The Pagan Night

by Tim Akers

  “Don’t be a fool,” Colm snapped. “You know what I mean! Did Sir Volent see your face? Does he know who rode against them? Will he be able to lay those bodies at our gate?”

  “I don’t…”

  “Because if this ends in blood, Gwendolyn Adair, it will be the last hunt you ride. Do you understand me?”

  “You can’t mean to withdraw my title,” Gwen hissed. “I did nothing wrong. Unless you consider it wrong to stop the slaughter of innocent peasants at the hands of a madman?”

  “I consider it wrong to provoke a neighbor whose business we barely know. The peace that stands is a fragile thing, daughter. If the cost of that peace is turning a blind eye to the Deadface’s blight, then that is a price I will pay.”

  “I do not care for that kind of a peace,” Gwen said, bristling.

  “Yet you are my heir, and it’s about time someone reminded you of your duty to this family, as well as to the fallen gods.”

  Gwen seethed at her father. Sir Hogue cleared his throat and addressed the room at large.

  “Perhaps the priest can speak to this. Was Sir Volent at fault? You were there, after all.”

  “There’s nothing I can say that will help,” Frair Lucas offered quietly.

  “As always, the church is silent on Halverdt’s depredations. What a surprise,” Hogue said sharply. Colm Adair gestured the man to silence.

  “Brother priest, we appreciate your help in hunting the gheist, and your warning us of the creature from Gardengerry,” the baron said, “but I’m not certain this is the business of the church.”

  “All business belongs to the church, in some way,” Lucas said. He stood slowly, pausing to rest his hand on the table before straightening. “This business more than most. Heartsbridge would not see war between Tener and Suhdra. Not over this.”

  “Do you speak for the celestriarch? Can you level his condemnation against Sir Volent?” Hogue asked with a sneer.

  “No, that is not my business, nor my place. I can only advise. But you have no interest in such things, so I must go.”

  “Wait,” Colm Adair said quickly. He shot a look at his daughter, who was sitting quietly at the corner of the table, as far from attention as she could manage. “If asked, what advice would you give?”

  “Simply this,” Lucas replied. “Apologize to the duke. Seek your damages through the courts of Cinder. Keep your swords in your belts.”

  “And stand aside when Halverdt comes north to break us, I suppose,” Sir Doone said.

  “If the duke marches north, you will of course have the right to defend yourself, but if the word we’ve had from Greenhall is true, Malcolm Blakley is there now, seeking to settle matters before they get out of hand.”

  “That dog likes to be petted too much,” Doone complained. “How convenient that he traveled south before Volent came reaving.”

  “It does seem fortunate timing,” Colm Adair said. “I would never accuse the church of such trickery, but Blakley finds himself in a ripe spot to settle this.”

  “And that troubles you?” Lucas asked.

  “He may make concessions to which we would never agree, simply to keep the peace. The Reaverbane has a taste for compromise.”

  “You think the church planned this, then put him in place to surrender your rights, and then manufactured a situation that would force him to negotiate,” Lucas suggested. He shook his head. “Halverdt and Adair have been at each other’s throats for decades. There would be no need to manufacture that kind of trouble. Indeed, if Blakley steps in, you should count yourself lucky. He has the faith of the south, and the trust of the north. No man is better equipped to speak for you.”

  “He has never spoken for me,” Adair said quietly. “Blakley has always seemed more interested in appeasing the church—and Gabriel Halverdt.”

  “Ah, I see,” Lucas responded. “Fine. Clearly you have arrived at your own conclusions, and have no interest in what I have to say. That being the case, I will leave.”

  “Where will you go?” Gwen asked.

  “Greenhall. My vow knight is there. I must confer with her before we decide how to proceed.”

  “Proceed?” Gwen asked.

  “We’ve had three gheists within a breath of the Allfire, a time that is never troubled by such manifestations. Does that not trouble you, Huntress?”

  “I find it… odd,” she allowed.

  “As do I,” Lucas said. “My calling is to investigate odd things, so my search must continue. Be careful, Huntress. If Sir LaFey can not defeat this gheist from Gardengerry, it may find its way into your territories.”

  “Where it will meet its death,” she answered.

  “I pray you are right,” he replied. “And now, gentlemen, bladewomen, I bid you good day.”

  Before they could respond, Frair Lucas stepped briskly away from the table and out into the hall. He was nearly at the stables when footsteps caught up with him. He turned to find a knight approaching him, a man of later years and with Suhdrin features. Sir Merret—the man who had ridden with them against the gheist.

  “I was expecting Gwen Adair,” Lucas said.

  “You will have to make do with me,” he said. “She has asked me to accompany you.”

  “Are you coming to protect me, or to spy on me?”

  “Neither. We are merely going to the same place.”

  “Oh? And what business do you have in Greenhall?” Lucas asked.

  “My lord thought it wise to tell the duke of Houndhallow and the other Tenerran knights what has occurred,” Merret said. “In case there’s trouble.”

  “Oh, there will be trouble,” Lucas muttered. “Very well, we ride quickly, Sir Merret, and we leave immediately.”

  “I would have it no other way.”

  * * *

  Concerned as he was with Elsa’s safety, Frair Lucas was determined to reach Greenhall as quickly as possible. Faced with Sir Merret’s age, the priest fortified the knight as they traveled south, enabling them to steal hours from the night and keeping fatigue from man’s mind. As a result, less than a week found them at the verge of their destination, staring down at its walls.

  Lucas brought them to a halt.

  “This is as far as we go together,” he said.

  “Afraid to be seen in the company of a knight of Tener?” Merret asked. The man’s voice was dreamy, reflecting the effects of Lucas’s magics.

  “I think you have more to fear in being seen with me,” Lucas answered. “No, I would rather enter the city without the duke’s knowledge of where I’ve been. Gabriel Halverdt is a suspicious man, and will not trust any rider from the north.”

  “Even a priest?”

  “Well, this priest at least,” Lucas said. “And your business is too urgent for that. Continue on, but if asked by Halverdt’s men, make no mention of me.”

  “What should I say to the duke of Houndhallow?”

  “My opinion on that matters little,” Lucas said. “You’re only stirring trouble, but go, do what you must.”

  Merret watched him for a moment, then spurred his horse down the road. As soon as he disappeared from sight Lucas turned, riding wide and fast around the castle. Entering the forest he saw evidence of the gheist and a great battle, but could not tell who had won. Yet the castle appeared to be secure, and the city was full of merriment and life.

  He reached the southern road when his ears caught an unexpected sound. He ducked among the trees and drew the shadows tight, silencing his horse and cloaking his presence.

  An armed host marched down the road toward Greenhall. Lucas couldn’t see as well as he hoped, but a column of soldiers, knights, and mounted men-at-arms came into sight. To his surprise they continued to pass him by for nearly an hour. They might have been traveling to join the competition, except the tournament had already begun, and from the noise coming from the city, most of the revelers already seemed to be in the pavilion ground.

  When most of the host was past, a carriage rolled into view. Stron
g sides and arrow-slits marked it as belonging to a merchant or a lesser noble, but there were no markings on its sides, and no tabards on the guards who ringed it—men in heavy steel riding in perfect formation, their eyes keenly on the tree line, their hands couching long spears and shields, freshly scrubbed of any paint.

  There were other men, too—four of them, riding in a loose circle around the wagon. They wore fine clothes, but appeared unarmed and without armor. One of them drifted close to where Lucas was hiding. As he got near, the man paused and tilted his head in the frair’s direction.

  Lucas slid deeper into the naether, shivering as his flesh disappeared from the realm of blood. As soon as he did this, he recognized his own mistake.

  These men wore naetheric armor.

  The nearest man began to scan the forest, lines of naetheric force dancing through the trees. He was searching for a gheist, and not a brother of Cinder, so Lucas remained undetected.

  The wagon and its guard came to a halt. After a moment, the door opened, and a man leaned out. He was simply dressed, wearing nothing fine, nothing sacred. He called out in a voice that demanded service.

  “What’s the matter?” he called. “We can’t fall much further behind without drawing attention.”

  “Nothing, my holy,” the closest man said. “Thought I sensed a gheist, yet the forests seem clean.”

  “There are no gods in these woods,” the man answered. “At least, none we don’t hold.” He chuckled and reentered the cabin, then shut the door. After a moment the caravan continued on its way.

  After they were gone, Lucas released his bindings. He would have to circle around the city and find another way in. Lucas had no interest in following in the wake of that man or his hidden army.

  Lucas knew the voice of Tomas Sacombre, high inquisitor of Cinder when he heard it.

  16

  MALCOLM COULD SEE Ian watching the gentle tourney, his head bent in conversation with Lorien Roard’s oldest son. Martin, that was the boy’s name. Malcolm couldn’t help but wonder what would become of their friendship, should Suhdra and Tener fall to warring. He had faced one-time friends on the battlefield, had even put the blade through their bellies when they wouldn’t yield.

  He hoped to spare Ian the same pain.

  “Your son?” asked a voice behind him. He stood and turned.

  The vow knight, Sir Elsa LaFey, who with him had ridden out against the gheist nearly a week ago, stood in the shade of a nearby tent. Her hair was growing back, the sides and back still rough stubble, the top unkempt where she had trimmed away the charred curls. Her cheekbones were pockmarked and raw. She was wearing informal robes in the red and gold of her order, hands resting loosely on the pommel of her sword.

  “Yes, it is,” Malcolm answered. “He’s more comfortable in the south than I will ever be, I’m afraid. Hard to convince a child of the value of winter when he’s just reaching the heart of his own spring.”

  “He’ll come around,” LaFey said. “It’s natural for children to covet what they don’t have. I went through a northern phase, myself.”

  “Yes?”

  LaFey nodded, a twist of a smile on her lips. “I spent a year as ward to a baron in the far north, Allfire to Allfire. Swanston. Do you know him?”

  “Yes, of course, and I’d imagine you had a rough year. Lord Swanston’s domain is mostly rocks and iron trees. Fogdeep, isn’t that the name of his little castle? Quite a change from Suhdra.”

  LaFey shrugged.

  “I found it invigorating. My family is from the Spear. I wouldn’t call it a soft life, but,” she shrugged again, “I didn’t have a difficult childhood. You’re right, though. Fogdeep was carved from a harsh realm, held together by the people and their bonds. Family. Honor.” She nodded at the memory. “It was a good year.”

  “How did a daughter of Suhdra end up as ward to a backwater barony in Tener?” Malcolm asked. “It takes some effort to imagine you, a frail Suhdrin lass, wrapped in furs and howling at the moon.”

  LaFey chuckled, clasping Malcolm by the shoulder and turning him down the street. They walked together.

  “I had my oldest sister to thank. She fell in love with one of Swanston’s iron-hard sons. They married, and his father expected them to live in Fogdeep and raise iron-hard sons of their own, but Millie wouldn’t have it. So I went in her stead, as an act of good faith between the families.”

  “You were there only a year?” Malcolm asked.

  LaFey’s face grew still. “Yes. Millicent died—in childbirth. An iron-hard son, after all. Too hard for Suhdrin flesh. Her husband was heartbroken. Couldn’t face the south without his wife, so he came home. Then he couldn’t face the sight of me in his halls. Too much like my sister.” She clapped her hands. “But I found a love for winter. It was in Fogdeep that I decided to swear to the order of the winter sun.”

  “Well, I’m glad you did,” he replied, “and I’m glad to see you again. I wanted to thank you for helping me the other day. Ian gets in over his head too often, and too quickly for anything to be done about it. Without your help he might well be dead.”

  “It was an honor to ride into battle with the Reaverbane,” she said with a smile. Malcolm made a dismissive gesture, moving the conversation hurriedly on.

  “You came to Greenhall with a warning about the gheist,” he said. “How did you know?”

  “My frair and I were drawn to Gardengerry by a scryer’s warning. When we found the town mostly destroyed, he sent me on to warn the duke of Greenhall, while he tracked the demon through the woods.”

  “Yet the gheist arrived before you. And your frair?”

  “Elsewhere. He sent a messenger, saying that he’s tracking another gheist north as we speak. From what I’ve seen of the aftermath of your son’s heroism, our gheist is moving in that direction, as well. Hopefully nothing will come of that, but it’s troubling.” LaFey paused at an intersection, staring down toward the tournament grounds. “Whatever drew that creature to Gardengerry, it was no natural manifestation. Someone had to summon it.”

  “And now it travels north,” Malcolm said.

  “Yes, into Tener. Into pagan lands.”

  “You’ve lived among us,” Malcolm said. “You know we’re faithful to the church. Even in Fogdeep, as far from Heartsbridge as you can imagine, I’m sure Swanston sang the evensong and bent his knee at the doma’s altar.”

  “Yes,” LaFey agreed, “but there was always something more. Something beyond the walls, among the trees. Something lurking in the night.”

  “The old gods remain, as well you know. Your life is dedicated to controlling them. Just because they live, however, it doesn’t mean the forests are filled with witches and shamans.” Malcolm took the vow knight by the elbow, turning her toward him. “There’s enough mistrust between our countries, Sir LaFey. We can’t let these suspicions persist.”

  “No, you’re right,” LaFey agreed. “Even so, someone drew that gheist toward the city, and someone is drawing it north, like a lodestone to iron.”

  “Drawing it north, or driving it there,” he said. “There are pagan hearts in Suhdra, as well.”

  “Few enough, though—the inquisition sees to that. Perhaps if the church of Cinder had free rein in the north…”

  “You and I both know what would come of that,” Malcolm said tightly. “Witch hunts and chaos.”

  “Yet those are appropriate, Duke, when you are hunting witches,” she said.

  “You would be finding witches everywhere you looked, I’m afraid,” he countered, “no matter how faithful your victims might be.”

  “Now who’s letting suspicion cloud his mind?” LaFey asked, her smile sharp and cold.

  The tournament horn sounded below. Malcolm and Elsa stood silently, measuring each other, waiting.

  “My son is riding in the lists,” he said. “I’m afraid I must—”

  He stopped at the sound of running feet, as Sir Dugan hurried up to the duke, his face flushed from the exertion.
He pulled Malcolm away from Sir LaFey.

  “What’s gotten into you, Gordon?” Malcolm asked. “My apologies, my lady,” he said over his shoulder. “Some Tenerrans can’t seem to learn even the most basic of courtly manners.”

  “Never you mind manners,” Dugan hissed. “We need to speak… alone.”

  “Oh?” Malcolm said, turning to his master of guard. “What of?”

  “There’s been a problem.”

  “With Ian?”

  “Not yet. No, it’s…” Dugan looked over Malcolm’s shoulder, but LaFey was already marching away, her sword and cloak swinging through the lane. “It’s something with the Deadface, my lord. Sir Volent and the young Adair huntress have tangled.”

  “Meaning…”

  The horn sounded again, and the crowd gave out a cheer. Sir Dugan looked nervously down the road toward the arena.

  “Never mind. We have to hurry, my lord, before something dangerous happens. I will explain on the way.”

  17

  IAN MADE HIS way to the tourney entrance, where a crowd was gathered to examine the matchups. Nervousness dancing in his stomach, he scanned the board to find his banner, the Blakley hound, black on white, with the crest of spring leaves that indicated his rank in the family. First son, last son, only son.

  Sir Baird was waiting for him. The tall knight, his curly hair laced with braids heavy with fetishes that reached down to the middle of his back, smiled broadly as Ian approached.

  “There you are, lad,” Sir Baird said, pointing at the board. Ian’s name and heraldry were posted near the bottom. Across from him was the black spear and red rose of House Marchand, a garter of vines around it to indicate the youngest son.

  “Young Andre Marchand,” Ian said. “He’s old enough to joust?”

  “He’s your age, m’lord. He’s just… small. Looks like they’re matching up the heroes of the gheist fight.”

  “Andre didn’t ride against the demon,” Ian said. “It was his father, and old Gair turned tail as soon as the beast showed its teeth.”

  Baird glanced around nervously, but no one seemed to have heard.