The Pagan Night (45 page)

“What of Tallownere?” he said.

“There is nothing of value in Tallownere,” Halverdt said. The duke of Greenhall sat frowning at the head of the table, staring into the remnants of the fire. Colm Adair stood at the opposite side of the room, near the door, his arms folded tight. “Nothing but mud and ash.”

“Ash from the village your men burned,” Adair hissed.

“A village that could be repopulated in time,” Malcolm said quickly, before discussion disintegrated again.

“I will not have pagans settling on my border,” Halverdt answered. “Better that the land remain fallow.” He swirled the dregs in his mug, grimaced at the remnants, then tossed it down his throat. “The point of this exercise is to ensure the elimination of the Adair rebels. Elimination comes through obedience. Obedience comes from punishment. We should only discuss their concessions—not ours.”

“As your proposal stands, you are requiring garrison rights at the Reaveholt, road taxes throughout the Fen, and wardship of Gwendolyn Adair,” Malcolm said. “Whereas Colm has demanded the execution of Henri Volent, full reparations for the dead of Tener, and an apology from every lord and knight who has set foot in his land. Neither of these are valid proposals.” He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his face. The late hour was wearing on his patience. “Neither of you is negotiating!

“Farming and settlement rights at Tallownere would be a good start, both financially and symbolically,” he continued. “After all, Tallownere is where this whole mess began.”

Halverdt stood, suddenly and violently. He threw his empty mug across the hall and struck the table with his fist, causing the maps and contracts to jump.

“This mess began long before the ambush at Tallownere!” he bellowed. “We have tolerated
generations
of disrespect and heresy from the tribe of Adair! That they have fooled their Tenerran brothers into thinking they were faithful is no concern of mine. It is the church in Heartsbridge that must judge them!”

“And yet you have appointed yourself to that role, my lord,” High Elector Beaunair said. The priest had settled against the wall as far from the incense-wafting fire pit as possible. “Even Cinder expects balance in his justice. We cannot eat at the table of trust with judgment in both hands.”

“To hell with the table of trust,” Colm said. “You can’t destroy this house with the stroke of a pen!”

“You can’t, my dear baron,” Halverdt said. “I have no such limitation. I have the strength of the south at your gate, and the blessing of Heartsbridge upon my actions. The reason you are at this table is because you’re afraid of what will happen if I march upon the Fen Gate. You all know these walls will fall before me.” He moved to Malcolm’s side, grinning broadly. “And
you
have failed to stir the rest of Tener to your cause, Blakley. They want to keep their precious pagan lands free of the church’s judgment.”

“Gods and hell, Gabriel, you’re worse than a drunk at his first joust.” Malcolm folded his arms in exasperation. “The only reason you’re here at this table is because half your army doesn’t want this fight. We’ve kept the peace between Suhdra and Tener for years. Our countries have prospered, the peace of the church has spread, and the old gods have been kept in check. At dusk each night the evensong rises from thousands of throats from the Tallow to Far Watch, and the grace of Cinder and Strife is hallowed. Disrupt that, and you threaten more than just war.”

“I think we’re all tired, and most of us are drunk.” Castian Jaerdin stood from his chair and went to the table. He gave Malcolm a thin smile as he gathered the night’s paperwork into a single pile. “We may be better off burning all of this and starting afresh in the morning. Regardless, I’m certain we would all benefit from a night’s sleep.”

“Will Sacombre be joining us again in the morning?” Colm asked. “Every time we make progress, he adds in a pogrom, and we’re back to the beginning.”

“I don’t know where the high inquisitor has gotten to tonight,” Beaunair said. “Perhaps he and I could tour the castle tomorrow. You might do better without the church hanging over your shoulder.”

“I’d rather have him where I can see him,” Colm answered. Then he gave a wave of his hand. “I’ve had enough of this. Good night.”

The baron of the Fen Gate stalked outside, slamming the door behind him.

“Then we are through,” Malcolm snapped. “For tonight, at least… we have done enough. Let’s all go to bed before someone’s honor gets in the way and we’re arranging a duel or a marriage or some such idiocy.”

“I have all the time in the world,” Gabriel Halverdt answered. He collected his sword belt from beside the table and buckled it tight. The scabbard was new wood and leather, and the hilt was wrapped in the blessings of the inquisition.

“New sword, my lord?” Malcolm asked.

“Indeed,” Halverdt said smugly. “A gift from the high inquisitor. To protect me against the pagan night. Wrought in the blood of the choir eternal, and forged in Hollyhaute.” He drew the sword with a song like a maiden’s whisper and held it flat in his palms. The blade was etched in holy runes. “You will not see a more divine blade in all of Tenumbra.”

“It’s very odd,” Beaunair said. He peered down at the sword and shook his head. “I don’t recognize some of these.”

“You are no inquisitor,” Halverdt said with a sneer. “It’s safe to assume that High Inquisitor Sacombre knows something more of the naether arts than you.”

“No doubt,” the high elector allowed. “After all, I am but a mortal instrument of the bright lady. The ways of naether and lumaire are closed to me. But still…”

There was a crash in the courtyard outside, and then the sounds of a brief struggle. Screams erupted in the courtyard beyond. Malcolm jumped to his feet, while Sir Volent flinched deeper into the shadows. Only Gabriel Halverdt seemed transfixed, staring at the door and smiling.

“He knew it would come to this. He knew I would be needed.” Gabriel turned to Malcolm and smiled, a fevered, wicked look on his face. “He knew you would betray the divine, and so he armed me.”

The door burst open.

S
ORCHA SPENT THE
evening as far from the council chamber as she could manage. She couldn’t abide the way Martin Roard looked at her, nor his words about faith and friendship. She ate in her rooms, then took a long walk on the walls.

The endless campfires of the Suhdrin army stretched out through the valley. She sat among the crenels and drank most of a bottle of wine. Malcolm insisted that they had friends among the Suhdrin host, that without the likes of DuFallion and Marcy, this host would have broken these walls and murdered any who dared oppose them. But she couldn’t find any comfort in those fires. They twinkled like a bad omen among the stars, an ill sign, a promise of destruction.

When she was too drunk to care and too sober to find comfort, Sorcha took the shortest route from the curtain wall to her rooms. The sounds of the evensong echoed everywhere. The castle was full to bursting, but Sorcha was able to avoid everyone. Most people were either in the doma observing the evensong, or still at their dinners. The great lords were at their council. Even the guards posted along the wall were few and far between.

Something prickled at the back of Sorcha’s neck. The silence held an odd quality, a thickness in the air, that reminded her of heavy weather. She hurried up the stairs to her rooms, taking the steps two at a time.

Halfway up she heard the sound of wood breaking, and a tremendous
thud
, like a weight dropped from some great height. Heartbeats later there was screaming.

She started to run.

Her guards lay at the top of the flight, necks broken, limbs splayed out in the hallway. They were freshly dead.

Sorcha crouched next to one, drew his knife and stepped over the bodies. The door to their suite of rooms was closed but Sir Dugan’s room, the closest to the stairs, stood open. It did not look as though it had been forced. Light flickered from the interior, as dim and inconstant as a candle. Sorcha crept forward, terrified of what she would find.

Dugan’s room was wrecked, the bed and shelves broken and scattered about. There was blood, but not enough to fill a body, and the door was raked by great gouge marks. Sorcha had seen bears mark trees in the forest, but these were even larger, deeper. She wondered where the master of guard was, and who had done such a thing.

Screams began outside the window. The courtyard filled with the sound of clashing steel and panicked people.

She ventured farther into the room, her toe dragging through some kind of sand that was sprinkled along the doorway. The smell of incense filled her nose. There was something else in the middle of the room, a collection of wreckage that she had mistaken for broken furniture. She moved closer, and saw what it was.

Iron icons of the old faith lay in a circle, a bowl at their center. The bowl was wood, carved with runes similar to the ones Sorcha had often seen on henge stones, and it was slick with blood. Most of the blood in the room seemed to have come from this bowl, scattered about like water from a censer. The stone floor within the circle of icons was scorched. Sorcha ran a trembling finger along the ground and came up smeared with ash and sand.

No. Too sharp for sand, too brittle.

Ground bones.

She looked up at the window. The shutters were broken, just like everything else in the room, but their wreckage wasn’t inside. She went to the window and looked down.

Below her was chaos. Splinters of wood lay in the courtyard far below. A pile of dark mounds lay scattered beneath the window, splotches that resolved into bloodstained guards as Sorcha’s eyes adjusted to the darkness. All around the courtyard she could see guardsmen rushing about, gathering spears and huddling in shadows. She couldn’t see what had drawn their attention.

Something crashed on the other side of the courtyard, and sudden light spilled out from a door thrown open. A shape loomed in the darkness, briefly outlined by the light before disappearing inside. It had the shape of a man, wild hair, but was somehow broken in posture—like a scarecrow with its bones cracked open, shuffling forward on legs of straw and splintered wood.

Sorcha tried to figure what door it was that opened. It took her a moment to clear her drunken brain and orient herself to the courtyard, the front gate, the walls themselves. A scream broke out through the night, and the voices of the choir eternal, deep in the evensong, faltered in their praise and awe of Cinder. Steel clashed, and then the gheist alarm began to sound.

She knew where the beast was headed. That was the throne room. There was a god free and mad in the Fen Gate. A god wearing Sir Dugan’s broken body.

* * *

The body of Gordon Dugan slouched into the room, arms and legs flopping with puppet-like life, taking numb steps, pushing aside the wreckage of the door. His head hung forward, neck broken, face loose on his skull. A web of bones sprouted from his back.

“Sir Dugan?” Malcolm whispered.

The rest of the men in the room exploded into action. Castian Jaerdin drew a silvered blade, dragging the map table to one side to give them room to maneuver. The high elector shied behind the table. Malcolm tore his eyes away from the ruin of his master of guard and looked at the duke of Greenhall.

The man was still smiling.

“What the hell is this, Gabriel?” Malcolm shouted.

The body of Sir Dugan shuffled into the room. Behind it, a line of guardsmen wearing the colors of House Adair moved in, spears leveled at the gheist, their faces flecked with blood and fear. There was a clatter in the choir loft. More helms appeared up there, men bristling with crossbows. Halverdt surveyed his audience, then raised his voice and pointed at the gheist.

“Do you not recognize your gods when you see them?” Halverdt answered. His voice boomed in the echoing heights of the great hall. He flipped the sword around in his hands, loosening the wrapped blessings from the hilt, keeping the point of the blade down. The strips of linen cloth slithered down the blade, twisting with strange, snake-like life. “A gheist in Houndhallow’s company. The hound’s treachery has shown itself!” Halverdt crowed. “Redgarden, your loyalty was given falsely. He warned me there would be treachery! Sound the alarm! Pray, fetch the high inquisitor. Sacombre will dispatch the demon, and then we can deal with these heretics!”

“This treachery is not mine!” Malcolm stood firm. Castian stood between them, looking hopelessly from Halverdt to the high elector. The priest was motionless, staring at the gheist. The crowd of guards shuffled nervously about, their number joined by soldiers of Blakley and Jaerdin. The Suhdrin faces turned to look at their lord, standing aghast in the court below. “What do you mean, he warned you?” Blakley demanded. “Who warned you?”

“The high inquisitor, of course,” Halverdt replied. “Doubtless your lackeys have disposed of him, but that will not be enough. Sacombre warned me of such treachery, and prepared this blade. Get behind me, Castian, Beaunair. I can save you.” Gabriel raised the sword, pointing it at Malcolm. “But I will not save your pet heretics.”

“I will not stand by while you let them be killed,” Castian said. He gripped the hilt of his sword with knuckles white and shaking, but he edged closer to Malcolm.

“Then kill the god yourself—or order your men to do it for you,” Halverdt barked. He crossed to where Jaerdin stood and gave the man a shove in the back. Jaerdin stumbled forward, losing his balance and nearly falling at dead Dugan’s feet. The gheist turned toward him, shoulders hunched and limp face lolling at the end of Dugan’s broken neck. The webwork of bones that stretched from his shoulders tapped along the wall like a blind spider, scenting the stones. Jaerdin drew himself up and presented a dueling guard to the demon.

The bones stopped tapping and arched toward him.

“Defend your lord!” Castian yelled. There was a moment’s hesitation, and then the gathered men of Redgarden loosed their bolts. Steel shafts thumped into the gheist, drawing blood and blackened bile, but otherwise causing the mad god no harm. Castian drew himself up and started marching toward the enemy, silvered blade raised high.