans who bloodied Gardengerry also summoned a gheist in the doma—it’s the only answer. Few survived the attack on the town. Gardengerry is a ruin, I am told, but a farmer saw the demon as it fled. The church was quick to discredit him, but the man claimed something came out of the floor of the temple, and took the pagans and their victims with it.”
“And then it came here?”
Halverdt nodded. Volent paced around the fire pit, unable to squint to keep the smoke out of his eyes. Tears streamed down his nerveless cheeks.
“But why?” he asked.
Halverdt shrugged. “The church knows nothing more about it—or they will say nothing more. I think it was just passing through. Heading north to find its pagan followers, perhaps.”
Halverdt looked troubled, dragging his feet until he stopped beside the throne. Again he leaned against the stone frame, his hand resting on the carved gargoyle at its height. The carvings pre-dated House Halverdt, were older even than the Tenerran tribesmen who lived here before the last crusade had driven them out. Much of Halverdt’s realm was scavenged from that forgotten past, buildings and ruins bent to the will of the Suhdrin conquerors and their Celestial church.
“Your land is full of trouble, my lord,” Volent said. “The church trusts you to protect the faithful south, and that says much.”
“My land is full of rebels!” Halverdt snapped, stepping forward, his face momentarily distorted in rage before he gathered himself. Turning away, he returned to his seat on the throne. “And pagans. And gheists. And that is why you are here.”
“I am no hunter of demons,” Volent answered. “You’ll want a priest, my lord. Knights of the winter sun, and inquisitors to hunt the witches to their den.”
“The church will do its duty, I’m sure. It’s not the gheists I want you to worry about, Volent.” Halverdt twisted his hands together, tapping his knuckle against his chin. “The church has asked for my patience, they have asked for my loyalty, and they have asked for my time. I have given all of it that I can. These Tenerrans bend the knee by day, and sharpen their knives at night.”
“What would you have of me?” Volent asked.
“The church will send inquisitors and knights of the vow to destroy the beast, but there will be more. There will be others—an unending stream of gheists until the pagans who worship them are put down. The inquisition will question the peasants, search the forests.” The duke waved a hand dismissively. “They may find something… in time.”
“My lord has no patience for that?”
“Your lord does not,” Halverdt said as he turned to grin at Volent. “Your lord does not require patience. Your lord has you.”
Sir Volent sketched a bow and touched his forehead.
“I live to serve, my duke,” he said. “What would you have me do?”
“The pagans who did this are dead, laid out like cattle in my courtyard, but they had families. They had companions, other pagans who might look favorably on what happened in Gardengerry. What happened here last night. The inquisition will ask its questions, separate the guilty from the innocent, and serve their cold revenge.” Halverdt knotted his hands together, worrying the hem of his cloak. “I do not wish to wait for that.”
“The demon must be traveling to its faithful,” Volent offered. “Where it goes, we will find pagan blood.”
“Yes, pagan blood that you must spill,” Halverdt said. “I have no doubt that it was drawn here by those Tenerran bastards in the tourney camp. It’s certainly no coincidence that the demon arrived the same day Blakley hung his banner outside my walls. It’s like a godsdamned siege.” The duke shivered despite the heat of the room and his thick cloak. His voice became murky. “Perhaps the Blakley boy was meant to draw it out and tame it. Still, I cannot act against them, not yet.” His eyes cleared, and Halverdt turned his attention back to Volent. “The gheist will lead you to its witches.”
“What have your priests said? Where should I start?”
“To hells with what my priests say. Start where you will, ask whomever you must. Bleed your way to an answer, Sir Volent, but don’t come back here until this is solved.”
“Care should be taken, my lord, to not upset the common folk…”
“The common folk can go to the quiet with the priests, and pray their way to heaven for all I care!” Halverdt shouted. He banged the flat of his palm on his throne, swirling the thick smoke of the air. “The common folk hide these murderers. They come to the doma on high day and pray to gheists the rest of the week. I will tolerate them no longer!”
“My lord, I think…”
“Damn you, man! Am I yo
ur lord or your bar mate, to care what you think? Find these men. Kill them! When the inquisitors of the damn church set foot in Greenhall, I will throw the heads of these pagans at their feet.” He adjusted his cloak, his hands quivering. “Go, and do not return until my vengeance is settled.”
Sir Volent bowed and backed away, not turning until he was by the door. The duke sat on his ancient throne, gnawing on his knuckle and staring blankly into the smoky, flameless fire at the center of the room. Clouds of gray and blue billowed around him, like a vision in the fog.
* * *
Volent went to gather his men. There was no reason to delay, no need to plan. A mission of this sort was second nature to him. When he rode out of Greenhall with his contingent of knights, the herald at Volent’s side flew two flags; the three acorns of House Halverdt, above a cross in green and gold, and his own sigil, smaller. It was a field of black and a mask, white, shot through with lightning.
Like a mask of ice, shattering.
13
GWEN WAS FALLING behind her pack. She could hear their baying just beyond a copse of brambles, but she couldn’t get her courser to muscle through the prickly shrubs and into the field beyond. It was driving her mad.
“Through, you ox! Through!” she yelled, kicking her horse on. “You damned broken nag, what would you do if we were pursued?” Missy, a big dapple-gray mare that was neither a broken nag nor an ox, was having none of it. She trotted along the muddy path, sniffing doubtfully at the brambles.
While Gwen was urging her horse to do something it was never going to do, the dozen riders of her hunting party caught up. They were all riding much larger horses, destriers, all in full barding to match their riders’ plate-and-half. It was hardly the sort of thing to be wearing as you crashed through the forest, but the nature of the hunt called for it. Their column bristled with the dusty red metal of bloodwrought spears. Other than Gwen, the only rider in less than full armor was Frair Lucas. The priest seemed strangely at his ease, despite the danger the gheist presented.
