by Tim Akers
“That was Sacombre’s war! It still is. As for Adair…”
“Yes, a heretic, and known to all,” Trueau said. “But he is dead, and yet a Suhdrin army is still camped around his castle. Another stands siege at the Reaveholt, just across that ridge. Why haven’t they gone home?”
“You would have to ask them, sir,” the frair said. Slowly, the three of them moved to form a triangle. “That does not change our duty to free these lands from the threat of the gheist.”
“I see no gheist here,” Trueau said. She nodded to Sorcha, who was watching from the banks. “Yes, the lady has a strange cast, but she seems no threat. We have passed by gheists who have stabilized, either by pagan rite or their own nature. Our task is to protect, not to kill. Not even the gheist. So by what right do you fight this man, now?”
“He defied the celestriarch’s will,” the frair insisted. “He hid this woman, from us and apparently from the Orphanshield as well. Sheltering a gheist, Trueau, what do you call that?”
“Protecting his love,” Trueau said. “As Strife would will it, and as I am vow-sworn to protect.”
The inquisitor shrank back, his staff now held in guard. “I will not fight you, sir. That is not what the church would want.”
“Your church,” Catrin whispered. She swept at the man from behind, her knife sliding easily between his ribs, just beneath the pit of his arm. The frair went rigid, clenching his arm close, trying to strike behind him with the staff. His body became unhinged, the shroud of naether failing as he went to one knee.
Catrin twisted the blade and the frair’s face bunched up in pain. His scream was quiet. The strength of his lungs was gone. He toppled forward into the water, and was still.
“Your church,” Catrin repeated as she leaned closer to him, pulling her knife free. “Not mine.”
The crowd stood in stunned silence. The Suhdrin guards edged away. At least one drew his sword, while several others looked to their fellows for guidance. Malcolm studied them and shook his head. He walked to the inquisitor’s floating body and sighed.
“I never learned his name,” Malcolm said.
“Frair Albet Montris,” Trueau said quietly. She sheathed her sword, then bent and said a prayer over the dead priest. “He was a good man. A better man that this.”
“This shouldn’t have ended with his death,” Malcolm said. “I’m sorry.”
“It did,” she said, “and you aren’t. But that is where we are in this world. Sorry for things that shouldn’t have happened. That might not have happened, if we lived in a better time.”
“What will you…” Malcolm started. Sir Trueau waved him to silence. The vow knight marched up the creek bank, then on up the slope until she disappeared among the trees. The silent party watched her depart.
“What now?” Catrin asked.
“You should have considered that before you murdered a priest of Cinder,” Malcolm said. “It’s a miracle Trueau didn’t kill us all in a fit of rage.”
“She is not given to rage,” Sorcha said, still staring in the direction the vow knight had disappeared. “Though if she ever finds that well, she will drink deeply.”
“I meant with the body,” Catrin said. “What are we going to do with the body?”
“Bury it,” Malcolm said. “We’re standing in a river. Sorcha, I assume that’s something you can manage?”
“Yes,” she said, “but not before you are out of the current.”
“Yes, yes,” Malcolm said. He sheathed his sword and then scrambled slowly up the muddy incline. Catrin hopped out after him. He looked the guards over, weighing them. “This is a change, I know,” he said, “and you are not sworn to me, but the war is changing in ways we can’t understand. Not yet. So until we know why Cinder has joined with Bassion, you must keep faith in your lords, and in their wisdom.”
“Redgarden knows nothing of this,” the man with his sword still drawn said. “And I will not lie to him.”
“Nor would I,” Malcolm said. “And if he judges me guilty, and my wife, or this priestess, he may order you to take me prisoner.”
“That order has not yet been given,” the man answered. He lowered his blade, nodding. “Gods pray that it never is.”
“You are young, and many,” Malcolm said with a smile. “Surely you can take me, if the time comes.”
“You are the Reaverbane,” he said. “Many have made the attempt.”
Malcolm shrugged, then turned back to the stream. Sorcha stood there, her hands uplifted, her eyes closed. A gentle swell of water grew at her feet, quickly rising as it flowed forward, until a white-capped curl towered over the narrow banks. When it reached the dead priest’s body, the wave crashed down, swamping the corpse. The sound was tremendous, but the wave dissipated as quickly and mystically as it had formed. Gentle ripples splashed against the shores.
The body was gone.
“Very well,” Malcolm said, turning back toward the camp. “Let’s go speak to Lord Jaerdin. See if I need to be tried for heresy. Or murder. Possibly both.”
57
THE FAMILIAR WALLS of Houndhallow loomed before them. The courtyard was burning. The forests all around were shot through with lesser fires, like veins of ruby in black marble. Ian had known where their path was taking them, as soon as the road turned south. Still, it was a shock to find himself home.
“Things have changed, I take it?” Volent asked gruffly.
“Everything, yes,” Ian said quietly. The sight of Houndhallow burning struck him strangely. He expected to be furious, or afraid, or maybe shocked—but in truth, and cold horror filled him, a horror that left him numb. “Everything has changed.”
Elsa brushed past Ian as he stared, and hurried her mount down the hill.
“Are we just going to let her go?” Volent asked. “She’ll be killed on her own.”
“I’m not sure about that,” Ian said. “More likely that we’ll be killed without her to aid us.”
“Gods help us, but I think the boy is right,” Bruler said.
Volent gave Ian a nervous look, then rode after the vow knight.
“Sir LaFey!” he shouted as they descended. “There seems to be a battle ahead!”
“What better place to fight, Sir Volent?” she yelled over her shoulder. “What better place to die?”
“Well, yes, true, but I’d like to know who it is I am killing,” he said. They rode side by side, with Ian trailing close behind. The Suhdrin knights rode in a loose crescent in their wake, Bruler at their center. Not even a dozen, and yet they rode to battle. “Whose banner do we rally, and whose do we fight?”
“There are few enough banners, sir,” Elsa said. “We are not here for the battle. I seek one man, and the gheist he has conjured.”
“You have your pick of pagans,” Ian shouted. The numbness was wearing off, and it left a wound of rage behind. His fingers twisted over the hilt of his blade. He wanted to sink steel into flesh. “How will we know we have the one we seek?”
“Process of elimination,” Elsa said. She drew her blade and spurred forward, carefully drawing power from the wild flames that surrounded them, threading just enough of Strife’s energy into her blade and armor, without cooking the flesh of her mount. The destrier snorted nervously at the sudden change in temperature. Still she surged ahead of the others, eager for blood.
“There must be a better way,” Volent mumbled. He looked over at Ian, whose full attention now was on the castle. Blakley banners still flew from the keep, but it was clear the walls had fallen. There was a hint of red hair among a crowd at the tower’s peak, and thoughts of Nessie crowded to the surface of his mind.
“What do you say, young hound?” Volent pressed. “Where should we hunt?”
Suddenly Ian jerked. “She’s here,” he said, and he tore his eyes away from the sight of his sister. “Gwendolyn. She’s here. Somewhere among the pagans.”
“How can you know?” Volent asked. Ian just nodded, and the knight marshal heard a sound, pic
ked out from among the chaos, easy to miss. It echoed through the forest. The baying of hounds.
“Your dogs are loose?”
“Not my dogs,” Ian said. “The gods. The gheists. The hallow itself.”
Volent grunted. Ahead of them, Sir Elsa dived into the woods, riding hard and disappearing from sight. “Best keep our bright friend away from them, then.”
“It won’t come to that,” Ian said. He sawed his reins to the side, pulling them off the road and coming to a stop. “She’s going to attract too much attention. We will find another way in.”
Volent stayed with him, and they watched. Nothing happened for a time, then suddenly the area where the vow knight had vanished burst into a column of sparks and light, pluming over the trees.
Still Ian did not move. Elsa, he decided, could take care of herself.
Though he had only been gone for part of a year—not even a full turn between Allfire and Frostnight—the forests of his childhood were strange to him. These trees and trails seemed like a dream. It was more than the fire and the gheist-wielding pagans scattered through them. His memories, of hunting, riding with his father, exploring with sister and brother, all were overlaid by change.
Some part of him had assumed he would never return, but no part of him thought he would return in the company he now kept.
Was it his castle now? His throne to defend? There was no word of his father. Malcolm Blakley might have gone east. He might have smuggled south with his friend Castian Jaerdin, or he might be dead in a creek, the cold water running like blood through his flesh. Anything was possible.
He couldn’t think of that now. Couldn’t think about anything beyond the task ahead. His home was under attack, and gods be damned if he wasn’t going to defend it.
Yet the way had grown crooked, and his goal less clear. Seeking Gwen had become seeking this gheist, the god of death, and somehow that brought Ian back home, to find that home in flames.
Why were the pagans attacking? Who were they attacking? House Blakley had done nothing to draw this sort of army, nothing more than stand by Adair’s side when he was accused, then to condemn the man when his heresy was uncovered.
“Something’s wrong with this,” Ian muttered to himself. He pulled up short, scanning the approach to the castle walls. The gates were thrown wide, the way there choked with fighting. Small groups, their shadows flickering with the burning forest, some adding new flames to the darkness. “Why is there fighting outside the walls?” he asked no one in particular. “Why would Tavvish have ordered a foray?”
“These don’t look like your father’s spears,” Volent said. Bruler rode up beside them. The Suhdrin knight looked nervous.
“They aren’t spears of any house,” Bruler said. “These are pagans, all. Heretics murdering each other, near as I can tell.”
“He’s right,” Volent said. “Whatever remains of your house guard, they are inside the walls.”
“So what is this?” Ian asked.
“In Heartsbridge, I think they would call it a schism,” Bruler said. “Not sure what the witches would say.”
“I need to get to Nessie,” Ian said. “I need to know that my sister is safe.”
“How will your guards feel about a force of Suhdrins riding through their front gate?” Bruler asked. “Accompanied by the Deadface, at that.”
“Better than a pagan god, I suspect,” Ian said. “They will recognize their master’s son. I hope.”
* * *
Elsa burned through the night. The pagans fell away from her like fog from the morning sun and, even though it was near the end of Strife’s cycle, she felt invincible.
There had been so many questions leading up to this day. Should she have stopped Gwen? Had Ian Blakley been corrupted by his time with the witch? What could she have done to prevent the tragedy at the Fen Gate? What did the gods want of her? Or she, of them?
It didn’t matter now. The battle was here, and Elsa was forged for battle. Yet the battle wanted nothing to do with her. The first group of pagans she charged fled from her, offering no resistance. She could smell the strange echoes of everam—the last vestiges of gheists summoned and killed— but the air seemed flat, as though the spirits had been wrung out of the earth, like stale water from a rag.
There were dead bodies on the ground, their flesh twisted and broken, but still no signs of battle. No arrows among the fallen pine needles, no blades in the hands of the dead. Their wounds were charred and vicious.
This was a different kind of fight. This wasn’t a battle of flesh, but of spirit. These weren’t warriors at all. So who were they, and who was killing them?
Elsa dismounted. The tension from the flames coursed through her veins, too much for her to contain. She was afraid she would slip and kill her horse, so it was better to abandon it. Once she was on foot, Elsa let the power flow, forming a nimbus of flame and light around her. The undergrowth crisped at her approach, turning to ash and floating away on the troubled currents.
She entered a clearing and went to the dead bodies to examine them. Pagans, all. The ink on their faces, the fetishes in their braids. Elsa was used to finding a single icon, hidden in the depths of robes or buried in hearths. These victims wore their faith openly and profusely, whole necklaces jangling with iron and stone, the runes as old as the hallows. She had never seen such things, not even on Fianna.
“Elders,” she muttered to herself, realization dawning. “These are the elders of the pagan tribes.” She stopped and looked around, catching glimpses of similarly dressed figures darting through the night, running toward the castle or away, their movements confused by the flickering light. “This is a gathering of the pagans,” she added, louder now. “All of them.”
“The important ones, at least,” a voice said from the woods. Elsa turned toward it, but saw only an inquisitor, dressed for war. No, not an inquisitor. The robes were wrong, and the armor. “I see your confusion. Don’t worry, Sir Knight. Your vow will be honored tonight.”
“Who are you? What’s going on here?” she asked.
“My name is Folam. These people called me the voidfather, though I have grander titles.” The man walked forward. His arm was wrapped in leather, and he held it carefully as though some great injury had befallen him. His eyes were cloudy with remnants of shock, but his stride was steady. “You must be Sir Elsa LaFey.”
“How do you know me?”
“Aedan spoke of you, and Allaister as well, before he died. Your doing, I think?”
“Allaister was a heretic,” Elsa said. She rounded on the man and brought her sword to the guard. “If he spoke of me, it was with fear. As you shall learn.”
“Of course,” Folam said. “It is your duty to kill me. Yet that is not why you are here, I think.”
“I am sworn to kill a gheist and bring its pagan to justice,” Elsa said. “I think your death falls within the essence of my mission, well enough.”
“Aedan brought you, as he was meant to,” the pagan said. “I had little hope that he would be your end, though by the look of him, it was close. Plus the added gift of returning Eldoreath to our ranks…” He shook his head. “It was more than I could hope. And young Ian? He is in your company, I trust?”
“There’s no way you planned all of this,” Elsa said. “We’ve traveled too far. You couldn’t have known we would be here.”
“No?” Folam said. “As you say, and yet here we are.” He held out his hands. “Shall we end this? Or shall I simply tell you how it must end?”
“I have been in a thousand battles, friend. While I don’t know you—or what you planned, or how you imagined this ending—I can tell you this.” Elsa opened herself to the flames, drawing spiraling skeins of light into her spirit, the aura of her power growing and growing until the heat of it scorched the canopy of trees that surrounded the clearing. “I will not fall to an elder of the pagan faith. I have killed your gods. You are no threat to me.”
“Ah, but who are my gods?” Fola
m said. He raised the arm, and she saw that it was a stump. The dark leather swirled with inky shadows, and then a plume of ash erupted from the end. “And who are yours?”
The wave of burning ash rolled toward her, twisting like a snake through the air, its head folding open as it approached. Instinctively, Elsa opened her senses, seeking the source of this power. There was nothing in it.
It was nothingness, and the screaming void.
She burned bright, throwing an arc of Strife’s holy light against the ash. It cut through, scything the column open like fire through wheat, but still the ash rolled forward, curling around the flames, smothering them. The closer it got, the more Elsa felt as if she was standing on the edge of a precipice. She fell back, cutting the air with her blade, drawing holy sigils in light. The ash swam around them, surrounding her. It blotted out the sky. Only a narrow dome of air remained, pushed back by her nimbus of light.
“The gods answer to me, Elsa.” Folam’s voice echoed through the ash. “All the gods.”
The ash fell on her, choking out the light.
58
“IRON TO THE doors! Flame to the fire! Pagans at the gate!
“Pagans among us!”
The streetcaller was young, and the fear in his voice cracked like lightning. He hurried past Martin and Lucas, clanging his silver bell as he ran. The crowds he passed were already in a panic. The priests of Gallowsport weren’t used to such excitement, their stock in trade being somber. Lucas pulled Martin to the side of the road, keeping his robe pulled tight over his face. The wounds the frair had received at Sacombre’s hand were still bleeding, and his flesh was as pale as snow.
“You may have to go on without me,” Lucas whispered. His voice was rough.
“I can’t,” Martin said. “I wouldn’t even know where to go. Are you sure he’s gone?”
“Horne was ready. She knew we would be waiting. Probably drove us here and simply waited to spring her trap.” Lucas coughed, and it became a grinding hack that bent him double. “At the very least, she would have prepared an escape. There’s no way she’s still in the city.”