Eve of Snows: Sundering the Gods Book One

by L. James Rice

  A knock on her chamber door and a handsome, smiling priest interrupted her meditations. For a moment she imagined him as a young man from her past, a priest who had long since Walked the Stars. Remembrance of this age-old tryst brought a grin.

  “Lord Priest Ulrikt will see you now.”

  Meris held her groan in check with a tight-lipped smile as she stood, the ache from days in a wagon making her feel older by a decade, if that were possible. She followed the young priest quick as she could, feet scuffing the ground with tiny steps until muscles limbered. She stopped to stare as the young man climbed a set of spiraling stairs. A deep breath and a prayer for strength later she managed the first dozen steps before her escort regained a modicum of wisdom and returned to help her. She leaned heavy on the poor boy by the time they reached the top, and to her relief the lord priest’s chambers were twenty paces around the corner.

  She let go of her escort’s robes and shuffled through the door with a smile she hoped hid her agony. The room was lit like noon, bright and warm, and it took several flickers for her eyes to adjust.

  “It’s been too many years since last we spoke.”

  Ulrikt came into focus seated in a plush, high-backed chair beside a small table with a carafe of red wine. She remembered the lord priest as a young man fresh to the priesthood, not the distinguished older gentleman he’d become. Vibrant blue eyes sat beneath fine silver brows, and although the handsome man’s hair had crept backward on his head and gone gray, the remainder still grew thick and groomed. The smile he gave her shone with kindness.

  “Yes, it has.” She’d never conversed with the man outside her role as an oracle, and as High Oracle of Skywatch scrolls and messenger had been their only communications. This was her first invitation to the chambers of the lord priest, and its ostentatious decor surprised her. Velvet and gold, silk and silver, and gem-inlaid exotic woods; she couldn’t imagine where such bountiful treasures of craftsmanship came from.

  Ulrikt stood, having caught her wandering eye, and lifted a vase from its stand. The glazed colors in auburn and violet hues swirled into patterns which resembled a stylized writing system, letters of a sort, only she didn’t recognize them. He flipped the vase, showing her the base, and she leaned in, muttered a quick prayer so her old eyes might read the faint squiggles. She pursed her lips; eyesight wasn’t the only problem, the scrawls were foreign.

  “What does it say?”

  The lord priest chuckled. “I don’t know. Best our people can figure, it’s in a language related to Obereut, the maker’s name I suppose, a date perhaps.”

  She nodded, as if she knew what he was talking about as he returned the vase to its perch, but it must’ve been obvious she didn’t understand.

  “We’ve several books deep in our libraries in this same language; the tongue has defied our scholars for centuries. And yet, when our forebears restored Istinjoln, priests found it hidden among other treasures.”

  “It is beautiful.”

  He slide-stepped and pointed to the chair he’d been sitting in. The wood was exquisite, with tight grains, and burls of red and white in its pale yellow flesh. The cushion in its seat was emerald green with brass tacks. “This exquisite piece sat in this very room; foreign hands carved it from an exotic wood we don’t even have a name for. Most everything in this room, right down to the glass holding my wine, is from somewhere else; we don’t know when they came here, how, why, or even who crafted them. Of all the things in this room, only you, me, and Timus, your guide to these chambers, are native to this place. Please, sit. I’ve little doubt your journey was swift and wearying.”

  Meris sank into a chair’s velvet cushions and feared the plush was so deep she might never get out on her own. “It’s an impressive collection.”

  “So tell me, and feel free to be honest. Any regrets, having chosen Skywatch?”

  She wasn’t sure what he was digging for, so she hid her face in a swallow of wine until he continued. The wine rested on her tongue with an edge of sweetness she liked, so taking her time was a pleasant burden.

  “By that I mean, you would have been in consideration for lord priest, if you’d stayed. Ever consider what might have been?”

  She lowered her goblet, trying to stymie the shake in her hand. All people who lived long enough bore the weight of regrets; this man needn’t know any of hers. “I am precisely what I was destined to be. The stars of Skywatch are my home and refuge, there’s no more beautiful a place in the world, to me.”

  He raised his glass in salute. “I’ve held the mantle of lord priest for thirty-seven years now, and there’ve been times I wished someone else had taken my destiny.”

  Meris already sat in the stars by then, but she remembered well when Herald’s Watch announced Lord Priestess Sadevu’s passing and the name of her youthful replacement. At thirty-two, Ulrikt had become the youngest to attain lord priest, and he climbed the ladder of influence among the seven lords with astounding alacrity and lack of blood. But these things were history; she wanted to know about the now.

  “Your destiny seems beautifully aligned to your talents. The bones were right about you.”

  A wistful gaze passed across his face, surprising her. “Were they? I suppose so. The foresight seemed more pleasant than my hindsight.”

  His words baffled her. The Lord Face sent her here for a purpose, and she doubted it was to discuss the merits of their lives, chosen or destined. She took a mouthful of wine to bolster her nerves. “I loathe blunt words, lord priest, but with so many years behind me… Why am I here?”

  The man concocted a gaze brimming with dimwitted innocence, and she wondered how long he stared into a mirror to perfect it. “To break bones on the Eve of Snows, of course.”

  Meris shifted in her seat, so cozy and yet uncomfortable faced with his smile. “Your Lord F—”

  “My emissary.”

  “Your emissary implied something of importance, but wouldn’t give me details.” Implied, and threatened her body and soul if she should fail. Missions without descriptions, but full of consequences made her nervous. “He said I would know.”

  “You haven’t forgotten how to break bones, have you? Then you will know what to do. Bones, lives, storms, even waves, none are truly equal no matter how they appear. You know the differences in bones better than anyone, and you will not flinch when fate requires you to speak of doom. That is why you are here, plain if not simple.” He refilled her wine and settled back in his seat. “I can’t impart some great wisdom upon you nor tell you what futures you will see.”

  She smiled, knowing full well he could learn of any smoothed bone if he wished. Wine swirled in her mouth as she studied his cold blue eyes. He didn’t say all he could, but she sensed no lies. “Fine.”

  He smiled, and she thought she detected both sadness and mirth buried beneath his words. “You were a cranky old bird even back then, but of course I couldn’t say such a thing with threat of the whip.”

  Her head bobbed, she couldn’t deny these things, even though there seemed no point to them. “You brought me here to air an age-old grievance?”

  Ulrikt chortled. “No, dear no. I always admired you and regretted never getting to know you outside our occasional correspondence. Quill and ink are no way to get to know another, I dare say. So I used this, the most grand Eve of Snows in generations, with the alignment of the Road of Living Stars, to invite you here, to meet with you, to get to know you a little. Simple as that.”

  Those final words might well be the biggest lie she’d heard since she herself had told Pineluple Choerkin she and her daughter would live. But everything before that rang true, and were the most befuddling words she’d ever heard a lord priest utter. She couldn’t think of a single reason for this powerful man to take an interest in her.

  “Don’t you remember? The divination of my high priesthood, the last you oversaw before traveling to Skywatch. I’m sure it’s been a thousand bones since for you, but for me, only a few.”

/>   So many bones, so many cracks, so many years. “I don’t. I’m sorry. Most of those bones were smoothed, anyhow—”

  “Not mine, not that night. Lord Priestess Sadevu saw to it. I needed the truth, and you gave it to me. Your words, ‘You will get to know she who writes your destiny and glory, which lights your path to the First Star of Heaven.’” His fingers drummed the rim of his goblet. “Don’t you see? You are she who will write my destiny, but we’ve never had a chance to get to know each other.”

  “You’ve brought me here to fulfill the promises of a prophecy I uttered over forty years ago? How would this old woman write your destiny?”

  “Humor me.” His smile turned impish, like a child too proud of his game. “Please, drink, tell me about yourself.”

  She relaxed into the cushions with a sip, the wine going straight to her senses after long years not partaking in drink. She’d gone decades without considering who she was outside the context of Skywatch; she didn’t know where to start. After decades, maybe there was nothing else. “I’m not the master of Skywatch. I am Skywatch.” The murderer in the stars. No, some truths the lord priest needn’t hear, even if he already knew.

  “The murderer in the stars. More poetic than I’d expect from you. Do go on.”

  She cursed herself for muttering her guilt out loud. Or had she? She must have, not that he cared, permission to kill had come straight from Istinjoln. Ulrikt and a dozen high priests shared in her murderous guilt over Pineluple and her daughter.

  After she’d communicated her fears of the unborn child, the next communication from Istinjoln told her to do what she deemed best. Best, but not what she deemed right. “The stars have been my guide and my life, no matter where they took me.” Wine loosened her tongue, and she needed to be more careful, keep her words and thoughts more mundane and innocent.

  So she spoke of her family, and her youth, in and outside Istinjoln. The lord priest listened with an intent gaze, nodding and prodding for explanations of simple things from playing with dolls to breaking her first prophetic bone in Istinjoln. All the while, he gave her no clues at all as to why he cared.

  25

  HOLY MOLE

  The blind man follows a mole relying on whiskers not his own,

  To what end does he shave? To rend at the end, the spring trap

  Steel Flowering red-gold, vultures instead of bees,

  Withering vines, limbs, fingers for thorns and toe roots

  Unable to feast as the mole passes him by with a snicker.

  —Tomes of the Touched

  Eight Days to the Eve of Snows

  Ivin awoke more sore than mornings after being beaten with a waster in training, which at least made him forget his saddle sore ass as he slipped into wool pants and padded jack. He wobbled down the stairs to find the dining hall, a room colder than the fire in the hearth suggested.

  The Wolverine sat with feet propped before the fire, staring into the flames and looking like he’d been awake for candles. Meliu sat on his left, elbows propped on the book over her knees and irritable, and Puxele paced his right, head swiveling with a glare that never left the Wolverine’s brow.

  Ivin nabbed a bowl of porridge and a mug of ale from a serving boy and settled on a bench to catch up on what he’d missed.

  “I could have twenty men in the mountains by midday. What the hells we waiting for?” Puxele asked.

  Meliu’s face was pale, and her infected wounds flared red, but whatever her condition, her eyes fumed. “You promised to get me to Istinjoln.”

  Rinold bounced down the stairs, spry as any other day, and Ivin hated him for it. “I’ll lead the tracking party. After food.” The serving boy scuttled to him with a bowl and mug, and the Squirrel didn’t bother with a spoon, slurping.

  Pikarn turned to the priestess first. “We’ll get you to Istinjoln soon as that there infection’s gone—”

  “I’m good to ride.”

  “You’re good to ride when I say, and my whiskers say we’ve snow blowing in. As for Modan, if any son of a bitch can drag his ass out of the mountains with his head intact, it’s that one.”

  Rinold poured ale into his porridge. “True nuf, but that don’t mean we don’t go lookin’.”

  Puxele puffed her chest and stared at Pikarn.

  Pikarn said, “We ain’t throwing more lives into them mountains until we give the man a chance. If he ain’t through the gates by dawn tomorrow, you get your men, Little Sister.”

  “Rinold and me, we’ll bring the man home.”

  Pikarn blurted, “No.”

  Puxule’s face tightened. “You ain’t keeping me from them mountains.”

  “No, I’m not, Squirrel’s with me. You’ll lead the party.”

  Ivin squinted at the back of Pikarn’s head. “She’ll need a tracker.”

  Pikarn didn’t bother looking at him. “A few candles in the mountains and Ratsmasher thinks he knows it all. Orvil’s in town, he can track. When this girl ain’t burnin’ red no more, we’ll head for Istinjoln, whether you’re back or not, hear me?”

  “I’m healthy now,” Meliu insisted.

  “You’re pale as snow and yer eyes’re glazed as ice, so shut your yap and enjoy the fire and food and beer a couple days, peruse that godsda— that book of yours, whatever it takes to keep yourself quiet. I’ll get you to Istinjoln.”

  “The herbs’re messing with my eyes.” The priestess snorted, not even selling herself on that story. “Yeah, right, you better.”

  Pikarn groaned and clasped his forehead, dragging both hands down his face. “Healing’s the easy part, girl. But Modan will prove my faith and ride through them gates.”

  THE NEXT MORNING, Puxele rode for the Omindi with Orvil as her second and fifteen more wardens at her command, leaving the Wolverine standing in town gnawing beef. He stared to the mountains, cursing the gods. When neither party of wardens returned by the Eighteenth of Yistole, Ivin feared the Wolverine might gnash his own teeth to splinters with worry while running out of expletives. Ivin learned the Wolverine had iron nails for teeth and an extensive vocabulary of the profane for every god.

  The weather in Ervinhin remained gray and dry while snows blanketed the higher mountains, and as Meliu’s red wounds turned to pink, Pikarn lost his excuse for putting off his promise to the priestess.

  Ivin met Fronk, Lidin, and Wilhart for the first time that morning. Of the men the Wolverine still had in town, these were the wardens he deemed least likely to spout off and get them in trouble with the holies.

  They departed a few candles past dawn, and after six quiet candles in the saddle they arrived at the base of the legendary monastery’s road. When Ivin was a child, his mother spoke of the monastic fortress in reverential terms. A pious woman born and raised in Erxlikt, a short day’s ride south of Istinjoln, she’d attended numerous festivals during her youth and received the Seven Blessings at the hand of the lord priestess herself. The fortress was nestled in the Jonin foothills, and she spoke of how the towers paid homage to the snow-covered mountain peaks with towers capped in white marble, and how the gods themselves carved the central tower in an Age past.

  As they approached Istinjoln in the light of fading day, Ivin had to admit his mother didn’t exaggerate its magnificence and beauty. The location was idyllic, with mountains in the background, and a long, rising road curling its way like a serpent’s tail to the front gate. Although young when she died, Ivin remembered how she always saw the candle in the dark, and the good in all things.

  Perhaps once he’d been his mother’s child, but for the past eleven years he’d been his father’s. The effect of the view upon arrival was intentional: impress and awe. It reminded everyone of its purpose, a fortress thousands could throw themselves against and fail. He was small and powerless against its majesty, for here lived the gods incarnate as stone walls, here defiance and assault became suicide.

  But his father had also forged into his brain that the gods lied.

  The harrowing, c
liff-sided road narrowed as it approached the gate towers until no more than four horseman would feel secure side-by-side. A drawbridge of oaken planks stretched across a twenty-foot chasm, leading into a gatehouse with three iron portcullises and murder holes above. These were peaceful times, and before dark the yawning entrance was open, protected only by two mail-clad guardsmen who granted entry with bored nods.

  If Istinjoln hid dangerous secrets, they lacked concern over them being found. Or at least, anyone carrying them past these walls alive. Despite his mother’s praise, the monastery carried a trident’s reputation: Quiet, unforgiving, and brutal. Three bloodstained points to keep the curious from prying, and those with knowledge, from talking. More than likely coming here would prove fruitless or suicidal, but the Wolverine was not a creature to be dissuaded.

  They waited in the bailey, the only souls in sight guards who walked the allure. The outbuildings were dark as the sun set, and he grew cold while sitting still on his horse as mountain winds whipped across the barren bailey.

  “Do they know we’re here?”

  For a moment, Ivin was sure he’d receive his third hunk of jerked beef today, but the old man surprised him. “It takes time for a worm of the proper rank to crawl from its hole, but they know we’re here, sure as hells.”

  Meliu paced several yards in front, and Ivin wondered if her manic steps were nerves or she was staying warm. Ivin’s toes were growing numb by the time two priests arrived, making him grateful to dismount and invigorate his blood. The high priest walked straight to Meliu, touched her head, clucked, and whispered words that brought a smile. He took the book, glanced at it, then handed it to the lantern-bearing priest with a nonchalant grace. The high priest took the girl’s cheeks in his hands and kissed her on the forehead.