Jair nodded solemnly. “You know I’ll be there.” He
thought for a moment. “Do you think the disturbers of the barrows are organized? Father doesn’t hold much with meddling in the ways of the
vayash moru
, but ever since I went back to Margolan for Tris’s wedding, I’ve seen how important it is to rule both the living and the undead. Tris connected me with the
vayash moru
leaders in Dhasson, and through them, I’ve heard that with the plague, some people are turning back to the old ways, to human sacrifice and blood magic to appease Shanthadura and the Shrouded Ones. Do you think that could be behind the barrow desecrations?”
Talwyn shivered although the day was warm. “The Sworn remembers the cult of the Shrouded Ones. Those were very dark days. It’s been hundreds of years since anyone has worked their rites—at least, that we’ve heard about. But the smokewalkers will know. I’ll ask.”
Late that night, after the Sworn had gathered for dinner to greet Jair and welcome him back to the Ride, Jair and Talwyn headed toward the ceremonial tent. They were joined by Pevre, who was Talwyn’s father and the Sworn’s chieftain. Pevre was a large, strongly built man. He was esteemed among his people for both his leadership and his ability with a sword, but now, as Jair and Talwyn entered into the ritual tent, it was Pevre’s mystical connection to past generations of the Sworn that was foremost in Jair’s mind.
The chamber had been prepared. As they entered, one of the Sworn warriors handed a cup filled with a clear blue elixir to each of them, then stepped outside to guard the entrance. Jair took a deep breath and swallowed the elixir. It seemed to sharpen his senses immediately, even as it
gave him the feeling that he was floating within his own body, untethered to the physical world. Three pillows sat next to a small brazier in the center of the tent, and in front of it, a series of small cups filled with sacred herbs that would help open the passage to the spirit world.
The ceremonial tent was large enough to hold all of the adults in the Sworn. The walls of the tent were painted in more pictures and runes. Bells hung from a central support, and on the other side of the tent, bits of colored glass, polished stone, and reflective metal glittered in the firelight where they were suspended as a warding against evil. Along the back wall, a small altar acknowledged the ancestors, whom the Sworn believed continued the Ride for eternity, aiding from beyond the mortal world in maintaining their watch over the barrows and the Dread who dwelt within them.
“Are you ready?” Talwyn’s voice was level. Jair nodded, although he had no idea what tonight’s ritual entailed.
Pevre began to chant. The language of the Sworn was heavy with consonants, a language that almost seemed more growled than spoken. It was far different from the languages of the seven kingdoms, or from Common, the language spoken by traders. Some said the Sworn’s language was older, while other tales said it took its origins far south, beyond the Winter Kingdoms, from peoples now long gone. It had taken Jair years to master it, but now he followed the chant in what had become his second native tongue.
“Spirits of those who have gone before, come to the gathering. Walk with us on the paths of smoke. Let us see with your eyes, and counsel us with your wisdom. We are
the people of the Ride. We are the guardians of the barrows. We are the watchers of the Dread. We are the protectors. We are the Sworn.” Pevre raised a ceremonial knife and sliced a gash in his forearm. He held his arm over the brazier so that drops of the fresh blood fell into the coals, hissing. Pevre took herbs from the first of the cups next to the fire and dropped it onto the fire. Pungent smoke rose, filling the tent with the smell of absinthe.
Pevre passed the obsidian-bladed knife to Talwyn. Talwyn rose onto her knees and spread her arms wide. Her head fell back, exposing her throat and chest to the cloud of smoke. She raised her head and brought her hands in, palms up, as she looked toward the opening in the tent roof through which the smoke slowly spiraled.
“Travelers who have made the journey, walk with me, fathers of my father, mothers of my mother, bone of my bone, I call you. I want to walk the paths of smoke with you tonight. Accept me into your company.” Talwyn raised the flat of the knife to her lips and kissed it, and then drew the point down the palm of her left hand. She let drops of the blood hiss on the brazier coals, and then added herbs from the second cup to the fire. This time, the smoke rose with the scent of cinnamon, mingled with holly and dandelion.
The knife passed to Jair. He had none of Talwyn’s shamanic gifts, nor Pevre’s second sight. But the blood of kings flowed in his veins, a powerful and ancient magic. Bound to Talwyn by oath, sex, and magic, Jair’s presence was essential for the working of the night’s ritual. As Talwyn had taught him, Jair focused his attention on the ancestral altar.
“Warriors of the Sworn, aid your people. Seers of my
tribe, bring us your visions. Souls of our honored dead, we bid you welcome.” Jair slashed the blade down his left thumb, opening a cut that bled freely into the coals. With his other hand, Jair dropped another handful of the ritual herbs into the fire. Smoke rose that smelled of sweetgrass and anise.
The smoke grew thicker, dense with the smell of blood and herbs. It hung in a heavy layer within the tent and as Jair watched, the haze began to move. Jair thought he glimpsed barely formed images in the smoke, faces or forms almost perceived and then gone. Along the wall, the bells chimed.
The elixir made Jair feel light within his body. The smoke beckoned his spirit to walk the ghostly pathways that stretched out before them. Jair took another deep breath and felt a shift, as if a part of him had left his body behind. Embraced by the smoke, Jair could see Talwyn and Pevre standing next to him, not in physical form but as if they, like he, were made of the smoke itself.
Figures stepped out of the cloud of smoke that filled the tent. Two of the men were dressed like chiefs of the past. They moved to stand one on each side of Pevre, and they walked with him into the smoke, where he disappeared from Jair’s view. A man and a woman came for Talwyn. They both wore the robes of a tribal shaman, and the woman wore a necklace that had an animal skull at its center. Talwyn held out her hands to them, and they, too, vanished into the smoke.
Jair felt an otherworldly calm settle over him as he awaited his spirit guides. After a moment, two warriors appeared out of the cloud. They were gray like the smoke, as was Jair’s spirit form, but when they offered him their
hands in greeting, the touch felt solid and warm. Jair had not heard the spirit guides speak to either Pevre or Talwyn, but the taller of the two spirit warriors met his eyes and spoke to him in a low, strong voice. “Walk with us, and we will show you what we have seen.”
Jair nodded, uncertain whether he would be able to answer them, and he let the warriors guide him. The smoke closed around them, but a new vista opened up, and it seemed to Jair that they were walking among the hillsides of Margolan in the desolate countryside where barrows stood. He had no way to know whether they were still within the ceremonial tent or whether his spirit guides had taken him far beyond its canvas walls. They passed over the road without any sound of footsteps, and though Jair could see wind blowing the branches of the trees around them, he did not feel a breeze on his skin. The landscape seemed drained of all color, but the details were crisp, as if everything were washed by moonlight.
Jair followed his warrior spirits to a large barrow. He saw the wardings that were set by the Sworn long ago, protections most passersby would not notice, like the four oak trees planted at the quarters and the holly bushes planted at the cross quarters. High on the trunks of those trees, runes were cut deep into the bark. Belladonna, basil, and cowslip were planted around the barrow and over its mound to strengthen the magic. But as Jair approached with his spirit guides, he could see that something was terribly wrong.
The holly had been knocked down, and the trees viciously slashed. Where the bushes or the trees were too sturdy to fall, counter-runes had been carved into the bark to negate the magic. Bits of hellebore and black willow
were strewn around and over the mound to cancel out the protective plants. A hole had been hacked into the side of the barrow, and above it was a rough wooden door frame. From the top of the frame hung the butchered body of a goat. Blood from the offering pooled at the entrance to the hole. In this spirit realm, Jair could feel the hidden energies roiling, and beyond them, a powerful dark presence that was hungry and searching.
“Who did this?” Jair asked his spirit guides.
The taller of the two men led them backward, and it looked as if everything around them moved in reverse with them, from the direction of the wind to the motion of the moon overhead. The barrow was now untouched. Jair and his guides watched as four men in black robes approached the barrow. One of the men lifted his arms and his hands began to move with the spell he cast as another of his companions withdrew a live rat from a bag and impaled it with a large knife into the ground at his feet. Jair watched as the four men carried out the desecrations he had seen, ending with the offering of the goat. Their heavy cowls hid their faces, but in the moonlight, Jair glimpsed the amulet that hung from a chain around one man’s neck, and he glimpsed the same amulet on the silver cuff of another. It was the three-bone charm, sacred to the Shrouded Ones, Peyhta, Konost, and Shanthadura.
Jair started toward the figures. Both of his spirit guides drew their
stelians
and blocked his way.
“Let me stop them!”
“What you see has already happened. It cannot be undone,” the shorter warrior said. “We show you what has already come to pass.”
They stood alone now in the shadow of the desecrated
barrow. “Can the damage be repaired?” Jair asked, keeping a worried eye on the darkness that stretched down from the large hole hacked into the barrow’s side.
“If your shaman has the power,” the tall warrior replied. “This is but one barrow among many. But beware, blood calls blood.”
With a roar, something dark streaked from the opening. It blotted out the moonlight where it passed, stretching out like the flow of a black river. The two spirit guards moved to block it, and the taller guard turned to Jair.
“Return to your body. It knows you’re still alive. Go back among the living and it can’t follow.”
Jair fled into the smoke, hoping that he could find the path back to rejoin his body. Suddenly, he found himself in the ceremonial tent again, facing his body. Jair couldn’t tell whether Pevre and Talwyn had returned to themselves or whether they, also, faced danger in the paths of smoke. He ran at himself, and as his smoke spirit passed through his living flesh, his body jolted awake from its trance. Moments later, he saw Pevre and then Talwyn rejoin themselves as well. Talwyn took a final handful of herbs from the last of the containers, and the strong smell of rosemary and clove sealed the working. Talwyn shook her head as if to clear it, and then bowed toward the brazier before she stood. Jair and Pevre climbed to their feet beside her. The two guards opened the tent flap and a cool night breeze dissipated the last of the smoke.
Judging by the position of the moon, the ritual had taken several candlemarks. Talwyn motioned for Jair and Pevre to follow her back to their tent. Kenver was asleep on his mat. She poured wine for each of them and then brought out a tray of sliced apples, mint, and cheese to ground them
once more in the world of the living. After they had eaten and finished the wine, Jair looked to Talwyn and Pevre.
“What did you see?”
Talwyn drew a deep breath. “I walked with the shamans to understand the binding of the barrow, long ago. They showed me how the protections were made, and how to re-bind the wardings.”
Pevre drained the last from his leather cup and laid it aside. “I walked with the chiefs to the last time the Dread were in the world. They’re neither good nor evil, but their power is far greater than ours. We wake them at our peril. They serve us best watching the gateways to the abyss.”
Talwyn turned to Jair. “And you?”
Jair nodded. “I didn’t have nearly the adventure you did. I probably saw only a week or so ago, when the barrow was desecrated. But there’s no doubt: The Durim are the ones who broke the wardings, although I don’t know what they thought it would do or what they were after.” He shivered. “Even so, something bad nearly got out. The spirit warriors blocked it, and they said if I returned to my body that whatever it was had no power over me, but it was like a large, solid, black shadow and it felt evil.”
Pevre looked thoughtful. “There are worse things than
dimonns
,” he said quietly. “The old stories say that, long ago, monsters walked the world. Things that look like the magicked beasts you’ve fought,” he said with a nod toward Jair. “But worse. Much worse. In those days, it didn’t take a blood mage to conjure the monsters, and they preyed on all living things.” He poured another draught of wine and settled back to continue the story. Jair guessed it was for his benefit, since he was certain Talwyn knew the old tales as well as her father.
“Long ago, the Shrouded Ones ruled the night. Peyhta, the Soul Eater, Konost, the Guide of Dead Souls, and Shanthadura, the Destroyer. They called the monsters and the monsters did their bidding. Some of the monsters were beasts. Some were like the shadow you describe. Some were
dimonns
, but
dimonns
with much greater power than those that find their way to the world today.”
“How were they defeated?” Jair asked, leaning forward.