by Carol Berg
The grimed windows of the kitchen flickered with odd light of purple-streaked scarlet. I shoved open the plank door and stepped into a dark vestibule. Wet heat slapped my face, and with it the sweet, ripe alchemy of human dying—sweat, piss, emptied bowels, and the overwhelming iron taint of blood. A young man in padded leathers stood off to one side, his one arm held tight across his breast, clenched fist at his heart, the planes of his face eroded with grief. Voushanti’s wide hands gripped the young man’s shoulder and pressed him against the bricks of poor Brother Jerome’s beloved hearth. But it was the tableau in the center of the room that turned my blood to sand.
The kitchen worktables had been shoved aside to clear the stone floor. Fire blazed—a broad ring of tall flames, scarlet and purple and the deepest blue of midnight, of storms, of bruises and pain. No fuel fed the flames; no hearth contained them. Within the fiery ring a stocky warrior lay dead, his body hacked and battered, the top of his skull caved in. Far worse than those mortal wounds were the fresh bloody holes that gaped where his eyes had once looked upon the world.
Prince Osriel—the gaunt, dark-haired man I knew as quiet, persuasive Gram—knelt beside the body, his velvet robes stained dark. Gore adorned the prince’s face, not random splatter, but precisely marked patterns of circles and lines on brow, temples, cheeks, and chin. The blood signs burned with a power of their own that thrummed in my head as music—songs of pain and bondage, of striking whips and cries of despair. The prince’s cupped hands, bloody to the wrist, held a calyx of carved stone—a shallow offering vessel as Iero’s worshipers used to carry fragrant oils to his altar. Wisps of gray smoke trailed from the vessel.
“…come weal, come woe, bound to my will and word until world’s end. Perficiimus.” Osriel’s chant rang clean and hard and sure.
As he lowered the bowl, I backed away, cracked open the door, and slipped unseen into the bitter night. A haze of smoke and freezing fog obscured the stars. Somewhere soldiers softly called the watch.
Pressing my back to the stone wall, I tried to erase what I had seen, to silence the truth articulated by that sonorous incantation. Holy gods, how many times had he done this? What use did he have for souls withheld from whatever peace lay beyond this life? The wall of midnight that had smothered the fields of Gillarine remained etched in my memory—behind the fire-breathing horses and monstrous cloud warriors, I had seen gray, transparent faces in the blackness, hungry…lost…angry. And now I understood what I had experienced this hour past.
Life or death. In alleyways, on battlefields, in taverns and hovels and fine houses, I had always been able to determine whether a wounded man was like to live or die, no matter if the last breath had left him. But never before without my hand touching his body. And never before had I lived the actual rending of the victim’s flesh and spirit. Somehow Osriel’s dread enchantment had opened a door, and my talent had taken me through it to a place I had no wish to go. Navronne’s rightful king, the world’s hope, my bound master…Holy Iero, preserve us all.
For better or worse, my stomach was long empty, thus I left little trace of my retching in the snow. Had matters been different, I might have spent the night in the open air trying to purge the odor of unclean magic that clung to my spirit. But cold and exhaustion drove me back to the guesthouse, along with a vague sense that the prince must not know I’d glimpsed what he was about. I was certainly not as ready as I’d thought to bare my own weaknesses to my master.
Every bone and sinew demanded that I bolt like Deunor’s fiery chariot from what I had just seen. It was one thing to accept Osriel’s admission of unsavory practices, and wholly another to feel their blight upon my own soul. Could I, who prated of free choices, serve a man who enslaved the dead?
Abbot Luviar had taught me that I could not sit out this war. And if I were to take a battle stance at Caedmon’s Bridge on this night, I would yet choose Osriel and his lighthouse over Sila Diaglou and the world’s ruin. But obedience…the loyalty I had been so ready to hand over not an hour since…that would be another matter.
Once back in the guesthouse bedchamber, I stripped and rolled up in the coarse wool blankets. But I did not sleep. Instead I traveled the boundaries of hell in the company of savaged corpses with bloodied eye sockets, of a master whose face was marked with blood signs, of a whirling Dané who spat gall. The agonies of a dying soldier wrote themselves over and over again in my soul, and a diseased knot burned in my gut, fiercer with each passing hour.
Chapter 6
The day birthed as gray and forbidding as my spirits. Voushanti did naught to improve matters. When I inquired what had become of the wounded messenger, he said only that Skay had succumbed to his injuries, and that Ervid had lapsed into a forgetfulness, so that he could not even remember how his lover had died. I wanted to be sick.
The scent of spiced cider, mingled with woodsmoke and the abbey’s ever-present residue of charred wool, wafted up the stair as I followed Voushanti down to the second floor of the guesthouse to meet the new arrivals. The mardane motioned me toward an open doorway to the left of the landing, then slipped down the stair before he could be seen.
Voushanti had reminded me forcefully that the prince’s disguise must be strictly maintained unless Osriel himself signaled otherwise, even with members of the cabal. Never had a man’s character confused me so. I had taken to Gram’s kind, morbidly cheerful ways in our first dealings, admired his intelligence, humility, and equable humor in the face of his employer’s irascible nature. I had believed him my friend and the only honest member of the lighthouse cabal. The absurdity near choked me as I pulled on the silken half mask and stepped into the room.
The sound of friendly argument welcomed me to the modest retiring chamber. Prior Nemesio was conversing energetically with a big man with a narrow beard, a beaklike nose, and the scuffed leathers and jewel-hilted sword of a noble warrior—Stearc, Thane of Erasku.
The talk ceased abruptly at my appearance. Rapidly melting snow dripped from the cloaks flung over chairs drawn close to a blazing fire.
“Cartamandua,” said Stearc, sounding wholly unsurprised. He finished removing his gloves and tossed them onto the drying cloaks. “So Prior Nemesio was right that Mardane Voushanti has left you here alone this morning?”
At Stearc’s right hand stood his daughter, Elene. Her close-woven braids gleamed the same bronze hue as her father’s hair, and her rugged garb and weaponry reflected the same martial seriousness. I hated that I could not give full attention to her blooming loveliness. But Osriel…Gram…sat bundled in blankets beside the fire.
“Prince Osriel and his main force departed in the night,” said the prior before I could answer. “Voushanti rode out to Elanus before dawn in search of fresh horses. I was something surprised the vile fellow would leave Brother Valen unguarded after yesterday’s unpleasantness, but he told me he did not wish the pureblood to be seen in town.”
I was grateful that Nemesio’s eager report prevented me having to affirm this nonsense.
“Fortunate for us,” said Gram. “Valen, we could use your talents to aid us in the search for Jullian and Gildas. Neither Lord Stearc nor Mistress Elene has found any trace of them.”
“You may have whatever you need of me,” I said, trying not to imagine his sober, pleasant face marked with unholy blood. “I just want to find the boy.”
“It is nonsensical to go chasing off into the wild until we receive the reports from the Sinduria’s spies,” said Elene sharply, clenching her fists as if to extract some sense from the air. “We’ve no idea where Sila Diaglou might be, and we’re all more tired than we’ll admit. Each of us would give his heart’s blood to see Jullian safe, but we need everyone fit, so perhaps, for once, insufferable pride and infernal stubbornness won’t trump reason and planning. Our purposes are ill served if one of us falls off his horse and must be scraped up and put back on again.”
Gram threw his blanket aside and rose from his chair, his lean frame straight and confident beneath his sober
garb. The heat of the fire had painted his gaunt cheeks scarlet. “Mistress, you know how many days must pass until we can gather reliable reports. If Valen’s talents can give us direction, we should use them. If it is my infirmities that concern you, let me ease your mind. I’ve not been floundering in weakness all morning, but rather trying to give some thought to strategy. May I speak freely, Lord Stearc?”
Stearc nodded. Elene folded her arms across her breast and shot Gram a murderous glance. The little chamber shimmered with heat. I retreated to the window niche in search of the colder air that leaked through the iron seams of the casement. Urgency pulsed in my blood like battle fever. The doulon fire was rising in my gut.
Gram shoved a renegade lock of hair from his eyes. “Firstly, our overarching goal remains the preservation of the lighthouse, and as the lady suggests, we cannot lose sight of that in our fears for Jullian. As Gildas has the book of maps as well as our young friend, we must pursue him and hope we can retrieve both at once. Meanwhile, Prior Nemesio must find us a new Scholar. Whether he is selected from the survivors here at Gillarine or from elsewhere in Navronne, that one must be brought here as quickly as possible to study and prepare.”
The prior sagged onto a couch, his round face stunned, his gaze flicking uncertainly at the man he believed little more than a lord’s scribe. “But I am no Luviar, Gram. I’ve no wisdom to bring to such a task. How can I—?”
“None of us can replace Luviar,” said Gram, clasping his hands behind his back. “We must do with our own talents. He chose you to run his abbey, Father Prior, to care for his brothers whom he loved. Thus he had clear faith in your judgment. If Valen’s accusations are correct, then Gildas deceived even the abbot. Perhaps a more practical man will make a better choice.”
Though his manner was entirely calm and logical Gram, Prince Osriel’s eyes had taken on the character of iron when fire, hammer, and coal have had their way. No wonder he kept his gaze shuttered as he played this role. No meek secretary had such eyes.
A cramp tightened my left calf. I propped the toe of my boot on a stone facing and stretched out the muscle. It’s nothing. Nothing.
Prior Nemesio kneaded his chin, staring at the patterned rug. “Luviar had a great respect for Jon Hinelle, a merchant’s son in Pontia who once studied here,” he murmured, “and for Vilno, a self-taught practor who once traveled as far as Pyrrha. Hinelle, I think—he’s younger, more practical, if not quite so powerful a mind. With the abbey library in ashes, the new Scholar will need access to the lighthouse. And he’ll need protection.”
Over Nemesio’s head, the prince lifted his eyebrows at Stearc and flicked his gaze from the bemused prior to the door. Stearc nodded brusquely.
“We shall open the lighthouse the moment the new Scholar is in place, Father Prior,” said Stearc. With a firm hand, the thane dislodged Nemesio from the couch and drew him to the door. “And I’ll leave a small garrison here at your disposal for the new man’s retrieval and protection. Fedrol is a capable commander and will ask no awkward questions. I’d advise you heed his recommendations…”
As their voices faded down the stair, the prince poured himself a cup of cider from the pot on the polished table, lost in his own thoughts as he sipped. I kneaded my aching left forearm and breathed away a sharp spasm that pierced my rib cage.
Elene graced me with a rueful smile. “It is the gods’ own gift to see you safe, Brother Valen.” Her voice sounded as rich and potent as fine mead, warming even my cold spirit.
I mustered a smile and bowed, pulling off my mask and looping it on my belt. “Just Valen, mistress. I make no further pretense to holy orders.”
“Two days ago, when we saw what the Harrowers had done to the abbey, and then Voushanti straggled in, saying you had stayed behind to face our pursuers alone, we feared your brave heart lost. So when your message came to Fortress Groult—” Her red-gold skin took on a deeper shade. “While we could not rejoice at your conclusions, we did rejoice that you were alive to make them. And now”—she jerked her head at the prince—“we’ve no need to hide certain facts from you. For better or worse.”
“For better or worse,” I said softly. So she knew Osriel’s secret. “Mistress, do you know—? Last night, I—” The prince looked up from his cup, expressionless, and I dared not speak what I had seen, lest he overhear. “Lady, I am unsure of whom I serve.” Perhaps I had found the source of her bitter enmity for Gram. I could not imagine a woman so devoted to justice and right, herself so rich with exuberant life, countenancing practices so abhorrent.
“We are an inharmonious collection of comrades, to be sure.”
The clamor of boots on the stair signaled Stearc’s return, accompanied by a blast of cold air—and Voushanti. Elene promptly moved away from me, poured a cup of cider, and plopped herself onto the dusty couch.
Welcoming the fresh air, I pressed even closer to the window. The stifling heat was near choking me. Another cramp wrenched my back. I blamed the overbuilt hearth fire and the previous day’s climbing. Please, gods…
“We should inform the prior of your identity, Your Grace,” said Stearc, squatting by the fire and rubbing his hands together briskly. “If he is to be an effective ally, he should know all.”
The prince shook his head. “Too many secrets have escaped our grasp of late. Nemesio is stalwart and intelligent, but unimaginative in deceit and poor at conspiracy. That Gildas cannot expose me is one slim consolation amid Valen’s ill tidings.”
“I don’t understand why you believe all this about Gildas. The boy’s body is proof that he was murdered, not that Gildas did it. We’ve a far more likely candidate right here.” Stearc glared at me with undisguised contempt. “Did your own guilt catch up with you, pureblood? Did you realize you’d be found out, and so turn on the very one who compromised himself to aid you? Perhaps you didn’t know that Gildas confessed how he’d induced you to strike him and run. How he sent Gerard after you with supplies for your escape. The monk’s testimony shook even Luviar. Now you say some magical insight has shown you the boy’s resting place? I don’t accept it. You were half crazed that night. I say you struck down the boy so he couldn’t give you up to the purebloods.”
Voushanti shifted his position slightly, intruding between Stearc and me. “You should listen to the pureblood, Thane. Whatever else, he’s no coward. Eight days ago I was ordered to kill him did he step wrong, but I found reason enough to leave him walking. Save for his diverting the Harrowers, you, your daughter, Prince Osriel, and the rest of us would lie dead on the Palinur road.”
This casual confirmation of how close I had come to dying by Voushanti’s hand did naught to cool my burgeoning anger. I’d given Elene the benefit of the doubt, but this…Damn the woman; she had been there. She had allowed these lies to fester.
“I am certainly no innocent,” I snapped. “But bring me the man or woman who says I have ever used a child ill, and I will show you a liar. As it happens, I’ve a witness that Gildas himself brought me supplies the night of my escape, that I forbade him send the boys, and that I had no contact with either boy before I was slammed senseless near the aspen grove. As that witness has not come forward to speak for me, perhaps the coward prefers I stand guilty of the crime.”
Osriel looked surprised. “A witness?”
Stearc snorted. “I don’t believe—”
“You planned to kill Valen?” Elene rose from the couch, her face crimson. Had Osriel spouted blood from her glare, it could not have surprised anyone. “You told me you would question him and seek the truth about that night. I never thought—Are we no better than the murderous madmen we fight?”
The prince’s face hardened like mortared stone. “We did as we thought best.”
“Your secrets blight your life far worse than any illness, Gram of Evanore. Twisted pride and a corrupt soul will be the death of you, not Sila Diaglou or your wretched royal brothers.”
“Daughter!” snapped Stearc. “Mind your vixen’s tongue!”
Wrenching her glare from Osriel, Elene crossed her arms, touching opposite shoulders, and bowed to me. “I beg your forgiveness, Master Valen. I had reasons for my silence that seemed compelling at the time but were clearly selfish, foolish, and inexcusable. Please believe, if I had imagined such murderous folly, I would never have left the matter in doubt.”
She turned back to the others. Though her arms remained in the penitent’s gesture across her breast, her fists tightened as if to contain a fury that matched my own. “Papa, Mardane Voushanti, my lord prince, I indeed followed Brother Valen out to the dolmen that night. He did not leave my sight until the purebloods gave chase through the fields. All is as he has said. Only Gildas came. Not Gerard. I heard Brother Valen adamantly refuse to involve the boys in any way. He could not possibly have seen anyone that evening without my knowledge.”
“You returned at dawn, girl!” bellowed Stearc, his cheeks burning. “You said you’d been with some ailing pilgrim woman in the Alms Court all night. What were you doing with Cartamandua? And where were you after he was taken?”
“That has no bearing on Valen or Gildas, so I’ll not waste our time just now, Papa,” said Elene, acid on her tongue. “But I will tell you. What misdirected loyalties induced my silence are now moot.”
I had no wits to sort out what she might be talking about, save that it surely had to do with Osriel.
“I am satisfied that Valen is innocent of these crimes, Stearc,” said the prince, putting a sharp end to the matter. “After yesterday’s encounter with Kol, I fear our hopes of aid are even flimsier than before. Yet before we can consider how to approach the Danae, we must attempt to retrieve the boy and the book…and Gildas. We ride within the hour.”
Voushanti had passed around cups of cider, and now stood across the room, observing me curiously. Every time I blinked, the world seemed to waver. I gulped the cider and set the cup aside before the mardane could notice how my hand shook.