by P. J. Fox
“Well?”
He arched an eyebrow. She had, in fact, performed a ritual. A completely useless one, meant to summon one of the greater demons in the church cannon. A demon that did not, at least by that name, exist. The church acknowledged the existence of demons although most educated men, priest and penitent alike, flatly rejected the supernatural. But what the church taught was, for the most part, wrong. So, Tristan supposed, those educated men were—after their own fashion—correct.
A demon wasn’t good. It wasn’t evil. It simply was. Humanity’s various moral constructs had no bearing on its existence. To call it “evil” simply because it failed to conform to the narrative of the church was as foolish as calling a wolf evil for killing a deer. But try explaining that to men like Father Justin, men who saw themselves as the center of the universe and who thus rejected anything that didn’t fit neatly within their own moral framework. The framework that kept them in power.
The church taught, and Tristan had learned as a child, that demons were cast-offs of the Gods, who’d at some point rejected their wise and moral teachings. They existed in the present dispensation only to thwart the will of the Mediator, that Prince of the Gods who ruled over mankind. Each demon had been assigned, at some point, both a name and a specific individual purpose: to rob women of their virtue, for example, or to suggest such evil practices as bathing.
Of course, even did such demons exist, or had they ever existed, they wouldn’t have concerned themselves with the doings of such a moribund institution as the church. Although ironically there were necromancers within the church, who studied the hidden arts. The true arts. Who rejected the church’s teachings on almost every subject for the doggerel it was. These men stayed in the church for power.
These men trafficked with true demons.
As Tristan’s former master once had.
But for every adherent to the craft who understood the true workings of the world around them there were ten, or ten thousand who were as this woman.
She’d managed to create some little spark of magic, because somewhere within the misunderstood words and added phrases she’d cobbled together were the remnants of a true spell. Tristan had felt that magic, and been intrigued. Ever since his fateful encounter with Father Aurelius, the long ago priest who’d tried to murder him with Brenna’s help, he’d maintained a special interest in those who sought…a certain path.
Which was, indeed, how the late and unlamented Father Justin had ended up living on Tristan’s desk.
Tristan was certain that, under the sun, this woman too decried him and those like him.
She did not know that, save for Tristan, she would have waited here all night. For a demon that didn’t exist to—presumably—carry out her will. A will that was still vague to Tristan, as the flare she’d produced was accidental and contained no true force of purpose.
He waited.
“I thought…I expected you to appear in a whirlwind of fire. Not simply to walk.” She managed, once again, to turn her confusion into a criticism. Covering her own ignorance.
“That…can be arranged.”
“No.” Again, that brusque tone. She waved her hand in a dismissive gesture, for all the world as if he were a char girl. “We don’t have much time.” And then, a few minutes later, when Tristan hadn’t yet leapt to her command, “well?”
“What is it you require?” He was, he had to admit, somewhat curious to find this out. And sooner rather than later, as he was growing bored of her presumption.
“I require you to kill my children,” she said flatly.
Tristan arched an eyebrow. “And you can’t accomplish this, yourself?”
“If I do it, people will know.”
“I see.”
“My husband, the faithless wretch, left me for another woman. An older, fatter woman,” she added. Clearly mystified that anyone would desert such a charming specimen as herself. “I want to punish him. And, at the same time,” she added as an afterthought, “prove my devotion to the Dark Lord.” She paused. “Mine is a God who loves sacrifice.”
“Your motives are impure.”
“It’s not for you to lecture me.”
He studied her. “Your God,” he said finally, “is a God of lies. No good can come of trusting Him. He prowls the night like a wolf, seeking souls to devour.” Souls who came to Him of their own free will, lured by temptation. That was what had caused Tristan’s own downfall: the temptation to save his people. To save Brenna. He’d given himself to left hand path not because he wanted to embrace evil, but because he wanted to save his people. To do good. And now he was a walking corpse, unable to cherish the one thing he desired most. He would curse himself, were he able to summon the feeling.
“You know nothing,” she spat.
Tristan remained motionless.
“The Dark Lord rewards His faithful.” She sounded like she wanted to believe.
“You look to the breaker of worlds, to keep promises.”
“He understands vengeance.” She almost spat the last word.
He nodded, the slightest inclination of the head. “Indeed.”
“So?”
“Ah.” He paused. “Allow me to ensure that I understand.” Around them, the air temperature was dropping. A chill wind had kicked up, blowing with it swirling eddies of white powder. She was cold, and trying very hard to disguise that fact. He, of course, felt nothing.
“Your husband has abandoned your hearth for that of a kinder, gentler woman and in order to prove him wrong, to prove that yours is the warmer, you wish to take from him that which he cherishes most. In order to…what? Win him back?”
She gasped, her breath expelling in a white puff. “How dare you!”
“This is your plan.”
“I am the injured party!” Her voice took on a raw edge as she ranted. “He promised to love me, to cherish me. And instead he took up with—with—with some fat baker. She doesn’t have my looks, my education, my—anything! I’m beautiful. I’m thin. I’m the woman whom the whole town claims never ages. My skin is the softest, my curves the lushest, my furs the most expensive. He was lucky to catch me! He should be grateful I even looked at him twice! I could have had any man, any man but I chose him!”
“Ah, but she has the one thing that you do not.”
That brought her up short. “What?”
“A heart.”
Her face froze in a mask of hatred. “You are—you are nothing.”
“And you are an evil hag.” His tone was flat.
“Give me what I want!” She was shrieking now.
So many women believed themselves the victim, when in actual fact their so-called righteous retaliation was far worse in character than whatever had been done to them. Or what they imagined had been done to them. So many crowed over others’ misfortunes, extoling the law of the harvest. And yet when that same law came back to them, they wailed to the Gods and called themselves ill-used. He’d seen it before, a thousand times. Indeed he’d memorized a passage in the East: truth is the harvest scythe. What is sown—love or anger or bitterness—that shall be your bread.
But among mortals, he’d also learned, the law of the harvest applied only to others.
He took a step toward her. Even drawing from Isla, he still had to feed. And he was, too, aware of Isla’s limitations. She was young yet, an infant to this new world, needing her own reserves of strength. He’d been greedy, these past few weeks, out of necessity rather than indifference. He simply hadn’t had the time to hunt. But he’d seen the toll he’d taken on her, and vowed to do better.
Isla, always thin, had become gaunt. Dark circles haunted her eyes. He’d noticed them that morning, and been disturbed. Her usual cheerful self, she’d eaten six eggs and then complained of a headache and returned to their room to rest.
He took another step forward, and another.
Although she hadn’t yet accepted this fact, not fully, Isla had thrown her lot in with a monster.
The woman’s cloak was, indeed, expensive. She took a quick step backward, the flash of ermine lining showing silver in the moonlight. She took another step back, and another, stumbling in the snow. He held her gaze as he advanced and saw the fear bloom in them.
He could smell her fear. Almost taste it. His own eyes widened until the whites around the irises were gone, twin pools of night. He smiled then, baring his perfect and very white teeth. Her eyes were twin pools, absorbing and reflecting the light.
“You—you must serve me,” she gasped.
This wasn’t her script.
“The Dark Lord takes.” Tristan paused. “He doesn’t give. And He doesn’t let others decide His sacrifices.” The Gods, like Tristan, chose those for Themselves.
His fingers fastened on her throat, digging in to the soft flesh. She made an odd sound, and then she made no sound as he cut off her air. To murder a child was the most heinous of all crimes. Unnatural for all species. Even his. He might have no soul, as those around him understood the term, but a demon would die to protect its young.
A shudder ran through her. The final embrace, the final transfer of essences, was almost sexual. From a distance, he might indeed be mistaken for her lover as he held her close, her ribs cracking against him. Worm-riddled driftwood against steel.
Yes, the Dark Lord took. And there was no better sacrifice than one who richly deserved death. He bent down, lapping at the blood that pooled beneath his fingers. Hot, copper and salt. Like tears. Her skin was alabaster in the moonlight. Her blood black.
A cold, unforgiving goddess that stared down at them.
Seeing all, judging nothing.
EIGHTEEN
“Welcome back.”
Well that’s banal. But Hart couldn’t open his mouth to form the words. All he could do was stare.
He wanted to tell Callas that Callas should have thought of something more grandiose, for a man who’d escaped death. Should have recited a poem, or something. That Callas had a reputation to uphold, as the Scourge of the North, and right now he wasn’t doing much of a job. He was, indeed, entirely too cheerful.
All that came out, after what felt like a millennium of effort, was a small croak.
Callas didn’t respond. Not for a long while. He was sitting next to Hart, on a small stool that had seen better seasons. Hart was on some sort of pallet. He could feel the straw beneath him. A good sign, he supposed. Although he couldn’t move himself to itch. The straw beneath him, digging into his skin…and behind his neck, the trickle of a louse. He grimaced. He’d gotten used to his feather mattress. Even in such a short time his previous life, in Enzie, seemed like truly that. He couldn’t relate, now, to the man who’d bedded down with lice every night.
All he wanted—and he could scarcely credit the thought, as commonplace as it had become—was a bath.
They were in a dimly lit hut. Hart no doubt occupied the sleeping quarters of its former master. A fire burned in the hearth, smelling of dung.
Callas dipped a washcloth into the bucket beside him, and resumed bathing Hart’s wounds. “You took over a hundred cuts.” He re-wetted the washcloth and wrung it out again, creating a tinkling sound. “Or rather, I reached one hundred and stopped counting.”
Callas had stitched Hart up himself, then. Hart wasn’t surprised. So much of the magic for which they were feared was simple skill and Callas, like many in the Duke’s guard, knew the art of mending flesh. Hart was thankful he’d been unconscious.
He wished he were still.
Callas uncorked a skin, and held it to Hart’s lips. Well-watered wine. He drank thirstily, little runnels tracking down his chin. Like a babe, heedless of his place in the world. He’d be shitting himself soon. If he hadn’t already.
He realized, with a jolt, that he didn’t know how long he’d slept. Every inch of him ached, and his lips were as dry and cracked as old parchment. Gods.
Callas seemed to read his mind. “A day and a night. Not long.” A brief smile twisted his lips. “Your service to your Lord isn’t done.” And by Lord, he didn’t mean Tristan.
“You ranted and raved.” He peeled back the bandages on Hart’s side and peered at the flesh in the gloom. Infection could kill where wounds couldn’t; and while a man might survive a sword thrust through sheer force of will, there was no will strong enough to overcome the creeping red rash.
Reaching behind him, Callas picked up a bottle. Brass, with a wide bottom and a tall, narrow neck. He pulled the cork with a loud, sucking pop and a foul odor filled the room. Hart winced. A minute later, as the brown fluid hit his skin, he gasped. Garlic, leeks, red wine, grain alcohol and cow bile, brewed in a brass cauldron for nine days and then let sit for another nine days. Nine, the number of the Goddess.
“Copper and bile salts halt the poison.” Callas’ tone was conversational. “The garlic prevents the poison from rooting.”
“And what…does the alcohol do?” Hart gasped.
Callas splashed more on him. This time, Hart was sure, just to be cruel. Everywhere the liquid landed was fire.
“Toughens you up.”
Wasn’t he tough enough already? Hadn’t he survived? Hart grimaced as another louse investigated his hairline. He’d have to shave his head again, and bathe in wormwood.
Then again, perhaps not. He knew full well that none from Barghast could ever see him like this, prone while Callas played nursemaid, or he’d never be frightening again. The dreaded Viper, stinking of sickness and barely able to lift his own head. Not frightening, he’d be a laughing stock.
He wished, briefly, that it were Lissa instead of Callas here with him. And then wondered at the thought. Who was she? A farm girl. A prostitute. Undoubtedly spreading her legs for some man at that exact moment. An idea that Hart found strangely unsettling. Images flickered in his mind, unbidden. And unwanted.
Did those men give her pleasure?
Had he?
“What are you thinking of?”
“Nothing.”
“Hm.” And then, “does nothing have a name?”
“No.”
“Hm.” Curse that man and his hm. “In case you’re wondering, you’re still intact. Although I wouldn’t attempt to prove that, at least not for a week or so or you might find yourself fucking your own intestines. You took a sword thrust right to the gut.” That must have been the icy feeling that Hart remembered. “That it missed anything vital is a miracle.”
Hart worked himself up to speak again. “How?”
Callas, once again, knew what his friend was asking. “When I realized we’d been betrayed—and should have earlier; I’ve cursed myself for that many times, believe me—I took those men I could call to me and headed into the hills. The traitors ignored us, after that. Thought we were like them.” Men always did. They, themselves had turned coat; they’d expect to see that in others. Which Callas had clearly used to his advantage.
“We tracked around the village widdershins and came down through the rear.”
Where the village backed up into the sloping foothills, Callas meant. The town’s natural defense. No one, Callas went on to explain, had been set to guard them from that direction as what would have been the point? Callas, Hart, and their men were coming up from below. And should have, had the traitors planned their ambush just a little bit better, been trapped within the village grounds. These men hadn’t been disciplined fighters. Not on the balance. But what they’d lost in finesse they’d more than made up for in numbers. Five traitors for every one of the Duke’s soldiers. That they had been the Duke’s soldiers was what, in the end, had saved them.
“We found you,” Callas said, “under Bjorn’s body.” Bjorn, it seemed, had risen up at the last minute and struck about him like a whirlwind. Calling upon the superhuman strength of the hopeless. Bjorn had known, from the minute he’d opened that door, that he was going to die. As had Hart.
Yet why was Hart still here?
“He called me a werewolf.”
Hart turned his he
ad and stared into the gloom. He couldn’t have articulated his feelings to Callas at that moment if he’d tried. Couldn’t even make sense of them, himself. Some werewolf he’d been. He’d only been saved by a freak accident. Not his own heroism. Bjorn had a family. Who would tell them? Who would care for them?
Bjorn was the better man. The man more deserving of life. He knew that if he voiced that thought aloud, he’d get a speech about making Bjorn’s sacrifice an honor. Carrying on Bjorn’s legacy through choosing those paths, which he would have walked. But Hart didn’t even want to make the trek overland, to Bjorn’s home. To give the news of his passing in person. Let another man do it, a traitorous little voice whispered. A man who was less important.
Hart knew, on some level, that he wasn’t being entirely selfish. He did have more important things to do. The good of the kingdom was more vital to everyone, including Bjorn’s family, than a sentimental gesture. He had to get back home. To tell Tristan of what he knew.
If only he could leave this cursed bed.
He tried to sit up and Callas pushed him back down as easily as if he’d been a kitten. Hart drew in a deep breath, and coughed. Even that small effort had exhausted him.
“A few more days won’t make a difference.” His friend’s tone was resigned.
In the fireplace, a log popped.
Somewhere outside, on the other side of the wall, a deep voice cursed.
The wind had picked up. Hart could hear it howling in the chimney. He wondered if there would be more snow. He wondered, too, how Isla was faring. Less vexing was the question of Rowena, and whether she, too, had survived the winter. Survived to marry Rudolph, the wretch. That man’s predicament was precisely why Hart was never getting married.
If any woman would have him, which she wouldn’t. Hart knew full well that he’d made himself unfit for human consumption. Oh, women still bedded him, as they had before. But not, now, he suspected, because they found him charming. Women were scared of him. Men, too. And fear was, in and of itself, an aphrodisiac. At least for some. They wanted, not Hart, but to attach themselves to power.
