by John Brown
It also had an iron grate door set into the floor on one side. Droz lifted the bar on the door and took them down another staircase. This stair opened onto a flat area about ten feet deep. At the end there was yet another grated door. Two massive iron bars held it shut.
Droz unbarred the door and opened it outwards toward himself.
There was a whistling somewhere above. Argoth suspected it was a window. He glanced back up the stairs and saw nothing but darkness. There was an odor on the air. Old urine and excrement and something else he could not identify. So it wasn’t as tight as Droz wanted them to believe.
The light of their three lamps was only strong enough for Argoth to see the grated doors of the first few cells.
“The woman’s down at the end,” said Droz. “I’ll wait here.”
“Actually,” said Argoth, “I think we’ll accomplish more alone.”
“I don’t like it,” said Droz.
“If you want to rouse the warlord to discuss our methods with him, go ahead. Or maybe we can wait until he wakes. Of course, she doesn’t have many hours left in her. If she dies tonight…”
Droz grunted. “You like to push it, don’t you?”
“No, Droz. We just need some answers.”
“Fine,” said Droz, “But that means I lock you in.”
“Thank you,” said Argoth. “We’ll ring the bell when we’re ready.” Argoth dropped his voice to barely a whisper. “I expect you’ll want to watch. But, please, don’t uncover one of the murder holes directly above her cell. If she is Sleth, she’ll know you’re there. In fact, I’d recommend against opening any of them. Your stink will come through, and she’ll not say a word.”
Droz looked at him, and Argoth couldn’t tell if it was suspicion or curiosity behind those eyes. But then he nodded, locked the grated door behind himself as he left, and retreated back up the stairs.
Hogan stepped forward toward Purity, but Argoth restrained him, and motioned at the murder holes in the ceiling. They waited for the time it would have taken Droz to walk back up the stairs, but they heard no murder hole being uncovered. Nevertheless, Argoth walked about the room, holding his lamp so he could inspect every one. When he was sure nobody was listening, he motioned Hogan to Purity’s cell.
Purity lay in a blanket at the bars of her cell on a bed of straw. Underneath the blanket she was naked except for her bandages. Her head had been shaven. The silver king’s collar ringed her neck. Hogan knelt close to the bars and held his lamp up. Her wounds from the arrows were stitched in tidy rows. Even so, the wounds were red, angry, and corrupting. She would not last long in this room, but she might survive long enough to do the Grove damage.
“Purity,” said Hogan.
She spoke, but did not sit up. “I hope you brought wolfsbane roots,” she said. “If I’m to be poisoned, let it be quick. Not an insufficient dose of hemlock and honey or some two-day mushroom.”
“Calm yourself,” said Hogan. “It hasn’t come to that yet. First, we need to know what has happened.”
She coughed and her breath rattled in her lungs. “I’m sure the Fir-Noy gave you the full report,” she said.
“I don’t care about the battle,” said Hogan. “I want to know about the stork and your child. And what happened to the harvest master’s family afterwards.”
“I thought maybe someone else in the Grove decided to take justice in their own hands,” said Argoth, “but it wasn’t anyone in the Grove. Nobody I know could have drained the bodies like that. Not even a Divine can do that. I inspected the bodies, and they were dry. Completely wrung out.”
Argoth referred to the Fire in the bodies of the family. Death was the separation of Fire, soul, and body. Some said the soul took the Fire with it. Others claimed the Fire poured forth like smoke or steam. However it separated from the body, there was always some that remained and leached away only very slowly. Fire could be found in bones a hundred years old, yet the bodies of Barg’s family had been empty husks.
Argoth continued, “There were the markings of an immense draw of Fire, a blackening of the skin. It looked almost as if some monstrous hand had grasped hold of each victim’s face.”
Purity was silent for a long moment. And then, “I know nothing of what happened to the harvest master’s family.”
Hogan squatted down next to the cell. He reached in and gently stroked Purity’s shaved head. “Whatever you’re hiding, you need to let us know so we know how to set it right.”
Purity looked at them then. Large cuts and bruises covered her face. Her left eye was almost swollen shut. Her lip was split.
“Give me the poison,” she said. “You cannot free me. I have broken our trust. I am willing to abide by the covenant; cut me down and preserve the rest.”
Not a tear fell. And how could she weep? She was broken. Argoth’s heart ached for her.
Hogan continued to softly stroke her hair. “We decide if the covenant is broken. Besides, not all is lost. Your children yet live.”
Argoth had not known that.
Purity looked at Hogan, and now the tears began to well in her damaged eyes. “I have done horrible things.”
They waited for her to continue.
Purity was a handsome woman, but her grief had shattered her. And now her face twisted with what she was about to tell. “In the early autumn of last year the children brought in a young stork with an injured wing. It could not join the others in their flight south, so we decided to nurse it back to health. Sugar and Legs made a pen for it next to the chicken coop and brought it frogs and fish to eat. They loved the excitement of that long, dangerous beak.
“It was a smart bird, and a temptation came to me, a forbidden and foolish thing. I wanted to reach out and touch its soul, to see what the mind of this great bird might be like. I’d done it before with other animals and knew how to be careful. Every few generations someone in my family manifests this gift. I’d been taught by my great-grandmother. But I had never done this while pregnant. I was only a few weeks from delivering Cotton.”
Argoth suspected he knew where the story would end. This poor woman… and yet, that’s why the codes were so strict.
Purity continued, “Something in me slipped. I felt it leave. I knew it was soul and broke the connection. I was horrified, but nothing happened. I lay awake at nights worrying what might happen to me. I inspected myself and the bird every day. But there was nothing. Nothing. Then Cotton was born. He was jaundiced, but that’s common enough and the yellowing quickly faded in the sun. All seemed right. And I thought I had perhaps imagined the slipping.
“The bird healed, but would not fly with its kind. It always stayed close by, as if it were one of the family. We stopped feeding it, but it would not leave. And whenever Cotton was outside, it would come down and eye the babe. At first we thought it saw the babe as a tasty morsel, but it never tried to nip. It would only turn its head to eye him and then settle down somewhere close. This went on for weeks, and we just accepted that the bird thought we were his flock.
“Then one frosty morning I went out to the garden to dig onions. Cotton lay wrapped in the bassinet. This bird rose from its perch on the roof and flapped down to join us. But this time I noticed something… a sore on its head. Of course, I thought it had been in a fight with some animal, but when I inspected, I saw the bud of an ear. And then hair where feathers should have been.”
Purity stopped her tale and stared off into space. Moments later she continued. “Cotton’s foot had been roughening despite the butters and salves I rubbed onto it. And it was very clear what had happened; my soul hadn’t slipped-Cotton’s had. I probed, hoping to untangle them, but the two of them had mixed. My honey child”-a dry sob wracked her-“and that bird. I killed the bird, thinking only a small portion slipped and might return to my boy. But Cotton did not heal. He worsened, then died not many days later, lying in the bassinet on our kitchen table. I could not bring myself to burn them.”
She did not continue, but Arg
oth could guess. In despair, she’d buried them together, because her son had been in both bodies. She concocted her kidnapping story. And it would have worked had the floods not come this year.
Hogan looked up at Argoth, but they didn’t need to say anything. Argoth drew back his coat and showed Hogan the poison. By the Order’s law, she should die.
“Why didn’t you tell us?” asked Hogan.
“How could I?” she asked.
“Then what about this family that was slain? Is there some dark grove we know nothing about?”
“No,” said Purity. “No. I would never.”
“You were not supposed to touch souls either,” said Argoth.
Purity didn’t answer. She didn’t sob, beg, or plead.
Hogan shook his head. “There’s no way to redeem you from the Order’s law,” he said.
“What about my children?” asked Purity.
“They’re safe for the moment,” said Hogan, his pain showed plainly on his face. “My dear Purity. This can’t be a quick death; we don’t want them to link it to our visit.”
Purity nodded. “Tell them I’m sorry. Tell my children…” but she couldn’t finish her sentence.
Argoth reached for the tin and then stopped. She wasn’t someone who flouted the covenants of the Order. And if they could get her away from this place, if they could give her another chance, he knew great good would come of it. To be sure, there were many covenant-breakers who needed to be put to death. But the good to be achieved by this woman’s death was so little compared to what could be achieved by devising a way to help her live.
“She must die,” said Argoth. “But I don’t believe there is any part of the covenant that determines how soon that must be. In fact, is there not precedence for delaying execution?”
“For a day or two. A week,” said Hogan. “But it was expedient in those cases.”
“What if I said we could get her out of here?”
Hogan waited for Argoth to continue.
“We could use the sally port,” he said. “Tomorrow night. The sally port and then down the cliffs to the sea.”
“You can get her past Droz?” asked Hogan.
“That’s the one sticking point in every plan I’ve devised.”
“It’s too risky,” said Purity. She held her hand out. “Give it to me now.”
It was all fine to have strict rules requiring the death of renegade members, but rules could never have prepared him for this. Lords, but this woman had advised him on how to repair the seemingly dead relationship with his own wife. Her strong purpose and wry humor had been invaluable. He couldn’t do it.
Hogan’s face was grim.
“I have a plan,” said Argoth. “Tomorrow night I drug the guards and free you. You dress in the garb of one of the men. I take the drug so they don’t suspect me. Then you walk out of here on your own with a report from Droz to the warlord. I will hide another set of clothes. You change into them and as a servant escape through the sally port.”
“Except I can’t walk on my own,” said Purity. “I am one tree. I am not the Grove.”
“Then we’ll think of something else.”
“Please,” said Purity. “You risk everything. You risk the lives of my children. If you want to save me, save my children.”
Hogan put a hand on Argoth’s shoulder. “Brother,” he said. “I shall never forgive myself.” Then he reached down and twisted off the lid to the tin. And Argoth couldn’t tell if Hogan was saying he would not be able to forgive himself for killing Purity or if he could not forgive himself if he put the rest of the Grove at risk.
Purity reached out, but her wounds prevented her from extending her arm far enough.
Argoth hesitated, looking at the few inches between the tin and her damaged fingers. And then, as if it were someone else’s hand holding the tin, he moved it close enough for her to take a pinch of rough powder.
“How much?” she asked.
“Two,” he said, his voice miles away. “Two should be more than enough.”
Purity took a pinch then put her fingers to her mouth. She grimaced at the bitterness, sucked her fingers, then reached out and took another pinch.
Hogan’s face fell. He stroked her shaved head again. “My dear,” he said. “My dear, dear-”
Something scraped above them. Argoth motioned for Hogan and Purity to be silent and looked up.
Argoth took another tone of voice, as if they had been interrogating her. “There are many more things you must tell us,” he said. He stood as if to stretch his legs. “Tonight is the beginning. And your children will reap the reward. But it all depends on what you do tomorrow when we return. It is your choice.” He continued in that line as if he were a reasonable interrogator, all the while furtively searching the ceiling. And then he found one of the holes in the ceiling that did not reflect his lamplight back.
It appeared Droz had not been able to contain his curiosity. He was only amazed Droz had waited this long. He made a small motion, letting Hogan know they should leave.
“You’ve been helpful,” said Hogan. “Every Koramite will thank you in their hearts.” It was a good touch. Argoth only hoped it was enough to fool Droz.
Purity said nothing in reply, only sucked on her two fingers.
He led Hogan back to the grate door. A chain hung from the ceiling. It connected to a bell in the upper level. Argoth gave it three good tugs and waited. A few minutes later, Droz opened the massive door and let them out.
On the stairs, Droz broke the silence. “So did you get our fish to speak?”
Argoth looked at Droz. “We know that the murder of the butcher’s family was independent of this woman,” he said.
“Goh,” exclaimed Droz. “There are two groups?”
“At the very least,” said Argoth. “Of course, we’ll have to verify what she said. But if it’s true, then it raises many troubling questions.”
“What else did you find?”
“I’ve already thrown you a bone,” said Argoth. “The rest is for Lord Shim.”
Argoth and Hogan found a place in the middle of the fortress courtyard where they could speak. They didn’t want to be up against one of the walls where their words might echo. And even if their words didn’t echo, they couldn’t know who might be close enough to hear: there were too many crannies and windows and deep shadows. No, it was best to talk in a spot where they could see everything that was to be seen.
Hogan held the reins of his mule. A smattering of clouds had blown in and obscured part of the night sky, but there was still enough light to see most of the courtyard.
“My heart is ash,” said Hogan.
Argoth could say nothing.
“We will make a sacrifice,” said Hogan, “so that her ancestors may be strong.”
A sacrifice of Fire would help her in the world of the dead. But he knew it wouldn’t lighten the pain he felt in his chest.
After a few moments of silence, Hogan said, “So, what emptied those bones? Wizards?”
It had always been a wizard’s dream to collect the bones of slaughtered animals and deceased humans, to harvest Fire without cost. The soul has departed; so there shouldn’t be any power there to resist a harvest of what remained in the bones. Battlefields, slaughter pens, dinner plates heaped with the remains of a meal-they should all be rich with easy Fire. But they weren’t. The bones resisted them. “Either someone has finally discovered how to persuade bones to release their treasure,” said Argoth, “or there’s a new power abroad.”
“Or an old one,” said Hogan. “Perhaps that is what killed Lumen.”
The ancient stories told of gods inhabiting many places. In the beginning, the old gods were servants of the Creators. There were gods for fish and beasts and trees, each chosen from its own kind. Each taught the lore by the Creators themselves so that they might guide and bless a certain small territory: a vale, a wood, or a group of hamlets.
But these old ones had proved unstable. One never kne
w if a god would end up being a curse or a blessing. And so the legends say the six Creators withdrew their presence from them. Regret, of course, did not. In time, a new order arose, an order of human Divines who sought to battle the old ones and rule huge territories. Some said the new order began with a group of gods seeking the ways of the first parents; others said it had nothing to do with the old ones, but had been established by the Creators directly.
Whatever the origin, the new order began to hunt the old gods. There were many tales of the ancient battles. In the end, the Divines triumphed. They claimed total extermination, yet there were always rumors of old ones that had slipped through the cracks. Could this be one of the old gods who had survived?
“This changes everything,” said Hogan.
“It does,” said Argoth. “Of course, why Barg? That part makes no sense. He was the key to… nothing.”
“A mere butcher, a harvest master,” Hogan said. He shook his head and looked up at the stars.
“Hogan,” said Argoth, “Lord Shim has been making suggestions again. Perhaps this is the opportunity we’ve been looking for. We do have the Book and Crown. Perhaps our time has come.”
“And who can read it?” asked Hogan. “No. We won’t risk that.”
Hogan was overly conservative. The Book and Crown of Hismayas held many things now lost to the world. It was said that Hismayas, the founder of their order, knew things not even the Glories of this world knew, things given him by the Creators themselves.
“We’ve discussed this before,” said Hogan. “Rushing to harvest only ruins the crop. The Order is not yet ripe.”
What would happen if they declared their powers openly? Some would join. Perhaps many. They might defeat the Bone Faces. But many might also prefer to submit themselves to that rot rather than ally themselves with Sleth. Bosser was one of those. He would fight against Argoth, and sooner or later, Mokad would find out; they would send an army to obliterate anyone having anything to do with the Order. The Nine Clans would join with them. Hogan was right: it could only end in chaos and ruin, but that did not make this cold logic any easier to bear.