And yet, you decried my seeming thirst. Border guards, Wardens, Deniers. The Hust. I am indeed soaked with blood. All necessary, alas. We’ll save the Shake for later. The nobles need humiliating first. Anomander and his brothers brought to their knees. Draconus sent packing – although, between you and me, Syntara, I admit to some admiration for the Consort. Now there’s a man unafraid of darkness! So unafraid as to climb back into the womb and make of it the finest palace of delight!
It’s no wonder his nobleborn kin so envy him, enough to foment abiding hatred. Yes, of course we’ll make use of that, given the chance. Still … poor Draconus. No man deserves your fate, to be twice cast out of the womb.
Lying beside him, back arching, the maid made moaning noises, and gasps. But the ecstasy sounded forced. This lass would have done fine as a priestess, I think. Too bad.
Oh, Syntara, we were speaking of murder, weren’t we? And all the paths to and from its grisly gate. And here is my promise: when we’re done with our task; when at last Lord Urusander stands beside Mother Dark, the two wedded … do not expect a third throne, Syntara – not for you and not for your church. If we can scour out the wretched Deniers and the Shake – if we can burn them into ash and cinders – do you imagine we could not do the same to you?
By fire, this gift of light, no?
He had explored the newfound sorcery within him, with far greater alacrity than he had led Syntara to believe. Enough to know that the woman pleasuring herself beside him in this bed was nothing but a husk. And this in turn amused him greatly, as the secret spark within the maid – Syntara herself – now struggled to bring life back into that body’s benumbed carcass.
Go screw yourself, Syntara. Or, rather, go on screwing yourself. We have all night, after all.
He recalled that flicker – the meeting of his gaze with hers – and the faint unease in the maid’s once pretty eyes. I imagine you first crowed at my seeming impotence. But now, do you begin to wonder?
I may be base. A drunk. A man standing in the middle of a river of blood. But I won’t fuck a corpse, woman. Take your voyeur games elsewhere.
When next we meet, over fine wine and decent food, we’ll talk of … oh, I don’t know … how about this as a worthy topic? Yes, why not? We’ll speak of desecration. A topic on which, I’m sure, you’ll have plenty to say, High Priestess.
Tell me again, won’t you, of those artful gutters beneath the floors of the temple?
And I might speak to you, perhaps, of sorcery beyond the reach of any god or goddess, beyond the reach of every temple, every church, every priesthood with all its strident rules and lust for the butchery of the blasphemous.
A magic unfettered. Natural worship, if you will.
Of what, you ask?
Why, the same as yours, High Priestess. The worship of power.
This power – and I dare you to take it from my hand.
He drank down another mouthful of wine, sluicing it as was his habit, while beside him – making the bed creak – the maid went on and on, and on.
* * *
Sharenas strode into the tavern. After a moment, she could make out a figure seated at the back, shrouded in gloom. She crossed the chamber, threading between tables where townsfolk were seated, welcoming both the sour heat and the furtive glances. Even the faces of strangers offered a kind of comfort – too long riding alone, camping in wild places, abandoned places. And other nights, as guest in a household, she had felt the pressure of her hosts’ unease, their mistrust. Urusander’s Legion, once elevated so high, honoured and respected by all, had stumbled fast.
The truth, which in better times was happily ignored, was that the sword always cut both ways. Valiant defence, brutal attack, it was all down to the wielder’s stance, the direction chosen. The saved could become the victim in an instant.
Sharenas disliked the notion: that she, too, was dangerous, unpredictable, with the weapon at her belt ever ready to be unsheathed. But the world made its demands, and she too must answer them.
Reaching the table, she met Captain Serap’s eyes, seeing in them a cold, glittering regard. Sharenas sat opposite, her back to the room. ‘Captain. I am sorry for your losses.’
‘We were all there,’ Serap said. ‘Do you remember? Riding out to meet Calat Hustain. You chose Kagamandra’s side for most of that journey, as I recall. Happy enough to flirt with a promised man.’
Sharenas nodded. ‘Whilst you and your sisters giggled and whispered, so pleased with your new ranks. Lieutenants, back then, as I recall. Unblooded officers, crowded under Hunn Raal’s soggy wing.’
Serap studied her with a tilted head, and then smiled wistfully. ‘We were young then. The world seemed fresh. Alive with possibilities.’
‘Oh, he was happy enough to lead us, wasn’t he?’ Sharenas started as someone stepped close – a boy, likely the barkeep’s son, setting down a tankard before her. The youth quickly retreated. ‘Do you still look upon him with admiration, Serap? Cousin Hunn Raal. Murderer, poisoner. He’s gathered every betrayal imaginable into a single knot, hasn’t he?’
Serap shook her head, and then shrugged. ‘It may seem to be clumsy on his part, Sharenas. But it isn’t. Every crime he commits ensures that Urusander remains unstained. My cousin doesn’t hide, does he? He chooses to wear his culpability, and knows that he can bear its terrible weight. It is, in fact, a family trait.’
‘Hmm. I’d wondered about that. The seeming clumsiness, that is. It would be easy to assume the drunkard’s natural carelessness, the sloppiness that comes with dissolution. Even so, Serap – the slaughter of a wedding party?’
Serap waved a hand, and then frowned. ‘Not the Hust? You surprise me. Or perhaps not, as the noble blood in you must howl loudest when the lives of kin are sacrificed. Mundane soldiers, even ones bearing demon-haunted weapons, are beneath notice – well, maybe a mutter or two, if only at the crassness of the deed.’
Sharenas allowed herself a slow smile. ‘I always judged you the sharpest. So, is this how it is, then? You stand with Hunn Raal.’
‘Blood of kin, Sharenas. But you should understand this. In so many ways I still have the eyes of the innocent. I will care for my soldiers. I will, if necessary, give my life for theirs.’
‘Bold words,’ Sharenas replied, nodding. ‘I’m curious. Do you believe Hunn Raal would do the same?’
Something fluttered in Serap’s eyes, and the woman glanced away. ‘Have you reported to the commander?’
‘I have spoken to Urusander, yes.’
‘Does he remain … disinterested?’
A curious question. Sharenas collected up her tankard, drank down a mouthful of the weak ale, and grimaced. ‘You do not come here for this, do you?’
‘Supplies are low. Everyone has to make do.’
‘How would you react, I wonder, if I now told you that Vatha Urusander intends to arrest Hunn Raal, and a good many other captains of the Legion? And that I bear with me the evidence of their many crimes – crimes that can only be answered by the gallows.’
Serap laughed.
Settling back in her chair, Sharenas nodded. ‘And this was a man we once followed, unquestioningly. A man we would give up our lives for. Back when the enemy was foreign. Well, as you say, Serap, we were all young once, and that was long ago.’
‘Best you choose your side, Sharenas, with great care. He is not the man he once was. In many ways,’ she added, ‘we’d do better with Osserc.’
‘He has not returned, then.’
‘No. And no word of where he has gone.’
Sharenas glanced away. ‘I have advised against confronting Hunn Raal. For the moment.’
‘Wise.’
‘Things need cleaning up first.’
Serap’s brows lifted. ‘Oh? And how will you manage that?’
Sharenas rose in one fluid motion, the blade leaving the scabbard with a hiss, and then lashing out across the table, taking Serap by the neck. The keen edge cut through, separating the woman’s head
from her shoulders. As the head pitched forward to thump hard on the tabletop, blood shot from the stump of Serap’s neck, like a fountain in a courtyard. But the pulsing torrent was shortlived.
Sharenas stepped around the table and gathered up a corner of Serap’s cloak. She carefully wiped down her blade. Behind her, in the tavern, there was absolute silence.
‘Like this,’ she answered quietly. She studied the head lying on the table, the look of surprise fast fading as all life left the eyes, as the nerves of the face surrendered, slowly sagging. It was, she decided, a rather innocent face.
Sharenas sheathed her sword, and then drained the tankard and set it down beside the head. She drew out a coin and snapped it down, and then swung about and strode from the tavern.
It was a start. She had a long night ahead of her.
Outside once more, shivering in the bitter cold night air, she set out for the Legion camp.
* * *
‘Shit.’ Hunn Raal sat up on the bed. The wine was heavy and acrid in his gut, but the sickness suddenly roaring in his skull had little to do with that.
Beside him, the nameless maid stirred, and said in a slurred voice, ‘What is it?’
He twisted round, reached out and took hold of the young woman’s neck. It felt flimsy in his grip. ‘Look at me, High Priestess. Are you there?’ He then grunted. ‘Yes, I see that you are. Blood has been spilled. Blood of my family. Someone has murdered Serap. Down in the town.’
The maid’s childlike face, round and soft, was darkening above Hunn Raal’s grip. Voice now rasping, she said, ‘Best awaken the guards, then.’
Face twisting with disgust, Hunn Raal pushed the woman away, hard enough to send her over the far side of the bed. He quickly threw on his clothes, and strapped on his sword-belt. He paused then, weaving slightly. ‘No, enough of this.’ A pulse of sorcerous power, held inside, made him suddenly sober.
The maid had climbed to her feet on the other side of the bed, her naked body ghostly pale. ‘How did you do that?’
Snarling, he spun to face her. ‘Get out.’ Another surge of sorcery, reaching into the body facing him, grasping hold of that secretive sliver of Syntara, and then tearing it loose, flinging it away like a torn rag. The maid collapsed.
Oh, a fine new rumour for Hunn Raal now – he kills the women he fucks. Strangles them, by the marks round the poor girl’s neck. Well, yet another sordid cloak to wear. These burdens are enough to make a man drink.
He gathered up a fur-lined cape, and then strode from the bedchamber.
Two guards stood at the far end of the corridor. Hunn Raal marched towards them. ‘Pult, rouse a squad to guard Vatha Urusander’s private chambers. If he wakes to the noise, inform him that we have an assassin in the town below, but that I have begun the hunt. Mirril, you’re with me.’
As Pult set off towards the troop hall, Mirril fell in a step behind Hunn Raal as he made his way to the keep’s central staircase.
‘There’s a dead woman in my bedroom,’ he told her. ‘Never mind the rumours that’ll come of that. The High Priestess of Light has a growing thirst for corpses – not that you can easily tell who’s dead and who isn’t, once she’s done with them. Look for the eyes, Mirril – they don’t match the face around them.’
The soldier made an obscure warding gesture.
‘Just get rid of it,’ Hunn Raal ordered. ‘No family to inform, I should think. Bury her in the refuse heap below the kitchen chute.’
‘And if, uh, she comes back to life again, sir?’
He grunted. ‘I doubt that – I wasn’t fooled, you see. But still … oh, take off its legs, then. Arms, too.’
‘Sir, I would advise the hog pens, rather than the heap.’
He glanced back at her as they reached the top of the stairs. ‘And the next slice of ham you eat, Mirril? How will it sit? No, the notion doesn’t appeal to me. Perhaps a shallow grave, then. Pick people you trust in this.’
‘Of course, sir.’
‘And let the soldiers know – no one from the High Priestess’s household can be trusted.’
‘That’s past saying, sir.’
They reached the main floor opposite the front doors. ‘Good,’ said Hunn Raal. ‘Off you go, then.’
‘Yes sir.’
He left her to take care of the maid and set out across the compound towards the barracks. By rota, a company of Hallyd Bahann’s Golds were quartered there, five squads in all. Two guards stood at post outside the barracks entrance, both coming to attention upon seeing Hunn Raal approach.
‘Wake the lieutenant,’ Hunn Raal said to one of them, and then he beckoned the other closer. ‘Saddle up, soldier, and take this word down to the Legion camp. We’re on the hunt for an assassin – someone has just murdered my cousin, Serap. In the town proper. I want two companies to enter Neret Sorr and begin looking for the body. We can pick up the trail from there, if need be. Though,’ he added, ‘I doubt it will be necessary.’ Seeing the questioning look on the man’s face, Hunn Raal said, ‘I doubt she’s the only intended target this night, soldier.’ Pausing, hands on his hips, he faced the gatehouse. ‘Civil wars are dirty, but we need to hold fast to our cause.’
Led by the lieutenant – a young man Hunn Raal did not know – the Golds emerged from the barracks, still buckling on their gear, a few of them swearing at the bitter chill.
‘Lieutenant,’ Hunn Raal said, ‘shape up your soldiers, and be smart about it. One squad remains on station here. The rest of you, we’re marching down into Neret Sorr.’ He gestured at the lieutenant to join him, and then set out, at a brisk pace, towards the gatehouse, and the switchback track that led down into the town.
* * *
Renarr had time to step into a shadow-thick alcove at the gatehouse before the gates swung wide and a rider emerged, pushing his horse into a careless gallop as soon as he was clear of the gate. An instant later a company of soldiers, led by Hunn Raal, appeared, moving at a quick pace. When the last soldiers in the column were past, she waited a few moments longer, and then walked back on to the track, just as the gatehouse guards were pushing at the squealing gate. One cursed upon seeing her, clearly frightened by her sudden appearance. She moved forward.
‘Who’s that, then?’ the other guard asked, holding up a staying hand.
‘Renarr. Summoned by my father.’
She saw, as lanterns were drawn close, both recognition and suspicion. They would have known, after all, if Urusander had dispatched any messenger down into Neret Sorr. But then one grunted and said to the other, ‘Captain Sharenas left earlier.’
This man looked enquiringly at Renarr, who solemnly nodded.
They waved her through. ‘Not a good night,’ the first guard said as she passed. ‘Killings in town below, we heard. Black-skinned assassins, agents of Lord Anomander. Officers of the Legion getting backstabbed. It’s what it’s come to.’
‘Best stay here at the keep tonight,’ called out the other guard.
She continued on.
There were lights in the tower, where Urusander kept his private abode. She thought she saw a dark shape move past a window, but could not be sure. The courtyard was slippery underfoot, slick with frost. She glanced over at the squad mustered up near the barracks, and saw some of them watching her as she crossed to the keep’s main entrance.
She’d probably taken a few of them to her bed, but at this distance, and in the uneven light, there was no way to tell.
Father, I should tell you. I have intimate knowledge of your legion, its soldiers, with their myriad faces, their singular needs. I know them better than you. It’s how certain things blur together, you see. The heat of sex and the heat of battle. Death entwined with love, or something like love, if we are generous enough to gauge the motions, there beneath the furs.
Tents and temples, beds and altars, the propitiations and rituals, all the forms of confession, weakness and desire. The conceits and pride’s fragile temerity. All the appetites, Father, flow together in those
times, those places. I could list for you the cowards, and the ones who would stand fast. I could speak to you about conscience and grief, and above all, about what a soldier needs.
Alas, that need no mortal can answer, though I can see you, Father, I can see you trying. When few others would dare.
Shall we give it a name, that need? Dare we venture inward, to face that sorrowful child?
Tent and temple, we raise them to disguise all that haunts our soul. Between lover and priest, I think, it is the lover who can reach closest to that shivering, wide-eyed child. The priest, ah, well, the priest killed his inner child long ago, and now but plays at wonder, dancing joy’s steps with shuffling, self-conscious feet.
Consider this, Father. No whore has ever sexually abused a child. I know this – I watch them, my hard women and men of the stained cloth. Some are harsh bitches and bastards, no doubt about that. Hardened beyond pain. For all that, they know innocence when they see it.
But priests? Most are fine, I’m sure. Honest, diligent, trustworthy. But what of those few others who took on the robes and vestments for unholy reasons? What do they see – the ones so eager to ruin a child?
Best ask the High Priestess, Father, because I have no answer to that question. All I know, and I know this with certainty, is that inside that abusing bastard priest there is the corpse of a child. Wanting company.
She was in the house now, upon the stairs, reaching the landing and making her way towards Urusander’s wing of the keep.
Soldiers stood at guard in the corridor. They eyed her warily as she approached.
‘My father is awake,’ she said. ‘Captain Sharenas summoned me to him, at his request.’
They moved aside.
One spoke as she passed. ‘Taking the night off, Renarr?’
Low laughter, dying away when she opened the door and strode into the first chamber.
A desk buried beneath scrolls and the strange seashell cases the Forulkan used to store their sacred writing. Behind this misshapen monument, her adoptive father. He had half risen at her appearance, and now, upon his weary face, there was the look of a cornered man.
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