“You lied even to him.” Another sad smile. “It destroyed Trinidad to know they hurt you. I could see it in his face, the way he talked about you. He loves you, Cas. I know it doesn’t seem like it. He’s different than us, because of how he was raised. He’s a soldier. And he’s damaged. But he loves you.”
Castile slumped, bitterness thickening his voice. “He only loves his precious vows.”
Aspen slapped him, leaving a stinging heat on his wet cheek. The baby stirred at the echoing crack. “You’re so blind! When I asked you to go to the Indigos to savvy, Trin was dead set on going with you, even when I offered to keep him here safe, even after what the Indigos did to him, even if they might kill him.” Aspen lowered her voice. “By all we hold sacred, you will regret it to the end of your days if you let Trinidad die alone, Castile. Go to him. Go to him now, before it’s too late.”
Castile’s heart lurched in his chest, urging battle, fight—Herne, pumping through his veins, shoving him into action. Lady Aspen was his priestess, and she had given him a task. Before he had a chance to think through what he was doing, he dipped his chin to her and got to his feet.
FORTY-SIX
Reine moved her hands over her horse uneasily as they prepared to ride out. “You’re not going after Castile?”
“I told you I wouldn’t,” Trinidad answered.
“Why are you doing it?”
He shook his head wearily. There was no way to make her understand his vows and obligations—or his debts. Mutual debts, now, with the Indigos. He’d killed Roi d’Esprit, who had destroyed Israel. “It’s the only way to end this.”
At least she wasn’t trying to apologize for Israel, or for marking Trinidad with the pentacle.
Trinidad had heard of the spirit tribes’ war paint, but he’d never seen it up close. It was nothing like the slavers simple stripes. Everywhere he looked grimaces leered at him, crimson streaked from eyes as if they cried tears of blood, lines crisscrossed their cheeks like scars. Some had intricate teeth painted on their lips, fashioned into false grins. One woman’s face was painted stark white with black circles around the eyes and nose, a living skull staring back at him.
The Indigos and other tribes insisted on escorting him. He had the idea they still thought they could take on the Christian army and win. He didn’t have it in him to argue.
Reine d’Esprit gave Trinidad a decent horse to ride. “Marius won’t take your challenge seriously if you turn up on that old nag,” she said.
He nodded his thanks as he mounted, avoiding her gaze.
Reine opened her mouth as if to speak again but just shook her head, jingling the chains woven through her locks. She mounted, calling to her spearguards and the rest of her ranks to follow suit.
The wind kicked up, snapping the banners that fronted each tribe. First came the cavalry, led by the elders of other tribes, and Reine d’Esprit and Trinidad. He judged himself to be the youngest among the riders. They weren’t very many; horses tended to perish in lean winters. Behind walked the spears, bows, swords, and guns. Even the children followed their parents to war. It was a chattering, clinking army, armored in salvaged metal refashioned into breastplates and greaves. Women laughed roughly; men boasted. But the undercurrent of nerves sounded louder to Trinidad, the shuffling feet, the crying babies, the anxious mutterings. He stared at the children, a sea of them armed with slings and small bows. Inparish, Christian children huddled in their beds, if they had them. His breastplate felt tight again, compressing his chest. He realized his breathing had quickened to a hard pant. He readjusted the latches on his armor and turned to Reine. She’d been watching him, but war paint masked her thoughts.
“They should keep their distance from the army until we know what the bishop will do. It might take some time.”
“Come on, to the front,” she said, and they cantered up to take the lead.
They kept a good clip, letting the others fall behind. Trinidad focused outward, tasting his environment with all his senses. Ahead, scouts ranged by foot and horse, calling faintly to one another and signaling with faintly luminescent flags. A flatbed dray rumbled and rattled behind them, overloaded with replacement munitions. The world smelled cold and dirty, like frozen smoke. Grit coated his airways. A dirty headwind stung his eyes. It deadened the sounds of the army behind them.
He wiped his eyes with his sleeve and coughed, harsh enough to hurt his chest. His horse sidestepped beneath him. Trinidad reached down to pat its neck, half expecting his hand to pass through the animal like in a dreamscape. He chided himself when it didn’t. You are doing this. This is real. He smoothed his mind into a blank canvas, letting his fear rush away as far as the tombs went in the Barren. He wished he were there now, sitting in the quiet peace.
The branches of dead trees beckoned like crooked fingers, clawing at the sky as they shadowed the graveyard of rotting houses in Old Superior. The town had died before his time as water ran out and various tribes stole the last of the town’s rights. The once prosperous neighborhood climbed the hill to a road that led to Old 93, where Castile surely rode. He would warn his people about what Trinidad was going to do and that the crusade would likely begin in earnest in the next twenty-four hours.
Let him make it. Let them get to safety, Trinidad prayed fiercely. But he didn’t believe they could. Part of him still couldn’t believe Castile had left him to do this alone. He half expected him to reappear and make a bad joke, reassure him with a glance.
He shoved his mind away from Castile and the Wiccans, left them behind as well.
They climbed over the final ridge before the valley, slowly now as the horses picked their way over dirt and past chunks of broken roadway. Ahead, the silhouette of a skittering horse topped the hill, lit by the light of early dawn. The Indigo scout. She turned her horse and trotted back to meet them.
“Their camp’s awake,” she called out when she was barely close enough to talk. “A big camp is set outside the gates, Queen.”
Denver Parish must have arrived with its army. “There’s too many of them to gather inparish by now,” Trinidad said. “The officers and archwardens will be inside.”
Reine reined in when the scout got close enough to speak with some amount of privacy. “Are they marchin?”
“No,” the scout answered. “It’s like they’re waitin for us.”
“That’s because they are,” Trinidad said.
Reine looked at him. “What now?”
“It doesn’t change anything,” he said. “You still think you should come?”
She gave him a nod.
He pursed his lips. But he couldn’t command her to go her back. “Leave the bulk of your people here, with scouts on watch. Give them a half a chance at running if it goes wrong.”
Reine sighed and stared up at the sky. “Pass the word,” she directed the scout. The scout bowed her head to Reine and passed them at a trot, back to the army stretching out behind them.
The wind still whipped away the noises of their motley assortment of troops. Over their heads, weak fingers of watery sunlight clawed at the hazy eastern horizon. In the valley below, hundreds of torches and campfires lit the fields outside gates of the parish. The ground glowed more than the dawn. Marius’ army had the space and used it. Thirty thousand. He’d heard that figure thrown around. But he’d never imagined how big an army of thirty thousand could be. His stomach yawned wide, clawing at itself. She would never accept his challenge. If she was smart, she’d shoot him on the spot.
“They’re comin,” Reine said.
A small, ghostly party emerged from the field of fires. Trinidad couldn’t make out the red crosses on the black cloaks in the shadow of the hill leading down to the valley. He didn’t need to. He almost felt his own order approaching.
“Get your guards and the other tribe leaders,” Trinidad said. “We should ride to meet them. I’ll talk.” His mouth tasted bitter and dry. His hands sweated inside his gauntlets.
He scanned the faces
of the Christian contingent as they closed in. Some he didn’t know; marshals who acted as advisors, he supposed. Malachi was there, wearing a surly frown. Seth granted him a slight lift of his chin in greeting. Two other archwardens flanked Marius, swords bared. It was a formality, he knew. He didn’t reach for his. To her credit, if Marius felt any shock at seeing him there, she didn’t show it.
He let his chin fall as was customary. “Your Grace.”
“I hope you brought them to surrender,” she answered. “For their sakes.”
“No, Your Grace,” he said. “But I didn’t bring them to fight, either. I come to challenge you to singlehand on their behalf.”
She must have stiffened; her horse shifted nervously under her. Her cloak fluttered as she calmed it with a hand on its neck.
“If I win, you’ll surrender?”
“If you win, I’ll be dead,” Trinidad said.
Her eyebrows rose. “What good are you to me dead?”
“I can yield then, if you wish. In exchange, Reine d’Esprit and the other outcounty tribes will keep their freehold in exchange for taxes, freedom to worship as they will, and a guarantee of no harm. You will own the rest of the county, all the lands, with no harm to your army. I’ll, of course, need your sworn word.”
“And you’ll rove for me?”
“Not to kill,” he answered.
“Of course,” she said dryly. “And if you win?”
“Everyone goes home without harm. Both armies will disband under peace treaties.”
“What of the Barren then?”
He turned his head away to stare out over the parish, gated and quiet. That was it, the crux of the whole thing. “I wish to Holy God that Castile had never found it.”
“You realize we can crush you,” Marius said. “There is no earthly reason why I should take your challenge.”
Reine hissed. The others around them moved and muttered among themselves. The sun climbed behind Trinidad and lit the scar on Marius’ forehead.
“I know, Your Grace. No earthly reason. But there is the godly one.”
FORTY-SEVEN
Marius admitted Seth into her council room. He waited, chin up, the heel of his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.
The house had been a pretty home once, windows framing a fine view of the mountains. Wind whistled around boards and mumbled against the few windows with glass left. Tumbleweeds and chunks of broken concrete marked the hole in the ground where a pool had once been. Beyond lay her army. She could hear the low rumble of voices day and night.
“They believe Christ binds them to war,” she said softly. She turned to look at the tall, pale archwarden. His white hair and brows frosted his glacial expression. “Do you?”
Seth bowed. “I swore myself to Him, Your Grace. Christ binds me to you in His stead. I am bound.”
She wanted to slap his face red, get some color in those pale cheeks. “What have you come to tell me?”
“Your Grace, news of Trinidad’s challenge has spread through the troops. They don’t understand why he would do such a thing. But he is known to them, Your Grace. They could turn against you in this, especially since crusade is not the glory they dreamed it to be.”
“An indirect way of telling me the locals hope he’ll win.”
“He has given them an escape from the war, Your Grace. An opportunity to turn away from the hardship of crusade. They’re miserable out in that camp, and bored, and it’s only been a few days.”
“I’m feeding them, at least.”
“True. Hunger binds them far more securely than Christ at the moment. And confusion and sadness, in these dark times. Many of them have lost much.”
I’ve lost much. “You think I should accept this challenge and send the army home.”
“With a champion in your stead, of course.”
“I can fight.” She did fight him. And I won. I think.
Seth colored slightly, spots of color harsh against his white skin. “You’re the bishop, Your Grace. You cannot fight him. It would be as if Trinidad is fighting Christ Himself.”
“I don’t give myself that much credit, and you shouldn’t either,” she said, hating that he was right. She paced away a few steps and turned on him. “Why did you take the vows of your order? Why did you take the cross?”
“To serve Christ.”
“It must be an insult to serve me.”
The barest hesitation. “My order follows your commands.”
“My God, man, you probably don’t even like me or respect me.” Especially not after what she had done to Castile. She should have killed the filthy Wiccan when she had the chance. No doubt he’d put Trinidad up to this challenge. “Tell me why you’re in the order. And don’t quote your vows to me.”
His lips parted to speak, but he hesitated again. Pretty lips. Curled just so, but too pale. Her own mouth suddenly ached for a kiss, a throb that sank past her belly. She waved a hand, trying to dismiss the feeling. “Never mind—”
“Faith that God can work miracles for our tired world.” He paused. “Even through the likes of you.”
“You think I should stop the crusade? Before it’s even begun?”
“I think, Your Grace, that you should let God decide.”
FORTY-EIGHT
The day stayed cold. An Indigo built a fire to ward off the chill, and Reine and Trinidad huddled close to it watching the mass of crusading humanity milling downhill from them. As morning dragged into afternoon, Reine’s anxiety grew. She shifted, tapped her fingers, sharpened her knife. Trinidad felt detached, distanced from all of it, from the strangers he now led, from the idea of dying. He ate the small amount that was offered without tasting it. He closed his eyes and dozed, falling into a calm trance where his heart beat out the slow passage of time and he was alone.
A contingent of leaders from the other tribes had gone inparish several hours ago but had yet to return with word. Reine had sent a boy named Cur in her stead. Trinidad wasn’t sure why she didn’t go himself. Maybe she didn’t trust Trinidad to stay and do as he said he would.
“How can you just sit there?” Reine demanded, getting up and walking around, slapping her palms against her thighs.
Trinidad opened his eyes and sighed. “Whatever the bishop decides, I’ll fight today.” And likely die. The only difference was whether he’d be doing it alone. His mind strayed to Castile’s absence; he forced the thought to retreat.
The colorful contingent tread the rocky no-man’s-land between the Christians and the Indigos’ temporary camp. “They’re coming back,” he said.
She spun and stared hard at the group of mounted spirit kings and queens. Cur urged his horse ahead of the others and threw himself to the ground before them, so intent on Trinidad he nearly stumbled into the coals.
Trinidad laid his forearms on his knees and looked up at him.
“She agreed.” A broad smile broke out on Cur’s red face. “She agreed! As soon as you can get there! You’re fightin a champion, of course—”
Exhaustion and resolve settled in him. “Who?”
Cur shook his head. “She didn’t say. They were arguin it out and she stopped it until we left. She said he’d be ready—whoever it was—as soon as you could get there.”
“Where?”
“Folsom.”
The prison.
Cur’s smile faltered at Trinidad’s hard stare. “She said it was private. That’s all she said.”
“Thanks, Cur,” Reine said. Cur turned away. Reine waited until he was out of earshot to speak. “It’s a trap. You’re never going to get out of Folsom alive, no matter what happens.”
Trinidad got to his feet, stiff from his cold vigil. “I always had two fights. Her, and then the others. The important thing is that you all will escape, safe.” The retreat back toward the freehold had already started. “Go back now. Get clear of this.”
“I’m comin with you.”
“Send someone else. Your people need you.”
&nbs
p; “You don’t trust Marius?”
“I’ll trust her more if I win.”
He watched her absorb that. The bishop wouldn’t be dead, but the fight and terms would be known. He could make sure of it. But if he wasn’t around to enforce it, the bishop could say anything at all, discredit him.
“I’m comin,” she said. “It’s no small thing, Trinidad. You savvied your life for us, fuckin I don’t know why. But you’re doin it, and we’re comin.”
“I killed your father,” he said, incredulous.
“I got business inparish and you’re my ticket inside.”
That made more sense. Who was he to tell her what to do? He nodded.
They mounted in short order, Trinidad reflecting he had little to pack. He’d need little enough when he was dead or made a prisoner and only his sword and armor between now and then. The tribal leaders, each with a guard, kept close and quiet. As they rode, a sour ache started in his belly. He tried to focus on what he was about to do. Not the fight—that would play out as it would—but the prison, the labyrinth of cells where concessions and viewing boxes had once been, makeshift cages built into the stands. Marius had played her hand well. It would be easy for her to make him disappear in there without a real fight. But he somehow knew it wouldn’t happen like that. Marius had something to prove; she had ever since she’d first seen him. He didn’t understand it, though he knew it was true. But he didn’t want to go in there, didn’t want to think of the times he’d been there with Father Troy, not ever realizing Father Troy knew Castile.
Castile. The ache sharpened.
He urged his horse up to Reine. “You don’t owe me anything. I have no right to ask you for anything. But Cas—” His voice broke. The city gates were already open, Folsom Prison looming beyond, waiting to swallow him. They were approaching the Christian army camp and Trinidad realized he dreaded passing through it more than he dreaded going into the prison. He tried to coax a little moisture into his dry mouth. “He’ll never understand why I’m doing this. But I never forgot him, not before and not now. Can you tell him?”
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