The smoke images of the prisoners lacked the defiance of their counterparts. “We serve Shanthadura.”
“And for what reason did you violate the barrow?”
“We must awaken the Ancient Dead.”
“Why do you seek this?”
“He Who Calls Us ordered it. We are to make ready. His legions will sweep across the land, bathing it in blood and awakening the old ways. Everything will be swept away, and from that chaos, Shanthadura will rise once more, making new.”
“Who is this who calls you?”
“He is called many names. We know him as Cataclysm, and he is the right hand of Shanthadura.”
“Did you call the Restless Dead?”
“We called them for the soul harvest. We must feed the Ancients.”
“And did you call the dimonns? What of them?”
“They have been bound inside the barrows for centuries. They hunger. Shanthadura welcomes their blood offerings. We fear nothing from them.”
“Have you attacked vyrkin and vayash moru?”
“Their blood is a potent sacrifice, filled with the Wild Song and the Dark Gift. Our mistress covets their blood.”
The four Consorts turned toward each other, and though they said nothing, it looked to Jair as if they conferred. Finally, the Eagle being turned back toward the assemblage.
“You have murdered the living and desecrated the places of the sacred dead. You have made sacrifices of the vyrkin and the vayash moru, who are favored by the Dark Lady. And you have hollowed the souls of the Restless Dead, which is an abomination. For your crimes, you must be destroyed.”
The smoke walking spirits showed their disdain. “We welcome death. Our deaths feed Shanthadura. We have no fear of it.”
“Your judgment is up to the Consorts,” the Eagle Consort replied.
The drums began to beat faster, and the smoke was heavy with power. The figures of the four Consort Spirits seemed to waver. Three men and a woman wore the costumes of the Aspects, but the smoke figures that emerged were of the animal Aspects. From Pevre’s costumed form came the smoke walker of a great bear. An eagle flew free from Talwyn’s form, as if it launched from atop her shoulder. They were joined by the powerfully muscled figure of a stawar, with its large paws and sleek head, and the figure of a huge gray wolf. The smoke walkers of the prisoners disappeared, and for the first time, Jair saw fear in the captives’ faces. One of the prisoners tried to rise to his feet to flee, but a guard gave him a shove that forced him back to his knees.
In unison, the four figures raised their heads. The stawar was first to strike. With a growl, the large cat sprang at one of the prisoners, passing completely through the man’s body to emerge with a very real heart clenched between its jaws. With a look of astonishment, the Durim priest swayed and fell backward.
The bear lumbered toward its prisoner, rearing to rake its huge smoke claws down the man’s chest. Deep gashes tore across the prisoner’s body, deep enough that his organs spilled from his belly. The wolf passed through the fire as if the flames were not there, launching itself toward its prisoner and clamping its strong jaws around the man’s neck, tearing through his throat and bone. The last Consort was a huge eagle. Its wingspan was as wide as the bodies of the four prisoners. With a shrill cry, the eagle brought one taloned foot down on the skull of the last doomed man, and with one sharp movement, clenched its claws so that they penetrated bone, crushing the head within its grasp.
The smoke wavered, and the spirit walkers of the Consorts dissipated, leaving behind only smoke and the mauled bodies of the condemned men.
Through it all, the drumbeats had never faltered. Now, indifferent to the stirring of the crowd, the four Consort figures turned and filed from the tent, followed by Jair and the other guardians. By the time Jair reached the outside, Talwyn and the others had vanished.
“I’ve seen that done only once before,” Alin said quietly as he walked beside Jair back to the tent that was the headquarters of the trinnen and the barracks for those among the elite warriors who were not married. “I don’t know how Talwyn and Pevre and the others do that, and I don’t think I want to know.”
As often as he’d seen Talwyn work her shaman’s gift, Jair found it both wondrous and unsettling. He tried not to think too hard about the fact that the woman he held in his arms at night was also able to be the direct channel of the spirits of the Consorts and the Lady’s Aspects. How the power worked, he didn’t know, and he doubted Talwyn could explain it to him. From what he gathered, even among those with a shaman’s gift, training was more by example than it was something that could be reduced to words.
“I’m happy to stick to my swords,” Jair replied. “Swords are simple.” But he knew as he said it that it wasn’t completely true. Swords were indeed simple, but wars never were. And if the boasts of the Black Robes were correct, then war was coming, and it would be anything but simple.
The morning of the Moon Feast dawned clear and bright. And although Jair knew that Talwyn and Pevre had to be exhausted from the battle and from the working of the previous night, they were ready for the festival to begin when the sun was high in the sky.
“How do they celebrate in Valiquet?” Talwyn teased as they watched Kenver compete with the other boys at bolas throwing.
“The way they celebrate everything—with a feast and chamber music,” Jair said, feigning an exaggerated yawn.
“Perhaps when you become king, you can liven it up for them,” Talwyn replied.
Despite how tired he was from the events of the night before, Jair laughed. “I can just picture Lord Scovitt and Lord Janev competing at goat herding.”
“Oh, but surely the palace bakes a meal to rival ours.” Talwyn’s grin showed how much she enjoyed needling Jair about the other half of his life. “After all, how can roasted goat compare to the delicacies they must cook for you every feast night?”
Jair took in a deep breath. The smell of roasting goat mingled with the scent of cooked leeks and onions. A groaning board of the first fruits and vegetables of the harvest would be served tonight around huge bonfires that would light the night, offered to the living, the guardian spirits of the ancestors, the Dread in the barrows, and to the Lady and her Consorts. Mead would flow freely, and the afternoon belonged to the young men in games of skill. The night was for the bards and storytellers, who would recount legends of long-ago warriors and great chieftains, and tell of the magic and victories of revered shamans. It would be a day and night of feasting, with handfastings encouraged to begin a new cycle of birth in the spring. Jair felt more at home here, among the Sworn, than he ever felt amid Valiquet’s opulence.
“Actually, the palace cook makes a passably fair roasted goat,” Jair replied, pulling himself from his thoughts. “Although venison is more favored at court. Most of the nobility prefers wine to mead, and the spices take more after the western fashion—bland, compared to what we use here.”
Talwyn took his arm. She and Pevre had completed their official morning duties to begin the festival, and when darkness fell, she and Pevre would usher in the night in the traditional way, by setting a large, tarred wagon wheel aflame and rolling it down a path on the highest hill in recognition of the setting sun and the coming shorter days of winter. “Do you think Kenver will win with his bolas?”
Jair chuckled. “He’s got good aim for his age. Give him time. From the dents he’s put in the hitching post, I’d say he’s been practicing.”
Talwyn laughed, and her long dark hair fell around her face, framing it and making her amber eyes gleam. The festival robes she wore indicated her rank as cheira and shaman, but without the formality of her ceremonial regalia. And when she laughed, Jair saw a rare glimpse of the beautiful young woman unburdened from her position and responsibilities.
“This is my favorite time of year,” Talwyn said, resting her head against Jair’s shoulder. “First of all, you’re on the Ride with us. But I love the autumn weather and the harvest foods. I don�
��t even mind the winter if the harvest has been good. And I’ll admit that as much as I enjoy Winterstide, the Moon Feast and the Feast of the Departed are two of my favorite festivals.”
A question crossed Jair’s mind, something he had wondered from the events of the night before, but he pushed it away, unwilling to spoil the mood. Talwyn noticed the shift and gave him a questioning look.
“What is it?”
Jair frowned. “Just something I heard last night. We didn’t really get a chance to talk after the tribunal.”
Talwyn’s mood sobered. “Sorry about that. There are rituals to follow after a working like that to ground yourself back in this realm, and offerings to be made. By the time I came back to the tent, you and Kenver were both fast asleep.”
Jair leaned over to kiss the top of her head. “It’s not that—I know you have obligations. But when one of the Black Robes was rambling, he talked about a war and chaos. Did that make any sense to you?”
Talwyn sighed and withdrew her arm, walking a few steps ahead. “Unfortunately, it does.”
“That doesn’t sound good.”
Talwyn looked out across the camp. Children’s laughter echoed with the sound of singing and the thunder of hoofbeats as young men raced their horses in the distance. “There are legends about how the world was made, very ancient stories. According to the legends, the world has been made and unmade several times. The Dark Aspect of the Formless One is chaos, where worlds are torn apart and new worlds are born. She’s neither good nor evil—she just is. But Shanthadura and the Shrouded Ones embraced the chaos. They revered the power to destroy, but not to create. That was one of the main reasons why some of the kings like Hadenrul the Great worked so hard to supplant the cult of Shanthadura with worship of the Sacred Lady. You can just imagine what it would be like with the Black Robes running around with the power to do real damage.”
“Where does the war come in?”
Talwyn walked slowly, and she held out her hand to Jair. “The old stories talk about the World Cycle that moves much like the year. Everything is new in the spring, it blossoms in the summer, it bears fruit in autumn, and it lies barren and dead in winter, only to begin again. The stories say the World Cycle begins and ends in a great war, the War of Unmaking. That’s what the Black Robe was talking about. To the blood mages and the dark summoners and the worshippers of Shanthadura who draw their power from death, it’s the ultimate source of energy, the destruction of everything. For those who worship the Lady and her Consorts, the focus is on rebirth and the power of creation.” She met Jair’s eyes. “As you can see, it’s another point of contention between the two sides.”
“Do you believe him? That there’s a dark master out there who is going to usher in the War of Unmaking?”
Talwyn shrugged. “The sages warn us against trying to predict such things. Worrying about the War of Unmaking is a lot like fearing your own death. It comes whether you fear it or not, but you miss out on all the living up to that point.”
“But could it be true this time? So many things are happening. The Durim and the Black Robes bringing back the cult of Shanthadura after hundreds of years. The desecration of the barrows. And now this power that’s rising. Could it be true?”
Talwyn shivered, although the day was warm. “I don’t know, Jair. I don’t know. Those are exactly the things that the old stories say happened before the last War of Unmaking. And does it change anything? Do we sit by and let this dark power—whatever it is—rise? Maybe it’s not the War of Unmaking. Maybe it’s just one more man with too much power. Maybe the War of Unmaking is just a legend, a story that’s been made of old wars all added together and given a good dramatic twist by some long-ago bard.” She met Jair’s eyes. “It doesn’t really matter. If the Black Robes are right and there’s a darkness rising, then I have to fight. The Sworn will defend, so long as we have breath.”
Jair took her hand in both of his. “Where you ride, I ride. That’s why I asked. Because I think war is coming, and when it comes, I plan to fight.”
Chapter Thirteen
Make them stop stealing our dead!”
The red-faced man leaned across the table, and his body trembled with his shout.
On the other side of the table, Lord Jonmarc Vahanian passed a hand across his eyes. There were many duties that came with the title and land holdings that Jonmarc enjoyed. Holding court was not one of them. “Sit down before I put you down,” Jonmarc growled. The red-faced man looked startled, but he pulled back and took his chair.
“Now, let’s start at the beginning,” Jonmarc said tiredly. As lord of the manor, he was the final arbiter of disputes, petty and otherwise. While the Blood Council dealt with disagreements between vayash moru, and the vyrkin handled their problems among themselves, dealings between mortals or between a mortal and either a vayash moru or a vyrkin fell to the lord of the manor to arbitrate. The irony of the once-brigand Lord of Dark Haven now handing down judgment was not lost on Jonmarc. “Why do you think your dead are missing and what makes you think anyone took them?”
“They bloody well didn’t walk off all by themselves,” the man retorted.
Jonmarc fixed him with a glance. “Want to rephrase that? Dark Haven has more dead men walking than anywhere else I’ve ever been.”
The florid-faced man glanced at Gabriel, who stood behind Jonmarc, and reined in his temper. “These dead aren’t biters.”
“And you’re certain of that how?”
The man sighed. By his clothes and his manner, Jonmarc guessed him to be a farmer. Beside him sat another man, likely a tinker or tradesman, Jonmarc thought. Probably a newcomer to the area, and thus automatically under suspicion. The yellow-haired tinker looked bewildered and indignant. Things like walking dead were out of the men’s experience, and some days, Jonmarc wished they were out of his, as well. But a year spent with Tris Drayke and another year as Lord of Dark Haven had altered a good many of his theories about life, death, and afterlife. “Because our dead stayed dead, until he came,” the farmer said, with a glare toward the tinker.
Jonmarc glanced at Sakwi, who had agreed to attend the tribunal should any need for magic arise. “Can you tell if he’s a blood mage or a summoner?” Jonmarc asked Sakwi.
Sakwi moved closer to the tinker, who drew back in his chair fearfully. Though Sakwi’s specialty was land magic, Jonmarc had learned enough about mages from recent experience to know that, regardless of their expertise, they could sense another’s magic. Sakwi held out his hands, palms out, and closed his deep-set, brown eyes, losing himself in thought for a moment. Then he opened his eyes and shook his head. “No. No magic at all, in fact. Just a charm around his neck that isn’t worth its tin.”
The tinker relaxed, but only for a moment. The farmer was again on his feet. “I don’t care what your hocus says. Someone is stealing our dead!”
“You’ve said that twice now, without explaining it,” Jonmarc said, with a dangerous undercurrent in his voice that was not lost on the farmer, who remembered himself and sat back down. “If someone’s robbing tombs, then we need to look for a thief. Do you bury your dead with gold or jewelry?” The question was logical, but the hard-scrabble look of the farmer made Jonmarc doubt that the man or his neighbors had a gold coin among them, let alone treasures to waste on the dead.
“You’re not hearing me,” the farmer said, straining for control. “No one’s stealing the pots and charms we buried with the bodies. They’re still in the graves. It’s the bodies that are gone. Someone’s torn up our burial grounds.”
“Is it just the newly dead who’ve gone missing?”
The farmer shook his head. “They’re gone, but they’re not the only ones. We have a crypt that the whole village uses. It’s dug into the caves. We’ve used it for generations. My sister’s husband was killed last week when his horse bolted. Broke his neck. We washed the body, and the women prepared it with herbs and honey, as we do all our dead. When we’d mourned him, we wrapped him in a shr
oud and carried him into the tomb. But when his widow went back two days later to bring a soul offering, the crypt had been opened. His body was gone—windings and all—and so were the other bodies in the newest chamber.” He swallowed hard. “You can excuse my sister for not taking a complete count when she realized what had happened.”
“So you don’t know how many bodies are gone?”
The farmer shook his head. “No. But three weeks before my sister’s husband died, an old woman in the village died of the cough. And then last month, one of the Rimmin boys drowned in the creek. Their bodies should have been in the crypt—but they weren’t, and neither were the bodies from the three we lost to consumption over the summer.”
Jonmarc exchanged puzzled glances with Gabriel. “Do your people know anything about this?”
Gabriel shook his head. “I can assure you no one of my brood has made any new fledglings. I’d be willing to wager that Riqua’s family hasn’t, either. I can’t say for certain about the other vayash moru broods, but what the man described doesn’t sound right for a vayash moru rising.”
“Could the bodies have been taken by animals?” Jonmarc asked. “The herbs and honey used to preserve them might smell like food.”
The farmer looked appalled. “We’re not stupid, m’lord. The crypt seals tightly.”
Jonmarc felt a headache beginning to grow. “I didn’t mean to imply that you were stupid,” he said carefully, “but people forget things in their grief. Is it possible that someone forgot to close the crypt?”
The farmer shook his head. “We were all there when the body was laid to rest. We helped to seal the door. It was closed.”
“How difficult is it to open the door?”
“I’m not a small man, m’lord, and I can’t open it by myself. It was made heavy enough to require two men, to stop tomb robbers and vandals.” He paused. “There is one other thing, m’lord. The dead weren’t carried off. They walked.”
The Sworn Page 22
