The Winter Vow

by Tim Akers

  “I… I can’t do that. If I see her again, I won’t be able to go through with this. I can’t say goodbye twice.” Malcolm set his face, strengthened his voice, and still sounded feeble. “I can’t put her through that farewell, knowing what is to come.”

  Ian’s hand dropped, but finally he nodded. “I will give her your love.”

  “There’s no need,” Malcolm said. “She has always had it.”

  * * *

  When he left, Ian shook his father’s hand, then embraced him, then didn’t want to let go. It was Malcolm who finally took him by the shoulders and pushed him back out the way he had come.

  “Go with the gods,” he said. “Whoever they may be.”

  Getting out of the camp was simple. Ian kept his hood high and his shoulders down. When he got to the stables, he unhobbled his horse, then waited for the far patrol to pass. When they disappeared, he mounted and rode into the night.

  “Did you think you passed unmarked, Ian Blakley?”

  He turned sharply, drawing his sword. Castian Jaerdin stood just beyond the stables, covered in shadows. The duke of Redgarden chuckled.

  “You and your father have been laughing and talking and arguing about gods know what in that tent. It’s good. I haven’t heard him laugh for months, not truly.” Jaerdin stepped into the light. “Are your plans settled?”

  “They are,” Ian said. “Are yours?”

  “Of course. Did you see Sir LaFey?”

  “Elsa’s here? I wondered where she had gone,” Ian said. He squinted into the camp, as though Elsa might rise up out of the shadows. “I think I assumed she had simply wandered into the woods to die heroically against some gheist. It seemed fitting.”

  “She is Sophie Halverdt’s mascot now. It seems she has a peculiar ability to draw the powers of Strife.”

  “Ah. But you don’t think—”

  “It doesn’t matter what I think. Your father didn’t tell you, but I thought you should know who you’ll be facing in this battle. Friends and allies, families and heretics… those who are closest to us make the most difficult enemies.”

  “She is only deceived. Once we reveal who Sophie is, and what she is doing, Elsa will surely turn from her.”

  “She may. Or she may not. But you need to be prepared, either way.” Jaerdin turned back to the shadows. “The patrol is returning. You had best be going.”

  Ian was about to say more, but the jingling of chain mail reinforced Jaerdin’s warning. When he looked back, Redgarden was gone. Ian grimaced, then rode off at a gallop.

  42

  THE ORPHANSHIELD WAS uncomfortable with their method of travel. Kesthe and the other shamans seeded their path with spirits, weaving gods of wind and road into the forest trails, speeding their way. The Orphanshield rode at their fore with a hand on his blade and Cinder’s name on his lips. “In case the demons turn on us,” he said.

  “The trained hound does not bite the master,” Kesthe reassured him. “We are only drawing the attention of the spirits. They barely notice our passing.”

  “Some things cannot be tamed. The sea, the wind. Death.” Gilliam licked his lips, staring into the blur of road and forest that welled up before them. “I will stand my guard.”

  “You must learn to trust our new allies, frair,” Sir Bruler said. The Suhdrin knight had been instrumental in persuading Gilliam to join their cause, and had served as the Orphanshield’s personal attendant since their departure from the Fen Gate. “We want the same things. The church justified, and the heresy of the void priests ended.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t say that,” Kesthe answered with her quirky smile. “But the heresy, at least. That we can agree on.”

  They made good time eastward, bending the forest to their will and their horses to the road. At night they slept under Frair Gilliam’s care, their minds shielded by his prayers and supplications. Each morning the witches woke up unsettled. “I have never slept so soundly and yet woken so restless,” Kesthe said one morning. “My dreams are a part of me, huntress. The priest steals them.”

  “You understand the danger we’re in, elder,” Gwen answered. “And so does the Orphanshield. He is only trying to protect us from the things stalking the night.”

  “Always afraid of the pagan night, these churchmen.”

  “With reason. Or have you slept through the last six months?”

  One morning Gwen woke to find Frair Gilliam gone from camp. Bruler led her to where the frair knelt in a secluded grove, his robes undone and his bare chest turning blue in the cold. Gwen thought the madness of their travel had finally gripped him, but as she approached, she heard a familiar song on his lips. She waited respectfully at the edge of the clearing until he was done.

  “Is it already Frostnight?” she asked. Gilliam rose slowly, slipping his robe back over his shoulders, rubbing the warmth back into his skin. He shook his head.

  “Nearly. I lost track of the months, obviously. My days in the Fen Gate are a blur, and this strange road—” he gestured helplessly back to the camp, to Kesthe and her witches “— made celestial observations difficult. But in my prayers last night I found it. Cinder’s face is turning toward us. We are approaching the longest night of the year.”

  “Six months,” Gwen said with wonder. “Six months since this began.”

  “What begins in fire always ends in cold,” Gilliam said. “That is the way of the church.” He tottered over to her. “Given our travels, I suspect this will be the last time I am able to perform the rites. Will you accept the blessing?”

  “I shouldn’t…” Gwen took an uncertain step away. “I mean, it’s not like I can claim much faith in the church, frair. If I draw Cinder’s eye now, in my heresy…”

  “You knelt each Frostnight at the altar of Cinder and received the blessing of judgment your whole life, Gwen. Do you think the judge of all didn’t know what was in your heart? And he didn’t condemn you then, so who am I to condemn you now?” He raised his hand, steady as stone. “Cinder’s blessing is for all, no matter their corruption. No matter their place on this earth.”

  Gwen closed her eyes and stepped forward. Gilliam’s hand cupped her forehead. His skin was cold and rough, and he smelled like old sweat and incense. It was comforting somehow.

  She didn’t hear his words, so familiar as to be rote, but when it was over her heart felt lighter. Her burden was no less, but at least she had passed beneath the judge’s eye and walked away. That was something.

  * * *

  Kesthe had barely started to weave their path into the forest spirits when the road opened before them and the field of battle unfolded. An abandoned camp spread out before them, with a burning tree at its center, and row after row of tents stirring gently in the breeze. The air was unseasonably warm. Frair Gilliam glared down at the burning tree.

  The army of the tree was marching away from them, already arranged in their battle lines. They faced a much larger force, flying the celestial flag, though mists wove through their ranks and darker shapes lurked in the fog. The Reaveholt anchored the southern end of the battlefield.

  “Is that Bassion’s flag flying from the castle?” Gwen asked. Gilliam didn’t budge, but Kesthe trained her eyes in that direction.

  “A golden boat on yellow and blue?” Kesthe asked.

  “Yes, that’s Galleydeep. What is Lady Bassion doing this far north? And how did she gain the Reaveholt?” Gwen surveyed the field. “And who leads this army of light? It looks like Halverdt’s banner, but with flames. And the tree—”

  “We must destroy it,” Gilliam said sternly. “It is an abomination. I have never seen such power.”

  “Trees do not burn in Heartsbridge?” Gwen asked lightly. Gilliam turned toward her. His eyes were glassy and bright.

  “Tonight is Cinder’s holiest night, of frost and winter. That is a totem of spring. Not of summer, nor of Strife. How could Halverdt have been so blinded?”

  “There are vow knights in Halverdt’s ranks,” Kesthe noted. “Are
you so sure of yourself, priest?”

  “He is,” Gwen said, drawing closer to the tree. She could feel the familiar hum of its song. “As am I. This god is known to me.”

  “But how could it…” Kesthe’s voice trailed off. “The god of flowers? From Greenhall?”

  “The same. It has consumed the ranks of Halverdt.” Gwen closed her eyes, but the impression of burning leaves, each one a flower of flame, was seared into her mind. “Sophie Halverdt is not deceived, frair. She is possessed.”

  “By one of the most dangerous gods of the tribes,” Kesthe said. “We condemned it generations ago, when its madness nearly destroyed us all. The vernal god was the twin of Fomharra, who was hidden in the Fen. Without one, the other cannot be opposed.”

  “We must oppose it,” Gilliam said. His voice was full of confidence and anger. “If it is the last thing I do, that tree must be quenched.”

  “Then we strike now. While it is unguarded,” Gwen said. She turned to the leader of the rangers, a large woman named Deidra. “Form ranks and prepare to march. We attack the camp!”

  “The camp is empty. And that is Malcolm Blakley down there. Shouldn’t we be joining our strength to his, against—” she pointed at the celestial host and the gheists in their midst “—against those demons?”

  “I fear the tree’s protectors will become apparent soon enough. Steel your men, and bind them to blessings of the gods. We will need all the help we can get.”

  The spears were still lining up when Gwen saw movement among the tents. Only a handful of figures, but enough to let her know they were being watched. She could feel their power swelling, even at this distance. She drew Gilliam’s attention to them.

  “Fallen knights of the winter vow,” he spat. “We will be hard pressed to overcome them without divine help.”

  “The gods will answer,” Kesthe said confidently. Her witches were preparing themselves, flanked by shamans and bolstered by a loose mob of pagan rangers. “We should strike before they are ready.”

  “But the spears and riders—”

  “Will join us when they are ready, or in the grave. Whichever comes first,” Gwen snapped. “Deidra, follow when you can. Frair Gilliam?”

  The Orphanshield drew his twin blades, kissed the symbol of Cinder on each hilt, and nodded.

  “Lead on, witch. And may Cinder guide us true.”

  43

  FRAIR LUCAS WOKE to the sound of drums. He rolled out of bed to see Martin peeking into the hallway through the cracked door, holding his sword behind his back. The heir of Stormwatch looked nervous.

  “What’s going on?” Lucas asked.

  “Troop movements inside the castle. They’ve pulled the guards down to a skeleton crew. Sounds like they’re massing in the courtyard.”

  “Are the celestials attacking?”

  “Gods know. But this isn’t a training exercise.”

  Lucas got up and started to dress. He left his traveler’s clothes beside the bed, instead unfolding and pulling on the priest’s vestments that he’d been avoiding. Martin watched uneasily.

  “They’re still imprisoning people in those colors,” Martin said.

  “They may well lock me up no matter what I wear,” Lucas answered. “If I’m to face my god, I would rather do it in the gray and black.” He slid the icon of Cinder over his head, then unwrapped the staff he had been hiding on their trip north and laid it on the bed.

  “You’re no good to anyone dead,” Martin said. “Either way, I’m not going out there without my chain mail.”

  Lucas waited patiently while Martin strapped on what little armor Bassion had left him. She didn’t want either of them fully prepared to fight, in case it became necessary to arrest one or both. Still, she could not deny a lordling of Suhdra his sword, and the chain and doublet that went with his title. It wasn’t plate-and-half, but it would turn a blade or two.

  Once out of their room, Lucas and Martin were quickly overwhelmed by the changes to the castle. There was still a light cordon around their rooms, but most of the remaining troops of House Bassion were in the courtyard. The priests of Cinder were no longer in the courtyard, and had been replaced with column after column of tightly packed halberdiers, archers, axemen, and knights on foot. Rank after rank of mounted knights pressed against the northern gate, their mounts jittery, the riders talking quietly among themselves.

  They found Lady Bassion on the walls overlooking the battlefield. She rested in the shade of a pavilion, though there was little sun to justify its use. Bassion was swaddled head to toe in furs, and was sipping mulled wine that was being warmed in a nearby brazier. Two knights of the winter vow stood guard, the same two who had attended her during Lucas’s last audience. They watched the inquisitor approach with sneers on their faces.

  “Frair Lucas. I was worried you wouldn’t join us for today’s festivities,” Bassion said. She waved to a pair of benches near the parapet. “It promises to be memorable.”

  “Lady Bassion. I take it there’s to be a battle?”

  “Yes. Lord Blakley has convinced that firebrand Sophie Halverdt to plunge forward, as foolish as that sounds.” Bassion drank from her cup and sighed deeply. “He has a plan, you see.”

  “A plan?”

  “Yes. A whole conniving feast of betrayal and misdirection. We’re to play a part, you and I. At least, that’s what he’s promised. And I hate it when promises aren’t kept.” Bassion squinted and waved to Martin. “What do you think, young Stormwatch? Will Malcolm and Sophie be able to carry the day?”

  Martin surveyed the battlefield. The golden lines of Halverdt were heavily outnumbered, but he had seen them fight the week before. Anything seemed possible.

  “They don’t have the numbers, but if Malcolm Blakley thinks it wise to attack, then I’m sure they’ll find victory. Houndhallow does not play his hand if he’s unsure of the outcome.”

  “No, he does not,” Bassion said, a wicked smile on her face.

  “What of your forces, my lady?” Lucas asked. “You are mobilizing at last?”

  “In accordance with Malcolm’s clever plan,” she answered. “He believes he can drive them against my walls. I get to swing the heroic final blow. Isn’t that lovely?”

  “So you’ve put your differences aside? You will come to Malcolm’s aid?”

  “When the time is right, yes,” Bassion said.

  “You said I had a part to play in this?” Lucas asked.

  “You and your fellow priests of Cinder,” she said, casting a sly glance in his direction. “I have given them their freedom. They are preparing now. Someone will have to stand against the gheists the celestial forces are sure to unleash on our ranks. I’m glad to see you’ve decided to wear your vestments again.”

  “And what of your oath to never trust the church of Cinder again?”

  “I don’t have to trust you. I just have to use you, against our common enemy, of course. Trueau!” she called over his shoulder. “Is everything ready?” Lucas turned to see Sir Trueau, the vow knight he had seen outside Bassion’s tower, as she reached the parapet.

  “I have said the prayers I know,” Trueau answered. She glanced at her fellow vow knights. “What of the two of you?”

  “They know their role,” Bassion said, then leaned back in her couch. “Do sit, Lucas, Martin. You are blocking my view.”

  They sat uncomfortably, perched against the side of the wall. The lines below began to stir and march. Lucas lowered his voice, so only Martin could hear.

  “There is more going on here,” he whispered. “Be ready.”

  “Always,” Martin said.

  Below them, the battle started.

  44

  MALCOLM’S ARMOR WEIGHED more than it should. The false dawn of Halverdt’s burning tree flickered across the linen of his tent, filling the space with heat, sapping his strength. He felt like a lamp burned clean of its oil, a flame going only on fumes. Dawn was still hours away when he stepped out of his tent and into the crowded lan
es of the camp. Castian Jaerdin was waiting for him by the campfire.

  “You look worse than death, Houndhallow,” he said. Jaerdin drew a mug through the wine mulling over the flames and handed it to Malcolm. “This won’t help, but at least it will be a warm death.”

  “I’m already sweating through my chains,” Malcolm said. “Truthfully, I want nothing more than to reach the field of battle, and be away from that damnable tree.”

  “The gods are listening, Malcolm.” Jaerdin glanced at a cadre of vow knights who were walking nearby. “Be sure they like what they hear.”

  “I no longer care who hears what. I will fight for them, and die at their side if I must. If they don’t find me pious enough to give my life for their cause, that’s their problem. Not mine.”

  “I worry more about the kind of death they might ask of you, and your family,” Jaerdin said. The vow knights continued on, never looking back at the two dukes of Tenumbra. “They march around like kings appointed.”

  “Their goddess walks the earth, in Halverdt’s form and will. Can you blame them?” Malcolm drank some of the bitter wine, forcing it down despite the sweat already beading on his brow. “It will be settled today, Redgarden. Whatever is to happen, it happens on this day.”

  “Gods willing,” Jaerdin said. He tossed his dregs into the fire and stretched. “I will be glad to return south. You have a fine land, Malcolm, and a proud people. But the weather is shit.”

  Malcolm laughed, shaking his head. “It’s not my fault you were raised weak, Redgarden. Perhaps a season in the ice has done you some good.”

  “The company has been good. The conditions…” Jaerdin shrugged. “I will be celebrating Frostnight at home for a while, I think.” He nodded to a group of Suhdrin knights riding past, on their way to the lines. The motley colors of their tabards, crests, shields, and heralds stood in stark contrast to the dark morning. “Are your people prepared, Malcolm?”