Authors: Tim Akers
The doma would wait. There were still minutes to pass before the Allfire officially began, and other rites were waiting for Gwen. She turned aside toward the crypts.
The way down was dark and crooked. None of the servants said anything to her as she passed, winding past the kitchens and cold storage, nestled in the cool damp stone, finding her way to the torch-flickered path that led deeper into the earth. Past the ranks of Adair dead, each holding silent to the secret kept by every heir to the Sedgewind throne. Gwen would join them one day, and find peace in that silence. The burden of secrecy troubled her—she didn’t like its weight.
She didn’t like its dishonesty.
Beneath the crypts there was another chamber, hollowed out in ancient days, crafted by the first tribes that would eventually become the House Adair. Abandoned when the Celestial church came north and built their domas. It was the hallow of the Fen, the holy place of the House Adair, once the tribe of iron.
Gwen stepped inside. Her witch was waiting.
“Cutting it close, Huntress,” the woman whispered.
“The sun will wait,” she replied. The room was cold and dark and damp. Water seeped from the walls, gathering in a clear pool at the center of the shrine. Three torches flickered on the walls. Gwen gathered her skirts and knelt before the pool. The ground there was smooth, worn by generations of Adair knees praying their hidden prayers. “Have my parents been here yet?”
“They have,” the witch answered. The woman was a stableman’s wife in Fenton, just one of hundreds of tired faces in the village. Her callused hands moved smoothly over the instruments of her station, quiet and precise.
“And my brother?”
The woman paused, tilting her head toward Gwen. After a breath, she went back to work.
“They have decided to keep him holy for another year,” she said.
Gwen felt a wave of relief go through her. Her parents had been discussing bringing Grieg in on the secret, adding his blood to the rituals and his soul to the crime of heresy. Gwen was glad he would have another year of peace, before the troubles found him.
“You should not smile at that,” the witch said without turning around. “The more shoulders that bear the weight, the lighter the burden.”
“I would protect him,” Gwen answered, “for one more year.”
The witch didn’t answer. Instead she turned and placed her left hand under Gwen’s chin, tilting her head back. With her other hand she loosened Gwen’s dress, pulling it free of her shoulder. Gwen shivered, and then the knife rested against her ribs.
“The god of spring awaits you,” the witch whispered.
“To renew me,” Gwen answered.
“The season of rebirth calls to you.”
“And I will always answer.”
“Today is the Allfire. Spring has delivered summer, and summer has consumed the land. And now, bloated, fat, it slides toward winter.” The witch drew the blade slowly across Gwen’s chest. So sharp, so cold, the blood trailing down the runnel to drip quietly into the pool. “The season of dying.”
“But spring awaits,” Gwen whispered.
“It awaits.” The witch rocked back on her heels, withdrawing the knife. The blood flowed freely down Gwen’s chest for a second, and then she heard the gritty crunch of a poultice being rubbed over the wound. The smell of rose petals filled her nose.
The witch turned away.
Gwen quickly redid her dress and stood. She would have to hurry to make it to the doma without being noticed. She was turning to the stairs when the witch’s voice stopped her.
“Do you understand your promise, Huntress?”
“Of course. Believe me, my father has been clear on this.”
“He has,” the witch agreed, “but I’m not sure it has settled in your heart. We have hidden the last true god of the north. Should something happen to your father…”
“You don’t have to scare me into faith, witch. My heart is pagan. My god is buried in the Fen.” Gwen drew her hand across her chest, where the blood had dripped. “My iron is yours.”
“So be it—but pray that faith is never tested,” the witch answered. Then she turned away, busying herself with the blade and the blood.
Gwen huffed, but had no time to argue. She hurried up the stairs. Back in the castle, she went around to the private entrance, through the artifact hall and past the holy forge, and entered the doma in silence. Frair Humble, improperly named, was waiting by the altar. The altar was crowned by the symbol of the Celestial church, a blazing sun clutched by the grim sliver of a crescent moon. The sun was wreathed in flame, the moon in branching spears of frost. Humble was dressed in cloth of gold and crimson, the chains of his office heavy on his chest, his pious head bent and resting against his ornamented staff of gold and silver, bound with ivory and decorated with the iron icons of the Celestial faith.
On the pews before him knelt Gwen’s family, and behind them the knights of the household and masters of chamber, hearth and guard. Only Gwen’s mother looked up at her entrance, her face both impatient with her daughter and pleased that the girl had not somehow wiggled free of her finery and donned something inappropriately comfortable. Gwen closed the door behind her and hurried to her father’s side.
Colm Adair, baron of the Fen Gate and lord of the Sedgewind throne, knelt humbly before the altar of the Celestial gods. Like his daughter, he was dressed in the red and black of his family, and wore a false pauldron and gauntlet on his left arm, made of thin metal and ornament. Like many men of Tenerran blood, Colm’s skin was pale and his hair dark and straight, though his eyes were lighter than most, and his build was wiry and long. And like most men of Tenerran birth, Colm had a light scrolling of runes tattooed across his cheeks and over his eyes.
The traditional ink was a remnant of the pagan rites long banned by the church. He wore his hair short, in the Suhdrin style, with a neat beard and none of the braids or fetishes that some Tenerrans favored. Gwen bore much of his likeness, though her temper came from her mother. Lady Adair had done a turn in the legion of hunters before she caught the baron’s eye, and the blood and passion of the hunt still lived in her.
Gwen’s younger brother Grieg gave her a sly wink as she slid down the pew to find her place. There was already ale on his breath. Mother would find out who had given the boy a drink, for all the good it would do.
With Gwen properly in her place between her mother and brother, and the rest of the household aching on their knees, the frair of the Fen Gate raised his head and began the rite of summer.
“In ancient days, on heavenly roads, before Cinder quenched his flame and Strife claimed the brightening sky…”
Gwen’s mind quickly wandered, tracing the way back to her most recent gheist hunt, two weeks past. Already her heart ached to be back in the forest. It had been a tight chase, the goddess of some old river rising up and flooding the mill in Fenton. Gwen and her men had chased off the demon, but not before a good bit of grain was lost.
The Allfire rest was nice, but Gwen couldn’t help but wonder how long it would be before the gheist horn droned again.
“And so we rise, as she rose!” Humble proclaimed, and the congregation slowly shuffled to their feet. Gwen bounced up, feeling the first tickle of excitement for the day ahead. Whatever trouble hung in her heart, the Allfire was a day to be celebrated. To be happy. Tomorrow would come as it would come.
When she stood, Gwen caught a glimpse of the roof of the doma. There, painted in black and gold, were the twin figures of Cinder and Strife. They were surrounded by the dozens of shuttered windows, each opened on one of the holy days of the Celestial church, to allow either Strife’s warmth or Cinder’s icy gaze into the sanctuary. Today’s window, gilt in gold and hung with wreaths of false flame, creaked open at the hand of some hidden servant. Beyond it were gray skies and the few remaining stars of night. While Gwen watched, a line of golden light burst across the frame and fell on the far wall, illuminating an icon of the bright lady.
“We rise, and we live. Not today to the quiet house,” the frair rumbled, his cadence finally getting into the spirit of a goddess of life and love. “We live, and fill the world with our light. As Strife lights us, so we light the darkness. As Strife loves us, so we love. Children of Strife! Blessed of the bright lady!” Frair Humble lifted the staff of his office and touched it to the altar. A flame leapt from the golden horn of the lady, to settle at the tip of the staff. Humble walked to the first pew, the faces of the faithful lit by the dancing, holy flame.
“Come out of the darkness, come to the light! Put tomorrow away. Forget the days that have passed. Today we live for the lady. Today we live for fire!”
The shackled doors of the holy doma burst open, again manipulated by servants hidden in the walls. Beyond them, the people raised their voices as one, howling as Frair Humble swept out of the doma with the flame aloft. The baron and his wife joined their voice to his, and the host of knights with them, rushing forward into the crowd to begin the festival of the Allfire. A shiver went through Gwen’s bones, a thrill that pricked her skin and raised her heart. Forgetting tomorrow, forgetting the past, forgetting heresy and faith, she raised her voice and joined them, to live and love and worship the lady bright.
T
HE WALLS OF
the Fen Gate were alive with flame. Torches crowned the old, black stone of the castle in flame. The people of Fenton had come out in the hundreds to worship the bright lady at the bottom of a mug, and their heat and their noise added to the hectic air of the day. The morning’s chill had snapped, and the full heat of the sun beat down on the dusty walls of the castle and the village beyond. The lady was greatly pleased.
It was a humble castle, built as a lonely keep to guard a border that had seen more than its share of conflict between Suhdra and Tener. Since the Reaver War, however, and the peace that joining against a common enemy had brought to Tenumbra, the Fen had become a peaceful place. The major trade routes passed it by, the merchants and pilgrims keeping to the river Silveryn and continuing on to the Wyl, stopping in Greenhall and Houndhallow on their way to points south.
The harsh fens that surrounded Adair’s lands offered little to the farmers who swore fealty to the baron. As such, the men and women who crowded the streets of Fenton were hard as iron and eager for joy, more willing than most to forget tomorrow. For this day, at least, the villagers and farmers were as happy as nobles and as drunk as poets.
Gwen walked through the village with her own flagon of red wine, carefully watered down to keep her senses keen, though refilled often enough from the passing carts that her face was flush and her tongue loose. Lady Adair had insisted that Gwen be accompanied, and so she walked along with her younger brother, Grieg.
His age was just beginning to reach him, in long legs and spindly arms, bony wrists that stuck out from shirtsleeves that fit a week earlier. The Mabs were always cursing his growth and the tangle of hair that no amount of well-meaning spittle could keep straight. They walked side-by-side, Gwen still trapped in her dress, Grieg wearing his best approximation of a hunter’s leathers. They shared a leg of turkey and talked quietly.
“It’s a good enough showing,” Grieg said as they walked down the high road toward the small tourney ground that had been set up at the edge of the woods. “Not Heartsbridge or Houndhallow, for certain, but good enough.” He took a greasy mouthful of turkey. “I heard that Blakley is celebrating the Allfire in Halverdt’s court this year.”
“Gods bless him. There’s no way I would ever raise a mug in Greenhall,” Gwen said. “There may be peace between Suhdra and Tener, but that doesn’t mean there’s any sort of love.”
“Oh, I don’t know. I’ve seen a few fine ladies take their turn at the gentle blade, the last Frostnight. I could learn to love.”
“If you want your blade handled gently, then yes, it’s Suhdrin ladies for you,” Gwen said. She tossed her hand to her forehead, as though fainting. “My lord, my lord, how mighty is your blade? Forsooth!”
“Lady Charlotte would have a fine laugh at that, sis. Right before she put steel through your ribs.”
“Charlotte Malygris can suck my tits,” Gwen said. “And don’t give me that look.”
Grieg waved his hand and tried to hide his laughter, to little effect. His mug wasn’t half as full of frothy beer as it had been moments ago, and had been filled more than once. Gwen snatched the crockery out of his hand and drained it.
“I’m tired of thin wine,” she said, pushing her glass into his hand. “You drink this.”
“Nah.” He emptied it behind a barrel and shrugged. “There’s more than enough ale for everyone. No need to waste good belly space on that swill.”
They continued down the street, avoiding roving gangs of jugglers and the occasional prophet, all of them deep in their cups. Just off the road, a certain amount of indiscriminate lechery was happening, barely concealed beneath canvas tarps or half-open windows. Grieg’s head was on a swivel. Gwen had seen her share.
She and her brother found a barrel of ale and refilled their mugs, then settled onto a bench overlooking the meager tournament grounds. Truthfully, this wasn’t a proper tournament. There was no tilt to be run, no jousting lists to be entered or melee to be contested. The baron’s master of the chamber had organized an archery match, and Sir Merret and Sir Dobbs were conducting a lancing demonstration, which was drawing a nice crowd. Gwen and Grieg sat and drank happily, watching the two knights pass slowly by each other, touching lance to shield to the cheer of the crowd. Though Sir Merret was the older by quite a few years, even in this mock tourney his skill at lance was clear. There was enough ale in the audience to keep the onlookers entertained, even if the competition wasn’t fierce.
“I swear, if they go much slower they’ll lame the horses,” Grieg muttered as Merret’s lance bounced off Dobbs’ shield.
“It’s all in fun, brother,” Gwen said. “You wouldn’t want our father’s men to hurt each other, would you? Surely there’s enough danger in the world without that.”