by Tim Akers
“I don’t know,” he admitted, “but I think I found the others he was talking about. Men of Thyber, long dead. I wonder what they were doing in the Fen?”
“An interesting question for a later time,” Elsa said. Ian raised his brows.
“Do you want me to cut you free?” he asked.
“No, Ian. I want you to leave me to die,” she said tightly. “You idiot.”
Ian reached for his sword, then remembered. There was a knife in his boot, though, so he drew that and started working on the tangle of branches that held Sir LaFey in place. The wood was tough, the bark cutting his knuckles as he sawed through it, and the flesh beneath was dense and fibrous. Still he cut and cut, his own blood running down his fingers until the handle of the knife was red and slick.
The first branch snapped, and then another. He burrowed deeper into the tangle of wood, grabbing handfuls of branches and putting them to the knife. The tree creaked around him.
“Careful,” Elsa hissed. Ian glanced up with a smile.
“Don’t worry. It’s not like you’re going to fall or anything.”
“No, you idiot! The tree!”
Ian looked back down at his hands. Thin branches were cradling his wrists, and as he jerked his arms back they looped as tight as a snare, trapping him. He yelped, and started cutting at his restraints, but other branches coiled closer, hooking into his elbows, twining between his fingers, drinking the blood of his wounds.
He dropped the knife and watched as the tree pulled it away, wrapping it in wicker until it disappeared. Ian fell backward, winning free of the trap but barely catching himself before he fell. Elsa watched with a frown as he scrambled to find his footing.
“My hero,” she muttered.
“That didn’t go as planned.”
“No?” she said. “And here I thought your goal was to be caught here with me, that we might spend eternity in this nightmare.” She closed her eyes and leaned back, sighing mightily. “The horses had the right of it.”
“I’ll find the gheist,” Ian insisted. “I’ll get him to let us go.”
“Without so much as a knife? Perhaps you can trick him with your clever wordplay.”
“I’ll think of something.”
“Yes,” Elsa said. “I’m sure you will.”
He grimaced, and started climbing again. Quickly the fog hid Elsa from his sight. He climbed for what felt like an eternity, and then he climbed some more.
Elsa’s tangled cage came into view again.
He looked around and there, just to one side, was the tree of dead Tenerrans, looking more wasted than before. He was going in circles, and time was moving in ways that made no sense. Ian settled against the nearest trunk and closed his eyes. He wondered why he wasn’t tired, or if maybe he was so tired that he couldn’t tell the difference. He stared at the swirling fog where the tree’s canopy should be, and then he realized that his eyes were closed, but he could still see.
He opened his eyes. Nothing changed.
“Night,” he whispered to himself. “Night and the land of dreams… and so the logic of dreams.”
Ian shimmied along the trunk toward where the canopy should be, getting closer and closer to the fog. The tree branched, the limbs getting thinner and thinner until they creaked under Ian’s weight. A crown of dry leaves shook free, spinning down into the distance. He reached the tip of the tree. There was nothing beyond it but fog.
So he jumped.
5
THE STONES WERE stained with the blood of the choir. Rough rows of barrels and broken wood served as pews, while the altar had mostly survived the attack of the feral god. There was still much work to be done.
The shell of the doma was shattered, patched with canvas and clapboard, the air still raw with the stink of massacre. Most of the repairs had been done by volunteers, faithful soldiers and stewards who wanted to return the sanctuary to a place of worship. Malcolm had served more than one shift among the rubble, dressed in simple linens, lending a hand where he was able.
The room was silent when he entered, though not empty. Duke Lorien Roard sat next to the altar, sleep still heavy on his face, wrapped in a cloak of black leather that was apparently insufficient against the cold. Castian Jaerdin, still dressed in his furs and misery, stood at his side. The Suhdrins were separated from the rest of the lords of Tenumbra.
Grant MaeHerron, along with Ewan Thaen and Manson Dougal, lingered among the ruined pews. Those three were the last Tenerran lords who had sworn to the Fen Gate’s defense. Another man stood nearby, his back to the wall, dressed in simple mail and resting his hands on the hilt of his battered sword. When Malcolm came in, this man started and nearly drew his blade. Malcolm gave him a nod.
“You must be Sir Gast, Rudaine’s man,” Malcolm said. The knight grunted and offered a hand for Malcolm to shake. “It is good of you to offer your leadership at this time. It is more than your lord could have asked.”
“He can’t ask me anything from the grave,” Gast said, “and it matters little enough. I was brought up to lead men in battle, and this is close enough to battle to not make a difference.”
“Is there any word from the Drowned Hall? Rudaine’s heir must have heard of his fate by now?” Malcolm asked. “I sent a rider with his helm and my sympathies.”
“Aye, and we thank you for that. Lady Mariah wasn’t happy to be left behind. She may command us back, or she may join us here. Or neither. Or both.” Gast shrugged mightily. He had scars all along the back of his neck, and more on his scalp and hands. His hair, gray-black and bristly, was patchy around the white skin of old wounds.
Malcolm thought that they must be of an age, he and this grizzled knight. He couldn’t help but wonder if he looked as roughly handled. When he took Gast’s hand and shook it, there was great strength there.
Turning toward the rest of the gathering, Malcolm walked to the center of the room. They watched him nervously. Other than the handful of torches that flickered throughout the chamber, there was no heat among the stones, and little light.
“So, you have us here, torn from our beds and our duties,” Lorien Roard said. The duke of Stormwatch looked miserable, and he made no effort to keep it from his voice. “To what purpose, Houndhallow?”
“I have a guess,” Castian muttered. “Though I doubt it will bring us any joy.”
“Yes,” Malcolm acknowledged, “we’ve had a messenger. Duke Jaerdin was with me when I received him. Heartsbridge has sent us an inquisitor. He will be here in the morning.”
“Couldn’t be soon enough, as far as I’m concerned,” MaeHerron said. “It will take more than our narrow faith to cleanse Adair’s curse from these stones.”
“Do we trust the inquisition to do that?” Manson Dougal asked. “It was Sacombre who brought a god of death to our walls, and stirred Suhdra to war under false pretenses.”
“Hardly false,” MaeHerron said, giving his fellow Tenerran a sidelong look. “There can be no doubt as to Colm Adair’s heresy.”
“Nor Sacombre’s,” Roard answered. “Though I don’t imagine those wash each other out.”
“If we’re not going to trust the inquisition, then who can we place our faith in?” MaeHerron snapped. His lands sat in the shadow of Cinderfell, the shrine of Lord Cinder and heart of the inquisition in the north, so his reaction could be anticipated. But it made Malcolm uncomfortable, especially considering the troubles to come. “Sacombre will face his crimes, as Colm Adair never will.”
“Because he’s dead,” Malcolm said. “Listen. There is fault to be found on both sides of this fight. I will welcome the inquisitor when he arrives, and keep an eye on him as he works. A little more discretion on Lord Halverdt’s part might have prevented this entire war.”
“As a little more discretion on your part might have unearthed Adair’s heresy before now. That it took a heretic to reveal a heretic does not speak well of the north,” Roard said from his place by the altar. The rest of the room bristled— even Castia
n Jaerdin. He placed a hand on Roard’s shoulder.
“Let’s not be casting judgment around like seeds to be sown, Stormwatch,” Jaerdin whispered. “We are here as allies, after all.”
“Let’s not forget that this man marched north at Halverdt’s side in the first place,” Dougal said sharply. “I’m not sure why he’s included in this council.”
“He’s here because when our other defenses had fallen, he and his son held the gate against the Suhdrin charge. Without him, most of our host would be dead,” Malcolm said. “Including my son.”
“Where is your son, Houndhallow?” Dougal asked. “I haven’t seen him since the battle. Has he returned to your castle to prepare your defenses, should we fail here?”
“He travels with the vow knight, Sir Elsa LaFey, seeking Gwendolyn Adair,” Malcolm answered. “Against my urging, of course.”
“And your wife?”
“She is still recovering from her wounds,” Malcolm answered smoothly, shooting MaeHerron a glance. “I hope to return her to Houndhallow before winter.”
“Hopefully the inquisitor will be able to help with that,” Dougal said. “Though healing is more Strife’s domain.”
“Hopefully,” Malcolm said. “But that is not why I called you together. The church’s messenger also brought word from the south.”
“From Heartsbridge?” Roard asked. “A declaration of the church, or from the Circle of Lords?”
“No declaration of the Suhdrin circle will hold weight in these walls,” Ewan Thaen muttered. “Not while there’s Tenerran blood in my veins.”
“The Circle of Lords is our greatest hope,” Roard snapped. “There is an army outside these walls that is overburdened with grudges. Marchand will stand by Halverdt’s quest, especially now that his accusations against Adair have proven true! And with Emil Fabron dead by your hand, Blakley, his men aren’t going to skulk back to the Black Mountain—not without a taste of vengeance.”
“LaGaere returned south, but probably to raise more banners and stir the hearts of Suhdra,” Jaerdin interrupted. “He left most of his men behind, with orders to keep us bottled up until he returned.”
“Exactly, and it’s not like any of you are going to surrender the Fen Gate without a fight,” Roard continued.
“These are Tenerran stones, and this is Tenerran soil,” Thaen said simply. “Tenerran lives will defend it.”
“Tainted with Tenerran heresy,” Jaerdin muttered, but Roard ignored him.
“Which is why we must put our hope in the Circle of Lords,” Roard said. “If cooler heads prevail in Suhdra, they can convince those who remain here to come home.”
“For now at least, it would be a false hope,” Malcolm said. “The messenger spoke very loosely, but it seems as if the hosts of Suhdra are marching north.”
“We’ve faced many of their number already,” MaeHerron said. “How many could remain?”
“Many of them scattered when the…” Roard paused, looking uncomfortably around the ruined doma. “When Lady Gwen appeared. Those banners would need to be gathered again, and if the Circle has committed to deciding this matter by force, they could call many more swords from their vassals. There wasn’t time to draw more than a small portion of our strength when Halverdt made his plea.”
“And now they march into the teeth of winter,” Jaerdin muttered. “Better to have waited until spring, or at least tried to negotiate a peace that would have let them withdraw to Greenhall.”
“Perhaps they will come no farther than Halverdt’s border,” Dougal said.
“Not if they intend to maintain a force here,” Roard answered. “Right now their supply line crosses at White Lake and travels through as much forest as it does over roads.”
“Aye,” Thaen said with a smile. “The Reaveholt still stands.” On the road from Greenhall and the Fen Gate, that castle defended the only true bridge across the Tallow. It was still manned by vassals of House Adair, though word of the heresy had thrown their loyalty into question. For the moment, they had denied passage to the Suhdrin forces determined to lay siege to the Gate. “Any battle there will be bloody.”
“Unless they surrender out of faith to the church, and to keep the inquisition from laying Adair’s sins at their feet,” Dougal said glumly.
“They’ve been true to their watch so far,” Malcolm said. “Let’s not doubt them just yet, nor seek out reasons for them to die, either.”
“What do you mean by that?” Castian asked.
“Simply that we must decide what to do with the Fen Gate. Not tonight, not immediately, but soon.” Malcolm did a slow march around the room. “Stormwatch is right. There are deep grudges on both sides of this fight. They are going to be difficult to untangle, and bloody, as well. Worse, the fate of this castle itself must be known.” He paused, letting the idea sink in. “House Adair is destroyed. Only Lady Gwendolyn remains, and she will not be sitting the Sedgewind throne anytime soon. If she’s ever found.
“The barony may pass to another of Adair’s kith,” he continued, “but who among them will be trusted by Suhdra? Or their fellow Tenerrans, for that matter? Who among us doubted Colm’s faith, and the faith of his family? And yet here we stand, in the wreckage of his heresy.”
“Would you claim this holding for your own, Malcolm?” Ewan Thaen asked guardedly. “Not that I have any problem with that, but there will be other claims.”
“No, I would not. Even if Tener wanted to give it to me, there is too much trouble in the Fen. Trouble I don’t want,” Malcolm replied. “And even if I did claim it, would the people of the Fen accept me? Can they be trusted? How broad was Adair’s sin? How many witches make their homes in Fenton, or the forests beyond?”
“We can’t very well put the entire holding on trial,” MaeHerron muttered. “Putting a good Tenerran lord on the Sedgewind throne would do much to ease my mind— though I think the claims of Finnen or MaeGallon might carry more weight.”
“Where are Finnen and MaeGallon?” Dougal asked. “When Lady Blakley called for banners, did they come? If this matter isn’t going to be settled by inheritance, then shouldn’t it be won in battle? Of all the dukes I see in this room, I am the only baron who would benefit from the holding.”
“And so it begins,” Sir Gast said sharply. “The cake topples from the table, and all the dogs come running.”
“Who the fuck are you, anyway?” Dougal snapped. “I don’t remember asking a servant’s opinion on the matter!”
“My lord died holding this border,” Gast answered smoothly. “I will not see it handed over to the first baron who chooses to speak up.”
“We’re not handing anything over to anyone,” Malcolm said quickly, “and keep in mind, this is no boon. Anyone who holds these walls will suffer the endless attention of the inquisition and the mistrust of all Suhdra. Greenhall isn’t going to become a friendly hearth, simply because Gabriel Halverdt has died.”
“If anything, Lady Sophie is going to want that death atoned,” Castian said. “Though gods know whether she will seek payment from the church, or from the north.”
“Perhaps the church could assume command of the castle?” Roard suggested. “See the walls made holy and the border calm.” At that the entire room tensed up. MaeHerron and Gast spat dismissively, while Dougal laughed. Even Jaerdin covered his face with a weary hand.
“That may have worked when you had a king who needed usurping, and the church was the best answer,” Malcolm said. “But it will never be tolerated in the north, not even in a holding as troubled as the Fen.” He shook his head. “Tenerran blood for Tenerran thrones.”
“And look how well that has worked,” Roard snapped. “You can’t turn a tribe into a great house just by giving it a name and a motto. Nobility does not sit well on the shoulders of savage men!”
At that the blades came out—MaeHerron first, then Gast and Dougal and finally Malcolm, if only to keep the peace. Castian Jaerdin backed away from the altar, drawing his sword reluctantl
y.
Roard only laughed.
“You would butcher a Suhdrin duke who chooses to join your cause?” he said. “Fine, then spill my blood, and see what becomes of that army that is marching to your door.” Roard stood abruptly. “Malcolm, I have had enough of this discussion. I will stand at your side because of our friendship, and because Sacombre’s war was built on lies and fear. Yet you can’t solve this with threats. Send word to the Circle of Lords. Sue for peace. Or find your help in the church. But I don’t think you want the kind of war that Heartsbridge can wage.”
“No, my friend, I don’t,” Malcolm agreed. “And neither do you.” Roard stood stiffly for a minute, then sighed and collapsed into his chair.
“Fatigue sharpens my tongue, but not my mind,” he said. “Forgive me, gentlemen. I misspoke.”
There was silence, finally broken by the rasp of swords returning to sheaths. Malcolm was about to continue when the door opened. Sir Caris Doone entered the room. She was dressed for war, as she had been every day since the Fen Gate fell. She nodded around the room, then turned to Malcolm.
“Lord Blakley?” she asked, then motioned toward the door. “The inquisitor is here.”
6
THE WIDE, MUDDY track the Suhdrin army had ground into the earth ran from the Fen Gate straight south. It overlapped the road, stripping the forest bare on either side for half a mile.
Frair Lucas and his escort followed this devastation until the road turned southeast toward the Reaveholt. The army’s path continued south, crossing open fields and ruined brush like a scar. In retreat, the elements of the Suhdrin forces that had fled from the attack of the Fen god had followed the same path in reverse. There were signs of their predation, in ruined wagons and burned homesteads all the way to the horizon.
Lucas paused at the intersection of the two trails. Sir Torvald, his constant companion and frequently miserable host since their departure from the Fen Gate, rode up next to him. The clatter of wagons followed behind.
“The road or the ruin,” Lucas muttered. “Neither an inviting choice.”
