by Tim Akers
“Those times are past, my lord,” Doone said.
“Never to come again, I fear,” Malcolm answered. Doone didn’t answer, but kept her eyes peeled on the trail ahead of them.
A single rider came down the trail, padded armor almost silent as the horse trotted through the mud. Doone whistled, and the rider stopped.
“The trail is as clear as I can see,” the man said.
“But you can’t see us, can you?” Doone asked. “Who’s to say a hundred Suhdrin knights aren’t creeping along the Tallow right now, just out of your blunted sight?”
“I’d have smelled their perfume.”
“Enough,” Malcolm said. He kicked his mount forward, letting the horse pick its own way down the treacherous path. “If there’s three or a thousand, we have to learn to trust them at some point.”
“Any reason they can’t learn to trust us, instead?” Doone asked. It was Malcolm’s turn to not answer.
The riders, ten in all, trotted slowly down the path through the forest. They were near the Reaveholt, even within shouting distance of the celestial lines. It was a foolish place to meet, but it seemed neither Malcolm nor Helenne trusted the other enough to choose anywhere else. Farther north and the Tenerrans would be at the advantage, and to the south the Suhdrin rangers held the trails. So they met in the shadow of their mutual enemy. Perhaps fear would keep them honest.
The trees began to thin, until Malcolm was riding across open ground, broken only by distant copses and a scattering of tall boulders. Another line of trees lay on the other side of the clearing. As Malcolm’s party approached, a figure stepped from the trees. It was the priest, Ysella Rhone, the woman Malcolm had dispatched to make contact with Lady Bassion. Malcolm reined in.
“Are you alone, frair?”
“No. They are here. But they asked that I speak with you first.”
“They don’t trust us?”
“I count ten among you,” Ysella said. “We agreed to three.”
“His lordship would be a fool to ride unaccompanied through enemy territory,” Doone answered. “And I’m sure Lady Bassion has brought her own blades, in case of treachery.”
“A column strong waits behind us,” Ysella said. “On the other side of this copse. Far enough away to remain hidden, but close enough to answer a shout.” The priest glanced over her shoulder. “She told me not to tell you that.”
“A first step toward honesty,” Malcolm said. “And truthfully, we have a similar force to the north, waiting my word. So let us pretend everyone followed the rules. It’s a convenient lie.”
“Yes,” Ysella said.
“Galleydeep wanted you to talk to me first. To what purpose?”
“She wanted to ensure your wife was not with you. Given events at Greenhall—”
“I would not risk my wife on this venture. More importantly, if I fall, she will take command of my army. And gods save you from her fury.”
The priest didn’t answer, turning her head as though listening to something behind her. Finally, she cleared her throat and faced Malcolm again.
“Stay here. I will fetch her ladyship.”
Ysella disappeared once again, quickly blending in with the shadows between the trees. Malcolm wasn’t sure if that was Cinder’s magic or the failing light, but a shiver went through his spine. He turned to Sir Doone.
“If anything goes wrong, ride hellfire for the lines. If Bassion betrays us, my wife must know what happened.”
“If Bassion betrays us, I will stay at your side, and die fighting. As is proper.” Doone loosened her blade in its sheath, smiling. “Have faith in Sorcha. Your wife will know what to do.”
“That’s precisely what I fear.”
Doone was about to answer when the sound of someone approaching through the woods reached them. They sat in silence as three mounted figures resolved from the shadows. One was the priest, riding a gray mare and holding her staff across her saddle. The other Malcolm recognized as Sir Hallister, fully armored. She had not bothered to blacken the steel or muffle the jangling chain of her hauberk. She watched Malcolm with piercing eyes.
Between them rode Helenne Bassion. The duchess of Galleydeep wore a large black robe, gathered in folds that fell across her legs and down the side of her mount. She seemed to have doffed her chain dress and steel helm, though her face was swaddled in shadow. When they stopped, Malcolm brought his horse a little closer, so he wouldn’t have to raise his voice.
“Galleydeep, this is a dangerous place. Let’s be about our business, before the celestials get wind of us. Have you gathered your scattered forces?”
“I have,” Helenne said. Amid the folds of her hood, her voice was soft. “Though I lost many. Nearly half. Ysella tells me you had nothing to do with the attack upon them.”
“I swear it on my father’s grave. On Strife’s bright blade, and Cinder’s cold—”
“I will hear no more of the church from Tenerran mouths,” Helenne said. She threw back her hood, and Malcolm’s answer caught in his throat.
Helenne’s face was marred. Across one cheek and through her eye, a twisting scar burrowed through her flesh, still raw. Whatever weapon had struck her, its blade had traveled across her ear, tearing hair and skin alike. Helenne tilted her head.
“Your gods did this to me, Tenerran,” she said. “Who will answer for them? Whose blood do I have to spill to see Cinder’s justice done?”
6
IAN WAS HAVING trouble sleeping. His old room at Houndhallow, situated over the grand hall and overlooking the keep’s southern approach, held too many memories. Every time he closed his eyes, Ian heard his sister’s voice in his mind, singing childish songs. He heard his mother offering words of comfort, or his father singing the evensong. Old voices, voices from his childhood. And yet not that old. A year past, maybe. A long and strange year, and everything changed in its passing.
Now, Nessie would not meet Ian’s eyes when they passed in the hallway. His sister walked through the keep with a haunted look, jumping every time one of the pagans appeared around a corner. She locked her door at night, and took to carrying a tiny dagger in her belt. Ian sometimes caught her watching him with hooded eyes.
As for his father and mother, gods only knew where they were. But the last time they spoke, Malcolm Blakley had banished his son from the Fen Gate for daring to protect a pagan witch. And his mother… Ian wasn’t sure what to believe about her. He had heard stories that sounded like myths: that the witch’s healing had changed Sorcha Blakley, making her as much gheist as mortal. If the inquisition knew of her, they would likely burn her alive as a feral spirit.
None of them dead but all of them changed so much that their former lives might as well be buried. Sometimes Ian wondered if Gwen Adair didn’t have the better lot. Her whole family murdered and their memories preserved. She would never have to watch her loved ones become strangers, become enemies, their love turned to hatred and fear. Perhaps that was better. Perhaps.
Instead of sleeping with these thoughts, Ian roamed the keep. This was no longer his home; the hallways were the same, the stones and the rooms and the furnishings, but all were foreign to him. Like a memory of a place he had visited long ago but no longer recognized. It didn’t help that the Blakley guards who held the passages treated him like an interloper, and the servants hesitated whenever he gave an order. Ian wasn’t comfortable carrying his father’s authority, and he was pretty sure everyone could tell.
Ian climbed the stairs to the roof of the keep. The guard shifted his spear to block the way before he recognized Ian’s face. Even then he paused for half a breath before raising the spear and bowing slightly.
“All is clear, guardsman?” Ian asked.
“All is clear. The forests teem with pagan devils, but the walls are safe.” The man paused before continuing. “Whatever else the witches have done, they do keep the demons away.”
“Some demons, at least. They have you up here alone?”
“Yes, my lord.
Our numbers are thin. Most marched south with your father, and the rest died to pagan…” He stumbled over the words, remembering that Ian had come with the pagans, in their dress and with their blessing. “They died during the siege, my lord. We can’t guard half the usual posts, and those we protect we must manage with longer shifts and fewer spears.”
“Well, hopefully the worst of this battle has passed,” Ian said. “Now that the tribes have come around to our side.”
“My lord,” the guard said, though his voice betrayed doubt. Ian sighed.
“I will watch this post for a while, guardsman. You may find another.”
“Sir Clough said—”
“Find another,” Ian snapped. “I wish to be alone.”
The guard left without a word, though Ian heard him travel only a short way down the stairs before stopping. It would have to do. He turned his attention to the parapet.
The courtyard was crowded with tents, spotted with campfires and the restless shifting of sleeping animals. It reminded Ian of the Fen Gate during the Suhdrin siege. Here, though, pagans mingled with Tenerrans still loyal to the church. Beyond the walls, no army camped against them, but none dared travel through the gate. Something was in the forest, something that hunted and killed. It was safer during the day, but even then few ventured out. The witches and their shamans tried time and again to tame the spirit, and time and again they failed.
“I’m beginning to think we’ll need an inquisitor,” Ian muttered to himself. “And gods pray it doesn’t come to that.”
“I will join you in that prayer, hound,” Cahl said, appearing from out of the shadows. The hulking shaman crouched on the parapet like a gargoyle.
“How’d you get here?” Ian asked. “Or should I ask that guard?”
“Your guards see flesh and blood, and this is a place of stone.” Cahl glanced over at him. “You remember the Fen Gate. You know how I traveled here.”
Ian did remember. Cahl had transported Ian and the witch, Fianna, through the stones and into the cellar of the Fen Gate.
“And how are my guards supposed to protect me if you can walk through stones, shaman?”
“There are ways,” Cahl said. “Lost to your celestial priests, forgotten by the houses of Tener. Turn back to the true gods, and I will teach you.”
“You know that isn’t going to happen.”
“And you know that I have to try.” Cahl shifted, stepping down from the parapet, stretching his shoulders. “We have buried too many dead in this war for it to be that easy. But the question must still be asked.”
“Is that why you’re here? To try to convince me to betray my family and the church?”
“I am here to warn you. Gwen is losing faith in you, if she ever had it.”
“Losing faith in me? Her family hides heresy for generations, betrays my father’s trust, and then starts a war that may still tear this nation to pieces, and I must repair her faith in me?” Ian laughed. “What sin does she hold against me?”
“My friendship, and that of Fianna. Gwen doesn’t know who to trust anymore. The void priest she questioned poisoned her ear.”
“I heard about her questions. We don’t kill prisoners in Houndhallow, not without a trial; I don’t care who they are or what they’ve done.” Ian turned angrily away. His people had brought him the body and Gwen’s orders that it be burned. “And then she had the audacity to summon me, as though this was her castle.”
“Count the spears, Ian of Hounds. This is her castle.”
“Houndhallow is my home, the home of my ancestors. It will take more than pagan spears to change that. Did you come here just to taunt me, shaman? You never liked that Fianna rescued me from the river, or that she gave me such attention during the war. Now that Suhdra and Tener are rejoined—”
“Just because a handful of Suhdrin knights follow you in battle, Ian of Hounds, doesn’t mean your petty war is over,” Cahl said. “As long as it serves the purposes of the voidfather, Suhdra and Tener will be at one another’s throats, with the tribes crushed between.”
“Folam is dead.”
“What little I know of the voidfather tells me this: Folam would not sacrifice himself lightly, or without reason. I will grant that you killed him. But I do not think that you defeated him.”
Ian flinched away, unconsciously drawing his shirt tight over his wound. Few knew about his injury, or the true extent of its strangeness, but Cahl was aware. If Folam were willing to sacrifice his life to give Ian that wound, there must be a reason for it.
But what? Ian thought. How could this serve his purpose? How am I being deceived, even now?
“Are you all right?” Cahl asked, drawing closer. “You looked like you were about to jump over that wall.”
“A quick solution,” Ian muttered. Unless that’s what Folam wanted. He shook his head. “What am I supposed to do about Gwen? What do you suggest? If she can’t trust me, I who lost so much to defend her home, then who will she trust? You?”
“I think she may be losing her trust in me, as well.” The big shaman shook his head. “As well she might. Fianna was close to me. And I’m the one who counseled Gwendolyn to trust the voidfather. My advice has done nothing but lead her into greater darkness.”
“Then why should I trust you, either?” Ian asked.
Cahl paused, staring into the darkness beyond the wall and not moving. The shaman looked like he was carved from stone.
“There is something at the gate. Something beyond the wall.”
“What? What the hells are you—?”
The stone of the parapet screamed and burst apart, spraying sharp fragments across the roof. Ian fell to the ground, his face and hands singing with pain. He rolled over onto his hands and knees, grappling numbly at his sword. Ian’s ears were ringing. When he looked up, Cahl was wrestling with something in the darkness.
The door to the stairs burst open. The guard carried a torch in one hand and his spear in the other. The flame cast lurid shadows across the roof. A good portion of the parapet was missing, and the stones that lay around the roof were steaming. Ian blinked up at the guard and saw horror wash over the man’s face. He looked back at the shaman.
A gheist spun out of the scarred stone, its body made of the wreckage of the parapet, shards of rock formed into a snake that danced like a cobra. A hood of sharp talons hid the gheist’s face from Ian’s view. It fought with Cahl, striking with the hooked claws of that hood, drawing blood and knocking the shaman back with each blow.
“Gheists in the keep! Betrayal! Murder!” the guard shouted. He dropped the lantern and ran down the stairs, still screaming about betrayal. The lantern shattered on the wooden planks, spreading a pool of burning oil over the roof. Ian rolled away from it, eventually coming to his feet and drawing his sword. He joined the fray, striking the gheist across the back of the hood with his sword. Sparks flew off the gheist’s stony skin.
“Get inside!” Cahl shouted. “It’s meant to kill you!”
“How can you know?”
Drawn by Ian’s shouting, the gheist turned to face him. Like a cobra, the hood surrounded a cruel head.
Unlike a cobra, the gheist had Ian’s face, worked in stone. It seemed to be pleading silently, eyes wide in misery, mouth open in a cry of lament. The talons of the hood flexed at seeing their prey, twitching like spider legs. It struck.
Ian fell back under the assault. The hood clapped shut like a mouth, hiding the stone face for a brief second before yawning wide, to strike again. Ian slashed at it with his sword, but the skin and talons were stone, and all he could do was scar its flesh without drawing blood. His own carved face watched the fight mournfully, immobile and horrified. The body of the gheist coiled and struck, coiled again. Ian danced back. Flames licked his ankles. He danced over the pool of oil and came down beside the door, putting the fire between him and the gheist.
The gheist slithered forward. As it crossed the flames, the stones of its body hissed, grinding over the wooden pla
nks of the roof and turning them to splinters. Ian settled into a guard position, preparing to sell his life dearly to keep the gheist out of the keep.
Cahl leapt through the flames and tackled the gheist. It writhed in his arms, clapping the talons of its hood in the air as it tried to strike the shaman. Cahl screamed as fire singed his flesh and set his clothes aflame, but he didn’t let go of the beast. Ian shielded his eyes as the flames leapt into the air.
“Beware Gwen! Beware the shadows!” Cahl shouted. Then bands of light sprang out from his skin, from the tattoos around his eyes and the fetishes woven into his hair and clothing. He rolled with the gheist against the stones of the surviving parapet, and a great inhalation of power filled the air. The flames changed from red to orange and then green, and a flash of light blinded Ian.
When he could see again, he was alone on the roof. The gheist horn sounded below, and the sounds of panicked shouting came up the stairs, but of Cahl or the feral god there was no sign.
* * *
Sir Bruler sat uncomfortably in the woods, peering into the darkness. He had followed the big shaman to this circle of runic stones, but then Cahl had disappeared into thin air. There had been no sign of him since, and Bruler was getting antsy. His hiding place was good, though. Bruler was sure no passing pagans would see him. He could only pray that whatever gheist was hunting these woods would miss him as well.
He could leave, return to the safety of the walls, and look for another opportunity to corner the shaman. But what little he knew of pagan power from the songs his mother had sung to him when he was a child, and a few hints cobbled from tavern-side limericks, suggested that a shaman always returned to his circle. Or maybe it was that shamans never used the same circle twice. Or maybe—
The gheist horn sounded behind him. Bruler stiffened and turned around. Flames danced at the top of the keep, and the shadow of a single figure stood against the light. Ian, unless he missed his guess. There was a flash of light, and then…
The circle of stones roared to life. Bruler whirled around, expecting to face an explosion, or a tide of gheists. Instead, Cahl stumbled out of the circle, wrestling something that looked like a bundle of scree. A thin wall of flame followed them, starting several small fires in the surrounding forest. The two figures twisted back and forth in the flickering light. Bruler was about to lend his aid when Cahl cried out suddenly.
