by Tim Akers
“In time, Gwen,” he continued. “There are many dangers. In time you may decide that I am the least of them.” Lucas was tired. He looked unhappily around the campsite, as though judging where the least miserable place to sleep might be.
“I know what you are. I know who you serve. I’ve suspected it for quite some time. As soon as I noticed the broken patterns in the gheists, in their manifestations. The old rules stopped working, the old gods disappeared. New gods rose up. Surely you’ve noticed it,” he said, then shook his head. “No, not here. Not in the Fen. You’ve maintained a balance here, a balance that is missing from the rest of Tenumbra.
“The breakdown of generations of godly pattern, the blight that has settled in the south, and through all of Suhdra… and yet the Fen was spared. I knew something had to be responsible for that.” He raised his head, the slightest shake in his neck as fatigue claimed him. “And then I found you. The huntress of Adair. Faithful pagan and killer of gods, and I knew I had the cause.”
Gwen was quiet. Elsa was hunched on the other side of the fire, one hand on her sword, the other resting lightly on her knee. Lucas rested his head against the tree and seemed to settle in for the night.
“Then why am I not in chains?” Gwen asked quietly. “Why have you let me live?”
“Because I think I can trust you,” he replied. “I think that I have to trust you, in fact, if I’m to get to the truth.” He shifted uncomfortably, not opening his eyes. “Trust you to do what is right for Tenumbra, and the church, and your old gods. In time I hope you will learn to trust me to do the same.”
Gwen didn’t answer. She shot Elsa a look. The vow knight’s eyes were on the frair. When Lucas didn’t say anything else, but seemed to be drifting off to sleep, she shrugged and stood up, preparing her bedroll.
“You will have first watch,” Elsa said. “Prove yourself worthy of it.”
“If I’m to guard, I will need a weapon.”
“If there’s trouble, wake me up. I will be all the weapon you need.”
The vow knight settled into her bed. Gwen was about to douse the fire and find a good spot to set up her watch when a hound bayed in the distance.
Both Elsa and Lucas had their eyes open.
“They’re following us,” Elsa whispered. “They will find us. We should run, now, but he needs to rest. He needs the healing of a bloodwright.”
“No,” Gwen said, shaking her head. She made a decision. “I know a place. In the morning, I will lead you there. A place of healing, and of hiding. We will be safe.”
38
THE COURTYARD WAS quiet, the soldiers lining the walls and standing in ranks barely moving as the castle gates creaked open. Malcolm, Sorcha, and Colm Adair stood just inside the gates. A small group waited outside.
There were only six riders, three pairs. Gabriel Halverdt rode at the front, dressed in full plate, his pauldrons forged in the shape of oak trees swollen with acorns, the golden seeds encrusting his breastplate, gauntlets, and the buckles of his leg armor. The plate itself was enameled a green so dark that it swirled with oily shadows, and his chest was decorated in the gold cross and tri-acorn of his crest.
Halverdt’s helmet rested on his saddle, and his hair, black shot with gray and silver, flowed long over his shoulders. He looked tired, though victory lit his face as he trotted into the courtyard. Seeing the collected ranks of Tenerran spearmen, he gave a dismissive sniff.
Behind Halverdt rode Sir Volent, still in his plain armor, though a new cloak of white and silver was draped over his shoulders. As always, his dead face betrayed no emotion as he entered the castle.
To Halverdt’s left rode the high elector. Beaunair looked tired, as well—the fatigue of despair, a look that threatened to bring Malcolm’s heart tumbling. If Beaunair had given up before negotiations began, what hope did they have? The priest wore the full vestments of his position, cloak and robe and mantle, though the gold-trimmed helmet that pressed into his forehead was more military than sacred. Beaunair rode in front of the high inquisitor. Malcolm wondered why Sacombre had chosen to follow Beaunair, rather than coming into the Fen Gate at Halverdt’s side. He wore practical clothes, simple blacks edged in purple silk, with a darkwood staff couched in his stirrup like a lance.
The last two riders were of the House Roard. The duke of Stormwatch was in the lead, armed and armored for battle. His bearing held none of the contempt of Halverdt, nor his war dress the needless ornamentation. Martin followed in his wake. The younger Roard kept his eyes low, avoiding Malcolm and Sorcha.
“I have come to speak of your surrender, Blakley,” Halverdt said without preamble.
“And I welcome you into this castle to speak of peace,” Colm Adair answered. “Nothing more.”
“Peace, then,” Lorien Roard said quickly, before Halverdt could respond. “Peace beneath the banner of the Celestial church.”
“Gods bless,” Beaunair said.
“The gods may bless what they will,” Halverdt answered, “but I am eager for the justice of Cinder. Let us be done with this as quickly as possible. I’ve only just arrived, and already I’m tired of your hovel.”
“Brave words for a man surrounded by his enemy’s blades,” Sorcha snapped.
“Brave words for a woman,” Halverdt responded with a smile. “Let’s not pretend, Duchess. If any harm comes to me, the army at your gates will grind your bones into ash, and then burn your name from history. There will be no heir to Houndhallow. Though if what I’ve heard from Duke Roard is true, then that threat may be empty. I suppose someone would still need to murder your daughter. Nessie, isn’t that her name?” he purred. “Yes, I think that can be arranged.”
“Don’t you dare—” Malcolm started.
“Let us find our rooms,” Beaunair said, interrupting the exchange. “The sooner to feast, the sooner to begin negotiations.”
“Agreed,” Lorien said. “Let’s leave the blood on the battlefield, where it belongs.”
Malcolm bowed his head and kept his eyes down while Colm’s men led Halverdt, Volent, and the priests. When he looked up, Lorien was still waiting, staring at him. Lorien looked back to his son.
“Martin?” the duke of Stormwatch prompted his son.
Looking embarrassed, the young man dismounted and came to stand in front of Malcolm and Sorcha. He carried a scabbard that Malcolm didn’t recognize until he drew the blade. It was a fresh sheath, but it held Ian’s sword.
“This was found among the stones of the ford, along with Ian’s horse,” Martin said, presenting it to Malcolm. He took the sword, then handed it to his wife. Sorcha turned it over in her hands. Her eyes were dry, but there was fear in her voice.
“And his body?” she asked.
“We found nothing, my lady. I am deeply sorry…”
“Enough,” Sorcha said. “We are all deeply sorry, for different reasons.” Then she turned and marched back to the keep. Malcolm watched her go, then turned his attention back to Martin.
“Ian always spoke well of you. I hope his friendship still means something to you, even in the quiet.”
“It does,” Martin answered. “More, actually. I have grown tired of regret.”
“Then you have chosen the wrong war,” Malcolm said. “It seems that we will have nothing of this but regret.”
Martin nodded tearfully, then returned to the saddle and went with his father into the keep. Malcolm looked at the empty scabbard in his hands, newly formed, the leather not yet broken from drawing and seating its blade, the silver at its tip untarnished. He turned and handed it to Colm Adair.
“I have no need of this,” he said. “Any of this.”
* * *
The fire was low and the jug of wine empty. The lords of Tenumbra, plagued by fatigue and frustration, sat around a table littered with maps and ink-stained contracts, none of which brought them closer to peace.
Lorien Roard had gone to bed hours ago, frustration writ large on his face. Sir Henri Volent lurked in the corner
of the room like the promise of violence. The incense that hung in the air had grown stale in Malcolm’s throat. His mouth was coated in the stink of frairwood and frustration. Even the whiskey couldn’t cut through the haze in his head as he shuffled the papers on the table like a dog rooting for food, sure that he’s eaten every scrap yet stubbornly hopeful he’ll find something new among the wreckage.
“What of Tallownere?” he said.
“There is nothing of value in Tallownere,” Halverdt said. The duke of Greenhall sat frowning at the head of the table, staring into the remnants of the fire. Colm Adair stood at the opposite side of the room, near the door, his arms folded tight. “Nothing but mud and ash.”
“Ash from the village your men burned,” Adair hissed.
“A village that could be repopulated in time,” Malcolm said quickly, before discussion disintegrated again.
“I will not have pagans settling on my border,” Halverdt answered. “Better that the land remain fallow.” He swirled the dregs in his mug, grimaced at the remnants, then tossed it down his throat. “The point of this exercise is to ensure the elimination of the Adair rebels. Elimination comes through obedience. Obedience comes from punishment. We should only discuss their concessions—not ours.”
“As your proposal stands, you are requiring garrison rights at the Reaveholt, road taxes throughout the Fen, and wardship of Gwendolyn Adair,” Malcolm said. “Whereas Colm has demanded the execution of Henri Volent, full reparations for the dead of Tener, and an apology from every lord and knight who has set foot in his land. Neither of these are valid proposals.” He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his face. The late hour was wearing on his patience. “Neither of you is negotiating!
“Farming and settlement rights at Tallownere would be a good start, both financially and symbolically,” he continued. “After all, Tallownere is where this whole mess began.”
Halverdt stood, suddenly and violently. He threw his empty mug across the hall and struck the table with his fist, causing the maps and contracts to jump.
“This mess began long before the ambush at Tallownere!” he bellowed. “We have tolerated generations of disrespect and heresy from the tribe of Adair! That they have fooled their Tenerran brothers into thinking they were faithful is no concern of mine. It is the church in Heartsbridge that must judge them!”
“And yet you have appointed yourself to that role, my lord,” High Elector Beaunair said. The priest had settled against the wall as far from the incense-wafting fire pit as possible. “Even Cinder expects balance in his justice. We cannot eat at the table of trust with judgment in both hands.”
“To hell with the table of trust,” Colm said. “You can’t destroy this house with the stroke of a pen!”
“You can’t, my dear baron,” Halverdt said. “I have no such limitation. I have the strength of the south at your gate, and the blessing of Heartsbridge upon my actions. The reason you are at this table is because you’re afraid of what will happen if I march upon the Fen Gate. You all know these walls will fall before me.” He moved to Malcolm’s side, grinning broadly. “And you have failed to stir the rest of Tener to your cause, Blakley. They want to keep their precious pagan lands free of the church’s judgment.”
“Gods and hell, Gabriel, you’re worse than a drunk at his first joust.” Malcolm folded his arms in exasperation. “The only reason you’re here at this table is because half your army doesn’t want this fight. We’ve kept the peace between Suhdra and Tener for years. Our countries have prospered, the peace of the church has spread, and the old gods have been kept in check. At dusk each night the evensong rises from thousands of throats from the Tallow to Far Watch, and the grace of Cinder and Strife is hallowed. Disrupt that, and you threaten more than just war.”
“I think we’re all tired, and most of us are drunk.” Castian Jaerdin stood from his chair and went to the table. He gave Malcolm a thin smile as he gathered the night’s paperwork into a single pile. “We may be better off burning all of this and starting afresh in the morning. Regardless, I’m certain we would all benefit from a night’s sleep.”
“Will Sacombre be joining us again in the morning?” Colm asked. “Every time we make progress, he adds in a pogrom, and we’re back to the beginning.”
“I don’t know where the high inquisitor has gotten to tonight,” Beaunair said. “Perhaps he and I could tour the castle tomorrow. You might do better without the church hanging over your shoulder.”
“I’d rather have him where I can see him,” Colm answered. Then he gave a wave of his hand. “I’ve had enough of this. Good night.”
The baron of the Fen Gate stalked outside, slamming the door behind him.
“Then we are through,” Malcolm snapped. “For tonight, at least… we have done enough. Let’s all go to bed before someone’s honor gets in the way and we’re arranging a duel or a marriage or some such idiocy.”
“I have all the time in the world,” Gabriel Halverdt answered. He collected his sword belt from beside the table and buckled it tight. The scabbard was new wood and leather, and the hilt was wrapped in the blessings of the inquisition.
“New sword, my lord?” Malcolm asked.
“Indeed,” Halverdt said smugly. “A gift from the high inquisitor. To protect me against the pagan night. Wrought in the blood of the choir eternal, and forged in Hollyhaute.” He drew the sword with a song like a maiden’s whisper and held it flat in his palms. The blade was etched in holy runes. “You will not see a more divine blade in all of Tenumbra.”
“It’s very odd,” Beaunair said. He peered down at the sword and shook his head. “I don’t recognize some of these.”
“You are no inquisitor,” Halverdt said with a sneer. “It’s safe to assume that High Inquisitor Sacombre knows something more of the naether arts than you.”
“No doubt,” the high elector allowed. “After all, I am but a mortal instrument of the bright lady. The ways of naether and lumaire are closed to me. But still…”
There was a crash in the courtyard outside, and then the sounds of a brief struggle. Screams erupted in the courtyard beyond. Malcolm jumped to his feet, while Sir Volent flinched deeper into the shadows. Only Gabriel Halverdt seemed transfixed, staring at the door and smiling.
“He knew it would come to this. He knew I would be needed.” Gabriel turned to Malcolm and smiled, a fevered, wicked look on his face. “He knew you would betray the divine, and so he armed me.”
The door burst open.
39
SORCHA SPENT THE evening as far from the council chamber as she could manage. She couldn’t abide the way Martin Roard looked at her, nor his words about faith and friendship. She ate in her rooms, then took a long walk on the walls.
The endless campfires of the Suhdrin army stretched out through the valley. She sat among the crenels and drank most of a bottle of wine. Malcolm insisted that they had friends among the Suhdrin host, that without the likes of DuFallion and Marcy, this host would have broken these walls and murdered any who dared oppose them. But she couldn’t find any comfort in those fires. They twinkled like a bad omen among the stars, an ill sign, a promise of destruction.
When she was too drunk to care and too sober to find comfort, Sorcha took the shortest route from the curtain wall to her rooms. The sounds of the evensong echoed everywhere. The castle was full to bursting, but Sorcha was able to avoid everyone. Most people were either in the doma observing the evensong, or still at their dinners. The great lords were at their council. Even the guards posted along the wall were few and far between.
Something prickled at the back of Sorcha’s neck. The silence held an odd quality, a thickness in the air, that reminded her of heavy weather. She hurried up the stairs to her rooms, taking the steps two at a time.
Halfway up she heard the sound of wood breaking, and a tremendous thud, like a weight dropped from some great height. Heartbeats later there was screaming.
She started to run.
Her gu
ards lay at the top of the flight, necks broken, limbs splayed out in the hallway. They were freshly dead.
Sorcha crouched next to one, drew his knife and stepped over the bodies. The door to their suite of rooms was closed but Sir Dugan’s room, the closest to the stairs, stood open. It did not look as though it had been forced. Light flickered from the interior, as dim and inconstant as a candle. Sorcha crept forward, terrified of what she would find.
Dugan’s room was wrecked, the bed and shelves broken and scattered about. There was blood, but not enough to fill a body, and the door was raked by great gouge marks. Sorcha had seen bears mark trees in the forest, but these were even larger, deeper. She wondered where the master of guard was, and who had done such a thing.
Screams began outside the window. The courtyard filled with the sound of clashing steel and panicked people.
She ventured farther into the room, her toe dragging through some kind of sand that was sprinkled along the doorway. The smell of incense filled her nose. There was something else in the middle of the room, a collection of wreckage that she had mistaken for broken furniture. She moved closer, and saw what it was.
Iron icons of the old faith lay in a circle, a bowl at their center. The bowl was wood, carved with runes similar to the ones Sorcha had often seen on henge stones, and it was slick with blood. Most of the blood in the room seemed to have come from this bowl, scattered about like water from a censer. The stone floor within the circle of icons was scorched. Sorcha ran a trembling finger along the ground and came up smeared with ash and sand.
No. Too sharp for sand, too brittle.
Ground bones.
She looked up at the window. The shutters were broken, just like everything else in the room, but their wreckage wasn’t inside. She went to the window and looked down.
Below her was chaos. Splinters of wood lay in the courtyard far below. A pile of dark mounds lay scattered beneath the window, splotches that resolved into bloodstained guards as Sorcha’s eyes adjusted to the darkness. All around the courtyard she could see guardsmen rushing about, gathering spears and huddling in shadows. She couldn’t see what had drawn their attention.
