“I think we should go,” Castile said. “I think we might be in someone else’s head—”
A door slammed and the space morphed into another. A mean little room. A patch of harsh, hot sun. The shadow of a man loomed over a bed shoved against a wall. A teenager cowered against the mattress. Burn scars had wrecked one side of his face. Castile trembled. This wasn’t in his head. Who’s was it? Trin’s?
Trinidad took a couple of steps forward, brow furrowed. “Wolfie?” Then louder: “Wolf. It’s me. Trin.”
Castile’s heart began to thud. He knew this place. The cold room, rough hair-plaster walls. He’d been here the day before, at the Indigo’s freehold. “We should go.”
Trinidad raised his hand. “Shh.”
“—accept that your family doesn’t want you,” the man was saying, but the voice was indistinct, unclear, like a half-remembered recording.
The teenager gave a soft plaintive cry, childlike compared to his long body. The shiny skin of his scarred cheek and rutted eye caught the light, revealing burns garishly fresh and angry.
Castile touched Trinidad and started to rove them away, but Trinidad caught his arm. “Not yet. I want to see what’s going to happen.”
Castile waited, heart pounding, feeling with distinct pressure each of Trinidad’s fingers around his wrist, his own palm firm against Trinidad’s bicep.
“You have a new purpose,” the man went on.
Maiden, Mother, and Crone, Castile knew that voice. Roi d’Esprit. Reine’s father, the old Indigo spirit lord. He squinted at the figure to confirm but couldn’t make out the details of his face. That meant Trinidad wouldn’t either. Would he know him? Maybe. They’d met at least once—the day Trinidad had killed him.
“I want to go home,” the boy said.
“You are going home.” Roi d’Esprit leaned down and laid his hand on the boy’s chest. “And you’ll be safe there, while you wait.”
Wait? Castile thought as Trinidad’s fingers gripped his wrist. Wait for what?
The boy shrank back from Roi d’Esprit and snuffled. “I want to go home. I want Trin.”
Trinidad was about to crush his wrist. Castile pulled back, but Trinidad didn’t let go.
Roi d’Esprit signaled to someone. “He needs more conditioning. He still knows Trinidad.”
“No!” The boy threw his arms over his head.
Trinidad dropped Castile’s wrist and strode forward. “Wolf.”
“What are you doing? Stop it,” Castile muttered, grabbing for him.
Roi d’Esprit blurred away. Wolf’s forehead wrinkled as he sought Trinidad’s face. “Trin?”
Castile tackled Trinidad.
“Wake up, Wolf, it’s just a dream! It’s all right, wake up!” Trinidad shouted as Castile dragged him back through the fading edges of the dreamscape.
Castile opened his eyes and the world spun slowly into stasis. Coals still glowed in his hearth, emitting the smoky scent he only noticed when he’d been away from it. His eyes felt sticky. He coughed and realized he was gripping Trinidad’s arm. Trinidad was just stirring and Castile let go, hoping he didn’t notice. He shoved back the covers and rolled from bed, cold sweeping his sweaty chest. He tried to talk but his dry throat only produced more coughing. He bent over the bucket and ladled water into his mouth, gulping. Shivers set in.
“Wolf has amnesia,” Trinidad said, like they’d been mid-conversation. “Ever since he came to us. This is the first clue to where he came from.”
“It’s just a dream, a nightmare. Not a memory,” Castile answered, though he didn’t believe it. When would an archwarden novice have ever met Roi d’Esprit? Unless … Castile eyed Trinidad, wondering if he knew the man had been Roi d’Esprit. The voice was the same but the body was different. Wolf had dreamed the spirit king when he was much younger, his skin smoother, his body harder. Castile reached for his cloak. He threw it over his shoulders, fixed the clasp, and flexed his fingers to stop their trembling. “You know better than to interfere in a dreamscape,” he said.
“He’s young,” Trinidad gave him a dark look. “He’s not going to have a heart attack.”
You don’t know that, Castile thought. The boy could stroke out. Horns, he might be waking all shocky and sick this very moment. Confused, at least. But Castile wasn’t about to challenge that hard stare.
“He’s chemwiped?” he asked instead.
“Yeah, we did blood tests.”
“Escaped from slavers, then.”
“That’s the theory.”
Fucking Indigos, Castile thought. What have you done? Whatever it was, he bet Reine was in on it. But telling Trinidad the man in Wolf’s dream was Roi d’Esprit would only infuriate him. He might not know Trinidad too well anymore, but he knew he didn’t want the archwarden angry.
“Maybe since he got hurt they didn’t want him.” Castile tapped his own cheek to indicate Wolf’s burns. “Maybe that’s why they sent him inparish. He wouldn’t have been much use for the sex trade.”
“Compassion? From slavers?” The words lashed the air like a whip. “They would have just killed him.”
Castile shook his head. “I don’t know. It was just a dream—”
“Just a dream? You’re seriously saying that to me after this?” Trinidad let the covers fall away. The ragged pentacle glowed against the shadow of his skin.
Castile flared. “You know the difference between what happened in the Barren and Wolf’s dreamscape as well as I do, so stop pretending you don’t.”
“The line has narrowed between the two since we used to rove as kids, apparently.”
Castile gritted his teeth. “The Barren is real. Dreams are only in the mind. A dreamscape is a person’s mind. Or did you discard the truth along with your faith and family?”
Trinidad gave a sharp shake of his head. He spoke through gritted teeth. “How could someone else enter your dreamscape? We brought Paul’s body back with us, through the dreamscapes. How could I kill Paul if we were in your mind?”
“You were touching him and I was touching you. Maybe the guy was still alive right then and we carried him along, and then he died.”
Trinidad rubbed his hand over his face and focused past Castile. “If Paul survived that long, we might have healed him with the sand.”
“I’m more curious about how we ended up in Wolf’s dreamscape without trying to rove there. Makes me wonder if Wolf was powerful enough to draw us in.” Castile’s joints felt soldered. He lifted his hand to touch his temple, still tender from the fight. Reine had gotten a punch in past the spear. “If he can, it makes him another rover and there aren’t supposed to be any more besides us.”
Trinidad still stared past him, dark eyes hanging on the middle distance.
“Damn it, Trin. Pay attention.” Castile snapped his fingers at him. “Your papa always said there were no other rovers, no one outside our coven that he’d ever heard of. But—”
Trinidad shook his head. “My father was wrong. God knows he was wrong about everything else.”
Castile pursed his lips. That way lay fury and violence. But keeping Trinidad on the damn topic was like herding cats. He was still traumatized after everything that had gone on tonight, Castile decided. “If your boy Wolf is a good enough rover to draw us into his dreamscape, maybe he’s good enough to bring other people to the Barren.”
“I don’t think so,” Trinidad said. “And he’d have to find it first.”
“Maybe he’s Wiccan. You said you don’t know where—”
“There was no sign of it at all. No pentacles. No totem marks or piercings. Nothing.”
“Look. We were in his dreamscape, yeah?” When Trinidad didn’t argue, Castile went on. “So maybe Wolf was there, in the Barren. With the bishop’s man and Reine d’Esprit. One man wore a hood.”
“Then how do you know it was a man?”
Castile pursed his lips. “He was bigger than me.”
Trinidad flicked his gaze over Castile as if judging hi
s size. “It wasn’t Wolf. He’s too young.”
Castile sighed but relented with a nod.
“We didn’t see Wolf until after you pulled us out. He acted as surprised to see us as we were to see him.” Trinidad got to his feet and picked up his sword from the covers, held it up to show Castile the blade. It was black with blood. “And this isn’t roving. Not like we knew it.”
Castile had to admit Trinidad was probably right. They’d never carried blood through dreamscapes before. But then, they’d never killed anyone as kids, either. “You’re injured.”
Trinidad glanced at his arm. “It’s already stopped bleeding.”
“Still. I’ll fix it up. Don’t want an infection.”
It was an ugly, jagged cut, but not deep. Trinidad let Castile smear on salve and tie a clean length of cloth around his arm. The muscle was hard under Castile’s hands, flexed as if he could spring into violence at any second. Trinidad’s shoulders had broadened from years of blade-work. His heavy chest and muscled abdomen had replaced all his preteen gawkiness. Tattoos of swords ran up each veined forearm.
He’d caught a glimmer of his old friend in the Barren, but this man seemed fabricated of secrecy, eyes shielded beneath the black cross on his brow. His voice was so controlled and soft Castile felt loud and bumbling by comparison. Trinidad didn’t shiver despite the cold cave, too consumed with staring at his bloody sword.
Castile backed away, dipped a rag in his metal bucket of water, and tossed it to Trinidad before squatting down and poking up the fire, glad to put his back to the silver pentacle graven on Trinidad’s chest. “I’ve never had a body follow me to another dreamscape before.”
“You’ve killed in dreamscapes.” Trinidad didn’t sound the least surprised.
Castile grimaced at the fire to erase any expression of uncertainty, drew in a deep breath, and faced Trinidad. “Only when they attack me first.”
Trinidad scrubbed at the blood with the cold rag as if he could wipe away Castile’s foreboding. “You ever come back bloody?”
“I never had anything come back with me. Mama made me swear not to kill on roves when I went ecoterr. She was against the whole thing anyway, practically disowned me when I took up with the cell. Not that I much cared what she thought back then. And after your parents died—”
Trinidad stiffened.
Castile sighed. “I’m sorry about what happened. I am. But we can’t avoid the topic forever.”
“They’re dead, then? Both your parents?”
Castile nodded. “While I was inside. A bad flu took out a third of the coven. Most of the kids died.”
Trinidad sheathed his sword, shrugged out of the remains of his shirt, and tossed it into the fire. He picked up his armor harness, fixing his arm bracers over his bare skin. He wore better armor than Castile had ever seen up close, from the thick leather strapping to the ridges of steel in his bracers designed to stop a sword blow. He yanked his breast plate over his head, winking out the silver gleam of his pentacle. The magnetic catches snapped like gunfire in the silence.
But when he finished, his shoulders slumped. “What have I done? Paul was an archwarden. A brother.”
Here he was, back again.
Castile fought the urge to reach out to him. Touch his shoulder or hug him or … Horned One, save me from myself. He’s a Christian now, for crying out loud. Doesn’t mean he can’t have a moment of doubt and he sure doesn’t need to cry on my shoulder. Still. It was gratifying to see Trinidad soften, however briefly.
“They attacked us, remember? You only did what you had to do. Even your god can’t grudge you that. And if that archwarden dying helps stop the war, so much the better.”
“But what if all Marius’ archwardens know how to get there?” Trinidad said. “There’ll be no stopping the crusade, not with sand that heals.”
“Lord and Lady, it’s a good thing you’re here to work all this out for me,” Castile said. “The notion hasn’t been keeping me up nights or anything.”
Trinidad blinked, slow. When he opened his eyes, the mask was back in place. “Let’s count heads. There was Paul, the Indigo you fought off with her spear, and the man with the knife. He ran away through the graves.”
“I know only five of us alive who’ve been there. You. Me. The bishop. Your man Paul.”
“And the Indigo queen.”
Castile held himself perfectly still. Reine d’Esprit. If his savvy with her came out, Trinidad would never get over it. Scratch that, he’d probably kill Castile where he stood. “The Indigo queen,” he agreed reluctantly.
Trinidad nodded. “You said five.”
“What?”
“You don’t sound like you were counting the Indigo as a rover.”
“She’s not.” At least he didn’t think so.
“So? Without her that’s four, not five. What aren’t you telling me?”
Damn. “All right. I brought Hawk once,” Castile admitted.
“Hawk? You broke our blood oath to bring him?”
“He’s Lord Hawk now. And he already knew about it, yeah? Or guessed.”
Trinidad just looked at him, leaving Castile wondering whether he recalled Hawk beating up Castile for not roving him when they were kids and Trinidad’s violent revenge, or whether he was contemplating sticking Castile with that sword and having done with the whole affair. Castile leaned toward the latter when Trinidad said, “You were ready to kill me tonight for bringing the bishop there. We swore on our blood.”
“Don’t look at me like that. Hawk’s a good man, Trin. Changed. He brought me back from prison, didn’t he? And he’s our high priest now. I thought we owed him after we lied—”
“After you lied.”
Castile flared. “For somebody who wants to pretend his dad never existed, you sure sound like him.”
“You’re the one who threw our blood vow in my face after you broke it.” Trinidad shook his head. “I can’t believe it. Hawk … high priest? Impossible.”
“It wasn’t him,” Castile said. “He can’t rove on his own, and he wouldn’t even if he could. He’s got healthier respect for the spirit world than you and me. He made it clear he didn’t want to go back. But maybe it’s time I run all this by him, get his opinion on the bishop.”
Trinidad arched an eyebrow. “You took him to the Barren, but you didn’t tell him about the bishop going there? Even though he’s so changed.”
Castile’s lip twitched. He cursed his lack of game face. “He seems a good man. Seems fair now. I’ve only been back a few weeks. I trust him as far as it goes.”
Trinidad frowned, but he dropped the issue. Good thing, too. All Castile needed was Trinidad and Hawk at each other’s throats like when they were kids.
“Who else, then?” Trinidad asked.
“What does it matter? Obviously, the bishop is the problem. Eliminate her, eliminate the crusade.”
Trinidad shook his head, jaw clenched. “I want to stop the crusade as badly as you do. But I can’t accuse Bishop Marius of all this, not without proof and serious backing. I’d have to get my order behind me, and Father Troy. I can’t ask that of him—” His voice broke and he scrubbed a hand over his short hair. “If I ever see him again. Someone abducted him. I have to go find him, and let the Parish know.”
Father Troy. Herne’s balls. What would Trinidad do when he found out Father Troy had been sitting here at the cave the whole time, much less that Castile had been behind the priest’s abduction? The plan had seemed sound, but that was before he’d realized Trinidad was so dangerous.
“Politics are against us,” Castile said. “What else is new? We still have to stop the bishop. She’s the one they’ve rallied around. Without her, the crusade dies.”
Trinidad shook his head. “I don’t know that we can stop her. She’s been talking crusade for years, and now she’s using that scar to her advantage. It’s got people inparish riled up for war.”
“We can’t let people die over a fucking graveyard.”<
br />
“It’s a graveyard we can only reach through the craft and it has sand that heals.”
“It’s a pretty prize, you mean,” Castile said, but Trinidad took on a pensive expression.
“No. The crusade is not about winning the Barren. She already has it or at least thinks she does. It’s about keeping it secret. She’s looking for you, for people who can rove, who might betray her lies…. She must think it could disprove Christianity.”
“The Barren disproves Christianity as much as it disproves Wicca. Or the Indigo ghostfaith. Christians always think they’re the downtrodden ones.”
“I didn’t say I agreed with her,” Trinidad said, his voice quiet.
Castile drew a breath. Another. “I knew you didn’t believe.”
Trinidad’s head snapped up. “Every single ecoterr in Boulder Parish is a witch. I know the signs, even if the Christian courts don’t. You tell me, which is more evil? The ecoterr war or crusade?”
Horns, they stumbled over one prickly topic after another. Maybe it was time to bring up Father Troy after all. He sighed. “I just don’t get how you could turn your back on the craft when you know it’s real.”
“I was twelve,” Trinidad said. “I thought Christ was an aspect of The Horned One.”
Castile bent to pick up Trinidad’s black cloak. It smelled of him, and the outdoors. He held it out to Trinidad. “And now?”
A muscle twitched along Trinidad’s jaw. “Now the bishop is killing to keep the Barren secret, and I’m falling in line.”
Their fingers bumped amid the folds of the cloak. Blood pulsing in his throat, Castile gripped Trinidad’s hand. “You think killing that man Paul shames you. But you also saved my life back there, yeah?”
Trinidad’s eyes shadowed beneath his furrowed brow, but he didn’t pull his hand back. “I won’t be so careless with it again.”
A cleared throat broke them apart. They turned to find Hawk pushing the curtain aside. His hair was smashed to one side and exhaustion hollowed his eye sockets.
“I’m glad you’re back, Woodwose,” he said.
Trinidad frowned, probably at the nickname. “Hawk.”
“Lord Hawk now,” Hawk said. Castile suppressed a sigh. Trinidad didn’t answer.
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