Castile swallowed hard. “No. He can rove. I wasn’t lying. Hardly any of us can. You won’t want to hurt him.” Please don’t hurt him.
Castile listened to boot steps emerge from the coughs, bangs, and moans of the jail.
“Your Grace?” The archwardens were clearly waiting for decision based on this bombshell.
Marius cleared her throat. “He’s talking nonsense, but at least he’s talking. James, let the jail guards have the Wiccan for a bit. Maybe afterward we’ll see if he comes up with some gems of actual truth. Hawk will fight us, but I will have it from one of them. We must find that coven. They’re setting plans in motion as we speak, and we must stop them before more Christians lose their lives.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
More footsteps. Castile realized they were leaving him to his fate. To the guards.
“No! You can’t hurt him!” he cried out, panic setting in like a brush fire. He strained against his chains again. “No!” The word deteriorated to a guttural scream.
More boots on hard floor. Voices came down the hall. Rough laughter. Castile yanked on his chains, whimpering with the strain. Heavy footsteps, too many to count blindfolded. Someone ran their callused hand along his hip, ended with a sharp slap. “Be still, ecoterr.”
Conversation and laughter. Fingers dug into his muscles. Lady save me, how many are there? Castile fought like the fly fights the spider, trying to writhe from the chains and their rough hands. Someone tore into him, deep, stabbing. He hissed and tried to kick free. They slammed fists into his thighs and back when he wasn’t pliant enough. The world rocked and spun. Panic fully realized, Castile twisted his soul from the grip of the physical world, roving through prisoners’ tortured dreamscapes, desperate to escape the screaming, until he realized it was his own.
TWENTY-ONE
Trinidad took well over an hour to get to the Wiccan safehouse. He had no transportation and was forced to walk a round-about route toward the western border of the town in order to avoid detection. As an archwarden, he was used to striding through Boulder without much care. Parishioners treated the men marked with the crosses and swords of the Order of Archwardens with respect and even awe. Now he wasn’t sure who might be looking for him and what they might do to him when they found him. He certainly didn’t want to be followed. He told himself that warning off Lord Hawk was a Christian act, even if it went against implied orders.
The house backed up close to the fencing, separated by a tiny square of a back yard. It was the same gray as the dingy morning sky, with chipped red trim. Trinidad had to wade through boot-high debris to see the fence. He kicked aside tumbleweeds to reveal a body-sized hole cut through the wire. All the poisoned barbs had been clipped well back. He scowled in habitual annoyance. But this hole confirmed this was the house Castile had meant him to find.
These houses on Fourth had been old a century ago, well before the wall had gone up. They had since fallen into decrepit piles of rubble that made another obstacle behind the lengths of fencing. The street was too far up the mountain for anyone but the most athletic of climbers to use as an entrance into town, especially with the roads bulldozed and trails piled with rubble. And there were the poisonous barbs interwoven into this stretch the fence. Even clipping through was a major risk, should a barb swing back and catch the skin of an intruder.
The wind rolled empty cans and bottles, clanging dully against the broken earth. Dried weeds, shingles, and bits of paper rustled in corners. The door squeaked on its hinges. His back to the wall, he eased his sword from its sheath and drew a breath to regain control of knotting muscles as he scented blood. He slipped around the corner, sword first. He swallowed. Blinked. The sword lowered to his side.
Hawk’s armored body crumpled in a corner, legs and arms splayed. His head hung at a wrong angle, nearly separated from his body by the single, deep gash in his throat. Blood spilled like a gory apron over the Wiccan sigils painted on his old Flextek. Trinidad knelt and stared at the wound. Only a sword. A well-honed archwarden’s sword could score flesh and bone with a single swing.
Hawk had fought back, been beaten nearly unrecognizable but for his beard, still scarred white where Trinidad had cut him deep so long ago. Pale lips, parted in horror. Dead eyes stared past him from bloody, swollen sockets. Most of his fingers scattered the floor like slugs.
He heard the noise of movement and the harsh whisper at the same time. “Ah, Hell, Trinidad.”
The cold touch of steel above his armor’s neckline made Trinidad raise his sword. “No. This is business, bro. The silent kind.”
“Seth?”
“What do we do now?” An edge of panic. Malachi.
Trinidad shifted and the tip stung him under his ear. Seth hissed for silence.
“I told you,” Seth said. “You’ve got to leave this, Trin. Leave it alone.”
“Seth, just listen to me—”
“No. You listen to me. As soon as Marius finds out you knew Hawk, you’re a dead man. We have to figure this out, get you out of here.”
“It’s too late for that,” Malachi said. “He dug his own grave.”
Seth’s tone sharpened. “Malachi, no—”
Something solid met the back of Trinidad’s head, ferrying him into darkness.
Trinidad landed on his feet in the silver sand, blinking at the faint echo of a scream.
“Castile?” he called.
No one answered. But he felt a thrill like Castile was near, like they’d brushed arms or Castile had whispered in his ear. The witch must have called him, pulled him from his unconscious dreamscape. He scanned the Barren, turning in a complete circle. A flesh-colored bump against the silver made him squint and break into a run, shouting the witch’s name.
Castile was scrubbing himself with sand. His face was swollen on one side, blood running down his cheek. Bruises and welts still stained his body, not yet washed away by the sand. He gave Trinidad a bleak smile and didn’t bother to hide his nudity. “I’m glad you’re here. We need to talk.”
“Every time you say that, someone dies,” Trinidad said. He edged closer to the Wiccan. “Castile, I have to tell you. Hawk … he’s …”
“Dead, yeah. I figured as much.” Castile ran his tongue over his bottom lip and spat the rest in a rush of words. “I shouldn’t have come here, I know. But I couldn’t think of anywhere else to go, and I don’t think she can follow me. I shouldn’t have said anything. But I couldn’t help it. I just—”
“Wait, slow down. What happened?”
“I told Marius where to find Hawk.”
Trinidad blinked at him. No wonder Seth and Malachi had been at the house. For a moment he was tempted to go back, try to wake up and fight. What were they doing to his unconscious body? Where were they taking him? The thought unnerved him, but Castile’s face was pale. Silver flecked his skin where they’d cut into him.
“Why did you tell them?”
Castile busied himself with rubbing more sand over his bruises, leaving clear, pale skin behind. Some grains caught in the scrapes and more thickened over his bare nail-beds. Trinidad caught his hand. A jagged line of silver had filled a stab wound in the fleshy part of his palm.
Castile pulled his hand back. “I’m not like you, Trin. I can’t hold up under this.”
Trinidad wanted to tell Castile it was all right, that there was no disgrace in breaking under torture. But shame bound his tongue. Men from his own order had hurt Castile, men he counted as brothers. He’d questioned Indigos before, and he’d seen things get nasty. He’d done dozens of things he wasn’t proud of since taking his vows, not the least killing Roi d’Esprit. But it was part of the unspoken archwarden creed. If he had to sell his soul to protect Christ’s people and clergy, then so be it. He’d always wondered if simple regret and prayer could ever be enough. With his priest dead and archwardens torturing Castile, the bishop openly involved, maybe the order was lost, and he with them.
He ran his hand through the sand, watched
it fall in a tiny storm of silver. If only it could fix more than physical ailments.
“Hawk betrayed the coven,” Castile said. “He took Marius to the Barren.”
Trinidad sank back, absorbing that. Pieces were falling into place, but he’d never have guessed how they’d land. “They probably would have found Hawk anyway,” he said. “There’s no shame in breaking.”
“Forget Hawk. It’s worse than that,” Castile said. “I told her you could rove.”
Trinidad’s head lifted.
“Hear me out,” Castile said, lifting his hands. Silver laced the deep wound between his thumb and finger. “I did it so they wouldn’t kill you. Once I figured out they were going to keep me alive, at least for a while, I realized they needed a reason to keep you alive too.”
The stillness of acceptance settled over Trinidad, that deep pause between realization and action. Castile meant well. He knew that. But he was unconscious, in Seth’s custody now, probably being dragged to the jail.
Castile gave a derisive grunt, sounding slightly closer to his regular self. “I learned something else in there. Your bishop is one crazy woman. A good weapon, yeah?”
Weapon. As if they were in a war they could possibly win. Trinidad reeled for a moment, closed his eyes to get his bearings. Castile went on, not seeming to notice.
“Her anger blinds her. Marius is mistaken about a few things, the first being that Hawk is the one who showed me the Barren.” He spat. “Traitor.”
“Cas, they nearly beheaded him, they tortured—”
Castile stiffened. “Stop looking at me like I should be sorry. You suspected him right off and you were right. Our high priest, the most trusted member of our coven, betrayed us. If the gods let it get ugly, then who am I to argue?”
After a moment, Trinidad crossed himself, feeling ill. “It could have been me. Bishop Marius could have sent me to torture and murder him.”
“If you were a good boy, which we know you’re not. Look, with Hawk dead, she needs us. She’s going to make me rove. At some point …” He looked away from Trinidad. “I could give in or pretend to. I could rove Marius here and you could kill her. Now. Tonight. Think of it. With Marius dead, there’s no crusade. Problem solved.”
Trinidad caught up a fistful of sand. If only it were so easy. “No. I can’t kill her. I can’t even harm her. I vowed to Christ to protect her.” He’d already broken enough vows: killing Paul, roving, consorting with the enemy, resisting the crusade, lying to his superiors …
“We all betray our gods, Trin. Why not get a little good out of it?”
Trinidad shook his head. “I can’t. I just can’t.”
Castile threw sand at him. It chimed over his stomach and thighs like distant church bells. “The fuck? Don’t you see? This Church, this order you signed into, it’s all a lie—”
“Christ is not a lie.” Before Castile could protest, he went on. “I vowed to Lord Christ, to Holy God, never to harm His believers. To protect them on pain of death.”
“What kind of god expects you to protect one kind of person and not another? That doesn’t even make sense.”
It was a valid question, one he’d avoided until Castile voiced it. What kind of god expected him to fight and die? The only one he knew. The Church had given him a life, a family, and Father Troy … but his priest was dead and the archwardens were doing things he didn’t understand, driven by a bishop who craved war. He’d thought it a noble cause: protecting Christians. Even crusade made a brutal kind of sense. With the unbelievers gone, there’d be no reason left to fight, no one left to die.
Except one of the unbelievers was sitting here, right in front of him. “Christ is peace,” Trinidad said. “He never fought. He needs someone to protect His people.”
A measured silence before Castile spoke. “God or not, it’s not right that he asks it of you.”
“He didn’t ask. I offered.” Trinidad lifted his eyes to meet Castile’s. “It’s all I have left, Cas.”
“You have me.”
Hot sweat stung his back. A muscle twitched irritatingly in his jaw.
Castile drew in a breath as if his lungs pained him. “Aspen always said I come on too strong. I don’t have the best judgment just now. But our Lord lives, loves, and dies for his Lady every year, and so it goes. The least I can do is the same.”
Unease cut a swath through Trinidad’s chest. “What are you talking about?”
“Nothing. I’m just talking.”
“No. You brought up the Lord and Lady. Loving and dying. Why?”
“Just, you know. I was in prison, yeah? Not the first time. I’ll survive. I always do.”
Realization sluiced through Trinidad. The Great Rite was the ultimate holy act, the earthly recreation of godly love between the Lord and Lady. Using sex as torture was a particularly profane thing to do to a witch. He closed his hands around Castile’s wrists and pulled him closer. “I’ll get you out. I swear by all that is holy, by Saint Michael and Lord Christ.”
Castile kept his gaze down, didn’t so much as twitch. “No. Get yourself somewhere safe. She’ll come for you next.”
Trinidad didn’t have the heart to tell Castile that Marius already had him. “All right. I will. And I’ll come for you.”
He had to fight his way back into the pain from the quiet. It was a chaotic rove, fear and fury battling for control, tossing him between nightmarish dreamscapes. But at last the silver world faded away. Cold air swept Trinidad’s face. He twitched violently at another noise, saw it was the open front door squeaking as the icy air moved it. He winced at the ache in his battered head. But he felt only emptiness inside.
He was alone. Seth and Malachi had left him.
By nature of what they had to do to serve the Church, most archwardens had done some evil to serve the common good. The Order of Archwardens worked for the Church and served Christ, but it was foremost a brotherhood of shared secrets. His brothers-in-arms had kept his secret about killing Roi d’Esprit. Likely, they hoped to keep who murdered Hawk secret, too. Now they knew he’d come here to meet him.
As soon as she found out he knew Hawk, Trinidad was a dead man. If his betrayal got out, it would reflect badly upon the entire order. They probably wanted to give Trinidad the chance to come back to the fold on his own, quietly. But Seth and Malachi didn’t know the biggest secret of all: his roving. The bishop knew, and the first thing she’d do was use it against him.
He pushed to his hands and knees and caught sight of Hawk’s bloody body sprawled in the corner. The scent of blood hit him anew and the world veered beneath him. The thought of what Castile was enduring charged through his gut. Trinidad huddled over, retching. At last he lifted his head and forced himself upright. He hated the thought of disappointing the order, his brothers. But they were no longer who he thought they were. Maybe they never had been.
He couldn’t trust his Church or his order any longer, and he couldn’t leave Castile to be tortured further, or killed. Trinidad had to get him out, and for that he needed help only the godless could give him.
TWENTY-TWO
Reine d’Esprit walked along her freehold’s fence, a rifle under her arm. It had been a year since she’d pulled a regular guard duty shift, but if—no, fuckin when—Paul showed, she wanted to meet him. Their conversation, the one that had dispelled the last of her doubts about allying with the bishop a couple of months back, replayed in her head.
“What if this all goes south?” she’d asked.
His skin rubbed hot against hers. He smelled of smoke, sweat, male. His heart thudded against her ear when she pressed her cheek to his chest.
“I will find a way to come to you,” he said. “We’ll stay together, always.”
“Marius won’t let you.”
Paul’s dark eyes drank in the candlelight. Vicious, his voice a low growl, “The bishop doesn’t own me.”
Reine wrapped an arm around her hollow middle. Paul was alive. He had to be.
But the n
ight had passed without him coming to her in flesh or dream. No one from their little alliance communicated with her since they’d fled the silver place after trying to kill Castile and Trinidad. No crusading army marched through the dawn or evening, seeking to bury her tribe. Even the slavers were quiet.
She stared out over the mountains, shadows waiting for the sun to light them. They looked like a jagged tear across the bottom of the sky. From this far back, she had a fresh appreciation of just how big they were. She swiped at ash floating on the air. In a thousand years we’ll be gone and the mountains will still be here, she thought.
“Reine d’Esprit?”
She spun on her spearguard, who backed away from her rifle aimed at him. She lowered her gun and cleared her throat, humiliated at being caught in a contemplative moment, much less letting someone sneak up on her when she was walking guard duty. Shadows hollowed his cheeks and his clothes hung on him. “Scout back from inparish,” he said. “I’ll take over here—”
Before the words left his mouth, Reine was running toward the inner circle of huts and houses that made up the heart of camp. People gave her respectful greetings as she passed by, but she didn’t turn her head.
The scout, Cur, sat by the fire, cross-legged on the ground. He pulled his blue scarf down as she approached, and gave her a nod, stayed sitting after his hard run from inparish, fifteen klicks west. Javelot pressed a bowl into his hand: precious rare stew.
“Bishop’s mobilizin troops,” Cur said, and shoveled stew into his mouth to talk around it. “Archwarden banners. Marshals. Drays, guns, swords, camp’s spreadin out by the gates. Snuck in and heard two guards. Plan to march in two days.”
Two days.
She met Javelot’s gaze. Javelot broke first and rose to poke at the fire, coughing wetly and spitting into the flames. The flickering light revealed the grooves drawn into her face from three decades of living mostly outdoors. The scarred notches cut from her brows only hardened her looks. Five years of too little food and too much work and strain had aged her beyond her years.
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