She turned, slid under a cart blocking the way and dashed on. The pearl bounced against her heaving chest, but there was no way to rub it, and her hero was nowhere close anyhow.
She ducked left then right, and dove through a tent flap, screaming for someone to awake, to save her. A man and woman shot upright from their bed.
“Chasing me. Killed three men.”
“Slow down girl, what happened?”
But there wasn’t any slowing down. The killer barreled into the tent, a lean shadow with long black hair and face covered in charcoal. A curved blade struck the man, gashing him from sternum to groin, and Kinesee didn’t wait to see what happened next as the woman screamed.
She dove for the edge of the tent and wormed beneath, dashing into the night. She stopped screaming and ran, she’d already gotten two folks killed. There were two tents she’d count on to be safe: Choerkin and Ravinrin. But where the hells was she?
The sound of feet behind her faded, and she slowed to think, but she spotted a shadow running her way before she got her bearings. She lunged left with a grunt and forced her legs straight uphill.
She glanced west and caught sight of torches on Inster’s walls. The smith camp should be to her left? Or straight ahead? Either way, the Choerkin should be toward the walls.
Her thighs burned as she veered between carts and tents packed close, relieved to recognize them as she crowned the ridge.
Ropes tangled and wood clattered as she tumbled face first to the ground, but she’d seen this before. She rolled and kicked out, a blade slashing her leg, but her feet caught the killer in the ribs. She wriggled beneath a tent edge, pulled free of the bola and stood, panting, desperate, clutching her new weapon. Which way?
A blade split the tent’s hide, and she charged straight into the slit, punching straight through to collide with her attacker. She bounced off and swung, the wooden balls of the bola flailing wild, clacking in the air before thudding into flesh.
Her attacker hunched, and Kinesee lumbered, stumbling as fast as she could, out of breath. A tent larger than others loomed in front of her, a dim glow in the night with lanterns out front. She gasped and dropped the weight of the bola, praying her pursuer was as exhausted as she was.
Kinesee tumbled through the tent flap, her mind screaming Ivin’s name, but her voice croaked.
Swords rang from sheaths. Ivin and the priestess stood beside the table, the Ravinrin boys and the Broldun were here too.
Ivin spoke first. “Kinesee? What the hells are you doing here?”
“Murdered. Chasing me. Killed others.”
The Ravinrins were at her side in a flicker, weapon’s drawn, but Ivin and the priestess stepped outside.
Her breaths shuddered and her knees wobbled, but she followed them. The Choerkin planted his feet in the ground, his sword ready, and in a flash the area was lit bright as day, and there were no shadows to hide in.
A figure stood in the distance, a curved sword in hand, then disappeared behind a tent with casual strides.
15
Bishop’s Parlay
A terror, a Bearer, pall or missive?
A kiss on lilac lips kills, spills, breaks mortal wills,
shoulder blade tills, breaking soil,
a bone-made plow, a harnessed sow,
Slithering soul tethered to the weather,
broken seed ungrowing cover in bold mold black.
So soon you are back! A bold mold black,
devoured seed, merged seed,
should never’ve sprouted. Did.
–Tomes of the Touched
“Your girl, she speaks fine Hidreng.”
Ivin held his expression blank at Iro’s words and kept his eyes on the hill in front of him. The trio rode side by side, Meliu on his right. “Her parents were merchants from Coerkin Fost.” A horse whinnied behind them, but again he kept his eyes straight. Unarmed, unarmored, and surrounded by Hidreng, he struggled to appear at ease.
Iro leaned in his saddle to look around him. “Did you visit the Hundred Nations often?”
Meliu said, “I was in Sin Medor a couple times a decade ago, Dedis, Yulip, Kemis. Most times I dealt with Hidreng when they sailed north.”
“Yulip bows to Thon. The Virgin Whore, she likes pure young girls, even foreigners.”
“I’m aware, but I’d little to worry about concerning purity.”
Iro smirked and punched Ivin in the shoulder. “Your girl is a lovely devil!”
“I don’t know her so well, but I know she’s a sharp tongue between those teeth.” Ivin looked to Meliu and smiled. The priestess wore embroidered linens befitting a merchant’s daughter, pants instead of a dress, and a loose fitting top with red silk at the sleeves and neck. Her auburn hair was tied back in a tail, her scalp healed without a hint of scar, and Ivin admitted to himself she was pretty.
Iro nodded and spoke under his breath. “The Bishop of Sin Medor speaks direct to His Holiness, and she prefers her tongues dull and dirty, from licking the souls of her feet.”
Ivin wondered if the man would’ve spoken these words if the guards riding behind them spoke Silone. “You and the bishop aren’t friendly?”
“The bishop, she is no one’s friend, do well to remember this. You may be friends with her, she will not be friends with you.”
They crested a hill and across the valley, atop the next rise, sat a cluster of tents surrounded by poles flying black banners woven with the golden talons of a raptor.
He must’ve been staring, as Meliu tapped his arm. “They call Pulvuer the Golden Talon.”
Iro’s back straightened in the saddle. “We Hidreng live and die for the Talon.”
Ivin said, “Forgive my poor knowledge of your gods, he is the brother of Fikeze?”
“You toy with me, yes?”
“A little. But all I know is from Silone lips.”
The overseer gazed at him and leaned back in his saddle as their horses walked them down a steep rise. “Half-brother. Argin was king, Batenu his queen, who birthed Fikeze. The First Queen died in the God Wars, a forgotten battle much debated. Pulvuer fell from Juntelu’s loins.”
Ivin couldn’t resist a questioning jab. “She also died in the God Wars?” He knew well that Fikeze killed her own father and step-mother, leading to war with Pulvuer.
The man squinted his way, his voice lowered. “If you test me, it is a wrong thing.”
“My apologies, I meant no offense.”
Iro spat and moments later his smile returned. “It was Fikeze who offended. But if a lesson in our gods you want, the bishop is your better teacher.”
They crossed the broad valley, grasses so high they tickled the bellies of their horses, and ascended the bishop’s hill until reaching two massive logs planted vertical into the ground; a symbolic gate, or some such. Each stood a pole high, thicker than a man’s leg, and bore carved devil faces painted in garish oranges and reds.
On the peak of the hill stood a tower of tanned hides stretched over and hiding the frame. Ivin guessed it at twenty paces high and at least as broad.
Two guardsmen in breastplates and mail stood rigid with halberds in hand, and in front of the poles stood a young, plump faced woman draped in robes the color of gray-blue sky.
Iro dismounted and waved a hand for them to follow suit. He removed his sword from its hanger and shoved it into the packs on his horse. “If you’ve concealed arms, now is the time to remove them.”
“Only sharp thing we got is the girl’s tongue.”
Iro spoke to the robed woman before addressing them again. “We will follow this priestess to the waiting area. Speaking less is better.”
The woman turned and led them between the two poles. “Imfin hedelus am.”
Meliu whispered to Ivin, “Blessings upon the murdered father.”
Ivin understood little of the Hokandit, but he knew this blessing referenced the murdered Argin. Centuries later, to hear Meliu tell it, the Hundred Nations still suffered the repercussio
ns of this bloody killing.
Their guide moved slow with tiny steps, forcing Ivin and his strides to pause and shuffle, lending an awkward hitch to his gait. It took twice as long to reach the odd tower as it should. Double doors swung wide at their approach, an oddity for a structure with hide walls. They took two steps up once inside and Ivin marveled. The floor wasn’t dirt; oak planks spanned every foot, polished and butted so perfect it was difficult to spot the cracks. Four brass braziers on the floor, and a dozen lanterns hanging from the walls, lit the single great room, and braced against the walls to his left and right, stairs climbed to a second tier. His gaze rose. An ornate chair, whose back sparkled with golden topaz in the shape of an eagle, sat empty above them, a small foot stool resting in front.
This hall’s builders intended to impress and to present a sense of permanence and power in something temporary. Even recognizing this truth, Ivin found it hard to shake off a sense of smallness.
Iro led them to the middle of the hall. “We kneel and wait.”
Ivin’s gut knotted and his heart tapped an uncomfortable rhythm in his chest for a quarter candle as he anticipated the bishop’s arrival. A candle passed, and if not for the throb in his knees he might’ve worried about falling asleep.
A young priest in a dark green habit scuttled from the second floor, tossing a small leather bag into each of the braziers, and in moments a heavy scent of cinnamon and vanilla wafted into a haze of smoke that filled the room.
Ivin glanced to Iro, and the man nodded before turning back to stare at the chair above.
About godsdamned time.
The priest in green disappeared behind them, and Ivin adjusted his knees, eyes pinned on the imminent arrival.
Several wicks later, he wanted to cuss and scream. He looked to Meliu, but the woman’s face betrayed not a hint of emotion. Ivin shrugged his shoulders, bent and twisted his spine, every subtle movement he could muster to keep from cramping. Where the hells is this woman?
Another candle passed, and pain or no pain, Ivin swore he could curl up for a nap. His eyes lulled in the stinging smoke, and he shook his head and flutter blinked trying to wake himself up.
Bang! Bang!
Ivin lurched, eyes jumping to a hooded priest on the balcony above. His staff slammed the floor again.
Bang! Bang!
He spoke, and Meliu translated. “Her Holiness, the Bishop Ulmeen, Lady of the Talon, and Bishop of Sin Medor.”
The woman’s silver hair hung to her waist in a single braid over her right shoulder, its color stark against emerald green robes threaded with strands of gold. She strode to take a seat on the throne with its cushion of gold velvet after leaving them to kneel on the hard oak floor for two candles or more. From her perch she gazed down upon them with narrow, deep-set eyes brooding over a beaked nose.
Beside her stood a handmaiden, a beautiful young woman with long black hair and a timid smile. Ivin wished he was dealing with her instead.
Ivin’s knees ached, and he fidgeted, but Meliu appeared quite at ease.
“There is troubling news from Inster.” The woman’s voice was high and strong, forceful. Meliu translated for Ivin as she spoke.
Iro stood from his chair and bowed. “Two Hidreng men killed each other in the streets three days past. They decapitated one another, most unusual, and guards spotted a third man who fled.”
“Respected Overseer, do I care what became of two thugs shamed before Pelvuer?”
“No, my bishop, but it would’ve been wrong to not include this violence.” She nodded then tapped her armrest twice, and Iro continued. “An unknown assailant murdered two priests amid the refugee tents, along with a Silone man intending to convert to the Hokandit. In pursuit of a witness, the assassin killed two more Silone, a man and woman.”
“The witness?”
“A young girl. The attack was after dark, the killer smeared their face with charcoal. This girl saw nothing of service, although from the description of long hair and build, likely a woman.”
“A woman killed two of our priests, her weapon?”
Iro cleared his throat. “A curved blade and a bola were the weapons of choice.”
The air grew tense and the ensuing silence sped the beat of Ivin’s heart. He glanced to Meliu, but she shrugged.
“My bishop, the White Rose would be more subtle.”
The woman raised her right palm. “What does this foreign man believe?”
Ivin bowed, extending his hands to touch the floor, before straightening his back to answer. “I am unaware of the White Rose.”
The bishop’s pointed nose scrunched. “The bloodless rose is a sect of Fikeze’s followers in Thon.”
Ivin wished this answer were true, an enemy of Hidreng attempting to foment bloodshed. “The noble overseer would know better than me in such matters.”
“Would any of your people commit murder upon peaceful men?”
A rigged question, the answer was obvious, no matter how much he’d like to deny it. He took a deep breath. “I’d prefer to think no, but the possibility is clear.”
The bishop smiled for the first time, but it didn’t warm Ivin’s heart. “The overseer has brought me an honest man. Still, you are Silone, your prayers are to the Pantheon of Sol.”
“I haven’t bothered to pray since abandoning my home to the Shadows of Man.”
“An honest man who holds a grudge. I understand grudges and hate. Enlighten me on your religion, show me your knowledge. What is a Maimer?”
A chill passed across Ivin’s skin as the direction of the conversation turned. “A legend from the God Wars.” He stopped, but she tapped her armrest. “They wielded weapons said to cauterize wounds, so taking the limbs of enemies didn’t kill.”
“And what is a Mercy?”
Ivin’s breath shuddered as he exhaled. “Priests. They performed prayers over the victims of the Maimers, killing them at the same time as forcing their souls into the Slave Fields.”
“Together they were known as?”
“The Slavers.”
“Souls taken into servitude for your king of gods. You hesitate to face the truth of your gods, wisdom or cowardice, it does not matter much. How many souls once destined for the Fields of the Hokandit still serve as your gods’ slaves? Do you know?”
“An impossible number to guess. It was war, centuries in—”
“It was and still is a horror. Thousands, tens of thousands by some surviving accounts. Is it so horrible we offer peace and conversion by choice?”
“No. But not everybody will see it this way.” She studied him. Judging? Waiting for a better answer? Ivin wasn’t going to open his mouth again unless she tapped the armrest.
“I offered peace and you could not keep it for more than a day.”
“As suggested, the White Rose—”
Her hand struck the air. “Is a convenient possibility, a thing to keep me from slaughter.” She tapped the girl standing beside her, and the handmaiden produced a scroll from her robes. “Would you believe me if I told you this scroll holds the words to the ritual of the Mercies?”
Ivin’s heart pounded, no one had prepared him for these questions. “I’ve no reason to not—”
“You will prove to me your honesty.”
The bishop returned the scroll to the handmaiden, and with a nudge the girl trotted to the stairs, and in moments she stood above Ivin, the scroll in her outstretched hand. He fought a tremble as he pinched the yellowed parchment between his fingers. “What use do I have for such an evil thing?”
“It is a symbol, a gesture in apology for the deaths of Pulvuer’s humble servants. You will return to your tents, gather your people and read this to them. Open it, innocent words.”
Ivin pulled the string tying the scroll and unrolled it enough to glance at the first lines. The script was written in sparkling white with a light of its own, reminding him of the sigils on the floor of the Fifth Shrine to Burdenis. But the words were unfamiliar. “I think this is
in Canonic Silone, I can’t read it. My apologies.”
“A Coerkin can no doubt find a priest to help him learn.”
“They are in hiding, many more of our priests have been killed than yours, by the hands of our own people.”
“They hide, yes, sometimes in plain sight.” For the first time the woman looked at Meliu, her smile mocking as she stood. “A priestess who knows Hidreng so well, no doubt can teach a smart, honest man a few old words, yes?” The bishop’s tone dropped in pitch, filled with scorn and humor. “Only a slave of Sol would be so accustomed to living on their knees.
“I will return to Sin Medor. I will travel slow. Three days. If by the fifth day I do not hear of your reading this scroll, our good overseer will find every tent dwelling barbarian and sweep them into the sea to feed whatever swimming, crawling thing which might find their flesh. I have made myself clear.”
The Bishop of Sin Medor turned and strode from the hall with her handmaiden on her heels.
Ivin stared at the scroll, unwilling, unable to make eye contact with any who might watch him. He licked his lips. He’d come into this meeting expecting ultimatum’s and threats, what he held in his hands felt like a fall into the hells.
Iro cleared his throat. “A priestess? Once I believed myself a cunning man…” Meliu didn’t answer, she too kept her eyes pinned to the scroll. “We should be leaving.”
The ride back to the encampment was solemn, and their parting words with Iro few. Ivin was a man torn by competing desires, and Meliu felt for him as she’d never imagined. The bishop blindsided them, maybe even the overseer, and as the Hidreng turned and rode away she said, “I’d sooner sniff his shit than trust that man.”
It took a flicker or three, but a grin split the Coerkin’s lips. “You sure some part of my father hasn’t taken you?”
Trail of Pyres Page 14
