by Tim Akers
“We already know where your loyalty lies, Roard,” LaGaere said. “Blakley probably has you with us just to put a knife in the high inquisitor’s back, if it looks like he might escape what you consider ‘justice.’”
“Quiet,” Sir Horne said. “There’s a rider.” The others quieted, instinctively hunching down in their saddles. She pointed. “There, among the grasses.”
Deep in the thick grasses that lined the track, the stalks rustling off his armor, rode Sir Torvald. The man looked all around, traveling slowly, one hand on his blade. The sound grew louder as he approached.
“The fool thinks he’s sneaking along,” LaGaere said. “No wonder it’s taken so long for him to arrive, traveling at that rate.”
“Where’s the damned wagon?” Lucas muttered. “Where’s Sacombre?”
“Only one way to know,” Horne said. She rode out of the copse, waving to catch Torvald’s attention. The rest followed, and they all rode down together to the cart path.
“Sir Torvald,” Lucas said. “Where have you been?”
“My frair,” Torvald said. “Lady Halverdt was on us faster than we thought. She was securing our perimeter before we were able to get the full team rigged.”
“Then she has the high inquisitor?” Horne asked.
“No, we rode with half a team, and even then only narrowly escaped, because some of Halverdt’s men got into it with our guards.”
“Was there bloodshed?” LaGaere asked. “Gods help me, if that bitch killed some of my men over this foolishness—”
“Silence,” Lucas snapped, and something dark growled through his voice. The frair was losing patience. “Torvald, where is the high inquisitor?”
“In the wagon, my frair.”
“And the wagon is…?”
“This way, my frair.” Torvald turned back to the cart path. “Right this way.”
* * *
The creek had overflowed its banks, swollen thanks to the late summer storms and the unnaturally cold ground. Even so, the ford was easy enough for horses and most carts, but in their haste to flee Halverdt’s encirclement, they hadn’t been able to hook up the wagon’s full team.
The sides of Sacombre’s wheeled prison were lined in steel and heavy oak. The horses strained against their bridles, but the wagon only dug deeper into the loose scree of the creek bed. Icy cold water lapped up against the wagon’s side.
“That’s a confounding mess,” Martin said. He and Sir Horne waited by the bank, while LaGaere and his men surrounded the wagon and watched the surrounding trees nervously. Frair Lucas rode out to examine the wagon. “Can you do something for it, Lucas?”
“This is beyond prayer,” Lucas said. He slid off his horse and bent to examine the wheels, then made a curious sound. “The axles are splinters, Torvald.”
“Explains why the wheels aren’t turning,” Horne muttered.
“How can that be?” LaGaere asked. “The current isn’t that strong, nor the horses that hardy.”
“How, indeed?” Lucas muttered. He reached beneath the wagon, coming out with a handful of slick, soft wood. “That’s some poor luck.”
“Trouble, Lucas?” Sacombre called from inside the wagon. His eyes appeared in the narrow slot. “We’re getting a bit of an unnecessary bath in here.”
“You fouled the wheels, Sacombre.”
“Why would I do that? We’re running from young Sophie Halverdt, aren’t we? I can’t imagine she has my best health in mind.”
“Either way, they’re ruined,” Lucas said. He tossed the rotten wood into the creek, watching the current carry it away. “So we have two choices. We can stay here and wait for Sophie to catch up with us, which will not be particularly healthy for you, or me, or really any of us.”
“I am not in favor of this,” Sacombre said sweetly. “What is the other solution?”
Lucas sighed long and hard, rubbing his hand over his face. He walked back to the bank, signaling to Sir Horne, Martin, and LaGaere.
“Cut the horses free,” he said. “We’re going to need them.”
“For what?” LaGaere asked.
“We will abandon the wagon. There are no saddles for the draught horses, so Sacombre and the witch will have to ride bareback, at least until we can find a better alternative. And then…”
“You mean to free the prisoners?” LaGaere asked. “Has the season gotten to you, priest? Has Lady Strife gifted you with madness at last?”
“They will not be free. Both are shackled in bloodwrought iron,” Lucas said. “I will lead Sacombre myself. You may guard the witch, if that makes you feel better.” He motioned to the guards on the bank. “Get your men moving, Warhome. Halverdt’s scouts will find us soon enough.”
LaGaere didn’t answer, but gestured angrily to his men. Lucas sloshed out of the creek, then took some supplies from his saddlebag, moved to the shadow of a nearby tree, and started preparing for some kind of ritual. Martin and Sir Horne went to watch.
“Is this wise?” Martin asked. “We’re going to a lot of trouble to escape Suhdrin justice.”
“What Lady Halverdt has in mind is not justice,” Lucas said. He was laying out runes of pitted iron, arranging them and whispering a prayer over each. The air grew colder.
“What are you doing?” Sir Horne asked nervously.
“A contingency, in case Sacombre isn’t as helpless as I’ve claimed.”
“But the bloodwrought manacles…”
“Yes, yes. Very effective, but not perfect. And intended mostly to work on pagans. I don’t really know how well they protect against the workings of an inquisitor.” Lucas glanced over at the wagon. “If there’s anything of Cinder left in that man.” LaGaere’s men had got Sacombre out of the wagon and were leading him toward the shore. The high inquisitor looked around with bemusement, his pale face creased with a smile.
“You could have warned us about this,” Martin said. “If Sacombre still had access to his powers, we should have been prepared.”
“Prepared for what? How do you prepare for a man who could hunt your nightmares and pluck your soul like an overripe fruit? What would you do each night, knowing that Tomas might be waiting in your dreams?” Lucas looked up. His eyes were tired. “How do you guard against that?”
“This isn’t putting me at my ease, frair,” Sir Horne said quietly.
“It’s not your burden to carry, sir,” Lucas said, returning to his runes. “It is mine.”
“Still,” Horne said. “I would prefer—”
She was interrupted by a scream. Horne and Martin both drew blades, whirling in the direction of the sound. It came from Fianna. The witch, her robes filthy from weeks in the cage, face darkened with runes and eyes wide with terror, was being dragged to the nearest tree by LaGaere’s men. The duke of Warhome watched with casual interest.
“What are you doing?” Martin barked.
“There’s no reason to drag this bitch all the way to Heartsbridge,” LaGaere said. “We will do what Houndhallow lacked the nerve to carry out.”
“He’s quite right, you know,” Sacombre said. “The woman has been nothing but a bore on the journey so far.”
“You don’t have the authority to do this,” Martin said.
“Why in hells do you care?” LaGaere asked. “If you came across her on the road, are you telling me you wouldn’t cut her down? Do you have sympathy for witches now?” The duke turned to face Martin, a corner of his mouth twitching up. “You abandoned your Suhdrin brothers at the Fen Gate. Have you gone completely over to the pagan side, princeling? I’ll just as happily hang you for treason. There’s room enough on that branch for you both.”
“There will be none of that,” Sir Horne said, stepping between Martin and the duke. “The sins of that battle weigh heavily on all involved.”
“Do they?” LaGaere said. “My soul is light enough.” He turned back to his men. They had a rope around Fianna’s neck, tossing the other end over a low branch. “Do your duty, gentlemen.”
/> “They will not,” Lucas said, finally standing. The men froze, looking from their lord to the inquisitor. LaGaere clucked his tongue.
“This is disappointing, Frair Lucas. If it’s how the inquisition handles confessed witches, it’s no wonder the north has fallen into rot and ruin.”
“Lucas was always one for mercy,” Sacombre said. “A pity it doesn’t extend to his own kind.”
“You’ll both have your day in court,” Lucas said. “Now cut her free.”
“You’re fooling yourself, Lucas,” Sacombre said. “I will have my day—before the gods, before the lords of the Circle, and the celestriarch himself. They will understand why I did what I have done, and once I am free, it will be your day to be judged.” Then he nodded toward Fianna. “This one they will throw into the cells to be forgotten. If she’s lucky.”
LaGaere laughed, short and sharp. He walked to his horse, clapping Lucas on the shoulder.
“She’s yours to watch,” he said. “Gods help you if she gets free.”
Once LaGaere was past, Lucas collapsed a little on himself. Martin moved to his side, in case the inquisitor fell.
“I will watch her, my frair,” Martin said. “Day and night.”
“Gods bless you, lad. I don’t think I could have kept an eye on them both.” Lucas gathered his robes and walked to where Sacombre was waiting. “Wipe that smile off your face, Tomas. This isn’t going to end well for you, no matter what you believe.”
“It won’t end well for anyone, I’m afraid,” Sacombre responded. “But we’ll see. We will see.” Lucas led him to one of the horses, then limped slowly to his own mount.
“Best get moving,” Sir Horne said. “LaGaere is already heading down the road.”
Martin shook himself out of his reverie, then went to gather up Fianna. It took a while to get her on the horse and sorted out. The witch paid him no mind at all, but stared daggers at Sacombre’s back the entire time. By the time they were on the road, the others were well ahead, and Martin had to hurry to catch up.
As he left the creek behind, his eyes caught the circle of runes that Lucas had been preparing. They were gone. Only ash remained, burned down into the ground like hot coals, the dirt and stone and leaves that surrounded them burned away.
* * *
They snaked down the cart path until the sun was heavy in the sky, then cut into the forest. The sounds of their pursuit were all around them.
“They must have found the wagon,” LaGaere said. He rode just behind Lucas, who in turn was just behind Sacombre. The high inquisitor was bound hand and foot, with a chain running from his belt to Lucas’s saddle.
“By now, yes,” Lucas answered. He craned his neck to look ahead. Sir Horne rode at the front. The rest of the party, with the witch in their midst, trailed close behind the knight. “All the more reason to keep moving, and keep quiet.”
“They know where to look. They know we aren’t slowed by the wagon. There are hundreds of them, and Sophie Halverdt will not stop until Sacombre is dead.”
“In that case,” Lucas said lightly, “it will save us the trouble of the journey south.
“Why are you doing this?” LaGaere asked. “You want him dead as much as the girl does. Why risk your life and reputation?”
“There is little risk to my reputation,” Lucas said, “but as for Sacombre…” He shrugged, though there was no uncertainty to it. “Sophie Halverdt wants him dead. I want him tried, and sentenced, and executed. Mob rule belongs to Strife, and the anger of summer. Cinder demands a more civilized approach.”
“He will still be dead,” Sir Horne said over her shoulder.
“That I will,” Sacombre said. “Soon enough.”
“Not soon enough, perhaps,” Lucas said. “But soon.”
They rode in silence for a long time, twisting between trees and over ridgelines, skirting each clearing they came to and hurrying across roads that could not be avoided. Near the middle of the line, Martin Roard rode beside the witch, Fianna. She rode stiffly, each bounce and waver nearly knocking her from the horse’s back, her balance made worse by the lack of a saddle. As they crossed a ridgeline, her horse danced sideways, and it was only Martin’s quick hands that kept her from the ground.
“Have you never ridden a horse before?” he asked, once she was secure.
“Never had the need,” she said. Her face was all sharp planes and tattooed skin, her eyes much older than the rest of her. She smiled weakly and shrugged. “We walk everywhere.”
“Must take forever to get from place to place,” Martin said.
“Where would I go? My henge, my heart, and my gods. They are all the same place, so why would I need to go someplace far away?”
“Ian said you traveled a distance with him, and that you were already far from home,” Martin said. “So there must have been a need.”
“Yes,” she said sadly, nodding. “A great need. Great enough that the gods gave me the necessary roads, when I asked.” She seemed wistful. “Perhaps not great enough, though.”
“Well, it must be better than the wagon,” Martin said.
“Anything is better than being trapped in that cave,” she said. “With that man.”
They were quiet for a while, Martin still riding at her side. The chains that bound her clattered softly together whenever Fianna shifted. The iron of her shackles was dark and pitted, and runes circled her wrists. The skin beneath was raw.
“Do those truly work?” Martin asked. “The inquisition’s iron?”
“Would I be here if they didn’t?” she asked.
“Do they hurt?”
“They take from me the only thing I care about,” she said. “They put a wall between me and the gods. I can still feel them, bumping through the nights, breathing through the rivers, but they are not there for me.” Fianna turned old eyes at him and shrugged. “Yes. They hurt.”
“If we knew we could trust you…”
“You cannot. Ian’s father made that clear enough,” she said.
“Ian said you saved his life, and his mother’s, as well.”
“Are you a friend of Ian of the tribe of Hounds, that you care about his life?” Fianna asked.
“Since we were children.” Martin nodded. “We have supped together, chased women together, and fought side by side.” He turned toward the forest, remembering better days. “Our fathers nearly died together during the Reaver War.”
“And that is how friendship is forged in Suhdra, I suppose,” she said. “Yet still you march north with the heretic’s host. Why is that?”
“Against the heretic, you mean?” Martin asked.
Fianna chuckled. “Ian Blakley is your friend, yet you march against him. Tomas Sacombre is your inquisitor, yet he wears these same chains. It is no wonder the gods have forsaken you.”
“I would rather be forsaken by your gods than judged by mine,” Martin said.
Fianna’s gaze got distant, her eyes unfocused and glassy. She heaved a sigh that carried the weight of ages, as much regret as anger. She nodded at Martin.
“You may end up with both.”
24
THE MAJESTY OF Greenhall spread out before them, bright red and gold standards fluttering from the battlements. Like a gaudy bracelet the walled city circled the tight fist of the castle keep, bright roofs of blue and green and slate sparkling like jewels amid the rough stone.
Songs rose from the castle’s doma, mingling with lesser choirs from the city. They sang the praise of summer, and the air seemed to sing with them, preserving warmth that had fled the rest of Tenumbra. An army was drawn up along the road, tight columns marching slowly away from the castle, taking the route north, to Tener.
“You have got to be shitting me,” Gwen said. They stood on a rise overlooking the city, their numbers hidden by the forest and the witches’ magic. Cahl shifted uncomfortably at her side.
“All cities are old cities. All holy places are holy, even to us,” he said. “Greenhall was once the home of
the henge of flowers, and before that the earthly seat of the god of spring.” Cahl knelt, pressing his hand against the raw stone beneath his feet. A faint shimmering outlined his fingers as the shaman communed with the stone. Gwen could feel the power of the casting tugging at some unhinged part of her soul, as if she could fall into the earth at the shaman’s touch. Cahl breathed in deeply, then broke the connection with the stone.
“It is still there. Buried.”
“Then we must move quickly,” Folam said. “If Sacombre’s allies have access to the vernal god, there’s no telling the sort of damage they could wreak.”
“If it’s pagans we fear, isn’t Greenhall the last place they would venture?” Gwen asked. “Other than Heartsbridge, I don’t think any hearth is less friendly or more treacherous to the people of the ink.”
“Sacombre’s agents dress as priests and carry Suhdrin titles,” Folam said. “They would be welcomed there.”
“Priests of Cinder,” Gwen said. She pointed at the banners fluttering from the walls. “But those are the icons of Strife. And since it was the high inquisitor of Cinder who killed her father and led her house to war, I don’t think Sophie is going to be close friends with the faithful.”
“That’s not a chance we can take,” Folam said. He stood, gesturing impatiently to Cahl and the other shamans clustered on the hilltop. “There has been enough talk. Preparations must be made.”
“But wait,” Gwen said, still not convinced. “If Sacombre knew of this broken god, why did he go to so much trouble to uncover the witches’ hallow in the Fen? Why did he stir Suhdra to war, just to summon one god, when he had another lying under the castle of his ally?”
“While it is clear Sacombre had allies among the faithful,” Folam said, “they may have not known about the vernal god. But if they did, they would also know of the difficulty in raising him, much less controlling him. Remember the history. This god was broken, nearly destroyed. The god hidden in the Fen was laid to rest. Docile by comparison.”
Gwen thought for a moment. She stood slowly, frowning down at Greenhall’s massive gates, and the ruined tournament ground that lay fallow at its feet.