The Iron Hound

by Tim Akers

  The room was silent for several minutes while Malcolm worked.

  Finally, MaeHerron broke the silence.

  “What can I do?” he asked.

  “I won’t ask anything of you, Grant. With your father dead, you’re now lord of the Feltower, and beholden to Cinderfell.” Malcolm stood in front of the man, his eyes dire. “All I ask is your silence, and your faith. I’m doing the right thing, for Tener, for the church, and for my wife.”

  “For the church?”

  “I won’t let them take my wife. And if they come for her…”

  “You’ll fight,” MaeHerron finished, “and all Tener with you. I understand.”

  “Good. Now…”

  There was another knock at the door, this one quieter. “For a secret chamber, we receive a lot of visitors,” Sorcha said wistfully.

  “Who is it?” Malcolm demanded.

  “It’s Doone,” came the answer. Malcolm opened the door. Sir Doone stood outside, alone.

  “The men?” Malcolm asked.

  “Waiting by the wall,” she said. She was carrying two heavy trail bags, and enough spears to hunt a forest of deer. “Only eight. They were the only ones Baird would trust to lie to an inquisitor, if it comes to that. Some of them already were guarding this chamber, so we shouldn’t stick around here for long.”

  “There were at least a dozen guarding this chamber at various times,” Malcolm said, his brow wrinkling in a frown. “Were they not all trustworthy?”

  “Not all of them knew what they were guarding,” Doone explained. “Sir Baird thought it best to limit this escort to those who will not balk at your wife’s appearance.” Doone glanced briefly at Sorcha before she blushed. Then she saw Grant MaeHerron, and froze.

  “What is he doing here?”

  “It’s alright,” Malcolm said. “He has sworn his silence.”

  “My silence, aye, but I would rather not be seen in her ladyship’s company,” MaeHerron said. “So if you’ll excuse me…” The big man shouldered his way past and retreated down the hall. Doone watched him leave.

  “Who will he tell?” she mused.

  “Let’s not wait around to find out,” Malcolm said. “Take these things to the wall. I will meet you there.”

  “Shouldn’t we travel together?” Doone asked.

  “MaeHerron came here because he saw you running around like a maniac. We can’t risk going together. Make your way quickly to the wall. Be seen, and let them see you alone. If anyone asks, you are preparing supplies for a hunting expedition. I will take another route, past the ruins.”

  “The inquisitor is making his way through the keep, my lord. It’s only a matter of time before he finds this place. If you were to go to him, you might be able to delay…”

  “I have failed my wife once already,” Malcolm said sternly. “I will stay at her side until she is out of danger.”

  “Which of us is in danger, really?” Sorcha whispered. Her voice carried through the air like an arrow’s flight, narrow and sharp. “Who will need to be protected, in the end?”

  “All of us, if we don’t get moving,” Malcolm said. “Doone, I will meet you on the wall.”

  Sir Doone nodded and disappeared into the corridor. Malcolm took his wife by the hand and led her out. As her arm slipped free of the cloak, the light in the room grew brighter. Her fey blood glittered like streams of quicksilver beneath her skin. Sorcha noticed her husband’s look, and smiled.

  “Do I disconcert you, husband?” she asked brightly. “Is my manner no longer pleasing to you?”

  “You will always please me, love. It is the displeasure of the church I fear.”

  “What of it?” Sorcha asked. “Why should we fear them?”

  “There’s reason enough, I promise,” Malcolm answered. He took the edge of Sorcha’s cloak and tucked it over her arm, then pulled the garment’s hood tight over her face. The unworldly light diminished to a bare glimmer. “There now. Let’s be on our way.”

  With the guards now gathered at the wall to accompany his wife on her flight, the corridors were eerily quiet. In the dim light of the corridor, her glow was indistinguishable from the flickering illumination of the torches. Malcolm led Sorcha through the ruined hallways of the Fen Gate, careful to avoid wandering patrols.

  “Who would have thought to find Malcolm Blakley sneaking through the halls of a broken castle, hiding from the inquisition?” Sorcha said.

  “This is temporary, my love,” he replied, his voice low. “The church has its own problems to sort through right now, and until this business with Sacombre and Adair is settled, I will not risk handing you over to an inquisition eager to spill Tenerran blood—no matter that we have been faithful. In time, in a few months, or a year, I will approach the high elector about your condition. Or the celestriarch.”

  Malcolm paused at the end of a long hallway. The courtyard beyond was empty, but voices could be heard somewhere further along. He lowered his voice as he peered around, trying to judge if the way was clear.

  “Someone we can trust. Someone I can trust.”

  They crept across the courtyard. The ruined husk of the keep was visible, its shattered top dark against the lightening sky. Sorcha paused to stare at it. Malcolm dragged at her arm.

  “We have no time, love. The priests are searching the castle.”

  “They are closer than that,” she answered.

  “Closer? What do you…”

  A woman dressed in white and gold entered the courtyard, her head turned up to the broken tower. She was small, perhaps even a child still, though she wore the robes of a sworn priest of Strife. The gold circlet of her order glimmered at her forehead, even though there wasn’t enough light in the courtyard to reflect. The priest carried a bundle of books over one shoulder, and was humming tunelessly to herself.

  She reached the center of the tiny courtyard before she noticed Malcolm and Sorcha. When she saw them she stopped, smiled, and swung the books around to set them at her feet.

  “Do you know the way to that tower?” she asked, nodding at the ruin that loomed above them. “I thought it was this way, but all I’ve found are empty halls. Last time I was here there was a path through the doma, but obviously the doma is destroyed, so I… oh.”

  She was a child, Malcolm realized. A talkative child with bright eyes and too many damned questions, and she was staring at Sorcha and her strange, glowing skin. Malcolm remembered seeing her in Frair Gilliam’s company. Catrin, that was her name. His hand was already on his sword.

  “You have come the wrong way,” he said sharply.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t…” Catrin took a step back, tugging on the heavy leather strap of her bundle of books. “Frair Gilliam is all in a tangle about these gheists, and when he gets like that he doesn’t want me around at all, so he sent me back to the stables. But I just wanted to see what remained of Grieg’s rooms.” She looked from Sorcha to Malcolm, and back. “We were friends, you know. He used to come down to my father’s doma on the high days, whenever his family came to Heartsbridge.”

  “You knew the Adairs?”

  “Yes, of course. I mean, I was as surprised as anyone to learn of their heresy. I still can’t believe it.” She bent and pulled a book from her stack. “This was Grieg’s. A book of rhymes. I was going to give it back to him. Now, I guess…” She shrugged. “I guess it will have to go with the rest of his things. To be buried or burned, as the inquisitor decides.”

  Malcolm grimaced and slid his sword back into its scabbard.

  “How old are you? Young for a priest, I think.”

  “Fourteen. Oh, you’re the Duke of Houndhallow!” Catrin said with a start. “Beg pardon, my lord. I didn’t recognize you. And duchess.” She bowed to the pair of them, though her eyes lingered over Sorcha. Malcolm stepped between them.

  “Go back the way you came. The keep is closed for now, though I’m sure an escort can be arranged. Find a bed. I’m sure you’re exhausted.”

  “Yes, my lor
d,” the girl said, bowing again. She hoisted her bundle, tucking away the small book of rhymes, then returned the way she had come. Malcolm waited until the sound of her footsteps was nothing more than an echo. Then he took his wife’s hand and continued to the wall.

  * * *

  Sir Doone was waiting, along with the promised men. A block and tackle hung over the wall, with a basket suspended from it, dangling precariously in the void. Doone looked nervous. The morning sun was just peeking over the trees.

  “Did you lose your way?” she asked as Malcolm and Sorcha emerged from the stairwell.

  “Near enough,” Malcolm said. He glanced at the assembled men, and recognized them all, good men from good families. He wondered what the inquisition would do to those families if they found out about this little expedition. Malcolm shook the thought from his mind. Sir Doone fussed with Sorcha’s cloak, binding it tighter around her to keep it from getting tangled in the ropes. “Where are the supplies?”

  “Already down. The near patrol has just passed, and will be back again in ten minutes. We have to get her ladyship away before then,” Sir Doone said.

  “My husband almost killed a child,” Sorcha said with a smile.

  The gathered men, who had been busying themselves with the pulley, froze. Malcolm shook his head.

  “A priestess. One of the children this damned inquisitor brought with him.” Malcolm twisted his hand over the hilt of his sword and grimaced. “The moment passed.”

  “Gods be blessed,” Sir Doone muttered. She finished with Sorcha’s cloak and led her to the basket. “Down you go, my lady. There are men waiting for you below.”

  “A moment,” Malcolm said. He went to Sorcha’s side and bent so that he was staring into those clear, watery eyes. “I will come to you, my love. Soon. I will not abandon you to the night.”

  “As you abandoned our son?” she asked, and then she folded herself into the basket. Malcolm hesitated on the wall’s edge, shook his head, and gave his men the signal to let her down.

  The basket descended slowly to the ground. Malcolm waited until the faint glow from his wife’s unnatural spirit disappeared among the shadows of the trees before he turned back to Sir Doone.

  “You will stay with her?”

  “Yes, my lord. Until you are able to meet us and escort us north.”

  “Very good. I will send word when I can. Get the rest of these men over the wall as quickly as possible.” He walked briskly to the stairs. “I must intercept Frair Gilliam, and pray the child has said nothing of my wife.”

  “And if she has?” Sir Doone asked. The creaking sound of the pulley echoed in the background, mingling with the songbirds of the early morning.

  “Then she will have to be dealt with,” Malcolm said. “One way or another.”

  14

  FIANNA KNELT WITH her forehead pressed against the wall of her cell, listening to the soft jangle of chain as the high inquisitor shifted in his sleep on the other side of the wagon. She was praying. But in her heart, she was waiting for him to wake up and resume his questions. He had been asleep ever since his short interview at the Reaveholt, several days earlier.

  Voices reached her from outside the cell. Her side of the wagon had no window, the only opening the narrow slot through which her captors shoved food. Very little light came through that. Being cut off from the sky was painful to her, a very real searing that leaked from her bones and into her blood. She could feel the rivers as they passed, the water calling out to her. There were rivers in Heartsbridge, she knew, but Fianna didn’t think they would be as accepting of her prayers.

  The wagon started forward with a jerk. The wheels creaked beneath Fianna’s knees. A chorus of panicked voices started up, and a distinct sound reached her ears, of knights riding fast in heavy plate. In the other cell of the wagon the high inquisitor startled awake with a grunt.

  “A short night,” he muttered. Sacombre’s voice had gotten rough in their weeks on the road, its soft purr replaced by a groan that stretched into his bones. Fianna turned, resting her back against the wall, and fixed her eyes on the priest’s shadow.

  “Something’s wrong,” she said.

  “Fundamentally,” Sacombre agreed. “Chains do not suit me. And the food is desperately lacking.”

  “Can you see anything out the window?”

  “It is late. I can see the approaching nightfall,” Sacombre said. He was still lying down, his scrawny head buried in the straw of his bed. Fianna didn’t get a bed, or straw, or even a rag to clean herself. She gritted her teeth.

  “I thought the trouble was past us,” she said. “You said that once we were clear of the Reaveholt, it would be smooth travel.”

  “And so I thought,” Sacombre said. “Perhaps Frair Lucas is simply eager to get me home to Heartsbridge. Very anxious to see my guts spilled. Silly, when he could just do it himself, and save all of us the trouble.”

  “He means to put you in front of a judge.”

  “Every priest of Cinder is a judge… and tribune and justice. I could read my own sentence, if the fool would just let me.” The high inquisitor eased his way into a sitting position, rubbing his eyes with the hem of his robes. He still wore the formal vestments of his position, though Lucas had torn the iron seals from the hem, and stolen his icons of office. “Shall I judge you as well, witch? Are you ready to confess your heresy, and accept the true shadow of Cinder?”

  “Stop being a mule and look outside, will you? Something’s going on.”

  Sacombre sighed, then slowly stood and went to the tiny slot of his window. The wagon was traveling at a steady pace, so he had to brace himself against the wall as they swayed back and forth.

  “Roads and trees and darkness,” he said. “Nothing to unsettle my sleep. But there’s my old friend, Lucas. Frair!”

  Hoofbeats hammered closer, and a face appeared in the window. Even Fianna could see the worry in the old man’s eyes.

  “What do you want, Sacombre?”

  “I have not had my sleep for the evening, and yet we travel. Are you trying to kill our horses?” Sacombre asked. “What’s the rush?”

  “Have you lost the gift of dreams, Tomas? Can you not feel them? There’s a Suhdrin army to our south, marching toward Greenhall.” Lucas pulled closer to the wagon. “I would rather reach those gates before them, if I can.”

  “Do you think Greenhall will welcome us?” Sacombre asked. “I did kill her father, after all.”

  “Her father, whose body we carry with us. I have sworn to return the duke to his hall,” Lucas said. “Hopefully that will buy us some shelter. I can only hope they don’t try to lynch you while we’re here.”

  “This is how your people thank you, Sacombre,” Fianna said. “You would have found a better reception if we had ridden north.”

  “It doesn’t matter which direction we go,” Sacombre said over his shoulder, then fixed Lucas again with his gaze, leaning closer to the window. “Cinder’s justice will find us. I have faith in his shadow.”

  Lucas grimaced. “We will speak more of this, Sacombre,” he said, then he disappeared. The horn sounded again, distant and shrill. Sacombre laughed and slid down the wall to sit cross-legged with his back against the bars.

  “What did your words mean?” Fianna asked. “He didn’t like them at all.”

  “Oh, nothing,” he replied. “There are always shadows, witch. Wherever there is light, there is darkness. There’s no running from it, just as there is no running from the night. Cinder’s justice will find us both, Fianna.”

  She stood, passed her hand between the bars, and circled her fingers around Sacombre’s neck. The high inquisitor’s pulse beat beneath her fingertips. The old man raised his head, actually leaning into her grip. What would it take to strangle him? Would he fight? Would she?

  “We have a deal,” Fianna said. “You promised me a war.” She released his throat.

  “I promised you nothing,” he said. “I only showed you a path, the landmarks that mi
ght get us to that path, and a destination. A possible destination.”

  “War between Tener and Suhdra, with the church leading the charge,” she said. “Enough that the northern lords would throw off the shackle of Heartsbridge and return to the pagan ways. Those were your words—and Adair’s heresy should have given you that. So where is my war?”

  “Where is your faith?” Sacombre sneered. Fianna leapt at him, clanging into the iron bars. The high inquisitor backed away.

  “Not with the likes of you!” she yelled. “I should never have trusted you. I should never have told you of Adair’s secret, nor showed your pet pagan how to bind the gods to your flesh. Allaister was a poor servant.”

  “Well, trust me you did—and while Allaister had his faults, he had his strengths, as well. Sufficient to flush the harvester from his grave. I thank you for entrusting us with those secrets, but the time for secrets has passed.” Sacombre sat again on his bed, his eyes dark pits, smoldering in the shadows. “When we are to Heartsbridge, you will tell your story. They will put you in the witness’s box, and they will compel the truth from you.”

  “And what will that gain you, other than a quick execution?” Fianna asked. Her palms were bleeding from the rough iron of the cage, but she clenched her fists, digging fingernails into the wounds. Pain would make her strong. Pain would see her through this trial. “They will learn fully of your heresy, idiot.”

  “They will, if they ask the right questions,” he acknowledged, “but if they ask other questions, they will learn something else.” Sacombre lay back on the straw. “The court of Heartsbridge will hear one name from you, over and over. One name, and the efforts you made to corrupt him.”

  “My hound,” Fianna muttered.

  “Yes. Ian Blakley, son of the hero Malcolm, run off to find Gwendolyn Adair. And then we will see who they call heretic, and who they call prophet. So you see.” Sacombre sighed deeply, settling deeper into the bed. “It all depends on which questions they ask first. And I know the men asking the questions.

  “Good night, witch. Sleep well.”