by Rachel Dunne
He’d hoped, by now, that he could muster up at least some support—a handful of the thickheaded fists, or a few of the quick knives, kindled by faith and fear and the promise of glory. He wouldn’t need more than a few to start; once he had enough to strike out into the world, more would come, falling into line like herded sheep. Once it had begun, it wouldn’t stop.
It was simply the beginning of it that was proving to be difficult.
Joros shook himself, aimed a flat and meaningless smile in Tare’s direction. “Patience is a virtue of the Parents, isn’t it?”
Tare snorted. “Who’s failure belong to?”
“The weak.”
Someone streaked across the torchlit courtyard and threw themselves at the torch, dousing the light and plunging them all into darkness. The fists immediately ceased their sparring, and Tare’s response died in a puff of air, so that it was completely silent when the light-killer hissed, “Danger on the road.”
It sent them all into a quiet, organized commotion. The Dogshead stood up so suddenly that her chair toppled backward, and with her unsteady leg she almost toppled with it. Joros, close as he was, was likely the only one who saw Tare steady her leader. The fists broke apart in all directions, moving soundlessly to apparently preordained locations. Dimly, Joros made out bodies climbing up the crumbling walls. When he looked back, Tare had vanished, and the Dogshead was limping toward the house.
Joros stood alone in the courtyard, impressed at the efficiency of it all and looking forward to the day when he could turn that efficiency to his own use.
There was a small gardener’s shed set against the wall behind the house. The shed had been decrepit when Joros was a child, and he was amazed it still stood now. He was more amazed it held his weight as he climbed up the makeshift ladder someone had leaned against its side. There were a few others perched atop the shed, their heads poking over the edge of the wall, and two children at the edge of the roof, ready to jump down and relay messages as needed. Joros joined the adults at the wall, stepping carefully across the roof until he could rest hands and chin against crumbling stone.
Starlight showed him a familiar face, a young knife named Harin who seemed to hate silences and would fill them with her chatter. She’d proved to be an excellent source of information, the cost of which was occasional inane prattling until he could redirect the flow of her word-stream. Harin was perfectly silent now, though, simply pointing over the wall to the west.
Over the fields, a little blue orb bobbed and its light showed a group of five walking beneath it. Though it was hard to tell with the night and the shadows and the orb’s hue, Joros would wager his soul—what little of it there was left—that those five were wearing black robes.
With the distance, he couldn’t be certain—but with his knowledge of wasted decades, Joros was sure that one of them would have robes that were actually blue, a muttering and dangerous mage; and at least one of them would be wearing black-dyed leather armor beneath the robes, for Valrik didn’t trust his people’s safety to the mages alone.
They were some distance away, and not skewing toward the estate—assuming they maintained their pace and direction, they’d pass right by the walled house without ever seeing it. No trouble, no danger, no damage done.
Joros had the strange impulse to stand up to his full height, to bash his sword against the stone wall and scream until his throat tore, to draw the danger in and bring it crashing down and show Sharra that it could be fought and destroyed.
He quelled the urge, but it was a near thing.
“Do you think we could take them?” he asked Harin, soft as possible.
Harin gave a little snort. “Not a chance. They have a witch.”
“We have a witch, too.”
The woman turned to looked at Joros with something like shock, or perhaps wonder. When she turned her gaze back over the fields, Joros could see the calculations behind her eyes. He could see opportunity opening its arms to him.
“If you had to fight them,” he asked, because for all her talking she was shrewd enough, “how would you do it?”
And she told him, and the others watching from the wall listened with held breaths and shining eyes. The group of Fallen had moved out of sight by the time she finished outlining her plan—all entirely hypothetical, of course—but everyone on the roof wore feral grins. Harin, with her quick words and loose tongue, would likely talk to the rest of the pack within hours. If the Fallen showed themselves within sight of the estate again, he doubted the pack would simply watch from the walls.
If Sharra wouldn’t give him the help he needed, Joros would have to make his own help.
Joros returned to the room he’d claimed, sat at the too-small desk and stared at the dangerous stone it held. Not yet, he thought, closing the drawer. He knew Harin’s plan would spread through the estate faster than a plague, and by the time it reached the Dogshead, her people would be straining against the protective chains she’d wrapped around them. They wouldn’t let themselves be stopped or swayed from the plan—their plan, thought up by one of their own, and carefully and completely free from outside influence. Not yet, he thought, staring out the foggy window at the star-dotted night, and his lips curled in a smirk that might almost have been a smile, but soon.
Chapter Thirteen
The town was small, quiet within the unending night, but Scal could see faint light outlining doors and windows. Fires, candles, lanterns—light, to fight back the darkness. It was the first town they had seen since leaving the Forest Voro, and it made Vatri look pleased. Not so pleased as when they found wandering preachers. Not so pleased as when she prayed over their bodies. But pleased, still, and her steps were brisk as she led Scal into the town.
He had known Vatri long enough now to know that it was not in her to be shy. She spent too much of her life being stared at to flinch before the threat of attention, and she had the surety that Metherra’s hand rested firmly on her shoulder, guidance and protection both. Both things made her bold. Too bold, sometimes, for Scal’s comfort.
Her voice rang loud through the small, quiet town. “Divine Mother, Almighty Father, shapers of the earth and keepers of the flame, we ask you hear our hearts.” The start of an old prayer, and simple. He could hear the sound, like twoscore breaths being drawn and held. A wavering sort of hope. “Gentle Metherra, we offer you our fears and beg you soothe them.” Shutters creaked. Doors cracked. Eyes, peering carefully out, to prove what ears alone could not believe. “Stalwart Patharro, we give our hearts unto your keeping, and beg you keep the darkness at bay.” Vatri spread her arms wide, scarred face glowing in the dull light as doors opened wider. As faces poked from houses, as feet crossed thresholds to step careful upon the ground. “Holy Parents, we give you all that we are, and ask only for your shelter, now and for always.” The crowd formed tentatively. Held-breath hope and careful feet ready to turn. “We are the tenders of the flame, and we keep it burning in your honor.” Vatri made a motion to Scal. Obedient, loyal, his fingers wrapped around the hilt and pulled his sword free. Twoscore breaths released sudden in surprise, in an explosive moment of renewed faith. Fire reflected in the eyes that stared at the sword he held over his head. “Mother preserve us,” Vatri finished, triumph ringing in her words, “and Father shield our souls.”
There were cheers and prayers and sobs. Hands grabbing at Vatri, grabbing at Scal, and he stood unmoving in the surge of them. Stood before the fire in their eyes, the hope spilling from their mouths. He was not like Vatri. He did not like crowds, did not know, often, how to deal with people. He knew, less, how to deal with people who looked upon him, flaming sword in hand, as though he were a god come once more to earth. But Vatri held on to his raised arm, held it so he would not lower it and so all the townsfolk would stare at the sword, and she told them, “See, loyal followers, the tool of the Parents. See their answer to the darkness. See Nightbreaker!” They cheered, and Scal stared above their heads. He could pretend he was not at their cente
r, if he did not see their eyes and the fires shining within them. Thought only of Vatri’s hand on his arm, like a tether. Wondered when she had decided the name of his sword.
The town’s joy continued, but they were wise folk. Practical. They, too, had seen all the wandering preachers, seen the new purpose in their wandering steps. Preachers were drawn to the hint of a flame, and the town glowed from all the open doors. Scal and Vatri were half pushed toward a long, low building, the town flowing behind them.
The building was part meeting hall, part chapel. Its windows were all covered, to hide the light from the everflame hanging in an iron basket at the center of the room. Vatri sat herself below it, and Scal at her side. He could not keep his eyes from the everflame. He had been a boy once, and he had lived with a priest, and he had helped to tend the everflame. It felt, often, like the only time in all his lives that he had been happy. Scal wrapped his fingers around the flamedisk that hung from his neck. The snowbear claw strung next to it dug into the meat of his palm, tip sharp enough to draw blood.
Vatri wove for them the story of the Twins’ rise, talking over their cries of distress. She told them all of it. And when she told them of Scal, cutting down preachers and their mercenaries with his mighty sword, they stared at him once more like he was more than a man. He felt their eyes on him. He stared at the everflame, held his two pendants as they sank their shapes into his skin.
“You can’t give up hope,” Vatri told them. “All is not lost, for we have a gift given by the Parents themselves . . .”
Scal stood. Sudden enough it startled the townsfolk, startled even Vatri. The seated crowd parted for him, fear and awe mixed on their faces that he could not entirely avoid seeing. He was careful not to step on any of them, and so he had to look. But none of them, not even Vatri, called to him as he walked out into the night.
The town was quiet, and dark. Only the faint outlines of doors and windows, and if he stood the right way, they all fell from his sight. When Scal drew a slow breath, it coated his tongue with the taste of spring. Mud, and heat, and rain. No faint winter left.
Scal released his pendants. Let his hand fall to his side, where it brushed against the sword. Nightbreaker. Just a sword, a normal sword, stolen from a mercenary of the Twins. There was no power in it. Nothing special, nothing deserving of a name. He could drop the sword here, now. It was only a sword.
No, the power was in him. In his hands, and in his will. He was the ice, and he was the flames. He could leave the sword behind, and it would not matter. There were always other swords. It would not change anything.
This is the will of the Parents, Vatri had said.
Scal had stared at the everflame, and he had heard nothing but Vatri’s voice, seen nothing but fire-shining eyes. Had stared at the everflame and thought of the red-robed priest who had tended the everflame of his childhood, a man who laughed often but smiled rarely, sadness hanging from his shoulder like a shadow. And Scal could not remember his voice.
You asked me to shape you, Vatri had said.
The sword was nothing. Scal was the true weapon—Vatri had made it so. He stood staring up at the dark sky, the thousand stars. He remembered the boy he had been: the boy who had lived in the cold, who had been raised by a priest who was so close to a father. Almost. The boy who had wanted nothing more than to tend the everflame, and to one day go on a grand adventure with his friend. Scal did not know if any piece of that boy still clung to him. Could that boy have survived all the other, bloody lives that had followed his peaceful one?
The creak of a door. Soft steps. A murmur, from a nervous-swallowing throat.
Scal had known he would be followed. From the moment he stood at the middle of their chapel and stepped through and around them, he had known he would not be left alone. Vatri would not be the one to follow him; she had larger concerns—Where are the Twins? He did not know if she would send someone after him, or only not stop it from happening. It was the same thing, in the end. Soft breathing, behind his back, and a waiting silence.
And, finally, a small voice. “Are you gonna bring the sun back?”
He had not expected it to be a child. Had not planned to speak with whoever had chosen to follow him, but this voice made him turn. The child was nothing like the boy he had been—she was a girl, and small for her age, and her hair was so dark that her face seemed framed by the night sky. And yet. The fearless set of her shoulders. The words flat, like a challenge. Eyes that wanted to hope but did not know what hope looked like. She looked nothing like the boy he had been, but there was more to any person than looks.
Scal looked down at the girl, and he looked away, to where his hand still brushed the hilt of his sword. Nightbreaker. There was a time, not so long ago, when he had made a wordless vow to himself alone that he would not ever carry a sword again. He had broken that vow, and not even thought of the breaking. Even when it danced with flames, even when it was sheathed in ice, the sword fit in his palm like it was a piece of him. Like his arm was not complete without it.
It was just a sword. He could leave it, and it would not matter. He could find another, always. Nightbreaker. Vatri had not named the sword. Her fingers had tightened around his arm, eyes fire-bright. Nightbreaker. She had shaped him, and a thing was not truly shaped until it had been given a name.
The girl stared up at him, cautious and curious and fearless. Asked again, “Are you gonna bring the sun back?”
Scal raised his palms. Clean, with no shadow of all the blood that had stained them. Scarred, but there was no trace on them of the ash-marks Vatri had pressed into his flesh, no sign of the gods’ touch. Only his own skin. Only himself.
Vatri had said, The gods ask so much of us . . .
Scal closed his fingers over his palms. Felt the bite of his nails, deeper where the snowbear claw had pierced his palm. He dropped his hands and felt the left one rest against the hilt of his sword. He looked up to meet the girl’s fearless eyes, and he said, “I am going to try.”
She nodded once. Satisfied. And when she turned from him to walk back into the meeting hall, he followed after her, a single step behind.
Scal spent the night in prayer. He knelt beneath the everflame with his hands pressed to his forehead, and his prayers were made more of thoughts than of words. He did not know what to ask the Parents, or how to ask it. But an old red-robed priest had taught him prayer, and if Scal could not remember the priest’s voice, at least the words of countless prayers had sunk into him. Carved into his mind by long nights and crackling flames. Flowing beneath his skin.
Vatri snored softly at his side, and the only other sound was the crackle of the everflame above his head.
He had sat in the same place as she had told the town that the Long Night would end. That Scal would fight the Fallen and their risen gods, and restore balance to the world. That this was indeed a long night, but the sun rose at the end of each night. The night would need to grow darker first, but it would end, as all things do. The townsfolk had cheered her every word. Cheered her declaration of war, and looked at Scal like a hero stepped from legend.
He had sat quiet.
She stared at him for a time, after she woke. Her eyes still soft with sleep, and the everflame smoothing the deep-lined scars across her face. She only said, though, “We should find more towns like this. Hearing from me, seeing you, raised their spirits. We give them hope against the Long Night.” Scal nodded, said nothing.
The town leader walked with them to the line drawn by the last row of houses, thanked them for coming, wished them all the luck of the Parents. There was a knowing smile that would not stay off his face. They learned why, no more than a handful of minutes from the town.
Footsteps, and close enough that Scal drew his sword, fire dancing out. It shone on six faces, familiar enough in his sword’s flickering fire. Townsfolk, from the town they had just left. Younger, mostly, those who had reached adulthood but were barely past its edge, their eyes eager for adventure. The weapons the
y held were mostly tools and makeshift things, eager for blood.
The oldest of their number took another step forward. A woman of middling years, who carried an unstrung bow taller than she was. “We’d like to come with you,” she said. Said it to Scal, her face open and earnest, but her gaze slid to Vatri. “If you’ll have us.”
And Vatri’s answering grin was the only answer they needed.
Chapter Fourteen
Rora sat in the same place she always sat, back slouched against the wall so it didn’t press the bruise on her shoulder, with her arms and her chains wrapped around herself, and looking anywhere but at the shining not-wall down at the other end of the cellar. Even a glance would send the witch into fits, and she’d got so damned tired of his fits.
Most of the time that she wasn’t sleeping—and she spent more time sleeping than any person should, but even moving around made her head spin and her mouth yawn—she tried hard as she could to listen through the cellar door. The world was out beyond it, and she could always hear footsteps and voices, but never the words, not until they were standing right outside the door. Still, trying to hear was better’n anything else she had to do.
It got so bad, sometimes, that she’d start counting how many times the witch’d try to talk to her before he either went to sleep or drove himself into a fit. Highest she’d gotten so far was three sets of five times, and he’d capped that one off by pounding his whole body against the not-wall and screaming at her to Look at me, please, God, please just look at me. That’d been damn near the most exciting day she’d had since waking up.