The Winter Vow

by Tim Akers

  A tangle of shadows in the corner of the tent resolved into Lucas’s naetherform. He was a bare wisp of his usual self, merely cobwebs of darkness, almost in the shape of a man. If Elsa hadn’t known him, she could have mistaken the frair for a trick of the light, or lack thereof.

  “They’re killing themselves,” Elsa said. “Burning themselves alive in a column of fire. Gods, it’s terrible. Even the horses!”

  “I don’t think so,” Lucas answered. His voice was a bare whisper in her ear. “Those flames are not natural. Here, I will show you.”

  His hand reached out, tendrils of shadow melting around her shoulder, the touch as chill as the grave. Elsa’s next breath was cold. She blinked, and was elsewhere.

  “What is this?” Her voice boomed in the narrow space around her head. Lucas’s hand tightened.

  “Silence. This is no place for the living. See what the dead see.”

  There was a feeling of motion, and suddenly they were in the air. The neat rows of tents stretched out below them, bisected by a churning line of troubled clouds. Stick-figures swirled through the clouds, climbing higher and higher until they disappeared into the sky above. Lucas’s voice reached through her bones and echoed through her skull.

  “That is the column of fire. Whatever is happening to them, it is not death, though they are leaving this realm and traveling to another. The tomes of inquisition say nothing of this. I am at a loss.”

  As they watched, one of the figures strayed too close to the edge of the column and breached, tumbling out into the open air. The figure dissolved into a dozen smaller shapes, flowers lined with skulls, a petal of screaming mouths, a bouquet of grim teeth, falling down.

  “The flowers,” Elsa whispered as the dissipating figure drifted down to the ground. Lucas tightened his grip, reminding her to stay silent. She looked down at her feet, and realized her body was gone. The shock of it snapped her back to earth; she took a startled breath and fell flat on her back.

  She was in the tent again. Lucas’s naetherform hovered over her.

  “You have to get moving. They’re searching the camp for reluctant soldiers,” he said. “Apparently not everyone was so eager to test the flame.”

  “What am I to do about Sophie? Can’t I stop this?”

  “If you had Strife’s gifts, perhaps you could do something. As it is…” Lucas’s shadowform began to unwind, disappearing into a knot of dark light. “Return to us.”

  When the inquisitor was gone, Elsa shook her head and stood up. The taste of frost lingered on her lips, and her head ached with what she had seen. As soon as she felt she was ready, Elsa crept out of the tent and started toward the picket, back the way she had come.

  Three vow knights stepped out into the lane. Elsa froze, then straightened and shifted her sword into a guard position. Three more vow knights appeared behind her.

  “There she is,” one of them purred. “The lady bright said you would be joining us eventually. She could feel you in the train. She has been waiting patiently.”

  “And patience is not one of her virtues,” another knight laughed. “Come now. There’s no need to fight.”

  “There is always a need to fight,” Elsa said. Before any of the knights could draw their blades or the power of Strife, she charged.

  The three knights in front of her reacted well, as she knew they would. Even in the grips of whatever madness had consumed Halverdt’s forces, no initiate of the Lightfort would be easily caught off guard. Elsa threw herself at the middle knight, using her sword as both battering ram and shield, blocking the knight’s swiftly drawn blade before putting her shoulder into his belly. But Elsa wasn’t wearing armor, and the chain and plate of the knight wrenched her shoulder. Together they tumbled to the ground. Elsa rolled, came to her feet, and took three unsteady steps toward freedom.

  That’s when the other two knights stepped in. They hammered into Elsa’s back, throwing her flat on her face, then kicked her sword out of her hand. She felt bones snap in her mangled hand and screamed.

  “They always run,” one of the knights muttered.

  “That’s what makes it worth doing,” the other said, and all six laughed.

  Elsa pushed herself onto her knees, cradling her broken hand.

  A bolt of shadows shot out from the end of the lane, slamming into the nearest knight. Tangled darkness squirmed over him as he struggled. The other knights looked up.

  Frair Lucas’s shadowform crouched among the tents. He threw another bolt, then screamed into Elsa’s head. “Run! I will hold—”

  His sepulchral voice was cut off by a lance of flame. It came from the three farthest knights, their blades held together, summoning the full fury of Strife’s power. The beam of light melted the naether that held Lucas together. He disappeared with a scream. On the distant hilltop where his body rested, Elsa could see a brief flare, and then a howl that cut through her soul.

  “Lucas!” she shouted.

  “Consorting with demons,” one of the vow knights said. “No wonder the bright lady wants to see you.” He swung the pommel of his blade into the back of Elsa’s head. There was a blossom of pain, and then nothing.

  * * *

  She woke up hanging like a deer between two strong men, her arms and legs tied to a rail post, her mouth gagged. The pain was unimaginable. Her broken hand flopped loosely beneath the bonds, every movement grinding bone into bone. When she looked up, Sophie Halverdt was glaring down at her.

  The duchess of Greenhall was much changed. Her gold armor, chased with cream and inlaid with the holiest runes of Strife, glistened in the firelight. Sophie’s hair was shot through with streaks of brass and silver, and her eyes shimmered like copper pennies. Around her eyes, and running down her cheeks, were veins of golden light. Elsa’s scars twinged at the sight of them. Whatever fire burned through Sophie’s flesh, it didn’t consume her skin, as it had Elsa’s for so many years.

  “I wondered when you would join us, broken one. Your spirit has lingered at the edges of my awareness for weeks now. I was afraid that if I pursued you, you would disappear into the wilds, never to be seen again. Thank the goddess you’ve come of your own accord.”

  “You have some strange ideas about free will,” Elsa said, jerking her good hand against its bonds. “Are all of these fools here of their own accord as well? Or did you have to beat them into submission first?”

  “Doubt must sometimes be tamed. It must be trained, turned inward. Cured.” Sophie stepped forward, taking a ribbon of silk from her belt. She laid it over Elsa’s broken hand and drew it tight.

  The pain shivered through her arm. She tried not to scream, but the sound came through her clenched teeth, buckled her jaw, emptied her lungs. Sophie leaned down, putting her head close to Elsa’s

  “Just so,” Sophie said. “Bones broken and set. Wills shattered, only to be aligned with the will of the goddess. Remember, Elsa, a stained-glass window was once nothing more than broken glass, and an artist’s dream.”

  “You’re fucking mad,” Elsa growled. Bile filled her mouth, but she swallowed it back, staring up at Sophie’s placid face. “Worse than your father ever was.”

  “They always say that about prophets. Now, if you don’t mind. It’s time to put your faith to the test.” Sophie straightened and signaled to the two men holding Elsa’s post. They heaved her up, until her feet barely scraped the ground.

  She thought the pain would knock her out again, but something else kept her awake. Fear. Horrifying, shivering, mind-breaking fear.

  The column of flame sizzled in front of her. The heat that washed off it licked away her sweat and turned her skin into stone. With each step, pain echoed through her, as she got closer and closer to the fire. The flames reached out and singed her hair.

  They carried her, screaming, into the fire.

  16

  THE FLAMES FROM the doma rose into the sky. Woodsmoke mingled with the sweet stink of burning bodies, turning Gwen’s stomach. As the structure slowly co
llapsed, she faced the elders once again.

  “I suppose you’re going to blame me for this,” she said. Kesthe smiled, a flash of humor before she set her expression again. The others didn’t move. Their faces were washed in light from the conflagration behind Gwen. “Are your people done murdering farm boys and hanging lone guardsmen up by their feet?”

  “We were attacked, Gwen. These people ambushed us.”

  “So it’s natural to just kill everyone you come across, even if they had nothing to do with it?”

  “They abandoned the true gods,” Kesthe said. “They made their choice. I have no sympathy for them.”

  “A shocking lack of empathy from the elder of bones,” Gwen said wryly. “Must I remind you that your predecessor betrayed us all, following Folam Voidfather in his deception?”

  “No, but I’m sure you will,” Kesthe answered. “You rarely miss an opportunity to hold that over my head. Thank the gods there’s no blemish on your sainted soul, huntress.”

  “We must not argue among ourselves,” Vilday said shortly. “Whatever your sympathies for Ian Blakley, and the debt you owe his father for standing with your family, we cannot forgive this trespass. They attacked us. And they must pay the price.”

  “What price is that? Every one of them dead, and their tower burned? Would you salt their fields, as well? Murder the farmers that fill their granaries, and the farriers who shoe their mounts? And what of the other noble houses of Tener? Shall we lay siege to them all, and tear their names from the pages of history?”

  “It would be a start,” Kesthe said. Noel shook her head and stepped forward.

  “There will be no peace in the north until this is settled. And no one will forgive us if we blot the name of Blakley from the earth. They are Tener’s greatest name, and oldest family. Malcolm Blakley commands an army to the south, and those banners came at his word and in his trust. They would turn on us like fire turns on chaff.”

  “We do not need advice from a Suhdrin coward,” Kesthe said. “Let Tenerrans rule the tribes, I say. We have plenty of witches of the tribe of flames.”

  “And I am their elder,” Noel said. “Or do you no longer recognize the will of the gods who chose me?”

  “This is what he wanted,” Gwen said. She grabbed Kesthe by the shoulder and spun her around, locking eyes with her. “Folam Voidfather wanted us to fight, just like this. To be at each other’s throats, rather than at his. And I will not fall in with his plans again. There will be no massacre here. Either of Blakleys or tribesmen. This ends. Now.”

  “Who are you to order such things?” Kesthe asked, her lip curled. “You don’t command us!”

  “Don’t I?” Gwen arched her brow. Kesthe spat, but Gwen pushed her away and rounded on the other elders. “Don’t I? Why else do you seek to correct me? Do I have no authority among you? I am no elder of the tribes, not even of a living tribe of Tenumbra. Yet you try to bend my ear, and my will with it. Why is that? Why do you think, Kesthe? Why haven’t you done what you want, rather than talking to me about it first?”

  “Because the gods have blessed you,” Vilday said simply. The other elders tensed, but the old man shrugged. “It is true. You have held Fomharra, and the mad god of spring, and who knows what others. They grace you with their presence. Noel is right. We may argue among ourselves, but it is by the will of the gods that we rule. And the gods clearly favor you, Adair.”

  “They know true faith,” Noel said. “And we must bend to their will.”

  “Do you all agree to this, then? I will lead this gathering of the tribes. There has been enough madness, enough bloodshed, enough treachery. I know what must be done, even if I don’t like it.”

  “This is foolish. She was praying in a doma this time last year—” Kesthe was cut short by Vilday’s upturned hand.

  “What must be done, huntress?”

  * * *

  Ian appeared dazed, but unbroken. He stood at the doorway to the keep, hands folded over his belt, shoulders thrown back. He still wore the cloak of leaves Fianna had given him, though the rest of his dress was that of a noble of Tener.

  “What is your word, Fen Gate?” he asked. Gwen had to smile at that.

  “That title means nothing anymore,” she said.

  “It is still yours, if you would claim it,” Ian said.

  “I will not claim the title. But I mean to take the castle, if it can be won. There has been no word from its walls since the church drove your father out, but I have faith. The hallows must be restored, and whatever damage the inquisition has done must be repaired.”

  “Frair Gilliam is not an easy man to dislodge.”

  “And yet I will do it. It is the will of the gods,” Gwen said. She looked around the courtyard. Her people had removed their things and returned what they could of normality to the surrounds. But there were still many dead, and many dying. “This was not. I am sorry.”

  “Not your doing. And Tavvish has already paid for his crimes.”

  “You are becoming difficult, Ian. Like your father.”

  “No. I am like myself. For now, at least.” Ian glanced over her head at the loose mob of rangers waiting to escort Gwen out of the castle. “There are those in my council who think I should take you now, while I can. Lock you up, or execute you.”

  “The tribes would burn this place to the ground. Even the stones.”

  “Yes. But you would be dead,” Ian said, smiling without humor.

  “Is that what you want, Ian Blakley? To see me dead?”

  “I’m not sure what I want, anymore. But it’s not this. Not any of this.” His face fell, and he glanced over his shoulder. “Go. My sister wants terribly to meet you, and I’m not sure I can prevent it much longer. Her anger, I cannot hope to assuage.”

  Gwen nodded. She remembered Nessie, from better days. It hurt to think such a child could hate her so much.

  “Good luck here, Ian. The voidfather’s plan is not done with you yet, I think.”

  “With either of us. I will say a prayer for you,” he said, turning back into the keep. Gwen waited until the door was closed before she spoke again.

  “And I will say a prayer for you. That the gods will not forget you, Ian Blakley, though you run so hard from their gaze.”

  She turned to her rangers. Deidra stood nearest, her cold eyes boring into the door. Gwen took her hand and dragged her away.

  “Come. I want to go home. And when I am done there, we can return and purify this hallow. Whether Ian wants it or not.”

  17

  THE SUN WAS just rising as Malcolm’s force thundered up the hill under the banners of Blakley and Jaerdin. The column bristled with spears and the motley colors of shields and tabards of a dozen different names. Jaerdin had been able to gather nearly three hundred riders, mostly knights in plate-and-half, with more on the way. It was more than Malcolm could have hoped for, given the distance they were forced to travel so quickly. Still, it wasn’t going to be enough to win this battle.

  Malcolm didn’t intend to win. He meant to fight, and may the gods have mercy and justice in equal measure.

  The Tenerran column crested the ridge and slowed to a halt. Malcolm pulled up short, staring down into the valley with horror.

  The Bassion banner flew at the center of the valley, surrounded by a small contingent of fighters, most of whom had lost their horses or been forced to dismount. The Suhdrins formed a shield wall around their banner, bristling with spears and halberds, while a small wedge of archers fired into the celestial forces swirling just out of reach. A column of spears, flanked by two blocks of archers, held the far side of the valley, cutting off escape to the south. A loose tangle of mounted archers wheeled in front of them, raining arrows down on the clutch of Bassion fighters. The original pursuers, mostly knights reinforced by mounted men-at-arms, were stretched in a thin line between Malcolm and Bassion’s forces. Given time, the two lines of celestial forces would crush the Bassions between them like a vise.

  “There
are more than I expected,” Jaerdin said.

  “The odds were never good,” Malcolm answered. “Though I see little hope of Bassion being able to withdraw. She’s lost most of her horses.”

  “Not all. I can see the lady in their midst, still on her courser. If we can untangle her from that deathtrap, she may find her way home.”

  “Bassion will not leave her men to die.”

  “She must,” Jaerdin said. “If there’s to be any hope of victory in this war.”

  “Helenne Bassion believes we betrayed her,” Sir Doone said. The knight rode a little forward, nudging past Malcolm and Jaerdin. “She means to carry word of that betrayal south, to set her army against us. If she were to die here…”

  “I will not stand by and watch the celestials slaughter her,” Malcolm said. “There is still hope. She may have gotten word to her ranks in the south. And our own camp is still mobilizing. All we have to do is hold them.”

  “Our full camp is not half this number,” Jaerdin said. “And Bassion’s ranks are still scattered. What few remain are too far south to do us much good. They may arrive, but only to see us properly buried.”

  “There is still the Reaveholt.” Malcolm turned to peer at the fortress, perched on the banks of the Tallow. Its walls shadowed the head of the valley. “Sir Bourne still holds its walls, and there is some strength there. Surely they—”

  “Sir Bourne holds faith with Colm Adair, even after the baron’s death and heresy. A heresy you revealed, Houndhallow,” Jaerdin said. “We cannot count on his help in this fight.”

  “Even if he rode out, gods know which side he’d join. The man may be desperate to prove his faith to the church. I can’t imagine him fighting to keep Helenne Bassion alive,” Doone said. She turned back to Malcolm. “Are we going to idle here all morning, my lord?”