by Tim Akers
Ian sagged to his knees. The spear was sunk to the shaft in the chest of a burly mendicant, his robes stained with blood and dark ichor. As the corpse folded in on itself, the dead man’s cowl fell back from his face. He had the pagan ink, though it was drawn in paint rather than tattooed into his skin. A wave of hatred washed over Ian, traveling through the spear and into his arms, his bones, his heart.
And then it died, dissipating into the air like the memory of a dream, cut away by morning’s light.
“Gods… damn,” Doone said from behind. Ian looked back. The survivors—Sir Doone and two others—knelt before the fallen god, leaning heavily on their swords to keep from toppling over with exhaustion.
“Damn that god,” Ian agreed. He tried to stand, but his knees were weak and his strength was gone. “Never thought I’d break a gheist.”
“Really? Then why the hells did you lead us out here?”
Ian shrugged. He settled onto his ass, laying the spear across his knees.
“Well, someone should get back to the camp. Let them know what we’ve done. Send someone out to gather Sir Grandieu and…” His voice trailed off. He looked over to the dead knight. A tangle of blackness was gathering against the man’s shattered chest. As Ian watched, the pale white of Grandieu’s ribs was eclipsed. With a sound like grinding marbles, Grandieu knit himself back together and rose again, knight and horse bound together with bands of night and heresy.
“Oh, seriously, what the hells?” Ian said. Exhaustion beat against his chest. He unfolded slowly, struggling to his feet. Doone and the survivors closed around him.
The body of the knight and the corpse of the horse wove together into a grotesque hybrid of armor and flesh. The broken length of the knight’s spear wrapped tight with the gheist’s strange ribbons, shattered and broke again, given life by the fallen god to become a prehensile limb, tipped with scything jaws of splintered wood.
The gheist turned toward Ian, snapping those narrow jaws together. It sounded like swords clashing.
“Well. We made a hell of a try,” Ian said.
Sir Doone stepped in front of him, raising the notched length of her sword and bellowing her fury.
“The hound!” she yelled.
She was answered from the tree line. The shadows of grass and young trees swirled as though caught in a sudden wind, and then a lone rider burst into the clearing.
“The hound! The hallow!” the rider called, full plate glinting in Cinder’s light, shield and spear lowered for the charge. He thundered across the clearing and crashed into the gheist at a full gallop. There was a shattering of metal and bone. Bits of armor and flesh tore free of the gheist’s grip, spraying across the grass of the field like broken pottery. The rider rode straight through, turning near the tree line and presenting his spear to the gheist. He rose in his saddle, slapping his visor up.
Malcolm Blakley glared across the field at his son, the moon illuminating the hound on his shield and the blood on his spear.
“Run, you idiot!” he shouted, then he lowered his visor and prepared for a second pass. The swirling mass of shadows at the center of the field seemed shocked by Malcolm’s attack, but largely unhurt. It squared itself up to face the charge, shadowy tendrils rising from its shoulders like wings.
At that moment a new sun broke among the trees, coming from the direction of Greenhall. As Ian watched, a knight of the winter sun hovered into the clearing. She wore the ornate plate-and-half crimson armor of her sect, traced in gold, marked with the sanctified runes of the Lady Strife. A tabard tied loosely over her breastplate showed the gaunt, black tree of the winter sun. With the Allfire so close, the bright lady’s power was near its apex, and that power shone through the armor. Runes burned with an amber light, molten gold and blood flowing through them in a never-ending circuit.
She wasn’t riding a horse, as most flesh would singe in the presence of the full manifestation of the goddess. Instead she drifted over the ground, her toes barely grazing the grass beneath her. A field of heat sheathed her, the air shimmering, the trees shrinking away as though trapped in sudden drought. She held a sword in front of her, as bright as a shard of the sun, the gold runes along the blade flashing like lightning from a summer squall. Hair as black as midnight rolled down her shoulders. Her eyes were the color of splintered copper.
“In winter, in darkness, in the night,” she intoned, her voice stiff with ritual, more song than declaration, “I shall bring the sun.”
“Run!” Malcolm bellowed again, tucking his spear beneath his arm and spurring forward. His horse leapt at his touch, and lord and mount rushed through the clearing.
Ian lingered just long enough to see the bright lady manifest, her presence a blinding spear at the heart of the vow-sworn knight. It left the taste of copper in his mouth.
And then he ran, stumbling through the night, blinded by Strife’s presence and the knight’s glory. Behind them a storm broke through the forest, tearing through shadows like lightning.
* * *
Ian woke in pain. A deep fire burrowed through his head, simmering behind his eyes like pots of boiling oil. When he tried to sit up, nausea forced him back down. He heard a groaning sound, and realized it was coming from his throat.
“The dead have risen,” his father said. Ian cracked his eyes. Even the dim light that filtered through the canvas of his tent made them water. Malcolm sat at a camp table near the tent’s flap, his hands wrapped around a mug of coffee.
“Food?” Ian asked.
“We’ll get you something to eat as soon as you are out of bed, and dressed, and the worst of the stink is washed off your body.” Malcolm toed a bucket and sponge, the water frothed with soap. “Not necessarily in that order.”
“I stood firm in the face of a gheist,” Ian said. “Doesn’t that earn me a little breakfast in bed?”
“If you were a wet-eyed Suhdrin lord with a poet’s quill in your trembling hand. But you are heir to one of the greatest houses in Tener. The blood of hounds runs in your veins, the horns of ancient ruin echo in your voice.” Malcolm stood with a sarcastic smile. “And your father is a damned hero. No son of mine is going to lie in bed just because they got a little god-touched the night before.”
“I am wounded!” Ian pled.
“You are hung over,” Malcolm answered. He scooped the bucket up in one hand and sloshed it over his son’s bed. Cold, soapy water splashed into Ian’s face, and he yelped. It stung his eyes and took his breath away. “They’re going to pretend you’re a hero out there, Ian, but let’s be honest. You were too drunk to know any better.”
He dumped the rest of the water onto Ian’s head.
Ian sat bolt upright, sputtering and nearly knocking his father to the ground. Malcolm’s laughter boomed through the tent. He bounced the sponge off his son’s chest, then went back to the camp table and his coffee. Ian stumbled around the tent, rubbing grit into his eyes with the sponge and trying to find a towel. His father’s rumbling laughter chased him.
“I’m serious, Ian,” Malcolm said as he settled onto the stool. “Caris Doone and her men have been telling stories. Your name is on the lips of half the knights in this camp, and all of the women. They’re going to hang a lot of titles around your neck, but you need to keep your head about you.”
“Titles?” Ian asked. “What sort of titles?”
“Forget about it. Keep your heart in your chest, young man.”
“Easy for you to say.” Ian wrapped a towel around him and began fumbling around for his robes. Even at the height of summer, it was chilly in the tent. “They still call you Reaverbane in every court under the Celestial throne.”
“Not to my face,” Malcolm said, and he sounded tired. “Though I have no doubt it will end up on my tomb. But listen to me for a minute, son.” He stood and took Ian by the shoulders. “You did well, but it was foolish. Your sister would make a fine duchess, but she has no love of court, and no interest in the Hunter’s throne. For her sake, if not for yo
ur mother’s, have more sense before you risk your blood next time.”
“You rode out,” Ian said.
“Once I had a vow knight at my side, and we knew what we were facing. Lord Marchand raced back to the wards as soon as he saw the beast, though not soon enough to save Sir Grandieu.” Malcolm paused, his eyes lost in memory. “A good man. A good soldier. And you lost five of my sworn blades, none of them even properly armed to face that thing.”
“How many more would now be dead if I hadn’t acted? If the gheist had found its way to the tourney grounds?”
“Fewer. Maybe none. The wards were strong, and the vow knights were gathering. You will lose men if you mean to lead them, but that’s no reason to be eager for their deaths.”
Ian remained silent for a moment.
“I am sorry, truly,” he said, “but I told them to run.”
“They would follow you anywhere,” Malcolm said. “That is their duty. That is their oath to me as their lord, and to you as their future leader. You will march the dirge at their wake, and deliver the wergild to their families. On foot. In ashes.”
“Father…”
“No,” Malcolm snapped. “They marched with you to their deaths. Their souls are bound to the quiet house. It is your burden.”
Father and son stared silently at each other. Beyond the tent, the camp was stirring with life, yet Ian realized the world had grown quiet as they argued. He was used to having these kinds of disagreements behind cold stone walls, high in the keep and away from his father’s men. He cleared his throat.
“Of course, Father. It will be an honor to wear their ashes.”
Malcolm stood stiffly, then nodded. He set the mug of cold coffee on the table and left the tent. A quiet chorus of “m’lord” followed him as he tromped away.
Ian sighed and wiped the last of the soap from his eyes. He got dressed quietly, careful of the wounds he had earned and the ones he had hidden. When he was ready, he buckled a sword to his belt and went to find some breakfast.
10
DAWN WAS STILL hours away when Gwendolyn Adair shook herself awake. The young huntress lay in bed, listening to the hectic preparations in the hallway outside her door, the shushing rush of silk robes and slippered feet, the muffled clink of cheap nails being driven home, the murmuring voices of the servants as they prepared the secret feast of Lady Strife, goddess of summer and sun and joy.
It was the morning of the Allfire, the longest day of the year, and the castle Fen Gate was alive with quiet activity.
Gwen propped herself up on one arm and blinked at the window. Still dark. She wondered if her parents were up yet, making ready. Traditionally, the servants woke the lord and lady of the castle before rousing the children, but as huntress of her clan, Gwen lived apart from her parents, younger brother, and their host of attendants. Her rooms were beside the kennels, below the watchtower that held the gheist horn. Still, her mother would want her to be part of the family’s procession into the doma, to offer their prayers and their praises to Lady Strife.
Someone should have come for her by now. Gwen was about to get up and poke her head into the hallway when her door creaked open and Mab the Older appeared.
“My lady,” the elderly woman whispered in a voice that was as rough as bark. “The bright lady calls you to…”
“Yes, yes, Mab,” Gwen replied. “I’m awake. Lady Strife calls me to this and that, but first I have to make ready.” She sighed and put her feet on the cold floor. Even in the heart of summer, the mornings in northern Tenumbra had a chill to them. “I’ll be along shortly.”
“Your mother says…”
“My mother says something about a dress. I know. You have done your duty, and shall not be held accountable for whatever I end up wearing. Thank you.”
“Yes, my lady…” Mab said, leaving quietly. Gwen rubbed the night from her eyes and turned to her wardrobe.
A dress, indeed.
She got up, splashed cold water on her face, and pulled her hair back into a band, out of her eyes. She was tall, tan and strong from nineteen summers spent in the saddle and nineteen winters on the hunt. Her dark hair was streaked black and rusty red, unusual for Tenerrans of noble birth, and her wide eyes were a brown that was nearly black. She wore her hair short in the summer, something that drove both of her parents to distraction, but long hair had no place in the brambles of the wilderness. She had cut it the day her father appointed her the huntress of House Adair.
Gwen spent her days among the dogs, beneath the sun, on the hunt. Protecting her family’s land from the mad gods that roamed the forests, gheists keening through the night for the worship that the Celestial church had stolen from them. However, today was the Allfire, Strife’s holiest day, and the height of her power. The bright lady would keep the gheists at bay.
Gwen fumbled a lantern to life and by its flickering light began to pull dresses out of her wardrobe. Mother had expressed an opinion on the day’s attire, but that held little interest for Gwen. She would submit to wearing a dress on a day like this, but if she was going to appear in such impractical clothing, it would be of her own choosing.
The noise in the castle grew as more of the household woke up. Two men held an angry conversation in the courtyard below, their voices rising until the distinct gravelly growl of Mab the Older shut them up. The hunting pack, no more aware of the significance of this day than any other, began yipping at the gate of their kennels, looking for breakfast and hopeful of the hunt.
Gwen gave her collection of dresses a dispirited look, then quickly buckled on her leathers and went up the stairs to the watchtower.
Aine MaeCliff was sitting against the wall, his arms crossed over his spear and a flask in his hands. He had the temerity to blush when Gwen tromped up the stairs and into his watch station.
“Bit early, Aine?” she asked.
“Bit late,” he said. “I’m expecting relief.”
“Quiet night.”
“The Allfire,” he said, then offered her the flask. The whiskey was fiery and sharp. Gwen took just enough to wash the dreams out of her mouth. “You have your own duties this morning, I think.”
“Aye,” she said. “Wanted a moment with the sky before prayers.”
Aine smiled and leaned his spear against the parapet.
“Then let’s call you my relief, and let me get a nap in before the festivities.” He started down the narrow stairs that led to the barracks. “Edra will be along shortly.”
Alone on the battlement, Gwen leaned over the wall and breathed in the morning air. The sun was still below the horizon, Lady Strife making ready for her glorious day. Lord Cinder, god of night and winter, hung low above the trees, the last of his silver light brushing their leaves like frost. The wind was cool and clean, sharp with the night and as fresh as the streams that laced their way through the forest below.
Gwen was glad for her day of peace. Each solstice celebration marked the height of the Celestial church’s influence. The old gods rarely stirred on those days, or even in the weeks leading up to them. It was only as the equinox approached that these lands would be plagued by the remnants of their forgotten faith.
Well, mostly forgotten. Some still held the rites close to their hearts, hidden away in deep forest covens, lighting the flames that kept the old gods alive. Gwen cast her eyes through the lingering night, the iron-gray trunks of the trees reflected in the torchlight from the castle walls. Somewhere in that darkness, the pagans still said their prayers.
That Gwen said those prayers as well, along with the rest of her family, was a secret tightly held and deadly to know. Her father explained their double faith as two sides of the same coin, paying the church to preserve the new gods, and curbing the old gods to keep the church out of their business. The inquisition would be less understanding, however, if they discovered the truth behind House Adair’s heresy.
Gwen kept her prayer short and quiet. In the doma behind her, the first bell of the Allfire struck. The call
to prayer and preparation. A foot scuffed on the stairs.
“Aine. You’ve done something with your hair,” Edra said. There was already a curl of drunkenness to her voice. The guardswoman smiled as Gwen turned around.
“Stow it.” Gwen released her prayer into the morning, then handed the watch-spear to her relief. “I’ll be checking on you, Edra. Don’t think you have the day off just because it’s the Allfire.”
“Wouldn’t imagine,” she said as she clumsily hid her bottle in the too-short sleeve of her jerkin. From down the stairs a whisper stole its way up. A boy. The guard blushed and shrugged.
“At least take turns watching the forest, ’Dra,” Gwen said. “I’m sure you can manage to keep one of you facing out, hmm?”
Edra stuttered an unintelligible response. Gwen passed the boy on her way down, a baker’s son from the village, arms strong from lifting racks of bread, but with a face as soft as dough. Too young to be spending time with the likes of Edra. But it was the Allfire. The whole day was dedicated to making interesting mistakes.
Back in her rooms, Gwen selected a modest dress of deep red, trimmed in black. The colors of House Adair, without any of the uncomfortable iron ornamentation that so often went along with the name. When she felt as awkwardly acceptable to her mother’s expectations as she could manage, Gwen snuffed the lantern and then went out into the hall and across the courtyard to her family’s quarters.
The whole house was awake and, it seemed, rushing through the hallways and to the doma at the foot of the great hall. No one was talking, other than to apologize for getting in her way, or to wish her a bright Allfire, or compliment her color. Gwen bore it all, grateful that she wasn’t expected to answer.
The doors to the doma were still firmly sealed, symbolically shackled in chains daubed white to represent winter’s distant grasp. The crowd outside the sanctuary stood in silent reverence, shuffling back and forth in anticipation. Many more stood on the walls around the courtyard, the wall walks crowded with pilgrims and peasants, all in their holiday best. Most of them were looking down on the doma, but some faced east, waiting for Strife’s bright face to find the sky.