The Winter Vow

by Tim Akers

  “Who am I supposed to trust? How can I trust you? Our families have more than history, Deadface.”

  “I am not that man anymore,” Volent said. “I have defeated that darkness.”

  “We are all the person we used to be, for better or worse.” Ian surveyed the ranks of tired soldiers. “And where is Clough?”

  “She refused to leave your sister’s side. Said someone had to protect the future of this household, if you weren’t willing to do it yourself.” Volent paced by the entrance to the doma. “We shouldn’t do this now. Not at night, not in the middle of winter. We should wait.”

  “What better time to seek Cinder’s blessing, Volent? Come on. We can submit to cowardice later.”

  The two went into the doma. The walls had been scrubbed clean, but the floor was still littered with the wreckage of the fire, and the altar at the far end of the room was a shattered ruin. Veureux and his two assistants stood in the middle, heads bent close together, whispering. On Ian’s arrival, they turned as one, pale faces among the shadows.

  “We will need light, Sir Blakley.”

  “Of course. Volent, have the servants bring braziers, from the main hall, if no others can be found spare. And see that they are lit with frairwood.”

  “Mundane light will do nicely, Ian. Frairwood protects, but it disrupts, as well. We must have clear air to do our business.”

  Volent hesitated, but at Ian’s impatient gesture, the knight marched out of the open door and disappeared. Ian turned to the priests.

  “I thought to wait for this until the roof was restored, at least. My people have been working for days to see it done.”

  “That would explain why you had not yet sent to Cinderfell for a new frair, given Daxter’s unfortunate death. If you meant to replace him at all, that is,” Veureux said. He crossed his arms, regarding Ian with a cocked eye and smug smile. “What really happened here, Blakley? This room is a riot of gheists and violence. Who killed Frair Daxter?”

  “Pagan tribesmen,” Ian answered simply, unwilling to say more than was necessary.

  “And did these pagans break into Houndhallow, to loot the doma and desecrate it? There are signs enough of battle, but they are months old. The walls are repaired, and the keep refurbished, but the doma stands untended. How do you explain these things?”

  “There was a siege. The pagans attacked, but they were tricked into it by a heretic… a man named Folam Voidfather.” He went on to explain how he and Gwen Adair turned Folam’s deception to their advantage, ending the siege. “Afterward, the tribes sheltered in our courtyard. But tensions flared, leading to the damage you see now.”

  “Tensions that led to the death of a priest and the destruction of this temple?” Veureux paced as he talked, slowly drawing closer to Ian. He looked Ian in the eyes, seeming to weigh him with those gray eyes. “And where is Gwen Adair now?”

  “Gone. Returned to the Fen Gate, I believe. She could have taken the castle, and killed every one of us. I was able to talk her down.”

  “You had the huntress in your grasp, and you let her go?” Frair Tession asked sharply. “I have trouble believing that.”

  “Believe what you will. I am here to defend Houndhallow, and protect it from any force that would bring it down. Regardless of who they swear allegiance to,” Ian said. “It was not Gwen’s will to destroy us, and I thank her for it.”

  “A good inquisitor would find cause to question that, Blakley,” Veureux said. “But I was never cut out for the inquisition. These things will sort themselves out later, after this—” he waved his hand “—this unpleasantness. We are here to bless your doma. So let us be about that.”

  The three priests returned to their work. Volent came back with half a dozen servants in tow, each carrying a brazier. They set the iron torches up around the room, then filed out. The bright flames did little to warm the room, though, and it wasn’t long before Ian was shivering in the winter night. The priests seemed unaffected by either the cold or the dark conditions, but set about clearing the floor and laying icons of the celestial faith out around the room. Volent watched them nervously.

  “Volent, the men must be freezing out there. Let them return to their beds,” Ian said, suppressing his own shudder. “There’s no need for them.”

  “They are soldiers, Ian, not scholars. Let them stand in the cold. It will do them some good.” He glanced at Ian, smirking through his ruined face. “You are free to return to your bed though, my lord, if this wearies you.”

  “I’m not tired. It’s just this cold. Gods almighty, but the wind cuts.” Ian shivered again, a quake that rattled his teeth. His wound felt like a crevice of ice in his chest, sucking warmth out of his blood with each breath. Volent creased his brow. “I’ll be fine. Never mind.”

  “We are nearly ready, my lords,” Veureux said. “Though I am afraid we must have privacy for this last part.”

  “You want us to leave you alone here?” Volent asked.

  “I’m sure your column of guards will keep us safe. We won’t suffer Daxter’s fate, though I am touched by your concern, Sir Volent,” Veureux said. “Sir Blakley, your doma will be holy again in no time.”

  “But—”

  “This is not up for discussion, gentlemen. Outside, please.” Veureux escorted them to the doorway, pulling a makeshift cloth across the entrance after them. Ian stood staring at it for a long time.

  “Okay,” he said. “This might have been a mistake.”

  “Cunning insight,” Volent said. “But what do we do? Go charging in with all these swords?” He looked around at the collected hundred, then shrugged. “I actually like that idea.”

  “Perhaps later. For now, I want to know what they’re doing, and why. And why it has to happen now.” He looked up at the walls. “Good news is, there are other ways into the doma.”

  “Like this open door,” Volent grumbled, gesturing to the curtained gap. “And we have all these guards with us…”

  “Enough,” Ian said. “If they suspect we’re watching, they might stop, and then we’ll never know what they’re up to. Come on.”

  * * *

  Frair Daxter’s rooms were much as he had left them; spare and quiet, the simple furnishings offering little comfort. Ian paused by the small celestial shrine beside the bed, wondering if Daxter had said a final prayer before he went to do his treachery. The icons of Cinder and Strife were laid across the altar’s calendar, marking the day of the priest’s death.

  “He was a good man,” Ian whispered. “Good men sometimes do terrible things.”

  “We don’t have time for this,” Volent answered. “If the priests look for us, and we’re not waiting outside, they’ll know something’s up.”

  Ian nodded, leaving the shrine as it was, hurrying through the antechamber that led to the doma. The lock and barricade slid smoothly from their seats. With Volent crowding him from behind, Ian opened the way and peered into the candlelit doma.

  The three priests were gathered around the broken remnants of the old altar. A burning flame rose out of the altar’s shattered face, held in place by an iron brazier unlike any Ian had ever seen. The spokes of the brazier rose like twisted roots into the air, tangling together around the pan of coals to contain the flame. The flame itself burned blue, lashing over the iron spokes and sending trails of cinders across the iron arms, until flame and brazier joined. The arms of the braziers seemed to writhe under the flame’s heat.

  The light that played across Veureux’s face did not move as light should, but rather as water, spilling through the planes of his skull, pooling on his forehead, swirling in his eyes, cascading across his cheeks. He led a chant, echoed in the voices of the other two priests, hardly more than a whisper, though Ian could hear it clearly. His wound hummed at the sound of it, like a tuning fork picking up the pitch of a distant bell.

  “Where did that brazier come from?” Volent whispered. “It’s not one of ours, and they weren’t carrying anything that large. And that sou
nd…”

  “I know. It sets my teeth on edge. I think we’ve seen enough. There’s nothing of Cinder in this,” Ian said. Volent grabbed his arm.

  “This is not your fight, Houndhallow. Go back and find the others. I will take care of this.”

  “But surely—”

  “These are the men who led my master astray. These are Sacombre’s ilk, and his brethren. I never got my pound of flesh from the high inquisitor, but I will be happy to take it from these three.” Volent’s ruined face twitched, something that might almost have been a sob, then he turned away. “Your men need you, Blakley. No one will miss me, if this goes poorly.”

  * * *

  Volent stepped into the light just behind one of the chanting priests. The three men stood in rapt attention, their will focused on the flickering torch of the altar, ignorant of Volent’s approach. He raised his sword and put the forte of the blade hard into the nearest priest’s skull. The back of the man’s head crumpled like a clay pot, and he pitched forward, cracking the front of his head against the iron cage of the ever-burning flame.

  Volent stepped over the twitching body. His features were twisted into a cruel scowl, the jigsaw remnants of his face crushed together in hatred. The other two priests stumbled back from their ritual, eyes wide with shock, the strange light pooling on their faces shimmering and wild. Veureux stared down at the corpse slumped at the base of the altar.

  “That was a mistake,” he said, quite simply. He looked up at Volent as though he had spoken out of turn during a service. “What are you doing, dear Henri? Don’t you see what we can offer you? Don’t you see the gift we promise?”

  Volent didn’t answer. Instead, he lunged at the tall priest. Veureux drew a tangle of shadows out of the air and threw them in Volent’s path. The strands of darkness hissed against Volent’s flesh, searing through his clothes and sparkling on the surface of his chain mail. Volent pushed through them, swinging efficiently at the priest, two quick chops that caught the man’s upturned arms. The tip of Volent’s blade sank into bone. Veureux spun away, screaming.

  “Enough!” Tession shouted. He raised his hand, and a spike of black light sprouted from his palm. He threw it at Volent, but the spear skittered off Volent’s shoulder before spinning off into the night.

  “Your tricks won’t work on me, priest,” Volent growled. “I have been into the depths of your hell, and purged the demons of your realm. The naether holds nothing for me!”

  He rushed forward, swinging wildly at Tession. The priest flickered out of existence, each strike passing through a shadow of the priest, steel dragging through black ribbons, failing to land a blow. Volent howled in frustration. Tession fell back, drawing Volent farther and farther away from the altar.

  The air grew cold around them. The naether leaked into the mortal world, turning the ground to ice, frosting the iron of the half-dozen sconces that lit the room. A hazy fog grew around the pair as they receded deeper into the night.

  * * *

  Ian stepped out of the shadows as Tession and Volent disappeared into the misty darkness. Veureux groaned helplessly at the edge of the firelight, dragging himself away, leaving a streak of blood on the stone floor. Ian walked over to him and turned him over with his boot. The priest cried out, covering his face with badly slashed arms. Ian kicked the man in the ribs, then pinned him in place with a heavy boot in the chest.

  “You are the last mistake I make, Veureux! I will see this heresy burned from Cinder’s faithful, even if it takes my last breath!”

  “I have already… already done that,” Veureux said. He was gasping through the pain, his voice soft with shock. “There are few left to purge.”

  “Because you have turned them?”

  “Because I have killed those fools still faithful to Cinder. Cinderfell stands empty, and Hollyhaute, and beyond. Soon there will be none of the… vow… to stop us.”

  Veureux’s flesh began to glow, like the coals in the twisted brazier on the altar. Veins of orange light stretched across the dying man’s flesh. Rays of coruscating light sprang up from the veins, spinning in brilliant fans of jeweled color.

  “And now my emptiness comes,” Veureux said placidly. “The true quiet. The void. Farewell, Blakley. Your failure will be the stuff of legend.”

  The priest was wracked by one last spasm, then a spear of light pierced his chest. It burned up into the sky, slicing clean through the stone roof of the doma, turning night into day. Ian shielded his eyes from the dazzling line. Heat washed over him, and he was forced to stumble back.

  A ripple of power went through the ground, rolling out from the spear and over Ian. When it hit him, Ian’s chest turned to fire, and his bones to ice. He fell to one knee. The wound in his chest throbbed like a hot coal. Dropping his sword, Ian grasped his chest, digging into the flesh, trying to pluck the pain out of the scar.

  The light faded. Ian took a few painful breaths and struggled to his feet. In the darkness, something stirred, tapping against the stone floor, scenting the air. Ian backed away.

  “You should not fear me.” The voice came from the darkness, sliding silkily through Ian’s mind. He realized numbly that the ever-burning flame on the altar had gone out. A few torches still flickered in their sconces behind him, but they gave only pale light, too weak to make more of the speaker than shadows. “They made me, after all. Long ago. Though this is not the place of my birth. A new birth, then. A new living.”

  The tapping grew closer. Ian set his feet and raised his sword.

  “Whatever you are, I will not run,” Ian said. “I stood at the Fen Gate with the god descended, and in Greenhall when the hunter gheist reaved without mercy. I have faced darkness and exile and fear. If this is the day of my death, I will face it.”

  “Good for you,” the darkness whispered, then resolved into an old man with a cane. His skin was flaked with ash, and his eyes were the pure white of the moon. “For I am the quiet, the silence that waits beyond death, the empty grave and the forgotten mercy.

  “But you may call me Cinder. Kneel before your god.”

  Ian ran.

  30

  THE FORESTS AROUND the Fen Gate were unnatural. Shadows crept through the trees, and mists clung to mossy stones. These no longer felt like the forests of her youth, any more than Gwen felt like the child who had wandered them. She crept warily along, spear in hand, twitching every time a twig snapped or a leaf rustled.

  From the outside, the Fen Gate looked unchanged. Knowing the destruction that had befallen it, though, she couldn’t help but wonder what forces had bent to its recreation, and what other changes had occurred inside. When she reached the edge of the former village, Gwen couldn’t help but sit and stare.

  What was this place? Was this where she had woken up on the Allfire to find dresses laid out for her by Mab the Younger? Were these the streets she had walked in celebration of Lady Strife? Was that the tower where she had caught… what was his name? It escaped her. She was forgetting so much, and not six months had passed. How could this be?

  Gwen stayed in the woods, circling around to the rear walls. Once there, she settled in and waited for her rangers to make their assault on the front gates.

  From her perch high in a tree overlooking the rear approaches of the Fen Gate, Gwen was able to see down into the courtyard, and the front gates beyond. She knew from Sir Bruler that Malcolm had fought a battle within those walls, eventually forced out by celestial proclamation. Of those battles she could see no evidence, but since the repairs, there was no reason to think she would. The soldiers manning the towers and patrolling the walls were dressed in nondescript black, and looked very much alive. She could only wonder what had happened to the Suhdrin garrison, and to whom these soldiers were loyal. She barely understood her enemy.

  While she watched, there was a commotion around the gate towers. A low horn sounded, and the rattling chain that lowered the gates began its cacophonous descent. The guards went on high alert, but their attention migr
ated to the front of the castle. That was the best she could ask for. Gwen shimmied down the tree and started toward the rear wall.

  When she was a child, Gwen had climbed up and down this wall a hundred times, usually to hunt rabbits in the woods after dinner, when she was supposed to be studying her calendar. She was glad to see the repairs hadn’t ruined the handholds that littered the wall, allowing her to crawl slowly up its surface. Every moment she spent on the wall was another opportunity for one of the guards to notice her and send up the alarm. She held her breath with each handhold and foothold.

  Despite a dozen missteps and a few close calls, Gwen reached the ramparts, and slid soundlessly over the wall without being seen. She scurried down a pole ladder, dropped into an alleyway near the stables, and hurried behind a pile of barrels in the lee of the Hunter’s Tower. From there she peeked out into the courtyard.

  Much was changed. From here, she could see that the internal setup of the castle was very different. The courtyard and many of the surrounding buildings had been torn down and replaced. What she had thought from a distance were the kennels appeared to be some kind of prison, comprised of iron cages stacked one on top of the other, three levels surrounded by catwalks and chains. The stables were gone as well, turned into a stronghouse, surrounded by black-clad guards. Only the keep and Hunter’s Tower remained, though what they looked like inside, Gwen could only guess.

  The kennel-prison was filled with figures, but none of them were moving very much. Occasionally one would stir their chains, or moan, but other than that the wall of cages was eerily silent. The guards watching it stared numbly toward the front gates. If they stayed distracted for a moment longer, Gwen would be able to make a break for the Hunter’s Tower, and her former rooms.

  She was just about to move when the door to the stronghouse opened. A puff of incense rolled out, followed by two priests. One was the inquisitor Frair Gilliam, known as the Orphanshield. Gilliam strode purposefully out, hands resting on the twin hilts of his swords, wearing the full regalia of the inquisition. The other priest was younger, though he seemed bent with age or concentration. He shadowed Gilliam’s every move, and carried an iron box in his hands.