by Tim Akers
“She still seems to hold that belief,” Bourne said.
“May aye, may nay. At the very least, she can’t doubt the sacrifice we made in winning her free of that battle. Or that the celestials fear our blade.”
“How many in your force, Houndhallow?” Bourne asked. “I mean to retake the Reaveholt, if you’ll lend your aid.”
“These hundreds,” Malcolm answered, waving a hand at the scattered forces wandering the valley, some of them still pursuing the celestial rout, others already searching through the dead. “And this number again, in camp to the north, protecting our supplies.”
“I brought almost a thousand through that gate,” Bourne said. “I hoped this was only a skirmish of your main force, not its bulk.” The big man blew out his lips in frustration. “It’s not enough to even harass the Reaveholt, much less lay siege to it.”
“Well, you’re welcome to join us in our battle, Sir Bourne. Sacombre’s heresy has been laid bare, and his followers are out from the shadows. We fight for more than Tener, or the church. We fight for all Tenumbra.”
“It feels as though all Tenumbra is fighting us, Houndhallow,” Bourne said. He wiped his axe against his thigh, then sheathed it before turning his massive horse away. “I will join you in prayers tonight. If you’ll pardon me, I have dead to bury and costs to count.”
Malcolm waited until Bourne was far enough away before he turned back to Sir Doone. She was watching Bourne curiously.
“Do you think his loyalty is still with Colm Adair?” he asked.
“May aye, may nay,” she said. “He is certainly set against the Suhdrins, and whatever fragment of the celestial church follows Sacombre. But I have never known a more faithful man. To church and lord.”
“That is what I know about him, as well. A better ally than an enemy, at least.”
Doone didn’t answer. She was watching a rider approaching from the field. It was a girl wearing MaeHerron’s colors, though she was too young to carry a blade.
“My lord Houndhallow,” the child said. “We have found Lord MaeHerron’s body. If it please your lordship.”
“It does not,” Malcolm said. But he twitched his reins and followed.
* * *
Night brought funerals and the dirge. There were no priests of Cinder in their company, so Malcolm served to sing the liturgies of burial and memory. The few remaining members of MaeHerron’s host carried their lord’s body to the pyre, laying him among the dead in a place of honor. Malcolm spoke the words over Grant’s body.
“He should have been buried in the Feltower, with his ancestors,” Malcolm said. “We lost his father at White Lake, and him at the Reaveholt. The MaeHerrons deserve better than this.”
“War does not give us what we deserve, my lord,” Bourne said. “Strife gives us the fury for battle, and Cinder the reason to mourn our losses. Grant MaeHerron was a fine warrior, and a true son of Tener. May he find rest in the quiet house.”
The ranks of Tenerran soldiers filed slowly past the pyre, dropping bundled twigs on the dead, some tied with strips of linen from their uniforms.
“Hammish, we need to talk,” Malcolm said. The sparks from the pyres drifted over them, mingling with the stars. Malcolm took Bourne by the elbow, but the ward of the Reaveholt didn’t move.
“Leave me with the dead, Houndhallow. You brought war to my lord, destroyed his house, and left his family dead.” Malcolm started to protest, but Bourne cut him off. “It was not your war, and not your blade that ended them. I know this. But Colm Adair was your banner to protect, and you failed.”
“I did everything I could, Bourne. Everything.”
“It wasn’t enough.” Bourne held up his hand to keep Malcolm silent. “I know of their heresy. I spoke with Frair Lucas, and Sacombre, and I have made peace with the sin of House Adair. That doesn’t change the love I felt for them. Strife teaches love, Cinder teaches justice. I will hold my love for them in one hand, and the justice they deserve in the other.”
“As you wish,” Malcolm said. “But we must decide how we are going to proceed.”
Bourne nodded, his eyes still on the pyres. Malcolm settled into a comfortable silence. The dirge floated through the night. Below them, Grant MaeHerron burned into the quiet house.
* * *
Their peace was short-lived. The celestial forces withdrew west toward White Lake, setting up a cordon between the Tallow and the Fen. With the Reaveholt in Bassion’s hands, and LaGaere’s Suhdrin garrison patrolling the roads to the north, Malcolm and his weary cadre were cut off from both relief and retreat. Their supplies were dwindling quickly, especially with the addition of Bourne’s unsupported column.
As though the forces arrayed against them were insufficient, there were stark internal differences, as well. After their new allies were properly encamped, Malcolm called Sir Bourne together with Castian Jaerdin, the vow knight Sir Cass Trueau and the priest Catrin DeBray, to represent the interests of Strife. The other lesser lords were occupied with securing the camp and preparing for the inevitable celestial counterattack. They met on a hilltop, overlooking the camp, with the Reaveholt in the distance. Sorcha Blakley sat just over her husband’s shoulder, the strange light that pulsed through her blood casting an eerie glow over the proceedings.
“Well, this is a motley council,” Bourne said. He was perched precariously on a tree stump, leaning on his axe. Even out of his armor, Hammish looked fit for battle. “What is supposed to band us together, besides an uncommonly common enemy?”
“That isn’t enough?” Malcolm asked. “The Reavers were threat enough for Suhdra and Tener to stand together, and this is a much graver threat than ever they were.”
“Is it? Because my history tells me that Suhdra did not join that war until the Reaver prows cut through the Burning Coast, and followed the Dunne all the way to Heartsbridge.” Bourne threw his arm wide, taking in the valley, the river, the fallen castle. “Yet this war is fought entirely on Tenerran land, with Tenerran banners falling to Suhdrin invaders. Whether they wear the colors of the church or some southern lord hardly matters. This is an incursion on our land. Nothing less.”
“Not all your enemies are Suhdrin, sir,” Jaerdin said sharply. “And not all your allies are Tenerran.”
“Not all your allies, Houndhallow,” Bourne said, addressing Malcolm directly, giving Jaerdin nothing more than a glance. “I have signed no alliance with southern cowards.”
Before their argument could get out of hand, the young priest, Catrin DeBray, stepped forward. She was a mere slip of a girl, but her injuries at the hands of unknown assassins under the walls of the Fen Gate had turned her blood to iron. She addressed the council with a clear voice.
“The church would have us believe that our fight is between faithful celestials and pagan savages. But those of us who have met them directly know better. Sacombre was the holiest of men, but his actions were pure heresy. Some argue that his intent justified his sin, but that is not for us to decide. Cinder will judge, and Cinder—”
“I’ve had enough of Cinder,” Malcolm snapped. “A god of dying and winter and bloody reasonable judgment. Cinder has never given me anything more than a reason to mourn and a loss to regret.”
“That is hardly a fair assessment—” Jaerdin started, but Lady Sorcha stepped forward to interrupt him. Her unnatural appearance, from her slowly dancing hair to her eyes that looked like deep, still pools of water, silenced the council.
“My husband risked his place in the church to protect me from the inquisition, not out of heresy or pride, but out of love. It cost him the Fen Gate. He did nothing wrong, any man who has loved can see that. But to Cinder, his sin was unforgivable. And, Sir Bourne, was Colm Adair’s sin any greater? Was he a bad lord? Did he do anything more than protect his people from Halverdt’s depredations?”
“A great deal more,” Malcolm said. “His family hid a pagan god for generations. Lied to his people, put them at risk from the inquisition, even lied to us, once the
war had begun. What would we have done differently, had we known Halverdt’s accusations were true?”
“A fine question, Houndhallow,” Bourne said. “Would you have betrayed my lord? Would you have turned your back on your Tenerran brother, given Colm and his family over to Sacombre’s mad inquisitors? Or would you have protected him, stood with him, hidden him from the inquisition—as you have hidden your wife?”
Malcolm stirred but didn’t turn away. Sorcha smiled stiffly and looked to her husband.
“Yes, my dear. How far does your love go for Colm Adair? And for his children—his son, who was butchered by Tomas Sacombre even as he fled; for his daughter, Gwendolyn, who even now wanders the forests of the north doing gods know what?”
“Gwen can take care of herself,” Malcolm said.
“We have taken this too far,” Jaerdin said. “Our enemy is clear. Sacombre has corrupted the church, and twisted the teachings of Cinder to his own destructive means. Whether the forces lined up against us are true believers or merely truly deceived doesn’t matter at this time.”
“And what of Bassion? The duchess of Galleydeep has taken my castle, even as I was trying to help her win free of this celestial army.” Bourne shifted, resting both hands on the pommel of his axe. “She is my enemy, if not yours.”
“She may have retreated in panic, and would be willing to open the gates, if asked,” Jaerdin said.
“She threw bodies from the walls, Redgarden. The bodies of my men.”
“War makes strange allies, and stranger enemies,” Malcolm said. “If you had told me I would be raising spears against the celestial banner, I would have called you a liar. Yet here we are.”
“I do not recognize the church we fight against,” Sir Trueau said quietly. The vow knight, who had witnessed the murder of her inquisitor at the hands of Catrin DeBray, had kept to herself during the troubles. But her words cast just as much of a chill as Sorcha’s unnerving presence. “Cinder and Strife have always fought hand in hand against the dangers of the pagan north. And yet the betrayal of Sacombre, the actions of Frair Gilliam… I cannot explain it. I cannot believe it. But it is happening, and we must deal with it as best we can.” She stepped forward, hands resting casually against the two thin blades on her belt. Her face was hidden behind a veil of white lace, the same veil that she had worn since the death of her inquisitor. “Summer is falling into winter, the season of culling, and the servants of Cinder seem to have gone mad. It is the vow of my sect that we will carry Strife’s light into the darkness, to remind those who suffer under Cinder’s judgment that the sun still rises, and spring will one day come. For years I thought that meant traveling into Tener, to cull the feral gods and restore hope in faithful celestials, ravaged by pagan spirits.
“Now it seems that the hope that must be restored is that of summer. Winter is all around us, in the season, yes, but also in the hearts of those who oppose us. They judge, and bring darkness, and offer hatred and condemnation. That is not for us.” She drew her twin swords, crossing them in front of her, and the glittering light of the sun danced through the runes etched along the blades. “Our alliances are built not on judgment, but on hope. Not on the fear of night, but the promise of the light to come. I cannot heal the wounds that have passed between you, the promises broken and the dead you have buried. But I can offer this.”
She lowered her blades, pointing one at Malcolm, the other at Sir Bourne. The two men grew wary, hands going unconsciously to their hilts.
“You have the promise of my light, and the hope of Strife. If we must burn down the church to save it, we shall. If we must turn all Tenumbra upside down to bring peace, we shall. And if that means standing next to pagans, arm in arm with heretics, we shall.
“Sacombre’s heresy must be stopped, whatever the price. We shall pay it, in blood, in fire, in steel and flames. I swear it to you.”
Malcolm looked around the room, his eyes lingering on Sorcha, then on Bourne. He nodded. “I bind myself to this fight. To end the heresy. It has cost us too much; family and friends and alliances we thought would stand forever. Will you stand with me? All of you?”
“To my last breath,” Jaerdin said without hesitation.
“And I,” Catrin said. “Strife stands with you, even if Cinder will not.”
“You know you have our blades, Reaverbane,” Franklin Gast said quietly.
They turned to Bourne, who had remained silent.
Slowly, the giant man shook his head. “This is madness. Cinder fighting Strife, Tenerrans standing with Suhdrins, even as southern lords reave our families. There is no loyalty to be had in this war.” He stood, sliding the axe over his shoulder. For a brief second, it seemed he would swing. Malcolm braced himself for the blow, but it never came. “But war is often madness. I will fight with you. To restore Adair’s name, and Tenerran blood to the Fen Gate. But know that my loyalty only goes so far as this battle, Houndhallow. If you turn on me, or on those I love, if you make peace with those who deserve execution, I will be the first to raise my banner against you.”
“I can ask for no more,” Malcolm said, extending his hand. Bourne looked down at it and sniffed. The big knight turned away, marching down the hill toward the camp. Malcolm watched him go.
“Not a ringing endorsement,” Jaerdin said.
“No. But more than I hoped for,” Malcolm said. Trueau came up beside him.
“We will teach you to hope again, Houndhallow. In Strife, if not in your fellow man,” she said.
As the council dispersed, Sorcha took Malcolm by the arm and led him a small distance away. Malcolm watched his wife’s face with concern.
“What’s the matter, my dear?” he asked.
“I am. Or my presence, more precisely. I cannot stay here, husband.” Sorcha lifted a hand, dismissing his objection before it left Malcolm’s throat. “Bassion will never trust you as long as I am at your side. I will return to Houndhallow.”
Malcolm paused, the pain of loss already swelling in his throat. Finally, he nodded. “You are right, of course. I will dispatch a guard to accompany you.”
“You can’t afford to lose the strength.”
“I can’t afford to lose my wife. Have faith, Sorcha. I will make due with whatever strength the gods see fit to leave me. You heard Trueau. We must learn to hope.”
Malcolm smiled but it didn’t reach his heart. He knew better than to hope.
22
THE WORLD WAS light and darkness. Flames twisted through Elsa’s flesh, but they did not burn. She spent a screaming eternity falling through nothing, a garden of madness that churned like foam across her body. Whenever she thought it might be over, a wave of grief crashed through her. Whenever she thought she might die in this void, a ray of hope pierced her soul, lifting her into ecstasy. Finally it ended. Everything ended.
Elsa’s first sensation was of tiny fans, as soft as silk, brushing over her face. The only light was distant, obscured by a rain of colors that blotted out her vision. Elsa felt like she was falling, but the movement was very slow, as though she were sliding down a shallow hill of loose sand. Feeling returned to her body, making her realize that she had been numb. She took a deep breath. The air smelled like flowers.
Elsa’s heel struck ground, and her vision suddenly cleared. The feeling of falling ended. She opened her eyes (had they been closed? had she been blind?) and looked around. She was standing in a field of flowers, the bobbing heads reaching as high as her waist. The flowers were flowing away from her like a river, and as she came to herself, she realized that the current of the flower river was moving her. She stumbled forward, heels bumping along the ground as the current carried her along.
She wasn’t alone. The river was full of people, each one looking around in surprise, walking forward as though they were still asleep. The river, she saw now, was as wide as a lake, the current actually waves driving her to shore. Elsa turned around and stared. She nearly fell as her mind tried to wrap around what she was seeing.
> The lake was being fed by a column of burning flowers, falling from a clear sky. They crashed into the center of the lake, washing outward in ripples. Closer to the column there was only the smooth, multicolored surface of the lake, but as it spread out, people appeared; first their heads, then shoulders, and finally the whole person stumbling along, just like Elsa.
A column of horses breached the surface, their riders bouncing smoothly into their saddles and whipping off the blindfolds that had let them guide the mounts into the flames. They spurred forward, heading to shore at a gallop. Elsa watched them with envy. They seemed so free. So happy.
The lake she was walking through (now up to her knees) was on top of a hill. A forest bristled along one shore, flowers lapping at its trunks, while ahead of her a valley stretched away. There was an army at the center of the valley, and another farther away. And anchoring the valley, standing tall and dark over everything, was the Reaveholt.
Elsa reached for her sword, but it wasn’t there. She looked down at her hand. Something wasn’t right. White lines stretched across the skin, like scars, but there was no pain in the hand. That felt wrong. She flexed her fingers, then remembered the pain of bones grinding against each other, breaking through the skin, the laughter as the vow knights goaded her forward. Sophie’s ribbon over the wound, and the agony that followed. She looked around again as she reached the shore of the lake of flowers.
She was surrounded by vow knights, the army of Sophie Halverdt. No one seemed to be paying attention to her. Her bonds were gone, and her injury with them.
A few remaining petals worked free of her clothes as she ran, leaving a trail behind her. She bumped aside soldiers and knights as she passed, pushing down anyone who tried to lay a hand on her. Someone shouted her name, but she kept going. A hand grabbed her shoulder, twisting into the fabric of her shirt, but she spun around and punched the assailant in his throat, spinning away before she could really see his face. The crowds thinned. Elsa stumbled into the open.