by Tim Akers
“Goddess,” she said. “Fomharra is a goddess. Now”— She turned to Folam.—“How do you intend to get us inside without getting us hanged?”
* * *
They waited and watched, counting the hours until the army disappeared from view, huddling at the bottom of the rise, hidden among the trees, discussing plans and arguing about the various ways they might die in the morning.
“That army is marching to the Fen Gate,” Gwen said. “We should at least warn the Blakleys they are coming.”
“The troubles between Tener and Suhdra are not our troubles,” Folam said. The voidfather was becoming more and more irritated each time Gwen spoke. The other pagans bowed to his will with ease, but Gwen always had questions. “With luck, this will have drained Greenhall of its guards.”
“There were no banners of Halverdt among the ranks of those who departed,” Gwen said. “The initial campaign north would have thinned the garrison here, but not depleted it entirely. I counted Bassion, Galleux, Maldieu… the southern lords who wouldn’t have had the time or interest to get involved in Sacombre’s campaign.”
“They’ve taken an interest now,” Cahl said.
“Aye, and for their own reasons, I’m sure,” Gwen settled back against a log, her legs sprawled out in front of her. At least for now her pain had subsided, but she would never be able to perfect the looming crouch the shamans used, balancing precariously on the balls of their feet, cloaks gathered around their shoulders like crow’s wings. It looked impressive, but was terribly uncomfortable.
“Lady Bassion has never raised a blade in her life,” she continued, “but I’m sure I saw her sigil in the van. If she has come all this way, you can be sure it’s not to avenge some half-mad northern duke. She has another motive.”
“We are not going to get involved in their war,” Judoc said. The elder of the tribe of bones had looked increasingly uncomfortable ever since they set foot in Suhdrin land. “Let the celestials kill one another.”
“More skulls for the gray palace, elder bones?” Noel asked. “Sharpening tensions between Tener and Suhdra isn’t going to calm the spirits of either land.”
“You’re just arguing because it’s me,” Judoc said. “You want nothing to do with it, either.”
Noel didn’t answer, but settled into a resentful silence.
“Enough. That has nothing to do with why we are here,” Folam said. “Our business lies in Greenhall, at the henge of flowers.”
“Fine,” Gwen said, “but there’s no way we’re getting inside the castle. Besides, if there really is a henge of flowers hidden somewhere in there, how did Halverdt never notice? There must have been hundreds of priests that have served that house over the generations. Surely one of them would have sensed something.”
“It is their vigilance that has kept the henge hidden,” Folam said. “The fragments of the vernal god are buried deep, shattered by his followers in the wars of madness, long ago. After the crusades Halverdt claimed this throne from the tribe of flowers, and wards were put in place by the celestial priests, to sanctify the ground. That drove the fragments deeper.”
“That clears the way, then,” Gwen replied. “All we have are the castle walls, a city of zealous celestials, a duchess still mourning her father’s death, and whatever priests and vow knights remain inside. Hardly a problem at all.”
“The castle walls will not trouble us, because the henge is not inside the keep,” Folam said. “The vernal god’s shrine is in the city, its original purpose forgotten. We need only reach it unseen.”
Gwen looked slowly around the circle. Inked faces stared back at her, their hair tangles of braids, tied with the icons of a forbidden faith. All of them dressed in camouflaged cloaks and leather.
“No problem,” she said.
“Yes, well…” Folam said with a shrug. “Our party will be small. I will be a part of it, as only I hold the knowledge necessary to secure the god.”
“I will go, as well,” Cahl said. “Cities are places of stone. Wind, earth, and water will be cut off, but stone will remain.”
“Yes,” Folam agreed. “You will be able to sense the god’s embrace. Very good, and we will need someone familiar with this particular city. Gwen?”
“We can’t trust her,” Judoc said quickly. “Aedan claimed it, and I’ve seen nothing to prove him wrong. She led celestial priests to the Fen god’s hallow. Who’s to say she won’t betray you as soon as she’s inside?”
“She knows the city, and she doesn’t have the ink,” Folam said. “We have placed our faith in her family for generations. We must do so again.”
“Someone has to watch her,” Judoc insisted. “Someone we can trust.”
“I’ll do it,” Noel said. “My tribe has spent generations passing as faithful Suhdrins. No one here will know the difference.”
“Very well, it is settled, then,” Folam said, heading off any further dissension. “Cahl and I will go in disguise, to mask our faces, while Gwen and Noel lead us. The rest of you wait here, and pray to the gods for our success.”
“You’re forgetting something,” Gwen said. She motioned to her face. “I’m wanted throughout the north. The daughter of House Adair is well known in these parts. I step foot inside that city, I’ll be dead before nightfall.”
“The daughter of House Adair, yes,” Folam said. “The girl with the distinctive red and black hair.
“We can manage that.”
* * *
Her curls came away under Cahl’s knife, the scalp beneath as pale as an egg. The bindings across her chest hurt, but when they were done, Gwen looked nothing like a lady, much less one from the Tenerran court.
She shrugged into a pair of linen breeches and a shirt with a narrow collar and a hood that covered her freshly shorn skull. She felt naked without knife, spears, or leather, but at least they let her keep her boots.
“They’re a bit nicer than a peasant could possess,” Noel said thoughtfully, “but you’ve worn the hell out of them. Should be fine.” She stepped back to inspect the results.
“No one is going to mistake that for the Lady Gwendolyn Adair,” Judoc said confidently.
“You’d have achieved the same effect by washing away the dirt and putting me in a silk dress,” Gwen said. “Though I imagine those are in short supply around here.”
“Stop complaining. You make a handsome lad,” Folam said. “The rest of you, get someplace safe. It won’t do to have a random patrol stumble on your camp and alert the guards. We’re going to have enough trouble with this.”
“What about the two of you?” Noel asked, gazing at Cahl and Folam. “We can’t march you in looking like that.”
“Our clothes don’t matter—it’s our faces that will give us away,” Folam responded. “By the grace of the gods, there’s a war going on. The streets will be full of the injured and infirm.” He produced a length of bandage and began to wrap his head. “Cahl and I will be blind, so it’s up to the two of you to guide us.”
“Very well,” Noel said, then she helped Folam with his bindings. She nodded to Gwen. “See to Cahl. He’s not going to bite.”
Despite Noel’s promise, Cahl looked ready to chew her face off as she approached. His whole body was tense as Gwen slowly wrapped his head, keeping the bandages loose enough for breathing but tight enough to stay fixed. When she was done, he stood uncertainly, his hands outstretched.
“My spears,” he said, motioning.
“No weapons, Cahl,” Folam said. The blinded voidfather looked much more comfortable, sitting with his legs crossed, hands folded on one knee. “We are supplicants and beggars, not warriors.”
“How am I supposed to find the stone path if I’m blind?” Cahl asked.
“With your heart, and with Gwen’s hands. Now, ladies,” Folam said, holding out his arms to be helped up. “If you please?”
Reluctantly, the four of them wound their way down the hill, joining the road when there was no traffic, and well out of sight of t
he gates. They weren’t alone for long. Armed patrols passed, each one raising the hair on Gwen’s neck as they passed. A quick wagon of produce rattled by, the driver clutching a rusty axe and refusing to slow down. As they approached the gates, the road became crowded with refugees from the north, nervous farmers from east and west, and hopeful merchants, mercenaries, and priests from the south. Traffic slowed to a grind. Many passersby gave the four nervous looks, some with sympathy, others fear.
“What is happening?” Folam asked quietly.
“We are nearly to the gates, father,” Noel said cheerfully. “Surely the Lady Halverdt will have sympathy for one of her faithful soldiers, injured in war.”
“Lady Sophie has little enough sympathy for anyone,” the farmer walking next to them said. He led a donkey piled high with jugs of cheap wine. “Whatever joy that woman has, she’s plunged into anger and revelry. It’s good business, though.”
“If you’re in the right business,” Gwen muttered.
“Young lad like you should be able to find good work as a guard,” the farmer said. “Pretty mouth like that, maybe better work in a back room.”
Cahl, blind and hulking, turned toward the man.
“Do not speak to my son like that,” he said. The farmer backed away, pushing through the crowd with the weight of his donkey.
“He’s gone, Cahl. You can stop threatening the empty air,” Noel said. A space formed around them as the other journeyers gave them a wide berth. “We’re calling a bit too much attention to ourselves with that kind of thing.”
“Enough talking,” Gwen said. She looked up at the gates. The sigil of House Halverdt hung from the battlements on giant flags, too heavy to be stirred by the wind. In addition to the tri-acorn of her family, Sophie had added a tongue of bright flame, the icon of Lady Strife.
“Lady Halverdt seems to have found the gods,” Noel said quietly.
“One god, at least,” Gwen murmured back. They passed beneath the shadow of the gate and entered into the city. An oppressive heat settled on them, stoked by golden braziers at every corner and torches on every wall. Despite the heat, Gwen couldn’t help but shiver. “Lady Strife, holy of anger, and vengeance, and war.”
“And madness,” Folam whispered back. “Do not forget madness.”
“Aye,” Gwen said. “Madness.”
25
IAN LEANED AGAINST the gate of the small keep, hammering it with his fist and screaming at the top of his lungs. The wind stole his voice, and the hard wood swallowed the pounding.
The wall was hardly twice the height of a man. On a better day Ian could have scaled it, but his hands were numb and bloody. These were not better days. Finally he gave up and collapsed to the road. Their only remaining horse whickered softly against his cheek.
“Oh, now you care,” Ian mumbled. “Couldn’t be bothered to kick in this door, could ya? Be a great help.”
The horse snorted and swung its head to the side, cropping stubbornly on a pile of snow at the edge of the road. Ian laughed.
“That’s what I thought. Lazy bastard.”
“Lazy who?” a voice said from above. Ian startled up, scrambling to a sitting position and trying to back away from the horse before he realized the voice had come from the top of the wall. He twisted around to squint into the driving snow. A man peered down at him from the side of the gate.
“Were you talking to your horse?”
“We’ve been through a lot together,” Ian answered. He got to his feet unsteadily, not bothering to brush off the crust of snow that had gathered on his furs. “My companion and I were traveling the Fen when we were caught in this storm. We seek shelter, and probably medicine for my companion.”
“Your… horse?” the man asked.
“No, the vow knight,” Ian said, turning angrily and pointing to the saddle. The saddle was empty. Confused, Ian looked back down the road. Elsa lay in a heap just ten feet away, the snow already piling up over her head. “She’s fallen… we must get her.”
He began walking toward Elsa’s drift-smoothed form, but about halfway there realized that he was in no condition to be walking, much less lifting someone else off the ground. He weaved drunkenly through the snow, falling to his knees next to her still form. He cleared the snow from her face, then started tugging on her shoulder.
“You’re going to have to get up, Elsa, because I can’t do that for you, and this lot doesn’t seem very helpful.” With some effort he was able to get her arm across his shoulder, but when he tried to stand he ended up only rolling her over and tumbling headfirst to the ground. He lay there until he heard the gate open.
Shadows loomed over him.
“Good of you to come out. Now if you could just…”
The blow took him across the back of the neck. There was stinging pain, then nothing but darkness.
* * *
He woke in stone and fire. The walls flickered red and black, and a haze of smoke stung Ian’s eyes when he sat up. He tried to breath, but the stink of frairwood choked him, burning his throat and filling his lungs with sacred incense. A fit of coughing racked his body, leaving him gasping for breath through his tears.
“You’ll get used to it,” Elsa said. Ian blinked several times, wiping his eyes clear until he was able to see the vow knight lounging on a bed on the other side of this narrow room. At the foot of their beds was a hearth, overflowing with burning wood and hot coals that spilled out onto the stone floor. Little of the smoke made it to the chimney, leading to the thick air.
“They’ve made a mess of that,” Ian said, his voice coming rough from his throat. His head throbbed, either from the smoke or the blow he had suffered. More likely both. He felt under his hair, probing gingerly around the knot, his fingers coming away with flakes of dried blood. “Mess of this, too. Are we held prisoner?”
“Nothing so exciting. The master of this house seems the nervous type. Frairwood in all the hearths, and guards about as friendly as broken glass. But at least it’s warm, and they’ve fed us well.”
“Speak for yourself,” Ian grumbled. “How long have I been out?”
“Hard to say. I’m not even sure how long we’ve been here. A priest came in and saw to your wound, but I think all he did was mop up the gore and then drug you to sleep.” Elsa stretched her back, her joints popping. She was dressed in a loose cotton shift that was dotted with blood. It was the first time Ian had seen her out of her armor. “A day, perhaps.”
“And the storm?” Ian asked. Elsa nodded to the window, which was lashed closed, the shutters creaking. “So whatever is causing that hasn’t yet left.”
“Or it has followed us here,” she replied.
“Can you walk?” Ian struggled to his feet. His legs were as stiff as driftwood, and his knees groaned the whole way up. Elsa chuckled.
“You were closer to dead than I thought, young Blakley— you won’t be doing much walking, not right away. Doesn’t matter, really. I don’t think we’re going anywhere. The storm still rages, and the master of the house is curious. About us, and our business in the Fen.”
“Who is this master? One word from my father and he’ll let us go, if he knows what’s good for him. Do they even know who it is they’re holding?” Ian tottered carefully to the edge of the bed, supporting himself on the post. “Do they understand the consequences of delaying us on our mission?”
“That’s the curious thing,” Elsa said. “I’m not sure who rules here.” She made no effort to rise, and looked comfortable enough. “The guards wear no tabards, and name no lord. There are no crests on the walls, nor among the tapestries. Twice I have left this room, but I’ve seen no banner or charge to name the lord of this house.”
“It’s not so unusual,” Ian said. “Not every house has the money to carve their name into every stone.”
“That’s not the case here. Look at the hearth, if you will,” Elsa said, pointing. “Some very nice scrollwork in the stone mantle, and good andirons, fancy enough for a lord’s fi
replace. Yet they are suspiciously unadorned.”
“Not just unadorned,” Ian said, limping painfully to the hearth, where he ran a hand over the mantle. At the corners the stone was broken and raw. “Disfigured.”
“As though they were hiding a name,” Elsa said. “So.”
“So,” Ian said. “Who is our host, that he will not meet us, and holds us so confined?”
“We will know soon enough,” Elsa said casually. “They have taken my weapons, and my armor. Now that you are awake and moving, however, they will discover the futility of their precautions. When next they come to feed us, I will either secure us an audience or a glorious escape.”
“There’s no other way?” Ian asked.
“Of course there is,” Elsa answered. “We could die— also gloriously.”
* * *
A short time later the guards came with their food. Elsa stood and demanded to see the master of the house. The guards looked from her to Ian, bowed, and escorted them into the hallway.
The vow knight almost seemed disappointed.
“The place seems a bit drab, but I see what you mean,” Ian whispered, his head on a swivel as they walked. “No heraldry, no sigils. Nothing. Any lord could rule here.”
“Or none,” Elsa said quietly. “Winter is a good time for treachery.”
“That’s a cheerful thought. Hello, my Lord Nobody, I am Ian Blakley of Houndhallow. I see that you’ve murdered the previous lord, do you mind if I skulk out in the dead of night? Oh, and may I have my armor and weapons back, and maybe some supplies so I don’t freeze to death in this blizzard? No?”
“If it comes to that,” Elsa said, “we will not ask permission.”
“You talk awfully tough for a lady who is one singed cotton shift away from being naked,” Ian offered cheerfully as they walked through a grand hall. The tables had all been pushed together, and the hearth lay cold and empty. The dais at the end of the room was missing a throne, though the attendant chairs and long table were still present. The guards sped their way through this empty space, hurrying Ian and Elsa along.