Authors: Tim Akers
“That might not be in my hands. If given my choice, I would take you back to the Fen Gate, and then have a very long talk with your father.”
Gwen didn’t reply, and settled into herself. Though worried about traveling with a priest and a vow knight so close to the hallow, she had decided it was better to keep them close than let them wander the Fen on their own. Then the gheist attack had forced her hand. She had silently hoped that the witching wives would appear and take command, but her last contact with them left Gwen unsure of their ability to do anything, much less take down a healthy knight of the vow.
She was coming to realize that she wouldn’t have the heart to kill the pair herself, and hoped it wouldn’t come to that.
She looked at Lucas again. “He won’t like that,” Gwen said. “My father.”
“I would imagine not,” Lucas said. He made a groaning sound that might have been laughter. “I don’t expect you to trust me—not yet.” He set the cup down and rummaged through a pouch on his belt, drawing out a root that smelled like leather. He put it in his mouth and started to chew. “Dreadful stuff. Can I tell you a story?”
“About roots?”
“About gods. Your gods, specifically.”
“I’m faithful to the Celestial church,” Gwen said stiffly. She wasn’t about to admit to full-blown heresy.
“‘Faithful’ is such an interesting word,” Lucas said. Whatever was in the tea, or the root he was chewing now, seemed to be doing its job. He looked better than he had all day. “I’m sure you say your prayers and sing your blessings. As huntress, you do a fair bit of reaving in the name of the Celestial gods. How do your witching friends feel about that?”
“We have an understanding.”
“Yes. Understanding and faithful. Tricky words.” Lucas spat a wad of chewed root into the woods. “So, your gods—all of our gods, really. They follow a calendar. This is obvious enough with the Celestial faith, the ascendance of Cinder in the winter, Strife in summer. The power Elsa draws during the day. My own strength at night.” He gestured to the sky. Perhaps his health had more to do with the moon than the tea, Gwen realized. She would see in the morning. “Everything in between, and not just the calendar. The powers of the gods are dictated by geography.”
“I haven’t heard that,” Gwen said. “How can the gods of sun and moon be affected by geography?”
“Not
our
geography,” Lucas said. He jabbed a finger at the moon, which was just lifting its silver head over the trees. “The landscape of the sky. Where the gods live among the stars affects what we can do with their blessings. When Cinder draws a cloak across his face, hiding from our sight or shielding his light from the earth, it changes how my powers work. The same goes for Strife, though the movements of the bright lady are more subtle. Easier to hide.”
“You shouldn’t be telling these things to a pagan,” Elsa said without looking up from the fire.
“She knows them, or knows their equivalent,” he replied, “because her gods are bound by geography, as well. Aren’t they, Huntress?”
“The gheists commit to ley lines. They are bound to henges, or manifest in holy places. It’s how the shamans were able to control them.”
“Yes,” Lucas said. “And no. The gheists are not bound to those sites. The old priests noticed the patterns of their gods and built henges to focus them. Those places were holy before mankind ever stepped foot in Tenumbra. We just gave each a building, and a ritual.”
“What’s the difference?”
Lucas shrugged. “Maybe nothing. The Allfire was holy before the first celestriarch built the first doma. The Frostnight is hallowed, with or without our observation. It’s not our worship that sanctifies these things, but it’s important to note that the gheists rise where they choose. Where it is natural for them to manifest. It’s not the pagans who draw them. If you removed the witching wives entirely, the gods would still find form.”
“That seems obvious, since the church has destroyed the old religion,” Gwen replied, “and yet the gheists still trouble the land.”
Lucas laughed. It dissolved into a wracking cough that left him curled against the tree. Elsa moved to his side, but the frair waved her off. When he had his voice again, he continued.
“They follow patterns,” he said. “We know them. You know them—in your role as huntress.”
“Within my own territory, yes,” Gwen admitted. “I’d imagine your knowledge is broader. The church has kept secret what they know, however, out of fear that hidden pagans would use it to raise more gods.”
“I suspect you know more about the spirits of the Fen than even the high inquisitor,” Lucas said with a knowing smile, a smile that made her very nervous. “Or at least I hope so. But yes, Elsa and I know much about the old gods. Some learned from the church, some from our years in the field. I have been at this business a very long time, and in that time I’ve learned something about the witching wives, and the shamans who work with them.
“People like your friend from last night.”
Gwen went stiff.
“How did you know?” she asked.
“I dream in shadows,” Lucas said, “and sometimes I don’t sleep well.”
“So you knew the gheist was coming?”
“I did,” he replied, and there was no anger in his voice. “I was curious to see what you would tell us, if anything. Nevertheless, I took the time to scout the surrounding area, to find a place to make our stand. And I learned something more.” His voice had grown rough. Lucas nodded to Elsa, who brought him a water skin.
“The priests who were following that gheist weren’t just trying to catch us, though that is what happened. They are hunting something else. Some
place
else. It was leading them to something holy.”
“Where?” Gwen asked.
“I don’t know, yet. Perhaps you could tell me. Perhaps your father could.”
Gwen shook her head.
“As you will. Secrets take time to unfold.” Lucas made a dismissive gesture, even as Elsa tightened her jaw. The vow knight settled on a stump on the other side of the fire, glaring at Gwen and clenching her fists.
“In time, Gwen,” he continued. “There are many dangers. In time you may decide that I am the least of them.” Lucas was tired. He looked unhappily around the campsite, as though judging where the least miserable place to sleep might be.
“I know what you are. I know who you serve. I’ve suspected it for quite some time. As soon as I noticed the broken patterns in the gheists, in their manifestations. The old rules stopped working, the old gods disappeared. New gods rose up. Surely you’ve noticed it,” he said, then shook his head. “No, not here. Not in the Fen. You’ve maintained a balance here, a balance that is missing from the rest of Tenumbra.
“The breakdown of generations of godly pattern, the blight that has settled in the south, and through all of Suhdra… and yet the Fen was spared. I knew something had to be responsible for that.” He raised his head, the slightest shake in his neck as fatigue claimed him. “And then I found you. The huntress of Adair. Faithful pagan and killer of gods, and I knew I had the cause.”
Gwen was quiet. Elsa was hunched on the other side of the fire, one hand on her sword, the other resting lightly on her knee. Lucas rested his head against the tree and seemed to settle in for the night.
“Then why am I not in chains?” Gwen asked quietly. “Why have you let me live?”
“Because I think I can trust you,” he replied. “I think that I
have
to trust you, in fact, if I’m to get to the truth.” He shifted uncomfortably, not opening his eyes. “Trust you to do what is right for Tenumbra, and the church, and your old gods. In time I hope you will learn to trust me to do the same.”
Gwen didn’t answer. She shot Elsa a look. The vow knight’s eyes were on the frair. When Lucas didn’t say anything else, but seemed to be drifting off to sleep, she shrugged and stood up, preparing her bedroll.
“You will have first watch,” Elsa said. “Prove yourself worthy of it.”
“If I’m to guard, I will need a weapon.”
“If there’s trouble, wake me up. I will be all the weapon you need.”
The vow knight settled into her bed. Gwen was about to douse the fire and find a good spot to set up her watch when a hound bayed in the distance.
Both Elsa and Lucas had their eyes open.
“They’re following us,” Elsa whispered. “They will find us. We should run, now, but he needs to rest. He needs the healing of a bloodwright.”
“No,” Gwen said, shaking her head. She made a decision. “I know a place. In the morning, I will lead you there. A place of healing, and of hiding. We will be safe.”
T
HE COURTYARD WAS
quiet, the soldiers lining the walls and standing in ranks barely moving as the castle gates creaked open. Malcolm, Sorcha, and Colm Adair stood just inside the gates. A small group waited outside.
There were only six riders, three pairs. Gabriel Halverdt rode at the front, dressed in full plate, his pauldrons forged in the shape of oak trees swollen with acorns, the golden seeds encrusting his breastplate, gauntlets, and the buckles of his leg armor. The plate itself was enameled a green so dark that it swirled with oily shadows, and his chest was decorated in the gold cross and tri-acorn of his crest.
Halverdt’s helmet rested on his saddle, and his hair, black shot with gray and silver, flowed long over his shoulders. He looked tired, though victory lit his face as he trotted into the courtyard. Seeing the collected ranks of Tenerran spearmen, he gave a dismissive sniff.
Behind Halverdt rode Sir Volent, still in his plain armor, though a new cloak of white and silver was draped over his shoulders. As always, his dead face betrayed no emotion as he entered the castle.
To Halverdt’s left rode the high elector. Beaunair looked tired, as well—the fatigue of despair, a look that threatened to bring Malcolm’s heart tumbling. If Beaunair had given up before negotiations began, what hope did they have? The priest wore the full vestments of his position, cloak and robe and mantle, though the gold-trimmed helmet that pressed into his forehead was more military than sacred. Beaunair rode in front of the high inquisitor. Malcolm wondered why Sacombre had chosen to follow Beaunair, rather than coming into the Fen Gate at Halverdt’s side. He wore practical clothes, simple blacks edged in purple silk, with a darkwood staff couched in his stirrup like a lance.
The last two riders were of the House Roard. The duke of Stormwatch was in the lead, armed and armored for battle. His bearing held none of the contempt of Halverdt, nor his war dress the needless ornamentation. Martin followed in his wake. The younger Roard kept his eyes low, avoiding Malcolm and Sorcha.
“I have come to speak of your surrender, Blakley,” Halverdt said without preamble.
“And I welcome you into this castle to speak of peace,” Colm Adair answered. “Nothing more.”
“Peace, then,” Lorien Roard said quickly, before Halverdt could respond. “Peace beneath the banner of the Celestial church.”
“Gods bless,” Beaunair said.
“The gods may bless what they will,” Halverdt answered, “but I am eager for the justice of Cinder. Let us be done with this as quickly as possible. I’ve only just arrived, and already I’m tired of your hovel.”
“Brave words for a man surrounded by his enemy’s blades,” Sorcha snapped.
“Brave words for a woman,” Halverdt responded with a smile. “Let’s not pretend, Duchess. If any harm comes to me, the army at your gates will grind your bones into ash, and then burn your name from history. There will be no heir to Houndhallow. Though if what I’ve heard from Duke Roard is true, then that threat may be empty. I suppose someone would still need to murder your daughter. Nessie, isn’t that her name?” he purred. “Yes, I think that can be arranged.”
“Don’t you dare—” Malcolm started.
“Let us find our rooms,” Beaunair said, interrupting the exchange. “The sooner to feast, the sooner to begin negotiations.”
“Agreed,” Lorien said. “Let’s leave the blood on the battlefield, where it belongs.”
Malcolm bowed his head and kept his eyes down while Colm’s men led Halverdt, Volent, and the priests. When he looked up, Lorien was still waiting, staring at him. Lorien looked back to his son.
“Martin?” the duke of Stormwatch prompted his son.
Looking embarrassed, the young man dismounted and came to stand in front of Malcolm and Sorcha. He carried a scabbard that Malcolm didn’t recognize until he drew the blade. It was a fresh sheath, but it held Ian’s sword.
“This was found among the stones of the ford, along with Ian’s horse,” Martin said, presenting it to Malcolm. He took the sword, then handed it to his wife. Sorcha turned it over in her hands. Her eyes were dry, but there was fear in her voice.
“And his body?” she asked.
“We found nothing, my lady. I am deeply sorry…”
“Enough,” Sorcha said. “We are all deeply sorry, for different reasons.” Then she turned and marched back to the keep. Malcolm watched her go, then turned his attention back to Martin.
“Ian always spoke well of you. I hope his friendship still means something to you, even in the quiet.”
“It does,” Martin answered. “More, actually. I have grown tired of regret.”
“Then you have chosen the wrong war,” Malcolm said. “It seems that we will have nothing of this but regret.”
Martin nodded tearfully, then returned to the saddle and went with his father into the keep. Malcolm looked at the empty scabbard in his hands, newly formed, the leather not yet broken from drawing and seating its blade, the silver at its tip untarnished. He turned and handed it to Colm Adair.
“I have no need of this,” he said. “Any of this.”
* * *
The fire was low and the jug of wine empty. The lords of Tenumbra, plagued by fatigue and frustration, sat around a table littered with maps and ink-stained contracts, none of which brought them closer to peace.
Lorien Roard had gone to bed hours ago, frustration writ large on his face. Sir Henri Volent lurked in the corner of the room like the promise of violence. The incense that hung in the air had grown stale in Malcolm’s throat. His mouth was coated in the stink of frairwood and frustration. Even the whiskey couldn’t cut through the haze in his head as he shuffled the papers on the table like a dog rooting for food, sure that he’s eaten every scrap yet stubbornly hopeful he’ll find something new among the wreckage.