“And yet you wear their mark,” she said. “It’s blasphemy.”
He’d been born a witch, had felt Herne’s breath just before the blast that had killed his parents. It had made him step further away, had spared him injury from shrapnel. He felt a similar thing now, to be honest, a warning caressing his skin. He knew in his heart the Lord and Lady had never forsaken him.
And yet who was he to refute the Church who had taken him in, who had raised him and loved him as their own? He owed Christ his life. Christ had not forsaken him.
It was he who had forsaken all of them.
“Why do you hate the Wiccans so much?” he asked. “Why do you hate Castile?”
She tried to stand but stumbled to the ground, landing on her hands and knees. Her sword clattered against the stone pavers in the silence. She grappled for it with a clumsy, futile gesture, knuckles white. She must feel as sluggish as he did. Only hatred and fury were keeping her here, alive and talking. He looked around at the edges of the labyrinth, tried to stare past it at the walls of the church, sought his parents’ tombstone, but found only fuzzy edges and a mere suggestion of the necropolis. His blood dripped onto the stones of the labyrinth, filled the edges of the name on the brick beneath him.
“Israel,” he whispered.
But it was in the wrong place. She recalled Israel’s brick in the wrong place, in the middle of the labyrinth rather than to the side. Her dreamscape, not his.
He settled onto his side and laid his cheek on his arm, but his mind lit on the thing he’d been avoiding. “You killed him. Israel.”
“Yes. You and I have that much in common.” She sounded very far away.
I don’t understand. The edges of the dreamscape darkened to deep, black shadows, oblivion closing in. He squinted at Marius, saw her form waver. The air around her looked steamy, like heat rising off a tar roof on a summer day. He was going to die here and no one would ever know the truth of it. He couldn’t summon the energy to care. There was peace in the confusion.
“Christ has abandoned you, just as He abandoned me,” she said. “The blasphemy on your chest proves it.”
No. It had been Reine d’Esprit, because he killed her father, who had threatened Troy and, he knew now, destroyed Israel. He worked to keep his eyes open, watching the flow of his blood stain the pavers.
“And what does the Barren prove, you bitch?”
Trinidad twisted his head. The motion almost cost him his consciousness. “Cas—”
It was barely a whisper, but Castile heard him. He knelt by Trinidad and laid his hand on his arm. He gripped Trinidad’s sword in his other hand. Silver grains clung to the blade where there had been bloodstains. He watched them gleam in the dull dreamscape.
“You were supposed to come with me,” Castile said. “Not here.”
Trinidad saw a blur of movement and Marius was there, on her knees by Castile, raising her sword. He wondered vaguely how she could do it, how she could move so fast when she was dying.
But maybe she wasn’t dying. He tried to cry out, to warn Castile as her bloody sword lifted behind him. Castile bent low over him, trying to catch his gaze. All Trinidad could do was look past him at Marius. She had all the power to kill him here, in her dreamscape, to make him die alongside them. He wanted to warn Castile, to tell him all these things, but sleep was dragging him down. He opened his mouth, shoved out a sound vaguely like Marius.
Castile lowered his brows at Trinidad, the bishop’s sword behind him in a sure, steady descent. He blinked, then spun on his heels and swung Trinidad’s sword, awkward, low. It cut through Marius like a match through a flame. She distorted, her mouth opened too long and wide in a silent scream, and the whole world winked out. Trinidad felt himself slipping, sliding from consciousness. Castile screamed. Trinidad clung to his voice, but it faded until he wasn’t sure if it was echo or memory. The abyss dragged him down. He felt a flash of pain, like a knife twisting near his heart, and then nothing.
FIFTY-ONE
A hot poker seared Trinidad deep in his lung. He couldn’t breathe. When he opened his mouth, he tasted the dry metallic flavor of the silver sand. He coughed out a mouthful and thrashed against it, seeking escape. His lungs screamed to breathe. The searing didn’t let up, only got worse.
A spray of sand caught him across the back, stinging his bruised skin. The chiming sand penetrated the pain and made him look up, shove up on one arm. Castile had Trinidad’s sword raised over his head, clumsily. The bishop, her robes bloody but moving as if she were healed, swung. Castile stumbled back, fell over Trinidad. They collapsed in a tangle as the bishop advanced.
Trinidad grabbed for his sword hilt, pried it from Castile’s fingers. He shoved the witch away and rolled, wincing in pain as the bishop’s blade split the sand between them.
Flat on his back, Trinidad clenched his abdominal muscles and half-flipped to his feet. Agony clutched at his chest and the silver world tarnished almost to black. He swung, wildly, to one side.
Castile screamed: “No! Me! I’m the one you want!”
Marius turned her head toward Castile. Trinidad’s blade hit her with the wet, certain thud of blade parting flesh. She screamed horribly.
Under the scream, Castile cried out, “No! I’m the one who killed him. I should die, not you.”
Trinidad fell to his knees, pain blasting anew through his chest. The silver sand reached up to seize him.
Arms encircled Trinidad. He felt the warm beat of a heart under his cheek. “Cas.” His mouth was dry, his voice scratchy.
“Easy. You lost a lot of blood. You weren’t ready to do all that.”
He sighed and unraveled himself from Castile’s arms, moving slow, gingerly. No real pain. The pentacle still glowed in his chest, but his new wound was gone.
“Her blade went right through the silver.” The witch’s voice was rough, choked. “I guess you’re fine.”
Trinidad frowned. That didn’t seem right. He’d felt death snag him, he’d been … dead.
“Don’t look so disappointed,” Castile said.
“What’s wrong? You sound sick.”
Castile rubbed the back of his neck under his tangle of hair. “Nothing. Nothing. Marius is dead. You’re alive. The crusade is over, I think. You did good, yeah?”
Trinidad looked around, avoiding Castile’s eyes. He saw a lump on the sand nearby and tipped his head at Castile.
There were tear tracks in the grime on Castile’s cheeks. “I just grabbed you and roved the fuck out. I wasn’t quick enough. She got hold of me.”
Trinidad pushed to his feet and walked over to look at her. Marius sprawled against the sand, still clutching her sword. Her cheeks were gaunt, hollowed. She looked smaller, lying there on the sand amid the tombs and gravestones. It was hard to think of her as the person who’d started a whole war.
“She meant to kill you,” Trinidad said softly. “I tried to warn you but I couldn’t talk.”
“You did warn me.”
“I could barely roll my eyes.”
“You did what you could do. This time, it was enough.”
Trinidad nodded and looked away. He wished he hadn’t gotten up so fast. He liked sitting in the quiet. He wasn’t sure how to ask Castile to hold him again, or if he even should. So, he kept looking down at Marius’ body.
“Their baby was only nine months old,” Castile whispered.
We’ve all done something, Trinidad thought. We’ve all murdered. “You were what? Fifteen, sixteen?”
“I should be dead or sitting in Windigo’s cell. I don’t deserve any better.”
Trinidad eased himself to his knees and gripped Castile by the shoulders. “I knew, I mean, I’d heard you were an ecoterr. Father Troy told me you died.” He swallowed. More lies. “Every time I went to the prison, I used to thank Christ you weren’t in there.”
Castile shied away and bolted from him.
He was quick, but in a flat-out race, Trinidad had the advantage of longer legs. Stil
l, it took some doing, trailing Castile as he weaved between tombs and battered statues, deep sand dragging at every step. At last Trinidad caught his arm. They hit the sand hard, a confusion of limbs and knees, silver chiming beneath their bodies as they tumbled into the statue of a leafless tree. Castile fought him, but Trinidad threw his weight on top and trapped him between the statue and his body.
Trinidad held Castile. His fight finally deteriorated into sobs, the sound scoring Trinidad to the soul. Castile slowly relaxed and Trinidad eased his grip. After a long while, they separated by mutual, silent agreement. They sat up and brushed the sand from themselves, not meeting each other’s eyes.
“Don’t blame Father Troy.” Castile snuffled and rubbed his red nose with the back of his hand, swiped at his eyes.
Trinidad nodded.
Castile scooped up a handful of sand and let it fall. “Are you all right?”
“I miss Wolf.” Trinidad couldn’t say the rest, not with the agonizing cocktail of hatred and regret and sadness roiling in his gut. He suffocated it. The Indigos had stolen Israel from him and Marius had stolen Wolf, but there would be plenty of chance to mourn him. For real. But not this day.
“I’m sorry, Trin. You don’t know how sorry.”
Trinidad had to wait on his voice to answer. “I’m glad he didn’t see me like this, after all I’ve done.”
“Like your parents couldn’t stand the thought of you seeing them after? Is that why you think they killed themselves?”
“They were cowards.” The words spat forth like someone had slapped them from him. “And worse, they left me trapped inparish, away from everything I ever knew. Away from you.”
Castile reached out and took his hand, rubbed his thumb along Trinidad’s callused palm, and let his hand go. “I don’t think they tried to trap you, Trin. I think they tried to set you free.”
FIFTY-TWO
Trinidad cut off the conversation, claiming the need to go on back and resolve things at the prison. “The situation needs to be secured.”
Castile could almost smell the grief on him while they were in the Barren, acidic and raw. But when he woke up, back cold and stiff against the filthy pipe room floor, Trin sat up next to him and stretched like it was all just a day in the life of an archwarden. His dark eyes were veiled again, face carved into his perpetual frown. He rose and put his armor back on while the others watched him move without a trace of pain or injury.
“Back from the dead, huh.” Reine d’Esprit stopped pacing around them like she was casting a Circle and offered them water.
For his part, Castile felt like he’d downed a jug of her home-still liquor and gone five rounds with a brick wall. His bones felt splintery inside his skin. He gulped at the water.
“Something like that,” he said, pushing to his feet with a wince. “How are things here?”
“Enough noise, but none came.” Reine jerked her chin toward the door where her men stood listening, rifles in hand.
“I need to go out and see to Marius’ body,” Trinidad said.
“Trin,” Castile said. “Let someone else—”
“I have to claim her body to claim her power.”
Castile blinked. “And just when I worried you’d put aside your last vestiges of heartless bastardy.”
The Indigos exchanged nervous glances. But Trinidad just bent down to retrieve his sword, spent a moment scrubbing it against his armored thigh before putting it away. Silver grains chimed against the concrete. Then he stripped off his gauntlet, turned to Reine, and stuck out his hand.
She stared at his hand, marked with the sword of his order. His face was streaked with sweat-caked dirt, dulling the tattoo on his forehead. Blood had dried in a sickening stream down his side.
“We’re enemies,” she said. “Killed each other’s people.”
“Yeah.” He kept his hand out.
“We’re not going to be friends, even in savvy.”
“But we don’t have to make a point of killing each other.”
Castile couldn’t help but grin at that, a little.
“Fuckin isn’t gonna fix anythin,” she agreed, gripping Trinidad’s hand.
The corner of his mouth quirked, breaking through his steely facade. Two prison guards stood at the entrance to Castile’s old hallway. They glowered at Castile with recognition.
“Is there a problem?” Trinidad asked, icily polite.
Castile watched them weigh the odds, taking in the archwarden’s bloodied armor, his hand on his sword hilt, his strong stance. The Indigos hung back, gripping their weapons.
“No, sir. Just securing the quad. There was a murder here earlier—”
“Where is the bishop’s body? And the others?”
“Taken to the church.”
“Thank you. Christ keep you in peace,” Trinidad said, nodding to them. They mumbled some reply. He turned and continued down the hallway, heading back toward the field. Evening tinged the square of sky visible through the open doorway.
Castile’s feet slowed at Windigo’s cell. The body was gone, the door hung open. He took a step inside and stared down at all the blood, at the dirty mattress he’d called a bed for so many years.
“It’s over now,” Trinidad said. “Come. We need to see the warden.”
Castile could count on one hand the number of times he’d seen the prison warden during his incarceration. He was a smallish man with whiskery ears and stubby fingers. He met them in the field and led the way to his office. He stared guardedly at Castile, maybe trying to place his face, but was all too happy to provide transportation to the church and rid himself of the people who had disrupted his little empire. He reddened as Trinidad politely blessed him before climbing into the back of the prison dray. The Indigos climbed in after, giving them wide berth, eyes darting as the warden shut them into the dray. No lock secured them in, though; Castile was listening.
Still, he didn’t relax until the prison gates closed behind them. Then he bent over, hiding his expression by fixing his boot, cursing his sour stomach and stiff muscles.
“What’s wrong?” Trinidad said.
“The last couple of times I went to the church I walked out at gunpoint.”
“But you did get out,” Trinidad said.
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” Castile said.
They dipped into a pothole and the Indigos shifted uncomfortably. Trinidad shook his head, sat back, and fixed his gaze in the middle distance. “No. It’s not over yet.”
The tall archwarden who had helped carry Trinidad in the prison was pale as one of the Indigo’s Ancestral ghosts. “I ought to arrest you,” he said to Trinidad. “But frankly I’m too glad you made it.”
Trinidad looked past him. Several draped bodies lay at the front of the sanctuary. A bank of small candles burned nearby. A woman knelt in front of the big wooden table at the front of the church, hands clasped, head bowed.
Trinidad strode down the center aisle toward the bodies. Before he reached them, he took a knee, drew his sword, kissed the blade and laid it on the floor. Then he climbed the four steps to where the bodies lay. The Indigos hung back, staring around with wide eyes. Of course, they’d probably never seen a church before.
The pale archwarden frowned deeply and started to follow. Castile caught his arm. “Don’t take it personally. There’s no reasoning with him. Let me.”
Castile paused behind Trinidad as he knelt by one and pulled back the shroud. Israel’s burned face had relaxed in death. Someone had cleaned away the blood and wound cloth around his throat to hide the gash that had taken his life.
“He shouldn’t be here,” Castile said. “Laying next to the person who murdered him.”
“We all end up together in the sand, anyway.”
Castile nodded. He dug in his pocket and came up with a collection of mismatched coins, held out two to Trinidad.
“They’re Christian, Castile. They don’t believe in the ferryman. You don’t either, by the way.”
Castile laid coins on the cold, still face, and another, until they all had their fare. By the time he finished, Trinidad had laid the coins on Israel’s eyes. He replaced the sheeting gently, laid his hand on his brother’s chest, and bowed his head. But when he lifted it, no tears stained his face.
FIFTY-THREE
Trinidad stood quietly, his arms crossed over his chest. He wanted Seth. Father Troy. Anyone else to take charge. But they kept coming in and asking him questions as if he had answers.
Castile paced in the chilly house the bishop had claimed as headquarters. The air was frosty, impossible to keep warm with people stepping in and out for the past few hours. “What now?”
Trinidad sighed. “I didn’t know when that captain from Denver asked me and I didn’t know a few minutes ago when Seth asked me.”
“I thought you were buying time to think.”
He gave Castile a look. “I’m an archwarden. I take orders, not give them.”
Another knock. Trinidad sighed and strode to the door. Reine. He backed a step to admit her.
“They want to see you,” she said. Beyond he could hear the rumble of voices.
“I just wanted people to stop killing each other.” Trinidad looked from one to the other. “What am I supposed to tell them?”
Reine narrowed her eyes and rubbed her cut up fingers across her lips. “Papa Roi was a bastard, but he knew how to draw a short line between him and what he wanted. That’s what you need to do. Take the short path.”
Trinidad thought for a moment and came up empty. But then, maybe thinking wasn’t the answer. He hadn’t spent much time thinking in the past few days and somehow they’d persevered and ended up on the other side. His stomach clenched. If he’d thought things through better, would Israel be alive? Would Father Troy?
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