Yes, she would be doing him a favor if she killed Bashan. Diaz would be free. Still cursed by Suranna, sure, but if he stayed in the north, never entering into her reach again, he would be free. And maybe he would be thankful for that measure of freedom. Maybe even thankful enough to not oppose Nora. But she doubted it. In fact, she was hoping for his anger at her attempt to foil his keeping true to his word. But that hope meant entertaining a death wish. She thought back on their training sessions, pacing through each one again and again. The odds never changed, though. He was the master. There was no way she would beat him in a fair fight. She sighed.
Owen needed more information. But he lacked the knowledge he sought, having zero libraries to burrow himself into and extract it. Maybe the shrine had a library? Nora wasn’t sure. She couldn’t remember one. In three days they’d be down the gradual slope, coming by moorland and reed grass, and finally by forgotten roads and country tracks, to the Silver Lake. The half moon shone bone-yellow, and the lakes dotting the foot of the mountains sullenly reflected its meager glow.
The approach from the east was new to Nora. Every year, Mother Sara had taken her to the Shrine of Hin on the Silver Lake by way of the coastal road, then off the forked highway leading on the left to Moorfleet, on the right, by the ancient, crumbling roadways of the kingdom of Moran, to the shrine. Those roads were often full of women and children, wagonloads of them, loud in voice and clothing, too. Garish colors, as though they were on their way to a country fair, to a floating market. The circus is riding out of town, young Nora had thought. To be fair, there probably were men in the throngs pushing to the shrine, but Nora couldn’t remember ever seeing any. Only women. Mother Sara and she would travel the dusty roads until they reached the “willows” lining the entrance to the shrine. Those damned trees. If she never saw them again save in memory, even that would be too much.
This path from the east was much better. Except for the gnats. The still waters of the dozens of lakes strewn throughout the countryside were ideal breeding grounds for the mean bloodsuckers, and even so late in the year, when they should have just died, died, died, they still flew at night, their high-pitched whine grating Nora’s nerves, disturbing her sleep. The company slept in apple orchards gone wild, the trees lining the lakeshores, the sharp fragrance of rotten apples saturating the crisp air with autumn. Throughout the days, they inched through the dense woods, slashing their way through the bracken and the undergrowth cross-country to the next lakeside and the next, until they finally reached the Silver Lake. It was the largest of the lakes in the area and the deepest. Owen said that the name came from ancient silver mines that had been carved out of the earth by the wights in the early days, but in the breaking of the world, the mines had been flooded with underground water. Locals, on the other hand, liked to tell the story that the silver crumbs washed onto the white sand were tears of the man in the moon. He had fallen in love with the prophetess Hin, and when she chose Kandar instead, Kandar who never married her and slaughtered her in the end, the man in the moon wept a thousand silver tears. Nora scanned the thin shoreline as they walked around the lake, but though the ground did seem to glisten and sparkle, she found no silver. Only sand crunched underfoot.
It was strange coming around to the shrine from this side of the lake. Stranger yet was the company of men around her, Nora thought. The shrine was a place for women. Many came here with prayers against a closed womb, stillborn children, weak children, disobedient children, unruly men and wayward sons. Nora remembered wearing her best dress and the shoes with the buckle strap, crying with all the weeping, howling women at the shrine, watching Mother Sara buy a red silk amulet to take home, tied about her wrist, and four white silken bands for the shrine’s scribes to write prayers on. They charged a horrendous price for the secret wishes and desperate prayers. Silver coins passed from hands of women into the hands of men. One ribbon for Sara, one for Rannoch, one for Owen, one for Nora. Child, child, health, and: “What do you want, Nora?”
The scarlet-robed man before her looked bored and tired in his high-backed chair crafted from yew. His nose was huge and red and runny. Like his eyes.
“I want to go home,” Nora whined.
Sara nodded at the scribe.
“Write: Home.”
They had soaked the silken prayer bands with their blood. Only if you sacrificed something of value would the gods listen to your plea, would the prophetess hear your sighed whisper on the winds that blew even into the depths of the grave. Mother Sara and Nora had tied their crimson prayers onto the branches of the trees around the Silver Lake, just like all the other women and children. The pilgrims of the shrine said that when the ink faded from the silk, Prophetess Hin would grant the wish. That had been ten years ago. The ink would be long gone, faded by rain and weather. And here Nora was, still lost and homeless. But the blood, ah—the trees drank the blood the rain washed onto their soil, and they grew fat and gnarled on the blackness that dwelt at their roots. Those damned trees.
Tattered prayer ribbons hung on the trees skirting the lake, even more lining the pilgrim’s path to the shrine. But not only prayer ribbons, also thin golden necklaces, baubles and trinkets, glass stones and pearl earrings hung on every bough, exchanging the dark green foliage for a bone-white one that never fell. Some women lit small wax candles and hefted them onto the thicker branches to illuminate the path in the darkest of nights. It was a wonder the trees didn’t ignite on a regular basis. The branches were so laden with the wishes and sacrifices that all the trees resembled willows, bending their limbs under the weight, whatever their original form had been. The shrine had grown rich on weeping women.
Female voices carried over the water, singing a lament in the large sanctuary of the shrine. The Sorrow of Hin. Always the Sorrow. Like they could never sing anything else, Nora thought. The sad notes chafed her skin like sand.
It was dusk when they finally passed through the Threshold, a large wooden gate fashioned from four artfully intertwined living trees. The sight of men, of warriors, disturbed the women who had come to pray, and their song faltered, became dissonant as the words died on the women’s lips in gasps and whispers. Fear and silence accompanied the small company as they moved through the still life, mothers clutching their children in the long rows before the scribes’ tables. Yes, the north had seen turmoil, unrest. Nora saw it in the way they grabbed their most prized possessions, the ones left to them.
Prince Bashan swept his cloak aside and stood in the middle of the shrine’s grounds, hands on his hips, waiting for the pilgrim masters to come running. A short, fat man hurried out of the main hall, the sanctuary. The little man wore the red robes of the shrine guardians, some of whom were following him, looking bored. He was panting and sweating in the cool late autumn evening.
“You!” he shouted, waving a finger from afar. “You men! You dare desecrate the holiness of our most beloved Lady with your weapons and shields? Lay them down this instant!”
His voice was shrill. He was plump, and the cloth he wore, even had it not been dyed red, was expensive, embroidered richly with symbols of gold. His nose was bulbous, and he wore his hair in the style of the first pilgrims, shaved at the sides, with a long ponytail bound on the scalp. The man’s hair was thinning, the knot he had made was bound with a golden ring. It bobbed and bounced as he ran. He sure had guts, running up to a group of armed men without backup or weaponry of any kind. Guts and fury.
“I command you to lay down your weapons!” The little man posed before Prince Bashan, pulling himself upright, hands on his hips echoing the prince, who just laughed in his face.
“You must be Master Caleddin. Do you have any idea at whom you are squawking? I think I remember your face from Master Darren’s burial. You were quieter then. So I liked you more.”
“You will lay down your weapons in this holy place!”
“I won’t. Nor shall my men. We wish to stay here for a few nights to rest before we travel on. And you will grant us ho
spitality as is the pilgrim custom.”
“Impossible!” The little man huffed. “This is a most holy shrine, and we do not give sanctuary to men who run around the country torching cities and plundering the innocent. Too many women have come to this place with tears in their eyes, yes! Tears because of you, Bashan. Widow maker, I name you. Orphan bringer. Harasser of the north. We will remember Moorfleet. Get you from this place.”
“No.” Bashan seemed to be enjoying himself.
“You have no authority here, banished one.” The little man spat at Bashan’s feet. Nora held her breath, watching the spit run down Bashan’s boot, already seeing the little man’s severed head bouncing next to it in her mind’s eye.
“I have authority here,” Diaz said. “You are Caleddin?”
The little man coldly eyed him standing behind Bashan until Diaz pulled back his hood. Then he gasped. “Telen Diaz?”
“That’s Master Telen Diaz, Guardian of the North, steward of the Shrine of Hin, I believe.” Nora had to give it to Diaz. He had a dry sense of humor, and with humor, as in warfare, timing mattered more than anything. And his aim was dead on. She watched how Caleddin switched gears in his mind as his mouth opened and closed. He finally bowed low, spreading his hands wide.
“Welcome. Welcome home. I—I did not recognize you hidden under your hood, Master Diaz.”
If Caleddin suspected Diaz had pulled his hood down so deeply over his face because of the fright it caused to see his wight eyes, he didn’t mention it. It was more likely he reckoned Diaz had done it to spite him, Nora thought.
“The honor you do us! We had heard you had gone south, to the Temple of Shinar, and uh…were not expecting your return for quite a while.”
Diaz half closed his eyes and cocked his head at the nervous smile the little man gave him. It was impossible to trace his thoughts in the deep pools of his eyes, but Nora could read his displeasure in the tightening of his jaw at the mention of Shinar.
“Caleddin, I have need of quarters tonight. These men travel with me, and we venture together into the northern wastelands. Ready the master’s house.”
“Of course, Master Diaz. Of course.” Caleddin licked his lips. “There is a little problem, though. In the wake of our dear Master Darren passing so suddenly from us and, ah…you not being there to take up your duties, I, uh…I took the liberty of lodging in the master’s house. Forgive me. I fear there is only one small cot and little of the luxuries a person of your stature would rightly deserve. Not to mention the comfort a prince would expect.”
The look he shot Bashan would have made Nora laugh if she had liked Caleddin more.
“Caleddin, I have slept on the naked ground the last three months. Sleeping on a carpeted floor by the burning fire is a luxury for me.”
“I, er…I shall make it so, Master.” The little man looked wretched. Nora nearly felt sorry for him. “Some wine, perhaps? And food? We are naught but humble pilgrims, as you know, but we have smoked trout from the lake and new bread. Master Maelgin makes some delectable cheese.”
“And provisions to take along with us. Good boots. And warm furs against the cold of the Wightingerode.”
Caleddin was wringing his hands now.
“I shall see what I can find. But, as you know, we are vowed to possess nothing, and what humble gifts the shrine receives, we give to the poor and needy, the widows and orphans who come to visit.”
Diaz sighed. “I know, my dear Caleddin. I see your poverty plainly before me. For now, we will eat in the refectory and let you attend to your services.”
Caleddin bowed once more before Diaz, who strode off in the direction of the larger stone house at the far end of the grounds, while the crowds of women blanched and hid their children from him. Nora followed, grinning at the little man as she passed, her scarred cheek taut and inflexible. A flash of disgust crossed the man’s face. Made him look much younger.
* * *
Behind the sanctuary was a tiny square of communal buildings—the bakehouse, the brewhouse, the dairy, all easily identifiable by their odors—and whatever Caleddin had done with the master’s stone house in the short time he’d had while they ate and rested, he couldn’t hide the massive, yet elegantly carved four-poster bed, the lush carpets, or the lighter patches of wall where tapestries had hung just hours earlier. The word luxurious still clung to the bare stone walls, permeated the air like heavy perfume. On the shelves were small sculptures, pieces of art from all corners of the empire, from Arrun. Even Bashan grunted, impressed. It was a large house and filled only with the six travel companions, but it was warm before the crackling fire and there was no chill wind that howled around Nora’s ears while she tried to sleep on bare rock. Plus, no gnats. Bashan took the bed as usual, but the thick rugs on the floor were softer and springier than any mattress Nora had slept on during the last weeks. She wanted to kneel, rub her cheek against the soft wool, and run her fingers over it until she fell asleep.
Unfortunately, though, she was kept from stroking herself to bliss as Master Caleddin hemmed and hawed at the door.
“I would be happier if your company would rest elsewhere, Master Diaz,” he kept on saying. “This is by all rights your house, and I insist that you use it as you wish. But I must also insist that you allow me to host your…friends elsewhere.”
Diaz tilted his head, his grasp tight on the door handle.
“We are accustomed to the road, Caleddin. You need not worry that we feel cramped in each other’s company.”
The little man dithered a bit more; clearly there was something he was itching to say. His eyes met Nora’s, and she saw him raise a hand to his own cheek. He quickly dropped it when he became aware of her stare. Whatever he saw in her face, he pulled himself together and plowed on.
“It’s not appropriate, Master Diaz.”
“What isn’t?”
Caleddin pressed his fat lips together but couldn’t hold them from flapping more.
“The girl, Master. We have extra rooms for the womenfolk who come to stay at the shrine. Surely she would be welcome there. More welcome than among men, perhaps.”
“That’s true,” Bashan said, grinning at Nora.
Caleddin shot him a glance, unsure what to make of the prince’s sudden support.
“She may stay if she wishes.” Diaz didn’t turn around to check whether that was what Nora wanted. He seemed content to be talking about her with his back to her face. Asshole.
“Master Diaz, I do not wish to anger you.” Caleddin raised his hands. “And it’s not that I believe any inappropriate conduct may happen here in this most holy place. I know I trust your discretion.” Diaz frowned. “But think of the impression it may leave on some of the less experienced pilgrims here. Think of what the women who come here to beseech our fair Lady might think if they see you and your companions sharing your house with a…young woman, unfit to be married.”
Nora sucked in air through her teeth. Gossip again. She’d never walk far enough away from it. “Excuse me?”
Caleddin gave her another quick look-over from head to toe.
“I meant your face, wench,” he said.
“No, you fucking did not!”
She took a small amount of pride in his shocked expression. Unfortunately, as Owen was holding her arm, Caleddin’s face was only wrought with emotion and not covered in blood from a punch to his fat nose. Maybe better that way, Nora told herself. Faces held too much bone. Pounding bone would hurt. Her fist uncurled.
“What language!” Caleddin said, catching his breath.
“Be careful. She knows how to use her other sharp blade, too,” Bashan smirked, leaning against the bed’s poster beam.
Nora’s lips were already forming an F, uncaring for the repercussions Bashan might bestow.
“She may stay if she wishes,” Diaz repeated.
Nora closed her eyes as a white-hot fury took her, blinding her to the room and its occupants. Especially Diaz. Diaz, who didn’t even look at her when
he came to her rescue. As if she needed rescuing from this pathetic piece of—
“Master Diaz.” Caleddin tried once more. “I strongly protest—”
“I heard.”
Not knowing what her feet were doing, Nora found herself at the entrance, between the little man huffing and puffing, and Diaz. She knocked Caleddin against the doorframe, and he spluttered.
“Where?” she asked in a level voice, planting herself before him. Diaz was so close she would swear that she could feel his body heat against her back.
“What?” Wide eyes flickered to her hip, where her knife hung sheathed, her hand resting near the hilt.
Nora took a deep breath, calming the rage bursting within her. She inhaled Diaz’s scent and for a moment imagined herself being wrapped in it. Her eyes locked onto Caleddin’s face; she didn’t dare turn around. “Where shall I sleep?”
The little man licked his lips.
“In the women’s house.” He blinked. “Come, I’ll show you.”
* * *
The women and children slept in their own dormitory, a solid stone-built longhouse, very like the market hall of Dernberia in size and length. It was slate-roofed and clean, though bare within. Little comfort to be had on the endless rows of cots lined up, fifty to each row, seven rows in this hall. Nora lay awake, staring at the ceiling above. Tracing the cracks in the plaster let her mind wander. That was even worse than trying to sleep and not being able to. The hall was full of snoring widows, who had unlearned to be restful co-sleepers, whimpering infants teething or hungry or soiled, and young children announcing to the world in general that they needed to pee. The hall was also full of memories. Unwelcome ones. She gave up on sleep and rest with a sigh and sat up on her cot, startling the young mother nursing her baby next to her.
“I’m sorry,” the woman whispered, tugging her shawl back into place over her exposed white flesh. Her baby was making little animal noises, busy feeding.
On the Wheel Page 8