She jerked free of his grip and crossed to her liquor cabinet. Grabbed the old brown bottle, her papa’s. Couldn’t pull the cork with her shaking hands.
Castile moved to her, soft as a shadow. He gently took the bottle and pulled the cork, handed it back. “You know who did this.”
She waited until her voice firmed up. “Rumor says Trinidad.”
“It’s a deal more than just rumor. It’s the truth.”
“Fuck you know?”
Castile’s lips twitched. “We were friends as kids. I heard the rumors and went to look for the body on a hunch. I found Roi d’Esprit in a place only Trinidad and I know.”
“He won’t come after you for this? Givin him to us and all.” Reine let the liquor sear her throat and offered the bottle to him.
“Trinidad thinks I’m dead.” He drank and coughed. “Shit. This would rip the red out of flagstone.”
Castile hadn’t run his horse through the freezing wind for free. He was here to savvy over something needing doing. The notion made her itchy. “Why’d you come, Castile?”
Castile nodded, half a shrug. “I got a job for you. Earn food, meds. Maybe some livestock.”
“No.” She let her gaze rest on the ragged cross slashed into her papa’s skin. She had better things to do, an archwarden to hunt.
“What if you never found your Papa Roi, never knew about that?” He stabbed a finger close to the ripped flesh. “He’d haunt you the rest of your life.”
Reine scowled at him but he pressed her.
“I can smell your hunger,” he said. “The freehold stinks of disease. Been a rough winter and it’s not half over yet. How many have you buried already?”
His words burned holes through her shock. “What of it? Fuckin whole county’s starvin.”
But as she spoke she realized Castile looked good, healthy. He’d shaved and washed before he made the run from his foothills cave to her county freehold. His worn armor was scrubbed of ash stains, mesh blade-stop sleeves free of debris. Knives on each hip. Chin-length hair shining and clean. An old Savage rifle hung on his back amid the folds of his cloak.
None of it fitted with what the archwarden Paul had reported: that two weeks ago Castile had been screaming to his gods, sliced shoulder to ass, bleeding to die. Paul had no reason to lie to her about that. On the face of it, she was tempted to kill Castile where he stood. She and Paul had discussed the usefulness of having him dead. But her tribe considered Castile a friendly so it would take some explaining around the freehold. He was blessed to them, already a warrior spirit even though he was Wiccan. The delivery of their dead Papa Roi would only solidify his good reputation.
Castile did have magic, proved it by standing here after that death blow. But her tribe didn’t know about that. They didn’t know what she knew, not about the Barren, not about the crusade, and not about Castile. They only knew Castile should have died in Folsom Prison or come out a whipped slave. Instead he’d come out stronger than ever.
Meanwhile, her tribe’s weapons rusted and their kids starved. Reine fingered the hilt of her knife, drawing it a bit and then letting it slide back into its sheath.
Castile raised his thick-lashed eyes to hers. Ancestors knew, that face could charm the rattles off a snake. “I know you want to go after Trinidad, and I’ll pay you to do it without killing him. You bring him to me alive, and I’ll make his wrongs come right. Your Papa Roi can rest, and you can feed your people.”
“I don’t get you. Wiccans don’t do revenge. Why do you want Trinidad?”
Castile bit his lip for a moment before answering, leaving white marks in the plump, pink flesh. “He owes me blood. We have history, him and me. I can hurt him in ways you could never dream up.”
The alcohol stung her chapped lips. She ran her arm over her mouth. None of this made sense, not coming from a Wiccan. Particularly this Wiccan. “What about the crusade they’re talkin inparish? Trinidad disappeared will make it worse.”
“Not much can make that worse. Bishop’s turned up with this scar on her face. Damnedest thing. I hear it looks pure silver, right in her skin.” He tipped his head at her, stormcloud eyes locked on hers.
She swallowed hard, craving more liquor. “Silver.”
“She says an angel of their god cut her and it told her to crusade. And now she’s all about killing the unclean. The unbelievers, yeah? That’s you and me, if you missed it.” He signed Wiccan Horns with his fingers, aiming back west, inparish.
She made her face stay calm, like they hadn’t just broached the kind of mutual lies that bring angry Ancestors into play. The small smile on Castile’s lips made it seem this was all merely a joke between friends. Good one on the superstitious Christians. But Paul had described the man who gave the bishop that scar and fuckin it wasn’t no angel. That was the last thing Castile was.
She bit down the temptation to throw the truth at him. “So?”
“So I’m willing to pay good bounty if you bring me him alive.”
“I want him dead.”
“He will be. Eventually.” He shrugged. “Look. I’m going to get him, one way or another. I know ecoterrs, even slavers, from inside Folsom. Someone else will be happy to take his bounty. But you’re good at this sort of thing. And it looks like you could use that bounty more than anybody I know.”
That didn’t go down easy on an empty stomach. They’d just had another body burn last night. Half the tribe’s kids were down with flu. And now the crusade … Oh, she knew. She knew Marius wanted to control that silver dreamland. Why else would the high and mighty bishop savvy with dirt-scrabblers? But Reine could swallow her anger and frustration over that for a while yet. Paul had sworn to her he’d protect her people from the crusade. Paul had never once lied to her.
But Paul couldn’t feed them. If she didn’t get food and meds into her people soon, they’d all end up bones rotting in the county dirt without the Christians swinging a single sword. If feeding her people cost her properly avenging Papa Roi, then Ancestors plague her and have done. She had people counting on her.
“I’ll do it. But why you riskin a fuck-all inparish? Didn’t you get it up the ass enough in prison?”
She expected anger, a flinch at least. Castile left her disappointed. “Trinidad will be on Highway 93 tonight.”
“How do you know?”
“He’ll be there.”
“Where do we meet? Your cave?”
“Don’t push it, Reine. South end of Dragonspine. Come after nightfall. It might be a wait.”
“I still don’t get what’s in it for you.”
“Not your problem. I’ll pay for him and he’ll pay for his wrongs. That’s good for both of us, yeah?”
She gritted her teeth and nodded.
“May your hearth keep ever warm.” He bowed to her, palms pressed together before his lips. Then he spun and strode out the door.
It didn’t quite close behind him. Her sister Javelot pushed through without knocking. Reine rushed to cover their papa but couldn’t get there in time. Javelot reached for the bloody corpse before Reine could stop her. She touched the skin split over bone on her father’s chest and sank to the floor, staring up at Reine with big, tearless eyes, gulping air.
Reine couldn’t meet that stare. She headed back for more liquor, wishing instead for the sting from her knife.
“Castile just put a bounty on Trinidad,” she said. “We’re pickin him up, but the Wiccan wants him. Alive.”
Javelot’s notched eyebrows dropped over narrowed eyes. “Fuckin we kill him. We kill him dead and cut him into bits and eat his heart. The Ancestors—”
“The Ancestors don’t feed us, Jav, and Trinidad’s heart won’t feed us neither. Don’t you get it? Castile has food. Meds.” Reine swallowed down another gulp and corked the bottle. “Send me every spare spearguard. You stay here, watch things.”
Javelot gritted her teeth in a snarl.
Reine sighed. “We don’t raid together. Tribe Rule.”
She resented having to call out Tribe Rule so often on her sister. Sometimes she just wanted to scream: Fuckin you want to be queen so bad, you take it! Javelot had no idea what it took to run the tribe. Reine had trained for it her whole life. But with their papa’s rotting corpse here in the same room, it fresh hit her what a shitty job she’d inherited.
Javelot stuck her hip out to one side, her bottom lip quivering. “You going tell Castile you’re fuckin an archwarden? Huh?”
“This has nothing to do with Paul,” Reine said.
Javelot ducked her head. A sob broke through. She’d always loved Papa more than Reine had. But their mama had pushed Reine out first. She was queen, whether Javelot or Papa liked it or not.
Reine sighed. “Go pray to Papa, tell him we got his body. He’s probably lonely.”
Javelot climbed to her feet and went. Cold swept in as she shut the door behind her.
It would take a few minutes for her spearguards to weapon up. Reine took another gulp of liquor and raised the bottle in salute. “Cheers, you old fuck, and good riddance.”
She drew her knife, pressed the razor edge against the back of her hand and sliced. Blood ran over her skin, taking with it her grief and fear, making room for Trinidad and revenge.
THREE
Marius escaped the afternoon reception filled with parishioners hungry for reassurance, and most of them just plain hungry. She went to her austere basement guest room and shed her bishop’s robes for warmer civilian clothes. She’d finished with Father Troy. The old man seemed distracted, but his energy had surprised her. Being eaten alive by an ugly disease hadn’t erased his astuteness. Still, it was only a few days before she placed her own priest inparish, and sooner suited her plans. Father Troy seemed prepared to stand aside, though he expressed worry for his archwardens. They had good reputations, surely they’d be easy to place.
Paul arrived at her door a few minutes later. She smiled at him but he only nodded in response. He wore the blank expression and tense readiness of a man who guards his bishop and keeps her secrets without ever expressing his opinion.
“Why are you so apprehensive?” she asked.
“They are more sympathetic to Wiccans than is healthy.”
“Boulder has always been lenient. It’s part of its provincial charm.”
“Leniency gets people killed. Particularly bishops.”
“And here you are fooling me into thinking you care.”
That made him blink. He tipped his head, some of the stony façade dropping. He looked more handsome with the strong lines of his face softened by surprise. “I care,” he said.
His soft voice almost made her apologize for her little joke. She touched his cheek, smoothed her thumb over his thick brow. “Come. I should make the rounds again.”
As they climbed the stairs, she heard boyish laughter and the clatter of composite swords. The parish hall at the top of the stairs had been turned into a large fight practice room, with mats for hand-to-hand training and every manner of weapon hanging on the walls. Adolescent sweat clouded the air, sour and thick.
“Let’s see what the latest crop has to offer, shall we?” she said.
Paul nodded. “There’s Trinidad. I’ve always wanted to see him fight.”
Trinidad, the tall archwarden who had guarded her at service, and the armsmaster Roman, a veteran whose grayed hair and heavyset build belied his skill and speed, sparred in a violent dance of skills. They both wore the steel-reinforced arm bracers from their armor harness but sparred bare-chested in the manner of high-ranked fighters. Apparently, Roman subscribed to the “Real fear and real blood equals a real fight” philosophy of training. Bright welts from Roman’s hits webbed the archwarden’s ribs. Roman’s darker skin showed none, a testament to his defensive skill.
Teenaged boys ranged in a loose, shifting circle around them, shoving each other and playing with their swords instead of paying attention to the demonstration. Only one novice, the severe burn scars on his face mottled by waxy, incompetent grafts, ignored the others and focused intently on the two fighters.
Trinidad and Roman ran through blocks and challenges so quickly she could barely tell where one started and the next ended. She narrowed her eyes at Trinidad. Excellent form, efficient technique, calculated power behind each blow. And yet Roman blocked his hits and scored his own, landing the occasional blow to Trinidad’s midsection, drawing hard grunts.
“What do you think?” she asked Paul.
“Roman trained Trinidad from a pup and I hear he’s a favorite. I can see why.” He narrowed his eyes and gestured. “Roman scored first blood though.”
Trinidad bled from a cut high on his chest, where his shoulder plate would overlap his breastplate had he been wearing his full kit. It was a tough kill, but doable.
“I lost an archwarden that way once,” she said. “An Indigo slipped a spear under his plate and it got infected—”
A cheer and rhythmic clatter of swords cut her off. Trinidad had Roman pinned in a lethal blade-lock, his sword resting against the side of the armsmaster’s meaty neck, his left hand gripping the older man’s sword arm and trapping it to one side. Roman had his blade up under Trinidad’s sword, but Trinidad could easily press and draw blood.
“Well done, Trinidad,” she said over the excited chatter.
The circle parted and quieted. The polite novices bowed their heads. The more brazen stared at the scar on her forehead. Roman nodded and smiled, a courteous quirk of the lips that didn’t touch his eyes.
Trinidad turned to face them and took a knee. Maybe it wasn’t all courtesy; his bare chest heaved and sweat slicked his skin despite the drafty hall. His gaze passed over her to spend more time on Paul.
“Carry on, armsmaster,” she said to Roman. “I don’t mean to interrupt.”
“Get on, slackers,” Roman said, striding toward the hushed novices and scattering them with his sword slashing the air. “Fighters to ready!”
Trinidad got to his feet and approached them as the novices found their places. His voice was deep and so soft she had to lean in to hear him over Roman’s shouts.
“Your Grace.” He bowed his head to her but offered his hand to Paul. “Seth talks about you all the time. He says you’re the best shot he ever saw.”
“Seth and I trained together,” Paul said for Marius’ benefit, and added to Trinidad, “He bragged on you, too. Always thought it was just talk, until today.”
“Thanks. Care for a round?”
Paul shook his head and gave Trinidad a rare grin. “Love to, but I’m on duty.”
“Disengage, fighters!” Roman shouted, and thunked one of the boys on his helmet with the flat of his blade. “Wolf! Get over here and show them how to not die the first time someone swings a blade at them.”
“Another time, maybe.” Trinidad glanced over his shoulder. Marius wondered if it was the refusal to spar or that one of the boys hadn’t done well.
“I’ll spar with you,” she said.
The cross tattooed on Trinidad’s forehead wrinkled but cleared as quickly.
“Colorado Army,” Marius said. “I enlisted as a chaplain, but everyone trained to fight then.”
Decades before, after the federal government had collapsed, state armies and religious militias had sprung up across the country. Battles over dwindling natural resources had torn the United States into warring political regions, hindering the manufacture and distribution of munitions. The price of bullets skyrocketed, explosives were made in kitchens rather than factories, and hand-forged weaponry—spears, bows, and swords—became commonplace, even in the hands of priests.
“Don’t worry about hurting Her Grace,” Paul chimed in. “She’s very good.”
Marius walked to the sword rack and lifted a practice blade, testing it for heft. “This will do.”
Trinidad undid the full-length hinged bracer on his left arm and offered it to her. “The boys are wearing the others, Your Grace.”
She held out her arm,
forcing him to step closer to latch it on. It felt damp and warm against her skin. Up close, he smelled of ash and sweat. His dark close-shorn hair glistened. He frowned down at the bracer as he snapped the magnetic latches.
“I haven’t heard of anyone with your name before,” she said.
He stepped back, the bracer in place. “I was raised Wiccan until I was twelve. They don’t use traditional names, but animals, places. Things like that.”
“A charming custom,” she said, offering him a smile he didn’t return. “I wonder why?”
“In my …” He paused. “In the coven I came from, it was a way to venerate the world.”
She wondered if his ignorant Wiccan parents had realized they’d given their heathen child a Christian name. Probably not.
After a glance at Roman, who was busy scolding another novice, Trinidad raised his sword.
He let her attack first and then his reserve evaporated. He parried her blow and counter-attacked, driving her back a step and forcing her to use her blade in defense. She had to block two provoking feints and then missed his quick attack beneath her guard. She had the sense he was holding back, but the flat of his blade still hurt enough to drive the air from her lungs. He adjusted his footing for balance; she attacked. He blocked with his hilt. There was the tiniest lag as he shifted his guard and she pressed his low line, forcing him to protect his midsection. Faster than even she anticipated, she swept her bracer against his sword blade, knocked it aside, and jabbed the point of her practice sword up into the cut on his chest.
Blood spilled over the tip of her composite blade and she yanked it back. “Kill,” she gasped.
His body stilled as quickly as it had flown into motion. The wound wasn’t deep, but fresh blood ran down his chest in a sweaty rivulet. “You fight well, Your Grace.”
She drew in a deep breath to steady her heart. “Shall we go again?”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ve duty in a quarter hour. Best get into my kit.”
“Of course,” she said, undoing the bracer and stepping closer to give it to him. “A question before you go?”
The Silver Scar Page 2