The Winter Vow

by Tim Akers

  “Burn in hell!” Hollier responded.

  “My whole life,” she said. Then Elsa stepped forward and brought her sword down on his jaw. Hollier’s head snapped back, skull pivoting open around her blade, horror and then amazement twisting his features.

  When he fell to the ground, the ring of fire that surrounded them drew in like a whirlpool, diving into his flesh. Flames crackled through his armor, burrowing through flesh and bone until there was nothing left but his shattered sword and the charred remnants of his armor.

  Most of the flames went out, after that. A few pockets burned on, but night fell sudden and cold around them. Lucas and Martin walked up to Hollier’s remains.

  “What the hell was that?” Martin whispered.

  “Judgment,” Elsa answered. She turned and caught Hollier’s horse; the creature had been too afraid to bolt. “Come on. We have dawn to catch.”

  8

  THE BLACK HEAD of the iron hound stared down at Gwen. Flames guttered in its hollow eyes, the only light in the low-ceilinged shrine deep beneath the keep. Stained jaws snarled at her. Gwen was kneeling on the narrow bench that surrounded the icon, hands folded at her waist. The stones were cold under her knees. This was the ancient hallow of the Blakley clan, the totem that gave their castle its name and their crest its hound. When their ancestors forsook the tribes and swore faith to the celestial church, they had been allowed to keep the hallow as a mascot, if no longer a god.

  But it was no icon to Gwen. She had seen the god, ridden its moss-covered back, bled into its fur and sworn to its creed. And then it had left her, shortly after the battle of Houndhallow. Shortly after Ian Blakley came home.

  “He looks nothing like you, you know,” Gwen said. The statue was silent. “I’ve never seen him snarl. Not at me, at least. And his teeth are bigger.” She reached out a curious finger and brushed it over the iron jaw. The metal was pitted and rough. “Sharper, too. Ouch!”

  Blood sprang from the tip of her finger. Gwen shook it off, then sucked at the wound. The hound watched her.

  “Still hungry for sacrifice? The Blakleys haven’t been following your rituals, have they? Is that why you came to me?” She stood and leaned closer to the head, running her hands over the worked fur, feeling the rough curves of its mane. The flames of its eyes singed the hairs on the back of her hand. She drew her knife and laid it against the palm of her hand. “Is that why you left?”

  A horn cut through her thoughts, muffled by the thick stone walls of the keep. It was the gheist horn, sounding the alarm. Gwen stood still for a moment, hovering between sacrifice and duty. She sheathed the blade and turned away from the hound.

  A guard rushed through the door. It was one of the tribesmen, a pagan ranger dressed in leathers and carrying an axe in both hands.

  “My lady, there’s been an attack! The Blakleys are mustering!”

  “The void priests?”

  “No, my lady, a gheist. One of the old gods manifested on the roof of the tower keep. Ian Blakley was there, and some others as well. All celestials.”

  “A gheist? Which one? None of the gods hold this ground sacred besides the hound. Was it him?”

  “No, my lady,” the ranger answered. The pagans had adopted the Suhdrin habit of calling her lady, even though the practice was forbidden among the tribes. Gwen couldn’t decide if it was meant as an insult, or as a sign of respect, of setting her apart. “It was unknown. Some say it was of stone.”

  “Stone? And what does the elder of stone have to say about this?”

  “Cahl cannot be found. We hoped… the elders hoped he would be with you.”

  Gwen shook her head. The shaman had been avoiding her since Ian’s return, keeping to himself. Gwen suspected he was more troubled by Folam’s betrayal than most. Cahl had been close to Fianna, Folam’s daughter. Together the two of them had led Ian Blakley to safety in the early stages of this war.

  “If Ian Blakley was attacked by a gheist, his people will blame us. We must lend our aid as quickly as possible before this escalates.” Gwen brushed past the guard. “Find the other elders.”

  “They wait above.”

  “Already?” Gwen paused. The horn had only just sounded. “That seems odd. Never mind. I will speak with them.”

  Gwen hurried up the stairs that led to the crypts, and then the courtyard. The castle grounds were filled with clamorous activity. Soldiers of both Blakley and the tribes rushed about, securing rooms and putting on armor. Flames flickered at the top of the tower keep, and a dozen shadows darted back and forth against the light. The front gates were closed, and guards of both factions stood watch on the towers above, dividing their nervous attention between each other and the forest beyond.

  The elders stood serenely in a half-circle, surrounding the entrance to the crypts. When Gwen emerged, the elders grew visibly tense. Morcant and Vilday, both old men, long in the service of the tribes, stood in the center. The newly appointed elder of bones, a young woman named Kesthe, was beside them. She wore her amber hair short and shaved at the sides, but her pale eyes looked almost Suhdrin. The ink of her tattoos scrolled nearly to her ears. Noel, the elder of the sun, and the only true Suhdrin among them, stood to one side. She looked worried.

  “Elders, you gathered quickly. Or did you have some warning about the gheist?” Gwen asked.

  “No. If any us were to know, it would be Cahl, and he is not to be found,” Morcant said. The elder of tides sniffed loudly. “We thought you might know where he is.”

  “I don’t. How did you come to gather so quickly?”

  Morcant and Vilday glanced at one another, but didn’t answer. Noel cleared her throat. “There are concerns among the tribes. About you, and where you’re leading us.”

  “Astray, that’s where,” Kesthe said, grimacing. “Elder Judoc never trusted House Adair, and I won’t be the first elder of bones to kneel at a Suhdrin altar.”

  “Elder Judoc was with Folam in his betrayal,” Gwen said stiffly. “If you are going to follow his lead, we should put you in chains right now, child.”

  “Don’t we have more pressing concerns?” Vilday asked with a sigh. “Blakley is sealing the keep. We’re not far from drawn blades and bloody streets.”

  “In gods’ names, why? What do we have to do to prove ourselves to these people?”

  “Pray to the moon, and swear loyalty to the sun,” Kesthe spat. “As Blakley did, and the rest of the traitors.”

  “Anytime a gheist appears in their homes, they are going to blame it on a witch. And we happen to have a lot of witches in our company,” Vilday said.

  “These fools wouldn’t know a witch from a wash maid. One of them gave me a bucket to throw out as I passed by,” Kesthe said.

  “This is not about your spoiled pride, Kesthe,” Noel said. “We need to figure out what became of this gheist. Where it came from, who summoned it, and why.”

  “I bloody well know why,” Gwen muttered. “There will be void priests behind this, I swear by any god you want to name.”

  “Perhaps. Or it may be a natural—” Morcant was interrupted by a cry from the gate. The doors creaked, and the heavy windlass groaned as it started drawing up the portal. The elders turned to watch.

  A trio of Suhdrin riders came through. One of them had a body across the back of his horse, and rode hard for the doma. As they passed, Gwen recognized the rough features of Sir Bruler. The Suhdrin knight’s face was pale, and blood stained his tunic.

  “That’s trouble,” she said. Noel rushed after the rider, hand to her mouth. The other elders watched silently.

  Just as the gates were about to close again, another shout went out. A tight group of tribesmen ran inside. They were carrying a body.

  It was Cahl. The elder of stones was dead.

  * * *

  Gwen stood over Cahl’s silent body. The wound in his chest looked like such a small thing. She laid her palm over it, but there was no breath in his lungs, no beat in his heart. He was still.


  “Did we find the knife?”

  “Broken off in his back,” the scout said. “A Suhdrin blade.”

  “For a Suhdrin knight. But why? What could Sir Bruler have against Cahl?”

  “He’s been following Cahl around, best part of two weeks now. Thinks he’s smart about it, but he stalks like a lion among rats.”

  “And everyone knows he’s at Ian Blakley’s elbow at every council meeting,” Kesthe said. “The boy ordered this.”

  “Ian Blakley ordered nothing. Cahl was trying to heal him. There’s no reason—”

  “As Fianna tried to heal Ian’s mother? And what did that get her?” Kesthe crossed her arms angrily. “Why do we keep helping these traitors? They are Tenerran only by birth and brotherhood. They have betrayed their blood!”

  “I will remind you, Kesthe, that you are only elder of the tribe of bones because your predecessor threw his lot in with Folam Voidfather. Together they betrayed us all, the gods and tribes alike.” Gwen looked up from Cahl’s body, careful to keep her voice even. “You are not so long in the position that I won’t accuse you of the same, and be rid of you before nightfall.”

  “Careful, huntress,” Morcant said. “You have no place in our council. The gods have gifted you, that is true, but you are no elder. You don’t even belong to the tribes.”

  “I am of the tribe of iron. My family gave everything to protect the Fen God from the inquisition, only to be betrayed by the church and the tribes alike. Do not chide me on my place, elder.”

  “Enough of this bickering,” Noel snapped. The elder of the sun had just returned, and now she stepped between them. “Word of Cahl’s death has got out. Even now, our tribesmen whisper about Suhdrin daggers and Tenerran lords. If we don’t interfere, something terrible is going to happen.”

  “Perhaps something terrible should happen,” Kesthe whispered. They turned to glare at her.

  “We will take up this discussion later,” Gwen said coldly. “For now, come with me. Ian has avoided us long enough. Is he still in the keep?”

  “I hear that he is praying in the doma,” Noel said.

  “Still faithful to Heartsbridge, that one,” Kesthe said sharply. Gwen ignored her.

  “Then we go to the doma. Elders, with me.”

  “You don’t command us!” Morcant said to Gwen’s retreating back. And yet, they followed, Kesthe trailing behind.

  A steady crowd gathered around the elders as they approached the doma. Tenerran guards stood at the doors, watching nervously.

  “Stand aside,” Gwen said, waving her hand like the baron’s daughter she was.

  “This is holy ground, not to be trammeled by pagan hoofs,” the guard said. He was a narrow man, with a hook nose and soft hands, and he spoke with a slight stammer. Gwen smiled.

  “Are you a priest? Sworn to the holy orders?”

  “I know more of the will of the gods than you, witch. That you haven’t been struck down by Cinder is a mercy and a curse. If you try to force your way onto this holy ground, I will take Cinder’s task in my own hands. I swear it!”

  “Swear it, do you?” Gwen drew her blade cleanly, laying the forte against the guard’s neck before he could move. “Do you swear it on your life’s blood? Do you?”

  “Gwendolyn,” Morcant whispered, “this is not what Cahl would have wanted.”

  “Cahl is dead.”

  “And still, his will would not have changed.” The elder of tides eased Gwen’s blade away from the guard’s neck. “We only need to speak with Ian Blakley. We promise not to desecrate the shrine of Cinder and Strife any more than is completely necessary.”

  “Let them through, Hines,” the other guard said. Throughout the confrontation, the man had hardly moved, even when his companion’s life was threatened. Now he nodded to the doma. “They’ll find what they need inside.”

  Hines quivered with rage, but slid to the side, bowing.

  “If the gods spare you, we will have this conversation again, Lady Adair.”

  Gwen snorted and pushed into the doma. The elders followed, along with a good crowd of pagans. The door shut behind them.

  During the siege of Houndhallow, after the pagans had rushed the walls and were breaking into the keep, much of the fighting in the inner courtyard had centered on the doma. Frair Daxter had led the defense, barricading the doors and sealing the calendar windows. Before the void priests and their plots were unveiled, the pagans successfully broke the doma’s barricades and fought their way to the altar. They were turned aside only by the priest’s unexpected prowess with the blade, and Ian Blakley’s arrival.

  The doma still showed signs of this struggle. The pews were in disarray, most broken or overturned, and many icons of the celestial faith had been burned. Soot stained the walls from the ensuing conflagration, though the flames had been extinguished in short order. Despite all that, the doma now held an air of serene peace. A handful of supplicants knelt throughout the space, resting on pillows as they faced the various stations of Cinder and Strife. Frairwood smoke drifted in thick layers, and the dozens of candles that lined the walls gave the smoke a silvery quality, as though the air itself glowed with holy light. Even in the midst of the gheist horn sounding outside, the doma seemed calm.

  The pagans barged through the center, marching toward the altar. If Ian were here, he would be praying as close to the altar as possible, as was fitting for a lord of Tener. The priest stood behind the altar, watching them approach.

  “Ian Blakley,” Gwen said loudly. “Is he here?”

  “What business do you have with the lord of Houndhallow?” Frair Daxter asked quietly. He was still frail from wounds sustained during the battle, but Daxter’s voice was strong.

  “Last I heard, Malcolm his father was still lord of this house,” Gwen said.

  “Ian is lord enough for us,” Daxter answered. “And lord enough to see you thrown from these walls.”

  “Ian welcomed us in, opened the gates to us, even rode with us to battle,” Gwen answered.

  “And for that you thanked him by bringing your feral gods into our homes, and letting them loose among our children,” Daxter answered. “Ian opened the gates, yes. But even lords make mistakes.”

  “You would cross his will?”

  “I would enforce it,” Daxter said. “Even if he doesn’t truly know what his will should be. My brothers?”

  The supplicants around the room stood as one. Their robes slipped away, revealing plate mail and steel blades.

  “This doma has seen enough blood, frair,” Gwen said. Behind her, the pagans were already standing back to back, drawing blades. “This doesn’t have to happen.”

  “It already has,” he said, then drew a wicked blade and lunged at her.

  Gwen knocked him aside, twisting the knife from his hand and kicking the priest in the belly as he went down. She turned to address the closing ranks of Tenerrans when a startled cry of pain went up.

  She looked down to see Kesthe kneeling over the priest. Her blade was slick and red as she pulled it from Daxter’s belly. The elder of bones looked up at her.

  “You would have sought peace,” Kesthe said. “There can be no peace here.”

  “For Cinder!” some in the mob shouted. “For the frair, and Strife, and Blakley!”

  “The hound! The hallow!” the rest of the mob answered, then fell on the circle of pagans, blades drawn and murder in their eyes.

  9

  THEY RODE NORTH. Elsa took the lead most of the way, with Lucas and Martin trailing behind, just out of sight. There were enough of Halverdt’s scouts on these roads that Elsa didn’t want to stumble across one and explain her inquisitor friend, and though they had a few close calls, they made good progress for the first week.

  One night, long after Martin had drifted off to sleep, and Lucas and Elsa sat staring at the fire, the inquisitor asked the question they had been avoiding since Greenhall. Lucas cleared his throat, then looked his former vow knight in the eyes.

  “W
hat happened to you?”

  “The same thing that happens to everyone in war. I got hurt,” she said, ducking her head. She was twisting a stick in her hands, breaking off pieces and throwing them into the fire, one by one.

  “I have seen the injuries of war, Elsa. I know what a sword can do to flesh. But you’re not injured in that way. Tell me what happened.”

  So Elsa told him. About Folam Voidfather, and the battle under the walls of Houndhallow. Ian’s charge, and her own fight with the priests of neither Cinder nor Strife. The wounds it left in her, and the god it took. When she was done, they sat in silence for a long time.

  “I can’t find Strife,” she said finally. “The path is still there, but my feet stumble. I can…” She waved her hand in frustration. “I can see the house where she once lived, I can knock on the door, even walk its corridors. But there’s no one there.”

  “Strife could not have left you, Elsa. She is still here, still working through the winter vow. Perhaps it’s just the season. Winter is—”

  “Winter is where I belong. I am a knight of the vow, Lucas, sworn to carry the light of Strife into the darkest days, yet I can’t even kindle it in my heart.” She threw the rest of her stick into the flames, staring at it as it burned. “What sort of darkness am I, that Strife herself can bring no light?”

  “You mustn’t think like that,” Lucas said. “Whatever has happened, this isn’t your fault. This voidfather must have done something to you, or his priests. I have seen some strange things since Sacombre’s heresy, child. I no longer know what is possible, and what is merely myth.”

  “What does it matter? I can’t draw on Strife. Without her, I am nothing more than an angry sword.”

  “You are more than that,” Lucas said. He put a hand on her shoulder, smiling his grandfatherly smile. “You are a true and honest friend. We are blessed to have you at our side. If that is all Strife can do through you, it is more than enough.”

  “Hollier could have killed me. Would have, if you hadn’t been nearby,” she said, standing. “You are kind to say what you’ve said. But it’s little comfort.”