by Tim Akers
“Because we were unprepared. Because we didn’t know what we were facing,” Elsa said. “It’s not a mistake I will make again.”
“Very well,” Volent said. “Let us ride together toward death, and unquestionable glory. Maybe enough glory that the storytellers will forget all the terrible things we’ve done.”
“The terrible things you’ve done,” Ian said. “I’ve nothing to hide from history.”
“Children,” Sir Elsa said sharply. “Don’t make me give the speech again. I’ve grown tired of trying to convince you with words and clever arguments. That was always Frair Lucas’s job, anyway.”
* * *
The silence lasted until they topped a moor and stopped to eat, only guessing at the time. The sun was little more than a lesser grayness in the sky, and the steady misting rain soaked them through. Elsa tried to tease flame out of their limited supply of dry wood, hoping to make some tea before their afternoon ride, when Volent drew their attention south.
“I see spears,” he said, pointing along the reaveroad. The broad, flat path that wound its way south was masked with fog, but dark figures could be seen in the murk. Ian joined him, squinting into the distance.
“Dozens of riders,” he agreed. “I can’t make out their colors.”
“They ride openly along Tener’s roads,” Volent said. “Unlikely to be bandits, even in those numbers.”
“Nor pagans,” Ian said. “Horses and spears don’t have a place in their service.”
“They’re Suhdrin,” Elsa said. She was balanced on a rock, her runic armor glowing gently with some sort of invocation.
“Impossible,” Ian said. “The Fen Gate is still in Tenerran hands. My father would never let such a large host pass unharassed.”
“Unless the Fen Gate has fallen,” Volent said. “And your father with it.”
Ian was silent for a long moment, staring down at the column as it approached. Soon there was no denying their Suhdrin colors. The black spear and golden rose of House Marchand flew at their head. Volent turned to look at the young prince.
“Still willing to forget your history in the service of the church?” he asked.
“In the hunt for Gwendolyn, yes,” Ian said sharply. “Besides, Houndhallow has exiled me. My fight is not with Suhdra, or Tener.” He turned to his horse and prepared to ride. Volent snorted.
“Yet still you flee their approach?” he asked.
“Not at all,” Ian said. “Whoever those spears are, they will be loyal to the church. Where we’re going, we could use the steel.” He threw a leg over his saddle and mounted. “We must speak to them.”
“And if they try to take you?” Elsa asked.
“Then I must trust to your help, sir,” he replied, “and yours, Volent. Or were your words of aid as empty as your face?” Volent shrugged and turned to Elsa. The vow knight sighed. She tossed aside the tinder she had been struggling to light and went to her horse.
“Let me do the talking,” she said, “and the fighting as well, if they draw steel.”
“I make no promises,” Volent said. “At least this should be interesting, though.”
47
GALLOWSPORT WAS A place to die. A cradle of ink-black stone formed the port’s harbor and climbed in sharp blocks to the moors above. The harbor itself was choked with the iron-bound barques of the inquisition. The city lay between, stone walls hewn from the surrounding quarries, the homes and towers of House Bourreau as dark as night.
Out in the bay, churning with the strong currents of the Felling Sea, lay the Black Isle. It perched among the dark waters like an anvil on which the souls of men could be broken. The grim banner of Bourreau snapped in the coastal winds—noose and eye, red for blood and black for the inquisition’s justice.
“I have stood on this road and seen this city a dozen times,” Sacombre said quietly. “To oversee an execution or deliver a prisoner. Never did I think I would be traveling here in chains.”
Frair Lucas looked exhausted, having become more and more tired with each day of their journey. Fianna worried the man would die before he delivered the high inquisitor to trial. She couldn’t decide which she feared more—her own trial in Heartsbridge, or Lucas dying and leaving her alone with Sacombre and the boy.
“We are only passing through, for now,” the frair said. “You will see Gallowsport again, however, when the sentence has been given and your execution arranged.”
“Gods pray our stay is short,” Martin said. “We have enough to worry about without getting stuck in this hellhole.”
“Keep moving,” Lucas said, prodding their captive. “Don’t speak, not even to answer questions. Cause me any trouble and I’ll cut you down in the street.” He looked from Sacombre to Fianna, his tired eyes as hard as steel. “Either of you. Trials and consequences be damned.”
“You’ve brought me too far and at too great a cost to kill me now, Lucas,” Sacombre said lightly. “You have your precious justice to pursue. Threats won’t change that.”
“I’ve put no trouble into this at all,” Martin said. “No skin off my knuckles if you don’t make it to Heartsbridge. If the frair can’t bring himself to see it done, I’ll be happy enough to spill your guts, Sacombre.”
“Oh, well… brave words from young Stormwatch. Do see that you keep them,” Sacombre said. “I’m sure Lucas will have no trouble explaining to the celestriarch how he let a Suhdrin prince murder his charge in cold blood.”
“This is not my trial,” Lucas said heavily. “Not yet, it isn’t.” He grabbed Sacombre by the shoulder and pushed him down the road. A rope tied her to the high inquisitor, and it jerked Fianna forward, causing her to stumble. Lucas ignored her.
“No, Lucas, not yet,” Sacombre said smugly. “We will get to that.”
They marched down the switchback road toward Gallowsport. The sounds of the city—the clanging brass bells of the mournvendors, the cries of women and children lined up along the gallows wall, the steady moaning from prisoners chained along the penitent’s harp—all mixed together into a soft dirge of human suffering. Even the drunken song of sailors drifting out of a tavern carried a sorrowful air to it.
“I never liked this place,” Lucas muttered.
“Justice does not need affection, frair,” Sacombre said. “Better that it’s feared.”
“Better still that it’s unnecessary,” Lucas answered. They joined the stream of priests that crowded the city’s streets, blending easily with the traffic. Not even Fianna looked out of place, as there were dozens of men and women in pagan garb being led through the city, prisoners and penitents on their way to judgment. Only Martin stood out, his noble features and fine armor at odds with the rough steel of the guards who patrolled the streets.
“Unnecessary,” Sacombre spat. “And how will you accomplish that? End the law? As long as there are rules to follow, mortal hearts will find a way to defy them. It is their nature. They steal, they lie, they ruin lives and take what belongs to others. It is our nature to enforce those laws.”
“By lying, stealing, and ruining lives, Tomas?” Lucas said testily. “That has become your way, hasn’t it?”
“Cinder is not a god of emotion, frair,” Sacombre answered. “Perhaps you are wearing the wrong color.”
“Perhaps you are,” Lucas said. “Perhaps a god of judgment is better served by a man of mercy.”
Sacombre snorted but didn’t answer. Fianna was glad for his silence.
After a great deal of what seemed to be walking in circles, Lucas led them to an out-of-the-way inn, its roof paved in slate and the stone of its walls settling into the soft mud of the bay. It was an old building, perhaps one of the original structures of the port, going back to before the inquisition’s reign. The innkeep seemed to know Lucas, though if he recognized the high inquisitor, the pudgy little man gave no sign. Lucas got them rooms, then followed them up the winding staircase. The room he gave the prisoners had no windows, and the door locked from the outside.
&
nbsp; “You will leave me in here with this witch?” Sacombre asked. “Is that wise?”
“I worry more for her than for you,” Lucas said. He glanced at Fianna. “To be honest, I’m not that worried about her. I have the feeling Fianna can take care of herself. Better than you can, old man.”
“And where will you—” Sacombre started.
“Elsewhere,” Lucas said sharply. Then he slammed the door, bolting it quickly. With the door closed, there was only the dim light that leaked through the sill. Muffled footsteps clumped down the hall. It was still early enough in the day that the inn wasn’t crowded. The only sound was Sacombre’s heavy breathing, and her own heartbeat.
“So,” Sacombre said. “What do you make of this?” The room was close, but still his voice sounded far away. Fatigue, or perhaps theatrics. The high inquisitor had always valued the appearance of mystery, especially in his dealings with her. She heard him thump against the wall nearest the door, then slide down to the floor.
Fianna closed her eyes, then folded into a sitting position without touching the walls to steady herself. After a few deep breaths, she answered.
“It is according to the plan, yes?” she asked, then added, “My master.”
“Yes,” he said. “Yes, it is.”
* * *
Martin watched from the end of the hall while Lucas had a short argument with Sacombre, then slammed the door and bolted it. The motion had the look of long practice and familiarity. As the frair approached, Martin pushed himself off the wall and folded his arms.
“What now?” he asked.
“Now we wait,” Lucas said. “For them to kill each other, or for someone to try to rescue them.”
“You’re sure this is smart?”
“No, not at all, but I think it’s going exactly according to plan,” Lucas said. “Now, I need to find something to eat, and maybe a bed.”
“We aren’t sleeping here?” Martin asked.
“Gods, no. Who knows what those two will do to the place?”
Martin gave the bolted door one last look, then retreated down the steps. When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he could already hear their voices echoing through the floorboards. The innkeep gave him a frightened look, but Lucas was out the door, humming to himself.
“Lover’s spat,” Martin said to the innkeep, shrugging. “What can you do?”
The man looked less than comforted as Lucas and Martin disappeared into the streets, melting into the river of black-robed priests and mournful prisoners that swamped the city.
* * *
“You’re serious?” Fianna said. “This is your plan? This is the grand scheme you proposed to my father—the blow that would unite the north, and bring the church tumbling down?”
“That is not what I said.” The high inquisitor fidgeted with his robe, tucking it under his bony legs, his outline only barely visible in the dim light of the room. “To your father, at least. Those were not my promises.”
“Oh, of course not. More accurately, those were not your lies,” Fianna said. “Don’t try to deny it. The voidfather knows when he’s being lied to, Inquisitor. You never wanted to end the church. No more than you wanted to free Tener from Suhdrin oppression. Nevertheless, my father saw what he could get out of this, and he took it.”
“My words were honest,” Sacombre said, “if not complete. The war I promised would have pulled the church out of the north by the roots. The Tenerran lords would have done the job themselves, once I was exposed. If you’d only let me finish the task at hand.”
“And what did I have to do with that?” Fianna’s voice rose, but she didn’t care. Most likely the priest expected them to fight, regardless. “My business was with Blakley’s son.”
“What came of that? Eh? Where is my tame princeling, witch?”
“Where he needs to be. On the path he needs to walk,” Fianna said. “Alone.”
“Oh, but he isn’t alone, is he? The vow knight is with him, and if you think Frair Lucas is formidable, you’ve seen nothing of Sir Elsa LaFey!”
“Every road contains hazards,” Fianna said shortly. “Every test must have a solution.”
“Enough of this,” Sacombre said. The old man stood, shuffling across the room to stand in front of Fianna. Even bound with the frair’s icons, Sacombre wielded some of his old power. “Your people did not hold their end of the bargain,” he continued. “Where were the gheists, to disrupt the Suhdrin lines? Where were the druids, burning farms in the homeland while Marchand and LaGaere and his companions were away at war? What of the loyal Tenerran lords, who would declare for Adair once he was exposed? None of this came to pass.”
“None of it ever would,” Fianna said, letting the words hang in the air for a beat before she added, “Master.” Sacombre drew back, confusion on his face.
“Betrayed, eh? That’s what you hope to accomplish? You feared my inquisitors, and so you thought to play a game with me? Hoped to instill in Tener a little mistrust for the priests of Cinder? Well, I hate to tell you this, but that will never work. Lucas will see me hang. I’ll be shown for the heretic I am, and then it’s the Black Isle for me.” Sacombre paced back, putting some distance between himself and the witch. “You will follow shortly after. Blakley’s witch, hung for her faith.”
“I was never Blakley’s witch, and I was never yours, either,” Fianna said. She stood, and the light in the room flickered. Sacombre edged farther away. “You can see me, yes? You still have the inquisitor’s eyes?” Sacombre didn’t answer, but the look on his face told the story.
“Good,” Fianna said. “Keep them open. Watch closely, priest, and see who you truly serve.”
She changed, and the air changed with her.
48
THEY RODE IN numb silence. The forests were dark even at noon, crowding down on the godsroad and urging Malcolm and his company forward. Catrin and Sorcha stayed close to each other, glaring into the trees every time the column stopped to rest the horses, or eat from their dwindling supplies.
Their progress was slow, and the days were becoming shorter than the nights, the moon hanging low in the sky even during the daylight hours.
“Cinder watches our path,” Catrin muttered over breakfast one morning, a week into their flight from the Fen Gate. Malcolm wasn’t sure if she meant it as a threat or a warning.
“Let him watch,” Malcolm answered. “Let him judge. We will need all the gods, if we’re to live through this.”
“All?” Sorcha asked quietly. “Or only those locked into calendars?”
Malcolm didn’t answer, but when he stood a few minutes later to call the riders together and prepare for the day’s journey, he paused at the roadside shrine that kept the path safe from gheists. Sorcha watched him closely.
“That man’s faith will be the end of us,” she muttered.
“Or the beginning,” Catrin answered. “Everything has a beginning.”
* * *
It was cold, even at noon, the shadows growing quickly from the verge-side trees as the afternoon slipped into night. Dusk was purpling the sky when one of the outriders appeared from the forest and approached Malcolm.
“The way oxbows ahead, my lord. There are scouts watching over the road from the bluffs, and a camp near the Hallingsrun bridge.”
“How many?”
“Hundreds in camp. More roaming the forests,” the man said. “I put it at nearly a thousand, all told.”
“Whose are they?” Malcolm asked.
“They fly no banners, but their fit and form is Suhdrin.”
“Damn it,” Malcolm muttered. “We’ll have to circle back and follow the trampled mud of the Suhdrin army to White Lake. If we can get across before the storms set in, we should…”
A horn sounded behind them, and was quickly answered from the flanks. A wave of nervous chatter went through the company. Catrin and Sorcha joined hands and started to pray. Malcolm signaled to Sir Doone.
“Form a wedge, my wife and the priestess i
n the middle,” he said. “Fly the colors. When we sight their line, sound the horns and ride hard. We need to get through before they close ranks.”
“If they were expecting us—” Doone started.
“They weren’t. This isn’t an ambush. We’ve just stumbled into their lines.”
“How did we get so close without being seen?” Doone wondered.
“By coming from a direction where they weren’t expecting resistance, perhaps,” Malcolm said. “Though that’s strange for a Suhdrin force. Regardless, we must take advantage. Form on me, and ride!”
He trotted down the road, letting the column coalesce around him before picking up the pace. He glanced back once, to make sure his wife was safely in position. The two fey women were still clasping hands and chanting their prayer, though it was beyond him how they managed that at a canter.
The first scouts appeared on the bluffs, blowing horns, silhouettes against the dying sun. They were armed with longbows, but none of them loosed quarrels in Malcolm’s direction. The horn from behind sounded again, farther away as the company pushed forward, and then for the first time was answered from ahead. If the bridge was already blocked, it would take nerve and luck to break through.
Malcolm spurred his mount forward, the column flowing easily into his wake. The long, slow curve of the road gave way to the bridge’s approach. Smoke rose from the bluffs on Malcolm’s right. The bridge came into sight, a low stone span over a narrow gorge. The river was low, but steep banks and a wide course guaranteed that they wouldn’t be able to ford it, at least not here.
The bridge, though, was clear. Their path was unobstructed, but a brace of riders was rushing down the bluffs, riding hard to cut Malcolm off. It was going to be close.
He bent to his horse’s neck and whispered encouragement, then offered the spur. But the beast was already at the end of a long ride, and had nothing else to give. Malcolm glanced back at his column and saw that they were lagging behind, their own mounts failing them. They weren’t going to make the bridge before the Suhdrin force.