“So those spirits we fought were actually being called to their destruction? The Black Robes would have hollowed them?”
Talwyn nodded. “That’s my guess.”
Jair looked around the battlefield. Emil and Alin’s men had carried away the Sworn’s wounded and had stacked the bodies of the dead Shanthadura priests in a row. The survivors were bound and hobbled and thrown over their horses. Talwyn looked up sharply.
“Don’t burn the Black Robes or the corn figures!” Talwyn rose and strode over to where Alin froze, midmotion, just about to throw the body he had hefted onto the pyre.
“But
Cheira
Talwyn—”
Talwyn shook her head. “The pyre’s been spelled. If we add bodies, we feed the sacrifice. Send two men to bring lye from the soap maker. Go to the village if you must. These were blood mages, so we’d best also assure that they don’t rise with the new moon.”
“M’lady, they’re dead.”
Talwyn met Alin’s eyes. “Some blood mages have the ability to bind or project their souls so that something of them exists, even after death. It’s not a full summoner’s power, thank the Lady, but I don’t want to meet these particular Black Robes again.”
“What do you want us to do,
Cheira
Talwyn?”
“Remove the head, breastbone, and right hand. Cover those with lye and let the lye eat them,” Talwyn directed. “What remains of the bodies, we’ll use to placate the spirits of the barrow. If anything remains of the Black Robes after that, I’ll leave it to the Dread to deal with them.”
“What about the captives?” Jair asked with a nod toward the sullen Durim priests who were bound and kneeling.
Talwyn’s eyes grew cold. “We will take them for judgment before the Consort Spirits. They chose this night because the spirit world is closer. They’re about to find out just how close it is.”
Only a few candlemarks remained before dawn by the time the Sworn warriors returned to camp. Talwyn, Pevre, and Jair knew the night’s work was still not over. Jair oversaw hurried preparation to bring the four captive Durim priests to judgment as Talwyn and Pevre readied for the working.
Though the bells of a distant village sounded the third candlemark of the morning, all but the children of the Sworn filed silently into the common tent. A fire burned in the center, and incense smelled of sandalwood and juniper. At the four quarters of the compass, gemstones hung from the roof supports, flickering in the firelight with the colors of orange chalcedony, jade-blue aventurine, green peridot, and yellow citrine, one for each of the Light Aspects of the Sacred Lady. At the cross quarters hung bloodstone, garnet, iron, and salt—tribute and wardings for the Dark Aspects.
Tonight, it would not be the Aspects that judged the Black Robes. For a high working such as this, the Sworn relied on the four Consort Spirits. A drum beat a solemn rhythm as the people of the Sworn assembled. Jair, Emil, Alin, and one of the other
trinnen
warriors escorted the captives into the gathering space and forced them to kneel in a line facing the center fire. The four warriors were clad in black, with cloth head wraps of black fabric that covered all but their eyes. Their large
stelian
blades glimmered silver in the firelight. They were present to keep the peace, but they would not be the agents of the Consorts’ judgment this night.
When the prisoners were in position, the drum began a different rhythm. The crowd stirred for a first look at the figures entering the round tent. Four beings with the bodies of humans and headdresses like the heads of animals entered silently. Their robes were the colors of the Moon Feast, red, gold, yellow, and orange, honoring both the moon and the harvest. One figure wore the head of a bear. Another wore the head of a stawar, the great dark-furred cat that roamed the Eastmark wilds. The third wore the face of a wolf with
glistening black eyes. And the fourth looked like an eagle with a sharp, hooked bill. Talwyn, Pevre, Mihei, and Estan, a senior healer, wore the costumes but something about their manner made Jair wonder how much of each Consort’s powers the ritual participants took on.
Incense hung heavy in the air, and the firelight danced from the warding stones to cast a shifting pattern of light on the walls. Jair fought the shiver that coursed down his back as the murals painted on the canvas walls seemed to move.
The four prisoners each wore a silver charm that kept them from wielding their magic. Their black robes had been confiscated, leaving only men in loincloths who looked ordinary and defeated. Outnumbered, bound, and stripped of their power, they awaited the judgments of the Consorts with sullen glares.
The eagle figure stepped forward. Jair knew it to be Talwyn, but the figure spoke in a voice unlike hers, shrill, like the cry of a raptor. “Black Robes, Durim, priests of the Shrouded Ones, of Shanthadura, you have brought blood magic among us. You desecrated the barrows of the Ancients, and you committed human sacrifice, in fact and effigy. What do you say for yourself, here in the Judgment, that we might hear your plea?”
The four prisoners remained silent, glaring up at their judges defiantly.
“If you will not speak, then we will let your spirits speak for you,” the Bear Consort rumbled. The figure raised its arms, with palms out and fingers spread. The air seemed to resonate with magic. One of the helpers poured a mixture of herbs into the fire that stretched between the Consort judges and the accused, creating a cloud of smoke
that smelled of spice and pine. Four shapes appeared in the smoke, and the crowd murmured as it became plain that the shapes were those of the prisoners’ smoke walkers.
It was the Stawar Aspect who spoke next, its voice a low growl. “For whom did you sacrifice?”
The smoke images of the prisoners lacked the defiance of their counterparts. “We serve Shanthadura.”
“And for what reason did you violate the barrow?”
“We must awaken the Ancient Dead.”
“Why do you seek this?”
“He Who Calls Us ordered it. We are to make ready. His legions will sweep across the land, bathing it in blood and awakening the old ways. Everything will be swept away, and from that chaos, Shanthadura will rise once more, making new.”
“Who is this who calls you?”
“He is called many names. We know him as Cataclysm, and he is the right hand of Shanthadura.”
“Did you call the Restless Dead?”
“We called them for the soul harvest. We must feed the Ancients.”
“And did you call the
dimonns
? What of them?”
“They have been bound inside the barrows for centuries. They hunger. Shanthadura welcomes their blood offerings. We fear nothing from them.”
“Have you attacked
vyrkin
and
vayash moru
?”
“Their blood is a potent sacrifice, filled with the Wild Song and the Dark Gift. Our mistress covets their blood.”
The four Consorts turned toward each other, and though they said nothing, it looked to Jair as if they conferred. Finally, the Eagle being turned back toward the assemblage.
“You have murdered the living and desecrated the places of the sacred dead. You have made sacrifices of the
vyrkin
and the
vayash moru
, who are favored by the Dark Lady. And you have hollowed the souls of the Restless Dead, which is an abomination. For your crimes, you must be destroyed.”
The smoke walking spirits showed their disdain. “We welcome death. Our deaths feed Shanthadura. We have no fear of it.”
“Your judgment is up to the Consorts,” the Eagle Consort replied.
The drums began to beat faster, and the smoke was heavy with power. The figures of the four Consort Spirits seemed to waver. Three men and a woman wore the costumes of the Aspects, but the smoke figures that emerged were of the animal Aspects. From Pevre’s costumed form came the smoke walker of a great bear. An eagle flew free from Talwyn’s form, as if it launched from atop her shoulder. They were joined by the powerfully muscled figure of a stawar, with its large paws and sleek head, and the figure of a huge gray wolf. The smoke walkers of the prisoners disappeared, and for the first time, Jair saw fear in the captives’ faces. One of the prisoners tried to rise to his feet to flee, but a guard gave him a shove that forced him back to his knees.
In unison, the four figures raised their heads. The stawar was first to strike. With a growl, the large cat sprang at one of the prisoners, passing completely through the man’s body to emerge with a very real heart clenched between its jaws. With a look of astonishment, the Durim priest swayed and fell backward.
The bear lumbered toward its prisoner, rearing to rake
its huge smoke claws down the man’s chest. Deep gashes tore across the prisoner’s body, deep enough that his organs spilled from his belly. The wolf passed through the fire as if the flames were not there, launching itself toward its prisoner and clamping its strong jaws around the man’s neck, tearing through his throat and bone. The last Consort was a huge eagle. Its wingspan was as wide as the bodies of the four prisoners. With a shrill cry, the eagle brought one taloned foot down on the skull of the last doomed man, and with one sharp movement, clenched its claws so that they penetrated bone, crushing the head within its grasp.
The smoke wavered, and the spirit walkers of the Consorts dissipated, leaving behind only smoke and the mauled bodies of the condemned men.
Through it all, the drumbeats had never faltered. Now, indifferent to the stirring of the crowd, the four Consort figures turned and filed from the tent, followed by Jair and the other guardians. By the time Jair reached the outside, Talwyn and the others had vanished.
“I’ve seen that done only once before,” Alin said quietly as he walked beside Jair back to the tent that was the headquarters of the
trinnen
and the barracks for those among the elite warriors who were not married. “I don’t know how Talwyn and Pevre and the others do that, and I don’t think I want to know.”
As often as he’d seen Talwyn work her shaman’s gift, Jair found it both wondrous and unsettling. He tried not to think too hard about the fact that the woman he held in his arms at night was also able to be the direct channel of the spirits of the Consorts and the Lady’s Aspects. How the power worked, he didn’t know, and he doubted
Talwyn could explain it to him. From what he gathered, even among those with a shaman’s gift, training was more by example than it was something that could be reduced to words.
“I’m happy to stick to my swords,” Jair replied. “Swords are simple.” But he knew as he said it that it wasn’t completely true. Swords were indeed simple, but wars never were. And if the boasts of the Black Robes were correct, then war was coming, and it would be anything but simple.
The morning of the Moon Feast dawned clear and bright. And although Jair knew that Talwyn and Pevre had to be exhausted from the battle and from the working of the previous night, they were ready for the festival to begin when the sun was high in the sky.
“How do they celebrate in Valiquet?” Talwyn teased as they watched Kenver compete with the other boys at bolas throwing.
“The way they celebrate everything—with a feast and chamber music,” Jair said, feigning an exaggerated yawn.
“Perhaps when you become king, you can liven it up for them,” Talwyn replied.
Despite how tired he was from the events of the night before, Jair laughed. “I can just picture Lord Scovitt and Lord Janev competing at goat herding.”
“Oh, but surely the palace bakes a meal to rival ours.” Talwyn’s grin showed how much she enjoyed needling Jair about the other half of his life. “After all, how can roasted goat compare to the delicacies they must cook for you every feast night?”
Jair took in a deep breath. The smell of roasting goat
mingled with the scent of cooked leeks and onions. A groaning board of the first fruits and vegetables of the harvest would be served tonight around huge bonfires that would light the night, offered to the living, the guardian spirits of the ancestors, the Dread in the barrows, and to the Lady and her Consorts. Mead would flow freely, and the afternoon belonged to the young men in games of skill. The night was for the bards and storytellers, who would recount legends of long-ago warriors and great chieftains, and tell of the magic and victories of revered shamans. It would be a day and night of feasting, with handfastings encouraged to begin a new cycle of birth in the spring. Jair felt more at home here, among the Sworn, than he ever felt amid Valiquet’s opulence.
“Actually, the palace cook makes a passably fair roasted goat,” Jair replied, pulling himself from his thoughts. “Although venison is more favored at court. Most of the nobility prefers wine to mead, and the spices take more after the western fashion—bland, compared to what we use here.”
Talwyn took his arm. She and Pevre had completed their official morning duties to begin the festival, and when darkness fell, she and Pevre would usher in the night in the traditional way, by setting a large, tarred wagon wheel aflame and rolling it down a path on the highest hill in recognition of the setting sun and the coming shorter days of winter. “Do you think Kenver will win with his bolas?”
Jair chuckled. “He’s got good aim for his age. Give him time. From the dents he’s put in the hitching post, I’d say he’s been practicing.”
Talwyn laughed, and her long dark hair fell around
her face, framing it and making her amber eyes gleam. The festival robes she wore indicated her rank as
cheira
and shaman, but without the formality of her ceremonial regalia. And when she laughed, Jair saw a rare glimpse of the beautiful young woman unburdened from her position and responsibilities.