by Tim Akers
“Noel heard the autumn god’s call, and she came,” Cahl said. “We have no right to judge her faith.” He looked at the southern woman. “Not yet.”
“Not ever,” Noel answered. “Mine is the only blood that remained behind when the tribes fled north. We are the ones who stayed on the coast of our ancient blood when cowards—”
“Cowards?” Judoc said. He stood, and his necklace of tiny skulls clattered loudly against his chest. “Our ancestors fought every step of the way, and when we were pushed back, it was at the cost of many Suhdrin dead. How did the tribe of the sun keep their place on the Burning Coast? It was by cutting their braids and striking the ink from their skin!” The man’s voice boomed angrily over the grove, but Noel watched him placidly.
“If we are to discover who taught the shaman’s art to the high inquisitor, why do we not start with your people, Suhdrin bitch?” he continued. “Who is more likely to bow to the church, than the fools who already bend the knee at their altar?”
“And who has more to gain from Adair’s fall? Which tribe has agitated for war with Suhdra more than yours, Judoc?” Noel asked. She stood, unfolding like a flower in bloom, her hands caressing the air. “How long have we had to listen to you complain about Suhdrin influence in Tenerran courts? As if the actions of this baron or that earl had any impact on us. Colm Adair was loyal to the old ways, Judoc. Did you begrudge his family their Suhdrin charms?”
“Such things have no place in the north,” Judoc said. He loomed over the slender witch, his furs and necklace of tiny skulls rough beside Noel’s silk. “Suhdrin food. Suhdrin titles. Suhdrin prayers at night and Suhdrin priests by day! Mark my words—”
“Mark my words, Judoc of the tribe of bones,” Noel interrupted. “Suhdrin or Tenerran, it is possible to be faithful without wearing furs and grubbing around in the forests. You care more for your braids and your persecution than you do for your gods. Besides”—The lady stepped close to the towering shaman, nearly overshadowed by his bulk and his anger, then grabbed his necklace of skulls and held it out for all to see.—“The heretic Sacombre is said to have bound Eldoreath, the forbidden god of death. Who would be most able to guide him in that binding, Judoc? Who among the tribes has that knowledge, if not you?”
“I will not endure being accused of treason by a southern coward,” Judoc growled. Turmoil spread through the watching crowd, those of the tribe of bones muttering angrily while others begged calm or threatened violence of their own. An inky cloud began filtering down from Judoc’s shoulders. “If we are to compare our loyalty to the gods,” he added, “I will happily introduce you to my faith!”
“Accusations and threats,” Noel said lightly. She stepped away from the seething cloud of dark energy that was whipping around the shaman’s bulky form. “Let me show you the strength of a true god of Suhdra!”
In a flash her silken robes turned to flame and heat. A corkscrew of fire twisted through the grove, buffeting the conclave and driving the shadows from the trees. Noel rose, and hung in the air on a spear of fire. Her eyes flashed copper bright, and curls of flame cut through her cheeks, mimicking the pagan tattoos of the conclave, but with ember instead of ink.
“Witness the endless power of the sun, Judoc of bones!” Her voice became the raw, crashing howl of the conflagration, wind-whipped and hungry. “Witness, and know fear!”
“I live among the dead, woman. What do I have to fear from you?” Judoc said. He stepped forward, drawing his hands together, grinding fist into palm. The sound that emanated from them was like the grinding of gravestones. Darkness spread across the ground, a mist of ink and twisting shadows that squirmed with strange shapes. A ridge of bones emerged from the mist, burrowing its way toward Noel and her pillar of flame. Skeletal hands rippled along the surface, dragging the monstrosity forward, digging into the earth, grasping for the witch.
“Anything can burn, elder. Even fear,” Noel countered. She flashed her hands forward. A spinning wheel of cinders rolled off her fingertips and into the grasping bones. At the flames’ touch the bones blackened and cracked, splintering apart as they traveled, until only a shuffling mound of flakes remained.
Judoc hissed, reeling the bones back, lifting them up into a quivering column of fragmented ivory.
Cahl took a step forward, but Aedan held him back, lacing strong fingers around the shaman’s arm. Noel struck again, this time lashing down with a pillar of flame that flickered with amber light. The pillar of broken bones collapsed like dust, but when the fragments cleared, Judoc was nowhere to be seen. A rut in the earth quickly filled up, leaving only smooth earth behind.
“What trickery is this, elder?” Noel called out. She lowered herself to the ground, the grass beneath her feet turning to cinder. She turned slowly, staring into the crowd, a coruscating disc of spinning flame in each hand. “Do you run from the light?”
Judoc’s hand erupted from the ground beneath her, grasping her ankle and dragging her down. The earth yawned open like a giant mouth. Shades of the dead drifted out of the freshly opened grave, their faces twisted in rage. Noel shrieked and filled the air with flame, indiscriminate, torching trees and setting the clothes of those closest on fire.
“There has been enough dying.” A quiet voice came from the edge of the grove. A man stepped into the clearing, travel pack on his shoulders, which were bent with fatigue. He leaned heavily on a walking staff. “And enough threats. Silence, all of you.”
He produced a stone from around his neck, suspended from a leather strap, perfectly square and held in a circle of iron. The man held it out in front of him and, with a muttered invocation, let it drop to the ground.
The stone struck the earth with the sound of an iron gong. The ground seemed to bend toward it. Gwen felt herself pulled forward, as though the world had wrapped itself around that single point. A great rush of wind burst out of the trees, howling toward the man and his strange stone.
The cloud of the dead that surrounded Judoc drained into the stone, as did the cloak of fire that Noel wore. The open grave vomited out the elder of bones, sending the two druids spinning. Noel screamed as she tumbled across the ground, fluttering banners of flame snapping from her skin. The rest of the conclave reacted as well, erupting in gasps of distress and pain as various spirits and bound gods were snatched from them. Something stirred in Gwen—a void that yearned to join the emptiness that swelled around the stone.
And then there was utter silence.
The world rushed in again, the sounds of the forest and the muffled distress from the crowd. The old man stooped and picked up the stone, settling it once again around his neck. Noel and Judoc looked up at him as he passed, anger and tears in their eyes. He ignored them, and walked directly to Gwen.
“This is the girl?” he asked. She looked up at him. His face was incredibly tired, the flesh hanging from his skull like a loose mask. Her eyes locked on the stone. It looked ordinary enough.
“Yes,” Cahl answered. He seemed to have recovered from whatever had just happened, though his face was pale. “Gwendolyn Adair, of the tribe of iron.”
“There is no tribe of iron,” the man said. “Just as there is no tribe of the void. My station is not handed from blood to blood. It is earned. And so I have no tribe. One person does not make a tribe.” He bent closer to her, looking almost lovingly into her eyes. “That makes us the same, in a way. Last of our people, or the first.”
“Who are you?” Gwen asked.
“Folam,” he said, patting the stone at his neck. “My name is my station. This is a pretty mess you’ve put us in.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“No one ever means anything,” Folam said, then straightened his back. “Cahl, I expected more of Fianna’s shaman. I come to join a conclave of elders, and instead I find you all spitting and cursing and summoning gods.”
“Fianna always led our henge, voidfather. I am not suited to the task.”
“I know the ways of my daughter, Cahl. Still. I
expected more.” He turned to face the conclave, many of whom looked back with fear in their eyes. “There will be no more discussions tonight. Say your rites, and sleep, and in the morning we will discuss what must be done.”
“An army of Suhdrin heretics waits in the wilds of the Fen,” one of the shaman yelled from the crowd. “Our path should be clear enough.”
“Clear paths are the most treacherous,” Folam said as a murmur began to spread. “Quiet, everyone. Enough. We will talk in the morning.” As the crowd dispersed, he glanced back at Gwen. She was starting to get up, and he shook his head. “Not you. You and I will talk tonight. I need to know what happened, and why. I need to know the sort of men who hold my daughter.”
* * *
The old man sat in the tiny bower, hastily constructed by several of the druids, listening to Gwen tell her story. Cahl sat with them. When she was done he bent even lower over the stone that was around his neck, until his shoulders nearly reached his knees. Folam was quiet for a long time.
“What do you know of this frair?” he asked, eventually. “Lucas, you say his name is. Tell me of him.”
“I know only what I have told you. That he believed the purge of the gheist was a mistake. That Suhdra is paying for that mistake, in famine and in war. The spirits of the south are out of balance.”
“Sounds like heresy,” Folam said with a grin. “And he is the one escorting my daughter south?”
“He is,” Cahl answered. “Along with the high inquisitor. Inside the Fen Gate, there are still those sympathetic to us. They reported that Frair Lucas left with the prisoners, and a portion of the Suhdrin army.”
“A portion, but not all?”
“No,” Cahl said. “Mostly the sick, in body and spirit. More than enough remain to take the castle, should they choose to do so. Enough to march farther north, perhaps to Houndhallow.” The shaman hesitated. “Are we to interfere?”
“Let the lords have their war,” Folam answered. “Let them trade stone houses and titles and churn their fields into blood. We have other concerns.” After a long moment he stood, pulling himself up with his staff. “Now, if you will excuse me. I have traveled weeks to be here, and I suspect weeks more lie ahead of us. I must rest.”
“What will we tell the conclave in the morning?” Cahl asked.
“The conclave will have its meeting. They will argue, and they will fight. Then I will tell them what must be done, and they will do it.” Folam brushed the limbs of the bower aside with the staff and stepped into the night.
Cahl and Gwen sat in silence for a few minutes. Finally, Gwen spoke.
“I thought there was no king in the north?” she asked.
“We answer to no king. Only our gods.”
“Then who is he, to assume command?”
“Folam is bound to the empty god, an elder among elders. We ignore him at our peril.”
“And this empty god gives him the right to rule?”
Cahl shrugged uncomfortably. Gwen had noticed that he talked differently when she wasn’t around, more brusquely. More directly. With her it was either condescension or silence. When it became clear he wasn’t going to elaborate, she pressed onward.
“You don’t trust me, do you?” she asked.
“I don’t know you. None of us do.”
“That’s ridiculous. My family regularly prayed with our village witch, we followed every rite of the gods, and were in constant contact with the wardens of the witches’ hallow. Surely that has gained us some trust?”
“All of those people are dead, Gwen,” Cahl said, shaking his head. “Better that some lived, even if it was only to speak ill of you.”
“You can’t think we were responsible for that? My family died—”
“By your own word, you led priests of the celestial church to the hallow. We have only your story to know what happened there, and only the disastrous results of the battle of the Fen Gate by which to judge your wisdom.” Cahl stood. “We are far from trusting you, baroness.”
“I’m no baroness! I am Gwen Adair, of the tribe of iron!”
“As Folam said, there cannot be a tribe of one. The god of the waterfall did not accept you. Tried to kill you, even if that was because of this blood bond, as Aedan claims. You don’t belong among us, and the other Tenerran lords will never trust you again.” He stepped out of the bower, pausing just long enough to say, “Best you make your peace with that, and with the gods.”
17
GREENHALL WAS MUCH changed. The remnants of the tournament ground lingered around the curtain wall, the wreckage of tents and vendor-halls trampled in the mud, the bleachers from the stadium left to go to rot. Banners hung like gallows from the walls of the castle.
The sky threatened snow as it had for days, and the air felt heavy. More than four months had passed since Malcolm Blakley and the other Tenerrans had fled the Allfire celebration, and the people of Greenhall hadn’t taken the time to clear out the wreckage.
“Now that’s a sad sight,” Sir Torvald said. “Only takes a bit of effort to maintain the honor of your walls.”
“They’ve had many things on their mind, I expect,” Lucas said, “and will have a great many more in the days to come.”
Their caravan was strung out along the godsroad. Lucas and his small troop of noble guests had reached the verge of Verdton in the early hours of the morning, having marched through the night. The one wagon they had brought with them—the iron wagon containing Tomas Sacombre—lay tucked among the trees, in the hope that it would remain hidden from the watchers on the castle walls.
The reason for their hurried flight bristled along the southern road, stretching to the horizon. A Suhdrin army, banners of the great houses flying above rank after rank of spears, marched north toward Greenhall. Lucas had spotted their dreams in the brief moments before he fell asleep, and ordered his column to fly south as quickly as they could. He wanted to reach Greenhall before the Suhdrins, to treat with Halverdt’s heir before the lords of the Suhdra bent her ear.
“Why the hurry, my frair?” Sir Horne asked. She was anxious to be included in the advance party, even leaving her armor behind in order to keep pace. She sat now beside Sir Torvald, with LaGaere and young Martin Roard behind her. “What’s the point of arriving here before the army?”
“He wants to shape young Sophie’s heart before the Suhdrins convince her to lend her strength to their army,” LaGaere said. The duke of Warhome spat over his shoulder. “Present her father’s body as a warning against war, or some such bullshit.”
“You’re not far wrong, Warhome,” Lucas said. “I would rather the young duchess hear the true story from people who were there, rather than the rumors from those who were not.”
“I was there, just as much as you,” LaGaere said.
“Yes, and I’m sure you’ll have something to say,” Lucas said. “Sir Roard, do you know the duchess? You’re of an age.”
“Sophie has kept to herself,” Martin answered. “Or rather, her father has kept her to the sanctuary. I don’t know the girl you’ll meet beneath that banner.”
“Then we’ll all learn together, I suppose.” Lucas looked back at the caravan as it began catching up to his advance party. A black iron hearse separated itself from the rest of the train, and trundled toward the castle.
A party was descending from the castle, flying the acorn of Halverdt slashed in black. “Bringing a young girl her dead father,” Lucas said. “Not the best way to make an introduction.”
“No, I suppose not,” Martin said. “She’s like Gwen in that. Her family dead, and the church to blame.”
“Let’s not walk down that line of thought, sir,” Lucas said. He turned to the droopy Sir Torvald, who looked more uncomfortable and less happy with every word. “Gather the honor guard, Sir Torvald. We will show the duke the respect he earned, if not the love he craved.” Torvald bowed and returned to the caravan, speaking to his pages.
Many of the knights who had fought under Halverdt’
s banner were already gathered. Lucas watched as half a dozen of them pushed their way past the onlookers to stand solemnly beside the hearse. Duke LaGaere was joined by his marshal Sir Daviau and a trio of knights of House Fabron, themselves escorting the body of their dead lord home to be buried. So many had died at the Fen Gate, or fled into the forests on the long road home.
Lucas rode to the head of the group, with Martin Roard on one side and Sir Horne on the other. The frair was dressed in the formal robes of his station, stiff from months in his saddlebags. He adjusted the stole around his neck, the iron icons of Cinder jangling from the hem as he laid it flat against his chest. The men watched him solemnly, and with a little distrust. It was known that Lucas had stood beside Malcolm Blakley at the siege, but he was the only priest in the train, and gods forbid the body be handed over without a representative of the celestial church on hand.
“Very well,” he said. “Let us see Gabriel Halverdt to his home.”
“And may peace find him in the grave,” Martin said.
The hearse creaked as it rumbled down the road. The iron points of the candleholders were empty, leaving the wagon disturbingly bare. The silk burial shroud and dried flowers looked like a crown made of wicked barbs. Lucas and his companions took a place beside the coffin, Stefan LaGaere on the other side, with the rest of the knights following. They followed the muddy road until it began to rise toward the castle.
The party from Halverdt waited for them there.
The girl who came to greet them was dressed in a mendicant’s robe over plate-and-half, surrounded by a dozen guards of her father’s house. Her house, now. Her guards. And a girl no longer.
Frair Lucas dipped his head as he approached.
“Lady Sophie,” the frair said. Her soldiers were spread across the road. Sophie was a severe looking child, with dark hair that was pulled back into the chain mail of her cowl, and eyes as green as moss. Her mien was hardly surprising, considering her years spent among the acolytes of Strife. The girl ignored Lucas, staring at her father’s coffin.