Salt, Sand, and Blood

by MarQuese Liddle

  “Yes. You will serve. For now,” rasped the devil, and at once the walls closed in, and they were true flames then. Consuming, black, and cold.

  Eighth Verse

  Lord Austen Sylvertre tugged at the high collar of his jerkin and at the sky-blue sleeves of his doublet underneath. “Seems like an early winter, wouldn’t you say, Captain Gildmane?”

  Sir Trey Gildmane twiddled a roll of parchment betwixt his fingers—the list of aspirants for the autumn Struggle, signed and sealed by the saint himself and delivered to the triad of judges waiting in wooden thrones at the center of the Valley Rock.

  Trey yawned, “No, I wouldn’t say so, my lord. Perhaps your gentle blood is too thin for the morning chill?” He waited but got no response from the landless skylord, only labored breaths as Sylvertre tried to warm his hands, the white-elm sigil on the breast of his jerkin wrinkling and expanding. Gildmane was disappointed.

  “Chill?” interjected Bishop Noblis Whitehand, shifting his onerous girth in the seat of his cathedra. “These are the death throes of summer, I say. I’ve not sweat this much since His Holiness’s anointment!” He began fanning himself with stubby, swollen fingers. “My cassock was drenched, I remember it quite well. It must have been hot as that witch we burned last eve.”

  The corners of Trey mouth fell heavy. “You remember poorly, Whitehand. It was raining that day.”

  “You were in attendance?” Lord Austen braved a question.

  “I was knighted.”

  “Yes, yes now I remember!” exclaimed the bishop, his cathedra creaking under his tremendous weight. “All that treachery and unprecedented ceremony, His Holiness raising that street rat. I still can’t fathom why.”

  “That was quite a few years back,” noted the skylord. “Captain, you must have been a young man.”

  A pressure weighed behind Gildmane’s eyes. He didn’t want to think about that day, yet nothing was clearer in his mind than the rain on the dais, Captain Acker and Warrior-Priest Normand, Bishop Cornelius and destitute Ba’al. They flashed before him: lies, prophecies, and a doleful bloodbath. He’d been all of fourteen and unprepared for his duty. Nearly a decade later, nothing had changed.

  “It was nine years ago, my Lord,” answered Gildmane.

  “Good God, you’d have been no older than my son.”

  “Ogdon? I saw his name on the list. Does he have any experience?”

  Austen flattened the chest of his jerkin, smoothing the silver leaves of his white-elm sigil. “He’s just finished a year of service. I had him page for my wife’s brother’s household guard at their manse just north-east of where Ward Aureus runs over the Serpent’s Tail. None of the men-at-arms there were ever blessed with accolades, sadly, so he’s been stuck between lordling and squire.”

  Between babe and child, more like, the captain thought. Glorified farmers can’t raise up a knight.

  Brr-UMM! blasted a war horn from atop the border of Valley Rock. The aspirants were approaching Ward Service, Pareo’s ancient inner wall. Trey watched the gatehouse—they all did, their conversation forgotten—eager to see which seven would finish first the three mile dash from the outer Ward Aureus. Seconds expired, a minute, then a shadow of a man passed under the portcullis. A thousand paces out, his hobnails clattered on the stone-paved ground. Another aspirant appeared behind him, then a third, a fourth, a fifth. By the time the last two passed under Ward Service, the others were crossing into the lush, central field. Through a ring of ivory lilies, white carnations, and alabaster rose they ran, two stone of hauberk cradled in their hands. The war horn blasted, and the portcullis slammed into the ground.

  That’s half of them, thought Gildmane, scratching names off his list as he took count of the collapsed and heaving aspirants. He enjoyed this part, matching names and faces with coat-of arms. He started with a horse-faced fellow, broad shouldered but lacking the muscle to fill out his surcoat. Stallions and Lions on quarters gold and red. Trey found the name Brandon Harpe, son of Sir Brandr, Castle Aestas’s First Lance. Next were a pair of brothers. A hanged man, black on burgundy. They were the twins of Lord Gregander Blackheart II of Duskhall, Harold and Byron. Then there was the mud-blood with no sigil to his name. A merchant’s son, he was sleight and tan with almond eyes, wore divided orange and blue trousers and a doublet with slashed, pleated sleeves. Trey scoured the list for a Tsaazaari surname but couldn’t find one—then he realized, Must be Alexander Diamont. Looks like Corvin might not be our only half-blood anymore. His eyes skimmed over the remaining few and picked out the baron’s knight son by his roughspun tunic. Kornel Gwyn, he read. Next was Ogdon. He looked the very image of his father, dark hair and eyes and a small pointy chin, yet he seemed thinner than Lord Austen and somehow more meek. Trey thought it was Ogdon’s lack of whiskers or perhaps his pitiful, naïve mien.

  Gildmane had saved the most interesting name for last. Jael Leonhardt, daughter of Twin Fangs Ricard, knelt in the grass below his cathedra, panting, wheezing, and squeezing the muscles in her arms to work out the cramps. Even in the cool of the morning, her nose and brow dripped with sweat. Her lips looks pale, and her hands and legs were shaking. Trey was amazed she carried the maille shirt all that way. Blood of the Red Lion. And a woman, too. He glanced over his shoulder where the Temple Rock loomed prodigious even at a distance. What is old Cornelius up to now?

  A strained creaking came from Trey’s right. The bishop was shifting again, his sloth-withered arms unable to lift him. He groaned in exertion, only to slump back into his previous position. Then, breathless, he said, “In the name of our Lord God, we welcome you to the Valley of the Temple Rock. I am Bishop Noblis Whitehand. I,” he took a cloth from inside his cassock and wiped the sweat from his face and neck. It was evident that his prior effort affected him. His pasty skin had turned rouge-red, illuminating boils under layers of ointment. “I,” he started again, “I serve as High Priest of his Holiness’s Sufferers’ Cathedral, and today I am judge of this holy order’s Struggle to determine your piety that your loyalty lay first to His Holiness.”

  “And I,” said Lord Austen, stiffly as if he were reading from a script, “am Austen Sylvertre, of noble peerage as a Parian Lord. I have been charged by His Holiness to test your wit and to accept only the sharpest of swords.”

  Trey’s turn came next, and no later than it did, he vaulted into the air from the seat of his cathedra. The drop was a mere two feet, but dressed in the enameled plate of a knight-paladin of the Saint’s Cross, his firm landing made an impression on the aspirants. Their eyes were upon him, and his upon theirs, looking for something new, something revolutionary. “I am Sir Trey Gildmane, third son of the late Duke Troy. I’m here to weed the weaklings from among you. The honour of the Cross belongs only to the best warriors of Nuw Gard, and I aim to keep it that way.” A pang struck his heart as he uttered the words. He thought of Captain Acker, then of Ba’al. Again, he skimmed the ranks of potential recruits, looking for whatever glimmer the bishop had seen in him. “The heart of a cat, or a snake, or a wolf.”

  Trey found a horse and a pair oxen, a peacock, an ass, and a sapling tree—and a lion in Leonhardt, though she didn’t look it now, doubled over and exhausted, clutching her abdomen.

  Gildmane moved on. “Now that we’re done with formalities, your first trial is to begin. Sylvertre?” The captain returned to his seat.

  Lord Austen stood, cleared his throat, then recited his commands. They were to don their hauberks and prepare their “horses” from a stack of carpenter’s trestles a short distance away. A half-hearted, “Yes, my lord,” issued from the aspirants, Harpe and Leonhardt being enthusiastic exceptions. The former arrived first at the trestles—just as he was first in the dash—and took it upon himself to pass them out. The others moved at a methodic march, some whispering to one another, others barking their laughter, none regarding the sanctity of the ceremony they took part in. Even Jael was swept in conversation when Ogdon made to feather her with questions. Ten years ago, that would
’ve made Gildmane’s blood simmer, yet now, he looked on, indifferent to the dishonour. “Else we smother under centuries of outworn traditions,” Ba’al had taught him.

  Another few minutes and the wooden horses were set. Hauberks were donned, and the aspirants had mounted their pairs of trestles, feet apart and knees bent as if they road real mares or stallions. At once, the weight of their over-made armour became painful leg tremors. Trey smiled, but the skylord was not so glad. His son was fading fast, so he spoke even faster, flatter, despite the fluttering of his tongue.

  He began, “You shall each speak one of the seven oaths of the Code of Chivalry in its perfect entirety. No pardons shall be made, and no mistakes shall be tolerated. And if an aspirant cannot sit his horse,” he glanced toward Ogdon and further hastened, “then he shall be no knight, nor squire of any kind in the Holy Order. Is this understood?” Austen did not wait for an answer. “Excellent, then shall we begin with… you.” He gestured toward Leonhardt and slipped a broad scroll from inside his jerkin. Jael sighed, a breath of relief it seemed to the captain, as the skylord unfurled the scroll and ordered her to vow.

  “In sight of God and men, I swear by my life,” she said through gritted teeth, every second an agony, “I shalt forever hold faith in God and in His church.”

  Superb, thought the captain. From the triad, however, there was no congratulation, no recognition, no pause at all between her and Ogdon, Ogdon and Kornel, nor Byron, Harold, Alexander, or Brandon.

  “I shalt observe the commandments of my father, in Heaven and on earth, and shalt remain leal to my lord long as his law lies in piety,” Sylvertre swore.

  “For I shalt live in eternal service, in body as well as soul,” continued the baron’s knight’s son.

  Half way through and already two were invalided. Trey’s heart ached for poor Kornel. “Both in flesh and in soul,” he should have said. The same pity did not extend to noble Byron. The son of Duskhall forgot his line entirely, and out of shame, Harold spoke two oaths in his brother’s place.

  “Never shalt I grace safe haven to heretic, nor allow blasphemy to go unpunished; I shalt become a ward to the weak and an aegis to the frail. My hands are of the Lord and shalt give to his children freely.”

  “Can you believe this mockery?” bishop Noblis groaned from the corner of his jowls. His eyes rolled and his mouth frowned, the countenance of a slug. Gildmane wasn’t sure what the fat clergyman had meant: the unprepared aspirants, Harold’s rescue attempt, the mud-blood participant?—it was Alexander’s turn next, and he swore as well and clear as the others.

  “I shalt revel in my toil, finding relief only in prayer and never in the pleasures of the flesh.”

  Trey feigned a guess. “Not a lover of the Tsaazaari, Whitehand? I didn’t know you were such a purist.”

  “Nonsense,” he said, “I adore Mephistine layer cakes. The half-blood is not my concern. It is that traitor’s get. I thought we’d be free of her by now. Persistent pest.”

  “It is strange that she was permitted,” replied the captain, playing the bishop’s advocate. “One would think her father’s line had been excommunicated. And a woman in the Cross? But her name was on the list with the saint’s own seal. Why do you think he gave his approval?”

  Whitehand stroked his several chins as Brandon Harpe finished the code. “May Lord God judge my soul and forgive me my mortal sins. This I swear before God and man in faith that soon his kingdom come.”

  “May soon his kingdom come,” echoed the aspirants, their voices tortured.

  “I suppose he must have his reasons. Perhaps he means to use her as a speckling of tarnish, a bit of turpentine, a blemish to keep your image in check. There have been rumors, Captain,” the bishop braced himself on the arms of his cathedra, “that your order has been turning independent from His Holiness and the church, taking payment from the skylords like a band of sellswords.”

  “I thought the clergy would be overjoyed to no longer share their tithes with the Cross.”

  “Some. Fools like Vaufnar, Cobbler, and Snow. The rest of us know what you’re up to, Gildmane. You and that rat of yours.” Whitehand’s massive chest expanded. He needed every ounce of air his shrunken lungs could hold to heave his twenty-two stone from the throne to his feet. The mountainous man moved, and the whole Valley seemed to quake. “You’ll forgive me, sir, but…” he heaved a dozen shallow breaths, “I have duties to tend to… Aspirants, kneel!”

  There was at once a cry of common relief. Happily, the aspirants dropped down from their trestles, happier still to take a knee on the springy field. Lord Austen asked the two invalids kindly to leave, then he returned to his seat, his duties completed. Ogdon had survived the first of the trials, but barely. It was to the skylord’s fortune the next was less demanding.

  Whitehand produced a fold of parchment from inside his cassock. He opened it slowly, struggling to coordinate his sausage fingers, and when he did his face went whiter than Jael Leonhardt’s—like he’d seen a ghost, but it was only a lengthy scriptural excerpt. He turned back to Gildmane. “Captain, if you might? I fear I don’t possess the breath for all this, and loath to do injustice to our Lord’s holy scriptures.”

  Trey stood and snatched the excerpt from the bishop’s stubby grip. It was sweat stained and smeared, yet it appeared mostly legible. “I understand, Your Grace. You’ve already exerted yourself too much, rising out of a chair. You need your rest.” He said it loud enough for the aspirants to hear. A few sniggered, Harold, Ogdon, Jael—some color had returned to the maiden’s face. She’s prettier when she smiles, Trey strayed from the task at hand then reined in his attention. He said, “Congratulations on not failing the initial trial, but don’t get proud over reciting a few lines. That proves you have as much wit as a Mephistine parrot. The next trial is a contest. I’m going to read you an excerpt from the scriptures, and you’re going to answer my question at the end. We’ll learn just how many of you can’t even comprehend a sermon.” The captain cleared his throat.

  It was a scribe’s new translation of the story of the two sons, Asher and Kayin, whose sire was King Joseph from when the Messaii dwelled in the red deserts of the Tsaazaar.

  And the first was Asher, born under the rising sun, and he was given dominion over all waking life. To him went tending the fields and herding the sheep. The second was Kayin, born under the full moon, and his rule was over all that was dark. To him went mining the hills and rivers, and slaying those beast whom hunted in the night.

  But Kayin could not bear his lot. He protested to his king and sire. He showed him his hands bloody from digging and his bloody wounds from fighting with beasts. He asked why he had been made to suffer when Asher knows only warmth and peace. But it was a sin to question God’s patriarch. King Joseph ordered Kayin lashed a hundred times, cursed him for doubting the Lord, and cast him out from the kingdom. And so Kayin’s heart was hardened with rage. He returned in the light of day and slew his brother and took his wives and sons as slaves.

  ‘My Lord and father have taken from me the light, so I hath taken theirs and will taketh back mine own,’ said Kayin, and he fled with his captives to the northern mountains where the highest peaks came closest to the sun. But Kayin was cursed, and the night would follow him. Even hidden in the mountains he would know nothing but cold and darkness and snow.

  Finished, Trey reexamined his aspirants. Some had heard the story before—Harpe, Blackheart, Leonhardt, and to his surprise, Ogdon. He suspected Lord Sylvertre might have been forewarned about the excerpt, but he was curious. He posed his question staring down the skylord’s son. “There is a lesson here, aspirants. I want to know which of you can see it quicker than the others. So who’s first? On your feet!”

  Ogdon jumped up before Gildmane could finish. Stilted as his father, he recited a short discourse on the Hibernis Enclave, explaining at length the province’s foundation, its eternal northern winter, and its dissident Messaii branch. He was grinning by the end, as was Lord Aust
en, both of them impressed by the sheer breadth of his answer. Not Trey, though, and he took advantage of the subjective nature of interpretation to shoot Sylvertre down.

  “I didn’t ask for a history, aspirant. I said the lesson behind the story.”

  Ogdon plummeted to his knees, despondent.

  “Who’s next?”

  Leonhardt flew to her feet. “It’s about accepting God’s charge. Kayin refused the will of the Lord. He refused to obey and to suffer for God, so instead his whole bloodline was made to suffer in his place.” She paused, saw that Trey wanted more. “It means we have to fulfil our duty, even when it seems horrible, or else we invite Hell to walk upon the earth.”

  “Captain Acker would have loved that,” said Gildmane, thinking of his mentor—then of Ba’al. Too bad it’s the wrong answer when it’s the patriarch who refuses to suffer. Kayin’s true mistake was killing Asher and not the king instead. “Tell me, did you figure that out on your own just now?”

  Jael shook her head. “The deacon in Herbstfield taught it in a homily.”

  “Herbstfield?” the captain asked.

  “Yes sir. It’s a farming village south and south-west from the Castle.”

  Out in the middle of nowhere. However did Paul find you? Did he seek you out, or—

  “Captain Gildmane,” groaned Noblis. The bishop had yet to return to his seat. Now his knees were shaking, and the cloth he used to wipe his face was dark with sweat. He looked to Trey, desperate, like a slug in the sun on a hot summer’s day. The captain smirked. This was justice for the bishop’s excesses, yet Trey had to admit that he was right. The morning shadows were shrinking in the yard. It was time for the third trial.

  †††

  A melee, Jael lamented for the hundredth time. She was going to die, she felt surer than of any certainty in her life. She took another look about the “armoury”—a pull-cart loaded with rusted and broken pieces of plate and maille and brigandine. There were musty, patchwork arming doublets, old flattop and nasal helmets, and every kind of steel gauntlet missing its pair. From amidst this pile of antiques they were to choose their armour, then from the stables they’d pick their steeds. That too was a player’s farce. None of the mounts was a proper horse save for one huge, fiery stallion. He was a chestnut destrier, vicious and wild, snapping at the mules and ponies tied beside him. Jael wasn’t sure which she feared more, trying to mount the wild warhorse or fighting the man who managed it. But worse than the horses were their arms. Each of them would be given a tourney lance, a small steel shield, and a sparring sword—twelve feet of ash that she couldn’t lift, straps for the wrong hand, and a hunk of wood.