Forcing himself to remain vigilant, Traven glanced about the room and assessed the Commander’s staff. It was early yet, but already he did not like the first lieutenant. The man was a bit too pasty and fleshy for Traven’s taste. Here was an officer who looked at Traven not as an intruder, nor even as an enemy, but as an opportunity to advance his own career. No, Traven did not like this man at all.
The creak of the door marked the Commander’s entrance. Without formality, the old man crossed the room and sat behind the simple, neat desk.
“My men tell me you refuse to hand over your weapons. I thought we had an agreement.”
Traven nodded but did not lift his hand from his pommel. “Once we were inside and alone.”
The Commander’s eyes narrowed. “You ask much for an outlaw.”
Traven’s heartbeat quickened. How did the Commander know of the turmoil in Charlotte’s Berg? Panic washed over him, but Traven realized he had best start talking or he’d stir up more suspicion.
“I carry grave news. Trust only that you will want to hear the tidings first, then decide on what action to take.”
It took no more than a breath for the Commander to make his decision. “Excuse us, gentlemen. Post a guard outside and —”
“But, sir!” the lieutenant broke in.
“Lieutenant?” the Commander asked with a chill to his voice.
The pasty man must have realized his error, for he bowed his head respectfully. “Nothing, sir. We shall post our most skilled men and await your word.”
With a nod of his head, the Commander excused his officers. Once the door was shut behind them, Traven unbuckled his scabbard, then removed the drake that was hooked through his belt. However, he left the tiny hidden knife in his boot. One could never be too certain of a stranger, no matter how noble they appeared.
“May I?” Traven asked, indicating the lone chair in the room.
“It’s been a long trek,” the Commander stated with a nod. “How long have you been out on the Plains? Five? Six days? And without supplies? Perhaps we best start with that tale. How you came upon such hard times?”
Traven was glad to be sitting, elsewise the Commander might have seen his legs weaken. How to recount the days without jeopardizing the Commander’s trust? Traven certainly could not tell the whole truth. Maybe a sprinkling of the facts would soothe the Commander’s concerns.
“There was an altercation as I was leaving, and my supplies were... lost.”
The Commander most likely knew the answer to his next question, but he asked it anyway. “Why did you not simply go back to Charlotte’s Berg to resupply yourself?”
There would be no getting around this thorny issue. The Commander had lived his life too long on these Plains not to detect falsehood. Traven only hoped the old man was as adept at picking up sincerity and honor.
“They would not have welcomed me back.” That was a bit shy of the truth — tar and feathers awaited him if he had returned. Luckily the explanation seemed enough for the Commander.
“They did not like the news you wish to ply on me?”
“Aye,” Traven said, a bit relieved. Lying was not one of his strong suits. Granny had always said a deceitful tongue was like armor made of oiled paper. It shimmered and looked pretty in the light, but once the flame of truth brushed against it, there was nothing left but smoke.
“Then it’s best we have a drink with such dire tidings.”
Traven was embarrassed to gulp down the proffered ale, but his thirst was so great that he consumed three steins’ worth before he was quenched enough to begin.
“I will not beat my shield and spin a great story for you, Commander. I think you would prefer the truth as simple and strong as your drink.”
The old man nodded, nursing his beer. It was obvious the Commander wanted only one tongue in the room to be loosened by the liquor.
“The Winter King... Your god has... Well, Commander we believe he has gone quite insane.”
The usual look of surprise, shock, or anger that Traven had been accustomed to did not appear on the Commander’s face. Instead, the old man only nodded and gave him permission to continue. Traven paused. He was used to answering a battery of questions and defending himself — not explaining the matter calmly.
The Commander must have noticed Traven’s awkwardness. “I suppose our rulers have some proof of this, or is it you who have gone over the horizon?”
“No. I mean...”
Before Traven could gather his wits, the Commander filled the silence. “Enough. I’m sure our priests will want an entire treatise, and I would rather hear the sordid tale but once.” The Commander took a long draught of his ale and gave a grim smile.
Traven sat stunned. Was the interview over? Had it gone well or poorly? “Sir, are you not the least bit... surprised?”
The old man snorted. “How many back-breaking winters have we had in row? Not even horny potatoes will grow in the ground any longer.” There was a pause as if the Commander contemplated how much he should tell Traven. “You live this close to his inner circle and you learn to sense the Winter King’s disposition. There is no doubt that his mood has been a foul one. Would I ever have called him mad, out loud, as you have? No, but it would explain much.” The Commander rose. “Alas, it is not me you need to convince, Hero. It is the priests. They assemble in the map room. It is they who will sorely tax your patience.”
Traven rose and reached to shake the Commander’s hand after the old man returned his weapons to him. “Thank you, Commander.”
“Do not thank me. I will no more defend you as I would an Ice Scab. But for what it is worth, I do respect you.”
Nodding, Traven turned to follow the Commander, but the older man halted.
“And, son, the next time I ask you to yield your weapons, I mean all of them,” the older man said as he flicked a weapon towards the Hero.
Traven caught his own small, supposedly hidden, paring knife before it struck him. How had the old bugger gotten it from his boot? I must be far more tired than I would even admit, Traven thought as he pushed the blade back into its secret sheath.
Silently, Traven followed the Commander out of the office. In the course of his travels, he’d dealt with many a religious man and was not looking forward to another encounter, especially with ones this far north. The harsh weather hardened men and made them all too aware of their own mortality. When you worshipped a god as fickle and powerful as Winter, you tended to take your faith a bit too seriously.
Not that Traven could blame them. A tiny shift in the wind’s mood was all it took to steal your life away. Traven had a taste of Winter’s disdain and did not wish to experience it again.
Everyone rose as they entered the map room. To Traven’s eye, the priests were a motley sort. The flowing robes of the White Brotherhood that he was accustomed to back at The Mount were absent. Each of the men positioned around the table had their own interpretation of formal wear.
Commander Packard motioned for Traven to sit on his left. Traven’s rump was barely in the chair before the table erupted with questions. The Commander tried to proceed with introductions, but the priest on his right refused to be quieted.
“We care not who he is. We care what he has to say.”
“Reginald. Please. Do we wish this Hero to think we are barbarians?”
Traven stood up. “It’s all right, Commander. I can learn everyone’s name soon enough. Let me speak my news now, so that we might have more time for discussion.”
Several divisive snorts erupted around the table, but Traven proceeded. They thought him a snot-nosed whelp. A braggart without an ounce of sense. Traven smiled secretly. They would learn.
“Decades ago, when the Thaw still brought the world to life and The Jade Goddess kissed us awake from Winter’s embrace, there were those who warned of impending doom —”
“Enough of this farce. Tell us the all!” one of the strangely garbed priests shouted, pounding his fist upon the oak table.
Traven’s anger flared, but he held his tongue. Insulting such boars never helped, but Traven fought the urge, even now. They wanted to gut his presentation and spill the facts onto the table. But Traven knew better. The minstrels at Mount Shrine had taught him the power of verse. To win stubborn men’s minds, you must first make them listen with their hearts.
The Commander spoke slowly, meeting each man’s eye with his own. “Cecil, I will have no more interruptions. The next man who shows such discourtesy will be shown the door.”
Finally the belligerent priest nodded.
Traven continued, “These men, denounced by all, warned that the heavy snow fall and early frost bore dire tidings. Even when the Lower Steppes began icing, no one listened. It took the Snake Pass, deep in The Midlands, to pack with snow, trapping hundreds of villagers and killing half a dozen caravans, for any of the kings to take notice. The northern dukes begged for assistance, asking for the Crown’s ear and resources, but the Royal Court was deaf. That is, until the Castle of Light, the very seat of the Emperor, was slapped by Winter’s cold touch.”
Well, that had quieted them down, Traven thought. Either that or they feared the Commander more than the impatience that ran in their veins.
“It was Princess Marlana, now Queen, who first took note of the dying vines. As you know, the western wall of the Castle has been covered in bougenvia since the Lady of the Light brought the flower from across the Starry Bridge.”
Again snorts erupted, but the priests held their tongue. They could argue official theology later.
“One spring, the plant did not send out new tender shoots, and only half the flowers bloomed. Each year more blossoms failed, until there were no more —”
“Liar! I have seen paintings of the Castle. It is still draped in red!”
The Commander sprang from his chair, an order to remove the man fresh on his lips, but Traven intervened.
“You are right, sir. Those paintings are to reassure the common folk. They ship blossoms in from the Sea Kingdom and replant them each spring. The flowers thrive during the summer court but die again each winter.”
Traven let that news sink in. No matter what story you believed regarding the beautiful flowers’ origin, it was well accepted that they truly were a gift from the gods. To have such a precious symbol of the Lady of Light so desecrated brought the room to hushed silence again.
“It was then that the Crown gathered its greatest scholars, theologists, and healers together. They searched the Kingdoms and visited the four corners of the realm. What they found frightened even the most doubtful of men, but there was no questioning the answers.” Traven paused for effect. He had told this story many a time and prided himself on his ability to lure an audience into his grasp. “The world is descending into an Eternal Winter, sirs. Unless we find a way to correct this sad progression, all of us...” Traven emphasized again, “All of us, will be no more than Ice Scabs.”
Traven sat back down. The priests who had been so anxious to interrupt now looked at one another and wrung their hands. Traven knew they just needed time. Soon their arrogance would ride them up and over this daunting news.
“Much of this we knew. Yet it does not explain why you blasphemed our Father Winter,” Reginald said.
“What the studies found was at first a queer thing.” Traven paused and took a sip of warm ale. His throat had taken more of a beating out on the Plains than he had realized. “You all know of The Fort Upon the Edge?”
Murmurings of agreement rose quickly. They had best know it. The Fort protected the first and largest of Winter’s temples.
“There, they are the epitome of devotion. Since time recorded, the statues of the Four Seasons have risen from the ground to the highest rampart. They offer monthly sacrifices and teach the Etching in Ice to all school children. Weekly, they have open prayers under the stars, and each family tithes their fourth son to the Winter King priesthood.”
Traven watched as the priests squirmed in their chairs. These men had grown bloated on their influence over the simple people of Last Hitch. It was best to remind them what real power resembled.
“Yet it was in seats of power such as these that suffered the worst of Winter’s wrath. And the most awful devastation was visited upon the Fort.” Traven paused, bracing himself for the priest’s strong reaction to his next claim. “Last summer, during a freak storm, the ice carvings of the Four Seasons were decimated, shattered and strewn across the snowfields. All of them, except Winter. His was the only statue still standing.”
“This cannot be! We would have heard of such a disaster!”
Calamity broke out around the table, but the Commander did not bother to stifle it. Even he seemed mildly surprised by Traven’s news.
“For the last two years, the trails to the Fort have been closed to all but the Crown’s envoys. The catastrophe was not reported commonly, for it was feared it would drive the populace to panic.”
“Why do you blame our god? Why could this not have been a mere accident? Stranger things have happened,” one of the priests exclaimed.
Traven gritted his teeth. These religious men could cling to their beliefs until their very lives gave out.
“That is not all of it. Later that season, a storm descended upon the Flats, holding the entire region in its grasp for several months. By the time the passes opened and the envoys returned...” Traven paused, the news almost too painful to repeat once again. “They found the Fort encased in ice. Buildings, devoted worshippers, animals — all frozen solid. Not a soul survived to tell the details.”
This information quieted the room thoroughly. The Fort and its inhabitants had survived for centuries in the face of Winter’s bluster and had thrived, boasting of their special love for The Winter King. Everyone in this room, whether he would admit it or not, knew this was no accident or happenstance. The Winter King had massacred his most devout congregation.
“When the Fort fell, the counsel drew an unpopular but logical conclusion from the information they gathered. The Winter King had gone mad. He used the energy given to him by his most loyal followers and lashed out blindly. He is not the god we once knew and cherished.”
Grumbling rose and fell until a clear voice spoke up from the far end of the table. Traven had not noticed the black-skinned priest earlier, nor his leafy green robes.
“Winter alone could not do the damage you have described. Did the Counsel speak to you of the other gods?” the dark priest asked.
Traven nodded, recognizing the man for who he was — a high priest of the Jade Goddess. From the gold branch on his collar, he was close to Spring’s Bosom.
“Yes. We fear the illness may have spread to the other seasons, although their symptoms are much more vague. Increasing their sacrifices have not abated Winter’s onslaught.”
Reginald asked, “Has the elimination of sacrifice to Winter helped in any way?”
“Yes,” Traven automatically answered, but flinched, for it was not exactly the truth. Only by the scholars’ precise measurements of snowfall and a new-fangled device filled with spheres of liquid metal could they determine if conditions had improved. The weather in those regions was essentially unchanged, but at the least it was not worsening.
“We have seen your orders from the Crown and our own Prince, but what of the Blue Priest? What has he decreed?” the man called Cecil asked.
Traven groaned inwardly. He always prayed his audience would not ask this question, but how could they not? The Blue Priest was the ranking head of the Winter King’s assembly.
“He has withdrawn to the Sacred Heart for meditation. He would rule neither way before he left.”
The dark priest spoke again, his speech flavored with sounds from the western forests. “Does he fear a clash within the Order?”
“Aye. Before he left, I was granted an audience —” The sharp intake of breath around the room reminded Traven that he had overstepped his bounds. Normally he did not speak of this meeting with
the Blue Priest, but the green-leafed priest spoke so plain and true that Traven had forgotten he was in a room full of jealous, petty, and potentially very dangerous enemies. “I came away with the sense that he feared a mortal war would result if he backed either faction.”
Traven stayed quiet as waves of emotion rolled over the priests. He could see the individual wars brewing behind each set of eyes. The choice he offered was a hard one — abandon your god, or cling to your religion and die a brutal death. No, there was nothing simple about what he presented to these men.
The dark-skinned priest seemed the most calm. “What of the other gods? How do they fare?”
Traven gulped down a few more swallows of ale while he carefully prepared his answer. These priests had heard enough already to fill their craw ’til the Summer Thaw. He dared not upset them much further.
“The Jade Pool has receded a full three feet from the shore, and its mirrored surface is now murky and pocked by algae.”
This news shook even the dark stoic priest. But, then again, it was his god’s totem Traven was referring to now. It was easy to be unflappable when it was someone else’s faith you were crushing.
“Summer?” the green priest choked out.
“The Eternal Flame in the Scorched Tower began flickering more weakly. The orange color that used to draw thousands of pilgrims has left its fire completely.”
“But it still burns?” Reginald asked.
“Aye.” A half truth at best. The flame still sparkled in the night, but only through an ingenious trick of the Sand Priests. They had found a way to force a volatile type of powder through the rock to keep the fire ignited. If they had not, the flame would have died several summers ago.
A knock at the door startled everyone. The Commander barked a harsh, “Come.”
A soldier entered, bearing a sealed pouch. The old officer’s face went pale as he opened it. Traven could not see what was within, but by the Commander’s skin tone, he granted it was not good. The only positive affect was that it diverted the priests’ attention. The group was so enthralled with the Commander’s package that they had not thought to ask about Fall. For that, Traven was grateful. He did not think he could hide the grievous nature of that story.
7 Folds of Winter Page 3
