But no, that could not be. He wondered a bit at the “pardon” for such a man as that, but he’d not ask Evie. Others would tell him the tale. Still . . . He moved to stand at her shoulder. “That one has a long, hard road before him,” he said.
Evelyn nodded. “They’ll pursue him.”
“The Queen’s men?” Cenwulf asked.
“And his own demons, I think.” Evelyn sighed. “Well, the Lady of Laughter placed him on the road, but he has to walk it.”
“Aye.” Cenwulf lifted his head. “Sounds like the ceremony is done. You best be getting to wherever Fat Belly told ya to be.”
Evelyn nodded, shivering slightly. Her hair was covered with droplets of water, lit by the torches in the courtyard. She turned to go, but Cenwulf laid a hand on her arm. “You gave him your old red war-cloak, lass.”
Evie smiled and wrinkled her nose at him. “I did, didn’t I? Not likely I’ll need it in the future.”
Cenwulf gave her a narrow look.
Evelyn moved then, shaking her head. “Don’t worry so, Cenwulf. Damp or dry will make no difference to the Archbishop.”
She walked toward the church proper, and Cenwulf watched her go before turning back to his duties. She’d made a muddle in her haste, digging through the piles. He’d set the place to rights, so’s no one would ask questions. He limped inside slowly, shaking his head at the slovenliness of the young.
And the foolishness of a woman.
LORD of Light, but Evelyn was a beauty.
Eidam, Archbishop of the Church of Palins, eased his bulk into the chair in his private audience chamber, glad to be off his aching feet. As befitted his rank, the chair was on a dais, gilded and ornate, with a cloth of state suspended over it. The chair was ample, designed to be comfortable for a man of his substance. Behind it, on a thick tapestry, was the sun, its rays extending to the far walls, gold on a field of red. Red and gold, fitting colors for the Lord of Light’s representative and spokesman.
He sat back with a grunt of relief.
If the ceremony had taken place in the church, as was traditional, he’d have had a similar chair, close to the throne, for his comfort and ease. But instead he’d had to stand for hours by the throne, conducting the ceremony, waiting on the young Queen. It had been cursed hot, and he’d sweated all through the ceremony, making his skin itch. They’d shown no consideration for a man of his rank and stature, which had done nothing to improve his temper.
Even as the pain in his feet eased, his loins stirred. He’d long fantasized about this: Evelyn on her knees before him, soft and malleable. Repentant. Willing.
Pity about the witnesses.
He darted a look around the room, at the brethren lining the walls. Pity. But this had to be done publicly, to reinforce his position both as the head of the Church and as an adviser to the young Queen. Lady High Priestess Evelyn had to be punished for her arrogance and disobedience.
He twitched his robes into place as the other members of the order continued to file into the room to line the walls. Evelyn remained where she was, gazing down at the floor.
His anger flared. She’d best keep those lovely eyes on the floor.
But the anger was a mistake, because his stomach started cramping again. He’d gone for hours without food or drink. He gestured to his aide, who came forward with a goblet. Cow’s milk. He wrinkled his nose, and waved it away. “Wine. Spiced and warmed.”
His aide frowned, but Eidam would have none of it, no matter what the healers might say. At the end of a long, hard day, a man deserved a bit of wine.
He turned back, and glared at the woman on her knees in the center of the room. He’d had an eye on Evelyn since she’d first entered the Order, with her white hair and pale blue eyes. Under those white robes, he was certain, there was a body equally pleasing.
She’d advanced within the Order on her own merits, he’d grant her that, and seemed a true daughter of the Church. He’d risen as well, and if his advancement had been based more on his politics than on his faith, well, that was just how things were done.
He’d seen many approach her over the years, and be gently rebuffed. He’d decided to wait and watch, certain that when he rose to a position of prominence, she’d consider his suit for her hand an honor.
Now, come to discover that she’d had her own plans for advancement all along. The prophecy of the Chosen was nonsense, of course, but she’d made it happen, hadn’t she? And all his well-laid plans with the Regent and Elanore had gone by the wayside when the Chosen had returned to claim the Throne. Eidam narrowed his eyes at the thought of all the time he’d spent working his way into the confidence of the Regent.
His aide brought the wine in a jeweled goblet, and Eidam gulped it. Spiced and warm, exactly as he’d ordered. It slid down his throat, such a comfort after a long day.
One had to be flexible, of course. It had been expedient and easy enough to welcome the Chosen within the city, and recognize her as the claimant for the Throne. His quick action had solidified Gloriana’s position and his—that is to say, the Church’s—and that was all to the good.
But it would have been far better had Blackhart been silenced. Their dealings had never been direct, but one never knew. His past actions might not seem . . . appropriate . . . to the young Queen.
Eidam smacked his lips and set the goblet on the aide’s tray.
High Priest Dominic finally came through the doors at the far end of the room and closed them behind him, signaling that all members of the Order were within. The tall half-elf strode forward as Eidam twitched his hand to indicate a place at his side. Tall, straight, his long black hair flowing loose over his back, Dominic gave Evelyn a troubled glance as he crossed the floor. There was another who’d been rebuffed but who still hungered. Eidam recognized the signs.
Dominic came and stood next to him. The room grew silent.
“Lady High Priestess Evelyn,” Eidam began, drawing a deep breath to help cool his rage.
Evelyn lifted her head, and looked him in the eye. There was no sorrow there, no repentance.
The Archbishop gripped the arms of his chair and leaned forward, keeping his voice low and reasonable.
“Our order is one of service and obedience. Obedience to the will of the Lord of Light, whose energies direct our days and our nights, and order our lives. Obedience to the will of those set above us. We seek no greater glory than service.”
She opened her mouth, as if to argue with him. He raised a hand, cutting her off.
“You have taken much upon yourself, Lady, without consulting with your superiors. Sought to bring glory to yourself, raise yourself up in the eyes of the Kingdom.”
Evelyn’s blue eyes flashed, but she lowered her gaze and said nothing.
“Your intentions may have been the best, and we will admit that the end result for Palins may be a positive outcome—but at the peril of your vows to the Lord of Light and to your immortal soul.”
Eidam reached for his goblet, took another gulp, and settled farther back in his chair. He was still angry, but his rage was contained, his voice low and moderate. Everyone in the room was focused on his words. Satisfied, he continued. “This moral corruption is evident in your use of the boon before the Court this day. A wonderful gift from a grateful sovereign, and you use it to release an enemy of this land, a foul villain now free to go his way and work his evil on our people. With a horse and a sword, no less. I’m surprised you didn’t ask that he be awarded lands and power as well. A seat on the Council, perhaps?” Eidam leaned forward. “Or perhaps your motivations are less than pure, eh? He is comely. You were his prisoner. Have you broken your vows of chastity, as well?”
Her cheeks were splotched with color now, and Eidam knew it wasn’t a maidenly blush. Evelyn was furious, but her voice was calm. “No, Holy One.”
Eidam leaned back. “Now the Kingdom is at peace, with a new Queen on the throne. Challenges lie ahead, and much work needs to be done. But we feel that, for the sake of your
spiritual well-being, you need a time of retreat. Meditation, prayer, rest, along with hard physical work. It clears the mind and does wonders for the body as well.
“We will grant you this respite,” he continued, “to contemplate your actions and to see the error of your ways. There is a shrine to the Lady on Farentell’s distant border that has been long neglected. Since you claim that the voice of our Lord’s Consort directed you, you will honor her by restoring it with your labor. For the benefit of the wild animals and the most determined of penitents.
“During this time, I forbid you the use of the portals. I forbid you the use of the sacred and secular magics that you wield. I forbid you to leave the boundaries of the shrine until such time as I see fit to summon you to my presence.”
“My Lord Archbishop”—Dominic raised his voice—“do the usual exceptions apply?”
“Yes, yes.” Eidam was none too pleased at the interruption. “I’ve a mage waiting to open the portal for her. Escort her there, Priest Dominic.”
Dominic bowed, and went to Evelyn’s side as she rose to her feet. The anger was still in her eyes, but that would fade. A few weeks, maybe a month, and she’d be humbled and pliable enough.
Eidam watched in satisfaction as they left, and the other brethren filed out, talking among themselves. A good day’s work.
His belly rumbled then. He burped, the spiced wine filling his mouth with a sour taste.
TWELVE
BLACKHART grabbed a handful of hair, yanked the boy’s head back, and pressed his dagger into the boy’s neck.
The weeks he’d spent gathering his men together, securing this one town, fortifying its walls. Stuffing it full to the rafters with the surviving people of the Black Hills. All that work and effort, and this little shit fell asleep on watch.
The boy’s eyes flew wide open, still clouded with sleep. With a gasp, he reached up to grab Blackhart’s arm. His leg kicked out, sending his quiver over on its side, spilling the arrows.
The wind caught Blackhart’s red cloak, and it flared out behind him. He stood, his knee braced against the boy’s back, next to the arrow slit he’d been assigned.
Blackhart leaned down and put his lips to the boy’s ear. “The next time I find you sleeping on watch, I’ll kill you. Understand?”
The boy’s eyes got even bigger. He nodded slowly and swallowed hard, his throat moving under the blade.
Blackhart released him, letting him fall back in his haste to get away. Without another glance, Blackhart walked on, furious. He sheathed his dagger, growling under his breath as he stalked off, determined to check the wall for other slackers.
There was a snort from the shadows, and Archer emerged from the darkness, falling in step beside him. “We’re not gonna have anyone left to stand watch, you keep scaring them like that.”
Blackhart stopped, and sucked in a deep breath. The air was cool, with a taint of something foul. He looked out over the wooden wall, over the area they’d cleared between the wall and the woods. Poor Wareington, once a thriving town at the crossroads of the Black Hills. Now. . . .
Blackhart gave Archer a glance. “He’s old enough to learn. And fear’s a good teacher.”
“Aye”—Archer gave him a nod—“but I’m thinking a blade to the neck is a bit severe for a lad nodding off on his watch for the first time.”
“Better me than an odium tearing out his heart,” Blackhart growled.
Archer straightened. “I’ll check the rest. You’re overdue a meal and a bed.”
Blackhart grunted, and turned to look along the wall. “We should add a bit more height, a few more logs.”
Archer shrugged, stepping out to take a look. “We can, but last I heard, odium don’t climb nothing. Considering we’ve only been at this three weeks, I’d say we were doing well.”
“We’ll do better when the attacks stop,” Blackhart said.
“Were there injuries in the last one?” Archer asked.
“Nothing fatal,” Blackhart answered.
“Then it’s my turn to stand watch,” Archer said firmly. He nodded toward a ladder that led down off the wall. “Go get something to eat, and catch some sleep. If the horn sounds, ignore it. I’ll see to it.”
“What’s the latest head count?” Blackhart asked.
“Dorne will know.” Archer wrinkled his nose. “You step in something?”
Blackhart looked down at his boots. “I think the boy shat himself.”
Archer stepped back. “You might see to that, too. I’ll check the watch.”
Blackhart stomped off the wall and headed toward the center of town, where the inn still stood tall.
Town. Blackhart snorted. Not much of one when they’d found it, that was certain. But it had been in better shape than any of the others, and already had a wooden palisade, so it had been the easiest to defend. So town it was, because town it had to be.
Three weeks it had been now. Three weeks since he’d found Archer and a few of the others, and started the campaign to clear the odium. Three weeks since they’d gathered people here, in a strong, defensible position. There’d be no crops planted this year. Instead, Blackhart had them out gleaning the fields as best they could, with warriors watching over them every minute. Winter was coming, and they’d need the protection of the town and what food they could gather to survive the cold.
None too pleased, the folk he’d roused from every farm and croft he could find. They’d fought his decision to round them up. Fought him on being told what to do and how to do it. But most saw reason once they were within the walls, and not cowering in their farmsteads as odium overran their lands, seeking out the living. There were some who didn’t understand, and spoke against his actions, but they were few and far between.
Not that Blackhart cared. He’d be the cruel bastard they feared, so long as they survived to curse him.
Three weeks. A good start, to his way of thinking.
Blackhart yanked open the door of the inn, and stepped into a blast of heat and noise.
It made sense to cram people together, for warmth and safety. Every square yard of the inn held a body.
Men gathered at the inn to share the evening meal, discuss the defense of the walls, and learn their assignments. The women were more spread out, caring for the children, both their own and those without parents.
The room went silent as he entered.
There was a scent of many bodies, roasting meat, and fried white root. He moved into the room, ignoring the stares. Instead, he focused on one of the lasses serving the meal. “Dorne?”
“With the children, Milord.” She gave him a calm look as she balanced platters. She’d been one of the first they’d “rescued,” and she’d grown used to his ways.
After a quick nod he headed up the stairs, taking them two at a time. The conversations started again behind him.
“Rescue,” some called it; others called it conscription. But with the living gathered inside this town, the attacks could be fought off without much loss of life. Or, worse, having the living dragged off to be used to make more of the monsters.
He moved up to the third floor. Here the common hall had been turned into a nursery. The children gathered here were orphans, brought together to make it easier for those who cared for them. All sizes and ages. The babes were tended by the elders who could be spared from the work. The children all helped, even the toddlers.
Blackhart had set two of the most experienced warriors here as well. There was little chance that the odium would get this far, but he’d take no chances.
The guards gave him a nod as he came up the stairs.
“All’s well?” he asked.
“Aye,” the far one answered, “but a few of the older ones are asking for swords. They want to help.”
Blackhart paused at that. “Worth training?”
“Might could be.”
“Wooden daggers, then. Teach ’em the basics.” Blackhart sighed. “And teach them about the odium.”
“Bella will not be happy at that,” the younger one said.
Blackhart rolled his eyes. “When is she ever?”
The guards both chuckled as Blackhart stepped within the hall.
The fireplace at the far end was lit, with the children clustered about. Dorne was seated on a stool, talking quietly. Probably telling them one of his parables.
Blackhart moved away from the door, ducking his head to stand between the beams. The room was dark, with no windows, but it was warm and dry and secure. A little darkness never hurt anyone.
Off to the side a few women sat, some with babes at the breast. Orrin knew that the mothers were passing the babes around, sharing their milk with the ones whose mothers had died. Other women were there as well, taking each child as it finished, and putting it to the shoulder. One of the women rose, and crossed to greet him with a babe on her shoulder and a glare in her eyes. “Blackhart.”
“Bella.” Blackhart crossed his arms over his chest, preparing for battle. Bella had been in one of the first villages they’d come across, guarding a group of children who’d lost their parents. She’d been armed with a fry pan and not much else.
“Any deaths?” she asked as she adjusted the babe, making sure the rag was well placed before she started to pat its back.
“None,” Orrin replied.
She nodded, rocking the child slightly. “Sidian and Reader brought in three more families this day.” Bella continued to pat the babe. “Dorne has the details.”
“Good,” Blackhart grunted. “Any more warriors?” He watched Dorne look his way and rise from his stool, to the dismay and protest of the young ones.
“No, but word is spreading of your promise,” Bella said softly.
Might as well get it over with. “I’m told the older children are asking for swords.”
Bella gave him a resigned look. “Aye.”
“We’ll see to some training,” Blackhart said.
Bella sighed. “With any luck, there will be more warriors in the next week.”
The babe on her shoulder burped, spitting up on the rag. Bella shifted him again, wiping his mouth. The babe stared at Blackhart, then his eyes started to drift shut as he yawned.
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