CHAPTER SIX
The snow let up as Caim limped along the narrow country lane after his guide. The sun was in its last throes, but there was enough daylight to make another mile or two.
They had been marching for the better part of three candlemarks. His injured leg was stiff; his back protested every step with sharp twinges. His guide hadn’t spoken since they left the roadhouse, but he kept a manageable pace. Deep ruts carved the road’s frozen mud. A blanket of white covered the steppes, broken by stands of pine and spruce and occasional outcrops of bare gray rock. The deepening azure sky seemed to stretch forever, marred only by a handful of wispy clouds along the horizon. Almost invisible in the sea of blue, a black-winged bird soared overhead.
The old man turned off the road to cut across the open countryside. Caim eyed the snow for a moment and then followed. The ground beneath the thin crust was uneven, forcing him to slow his pace. They walked along the bottom of a long depression that Caim realized was an old riverbed. It wound northwest through the steppe. Caim was so absorbed minding his footing he almost walked past his guide when the old man stopped by a line of pine trees. In a clearing beyond their laden branches, a herd of caribou passed by. They were graceful creatures even in the deep snow, like the stag he had shot.
“Are you going to take one?” Caim asked in a low whisper.
His guide shook his head as he watched the animals for a few moments more. Then he started off again, his boots crunching through the snow. Caim tried to stay abreast of the old man, but soon fell behind again. After another half a mile, the guide stopped beside a tall hemlock tree. The lower branches had been chopped away to create a small hideaway. Caim didn’t see how he had found it; this tree looked the same as any of the other evergreens around. But he was grateful to duck out of the wind just the same.
The guide dropped his rucksack by the trunk of the tree and hunkered down over a cold fire pit. As the guide began making camp, Caim sank down on the bed of pine needles, too tired and sore to lend a hand. The man muttered something about being back soon and tromped off through the underbrush.
Caim had just closed his eyes when a soft glow pierced his eyelids.
“Caim.”
He opened one eye. Kit levitated over him, just a few inches from his face.
“What?”
“You just can’t resist the urge to play hero, can you?”
“What’s wrong now?”
“What were you thinking back there?” She floated down to lay beside him. “Taking on five men by yourself. And for what?”
He wanted to laugh, but it was too much effort. “Kit, for as long as I’ve known you, you’ve been tugging me toward the straight and narrow.”
“That’s preposterous.”
“How about that time in Brevenna when I nearly killed that palfrey racing Kevan? You hounded me until I swore to never treat another animal like that again.”
“And you forgot your promise riding to save your precious mudwoman, didn’t you? Rode that poor horse to death.”
“I didn’t forget. I had to do what needed doing.”
“I know.”
“Kit, what’s wrong?”
The crunch of snow interrupted their conversation as the guide returned with a bundle of sticks under his arm. Without looking at Caim, he knelt beside the campfire and fed it smaller branches until the flames grew into a blaze. Caim inched closer to get at the warmth. When he glanced over at Kit, she was gone.
“Figures,” he said under his breath.
“What’s that?” the guide asked.
“Just thinking aloud.”
Caim introduced himself and offered his hand.
The guide took it with a firm grip. “I’m Hagan.”
Caim got a better view of his guide as Hagan set a battered pan over the fire. His face was creased and pitted like an ancient boulder. The silver bristles of his beard were matted and stiff. His only weapon was the long knife on his belt, a double-bladed seax.
Flames licked up the sides of the pan as Hagan dumped in a lump of meat. Bacon, by the smell. Caim’s stomach reminded him he hadn’t eaten much today. They sat in silence as the meat cooked. When Hagan deemed it ready, slightly on the rare side but Caim wasn’t in the mood to be picky, he scooped out portions in two tin cups.
The fire snapped and popped as they ate. Caim wolfed down the food and licked the juice from his hands. Hagan, when he was finished, reclined against the tree trunk and ran his fingers through his beard.
“You’re from the Southlands,” he said.
“Calanth.”
The lie came easy. Trust was a fragile thing, especially for a man in his former line of work. Former? So it’s decided then?
“Those blades you wear.” Hagan gestured down toward Caim’s side. “Suete knives, aren’t they?”
Caim reached back and drew the left-hand knife. He held it up so the light reflected off the long blade. He still remembered the day he had claimed them off the body of a mercenary in Michaia. At the time, he’d had no idea they would become so much a part of him.
“I haven’t seen a knife like that in a long time. Not since the war.”
Caim believed him. The Suete rarely left their highlands far to the north in the lee of the Drakstag Mountains, and when they did it was to make war.
Hagan tossed another stick in the fire. “Mind if I ask what takes you up to Haldeshale?”
Caim put the knife away. Haldeshale was a region that had bordered his father’s estate. “I have family in Morrowglen.”
“Maybe I know them. I’ve been all around these—”
“I doubt it.” Caim bit his tongue. He was exhausted and not thinking straight.
Hagan pulled a pipe from his coat. It was a nice piece of craftsmanship, carved from a light yellow wood and polished to a shine. He filled the bowl with a pinch of dry leaves—wild talbac by the rich green color—and lit the bowl with a stick from the fire. He didn’t give any sign that he suspected anything.
There’s nothing to suspect. That was true enough. It had been more than seventeen years since he left Eregoth, an orphan and a fugitive.
“Maybe you do,” Caim said. “My father soldiered a bit, under the baron.”
“The old lord of Morrowglen?”
“I suppose. I heard his name was Du’Vartha.”
Hagan took a long pull from his pipe and blew the smoke up into the tree branches. “That’s a name from the old days. It reminds me of a story. About a nobleman who went north to fight in a great battle, and returned with a Fae wife.”
Caim nodded and tried not to appear too interested. “I never heard that one.”
“It happened not so long ago, during the empire’s crusade into the Wastes. The lord was injured on the battlefield and struck senseless. When he awoke his army had moved on, but such were his wounds that he could not follow.”
Anxiety stirred in Caim’s belly as the old man talked. He felt like he knew how this tale was going to end.
“He managed to crawl away,” Hagan continued. “Into an old, old forest where he thought to spend his last hours in this world. But just as he was beginning to lose hope, someone found him. A maid, alone in the woods. Day after day, she tended to him and cared for his wounds. In time, when he was able to ride again, he brought her back to his homeland, and she became his wife.”
Caim listened to the crackle of the fire as he digested the tale. Is that what they said about his parents? His mother was a Fae wife? His memories of his childhood were mixed up and fragmented. He knew his mother had come from a foreign land, but not which one.
Caim caught the old man watching him. “Nice story, but I don’t see how it could be true. A great lord like that, it doesn’t make sense his army would leave without making sure he was well and truly dead.”
Hagan shrugged. “Like most tales, it’s hard to know where the truth leaves off and storytelling takes over. But that’s how it was told to me. Lots of folks around here respected the baron. Du’Vartha, I mean. Even though he was a foreigner.”
Caim looked up. “He wasn’t from Eregoth?”
“No, from down your way. Nimea, or so I heard. It’s not uncommon. Eregoth is a tapestry of clans and families from all over. The Du’Ormiks came from the south, too, long time ago.”
Caim ground his teeth together. His father was Nimean? Why hadn’t he ever heard about that? “Any stories about why he came north? The baron, that is.”
“He was an exile. Some kind of trouble back home, before the war. Came up with some armsmen and made a deal in Liovard for a plot of land and assurances of peace.”
“But that didn’t last long.”
Caim meant it for himself, but Hagan nodded.
“True enough, but in the end it wasn’t the clans that came for Du’Vartha.”
“How’s that?”
Hagan glanced out at the darkness beyond the circle of their campfire. “What do you know about recent troubles in Warmond and Uthenor?”
“Not much. Talk of fighting reached us in Nimea, but not the details.”
“Perhaps I shouldn’t say any more.”
“I’d appreciate it if you would speak your mind. I’m a stranger here, but even I can see that things are amiss. The people at the roadhouse were afraid.”
“There’s good reason.” Hagan looked into the fire for several heartbeats. “But it’s getting late. We’ll need our strength for tomorrow.”
Caim’s hands itched. “What were you doing at the tavern?”
Hagan tapped the ashes from his pipe and settled against the tree trunk. “Looking for someone.”
“Did you find him?”
When Hagan didn’t seem inclined to talk further, Caim lay back and closed his eyes. But even tired as he was, sleep eluded him. He watched the play of the shadows cast by the firelight on the branches overhead. Pockets of deeper darkness peered down at him from the spaces within.After a time, he fished inside his satchel for Vassili’s journal. With the book propped on his chest, Caim skimmed through the pages until a line caught his attention. He went up to the top of the entry.
Thirteenth day of Sorrob, 1126
It has been more than two months since my apprentice departed to the northern marches. I am anxious to learn whether my efforts in those lands have been for gain or ill. If the northern lands cannot be tamed, then all this effort and treasure have been for naught, and there will be a reckoning within the Council. Yet that may also work to my advantage.
The entry went on about Vassili’s personal agenda for two pages before Caim found another name he recognized.
Levictus has returned.
I have grave misgivings about the northern campaign, even more than before. The countryside is awash in uprisings, and the governor’s militia dares not muster beyond the walls of Liovard. Perhaps more disturbing, the stories of evil happenings in the outlands seem to have some basis in truth, though Levictus could find no direct proof. His distant gaze upon me as I write this is evidence enough. I intend to request an audience with the Holy Office today.
Caim set down the journal. Eighteen years ago, the north was in disarray, and the political winds were shifting. In the chaos, few would notice an assault against a foreign lord. And less would care. As Caim tried to imagine what those times must have been like for his mother and father, images of the old dream flashed through his head. Of Levictus standing over his father’s corpse. And behind the sorcerer, a great mountain of darkness.
A low droning sound intruded upon his rest. Caim tried to ignore it, but the buzzing persisted, and a feeling developed in his stomach. Like he was being watched.
Caim’s eyes snapped open as he stood up. The night was full upon the land now, its darkness blanketing the forest. Throwing his cloak around his shoulders, he slipped the sword into his belt and left the shelter.
Beyond the firelight, the buzz grew louder. Caim stalked the sensation in a slow circle until he faced the northern horizon. He didn’t see anything moving on the bright, snowy plain, but the feeling never left him. There was something out in the darkness. He stood for a few minutes more, until the cold and the mounting pain in his leg forced him to move. He turned to find a figure standing behind him. It melded so perfectly with the darkness he almost didn’t see it. By its petite outline, his first thought was it might be Kit. Then it hissed and flew toward him.
Both suetes flashed in Caim’s fists. The figure raised a slender hand. He slashed, but the blades cut through nothing. The campfire shone through the thing’s parted fingers as it clawed at him. He leapt back, cutting again and again, but the thing paid no attention to his defenses. When the smoky hand touched him, a lance of freezing cold speared through his chest. The knives fell to the ground as his muscles spasmed.
As the specter reached up with its other hand, Caim struggled for his sword. He fumbled with the burlap covering until his fingers found the sword’s cool pommel. A jolt ran through his hand, jangling his nerves, as he drew the blade. All at once, the bizarre paralysis left him, and the night came alive in amazing clarity. He jumped back as the hands—suddenly become skeletal claws—reached for his face. Caim swung, and a new pain cut through his shoulder as the sword connected.
He drew back the blade, expecting another attack, but the figure was gone. Caim turned in a slow circle. The sword trembled in his grip. A faint scent snared his attention. Warm and sweet, it was familiar in a way he could not pinpoint, like the ghost of a memory. It continued to tantalize him even after it faded into the cold night air.
With a mumbled curse, Caim gathered his knives and headed back to the camp. He stooped under the tree branches to find Hagan awake. The guide was tending the campfire.
He glanced up as Caim entered. “Stay near the fire. Safer here.”
Caim sat down. His chest ached like a spike had been pounded through his breastbone where the apparition had touched him. The campfire blasted him like a furnace, but the flames could not touch the chill lingering inside him.
“What was—?” he started to ask, but he didn’t know what to say. What had he seen? It had seemed more like a dream than reality.
“There’s things out there.” Hagan cocked his head toward the outside. “People who go wandering in the dark sometimes don’t come back.”
Caim leaned back against his satchel. The adrenaline was draining out of him, suppressed by deep exhaustion. His eyes shut of their own accord. As he let his chin droop, he remembered where he’d smelled that scent before. It had surrounded him as a child, an invisible blanket that made him feel safe when he was hurt or afraid.
The smell of his mother’s hair.
* * *
Arion’s boots clacked on the stone tiles as he strode through the palace corridors. For a day and a half they’d ridden hard back to Liovard. He didn’t know how Yanig held on, punched full of holes as he was, but the army doctors said he’d gotten to them just in time. Okin hadn’t spoken a word since they left the roadside inn. He’d survived the attack by those little black creatures, whatever they had been, but an unnerving look had taken over his eyes, as if he’d glimpsed damnation and couldn’t forget it.
Arion passed a servant carrying a silver ewer. A livid bruise darkened the boy’s eye. Arion smacked his gauntlets into the palm of his hand. He’d hoped things would improve while he was away, but they had only gotten worse. The sentries at the gates lounged in their guard shack, drinking and playing cards. The stables where he left his horse were filthy, with no grooms in sight; he’d had to brush his mare and put her in a stall himself. Worst of all, he knew the root of these problems, but could do nothing about it.
His father’s mistress.
Just the thought of her made him want to punch the wall. His life had been easier before she arrived. It was a little more than two years ago since she had appeared in the midst of a cold winter night, she and the Beast and his Northmen. The people called her a witch, and Arion could see why. Not only had she convinced his father to embark on a campaign to take the city and declare himself duke of Eregoth, recently there had been rumors she was urging him to take the next step—to conquer all of the northern states and take up the mantle of king. It was beyond madness. Whereas Eregoth’s clans had lived in uneasy peace since winning their freedom from Nimea, now there was open warfare. Add to that the covert raids they were launching across the southern border, and even he was ready to suspect witchcraft.
If things don’t change, the entire country will collapse around our ears. If father won’t get rid of the witch—
The doors of the great hall opened before him. Arion remembered this chamber from years ago when his father had brought him to the city as a boy. Then, the castle had been a place of light and laughter where thanes discussed their disputes without rancor or bloodshed. Those days were gone. Half a dozen men slouched at a table that looked ridiculously small in the vast chamber. The brilliant banners that had covered the walls were gone, revealing sooty wooden panels and bare windows looking out onto a smoke-smudged sky.
The lean man with graying sideburns sitting at the head of the table glanced up and wobbled to his feet. “My son returns!”
Arion could see at once that his father was drunk, or befuddled by the noxious herbs he smoked. The others at the table, his captains, nodded and grumbled their greetings. Arion tried not to show what he was thinking when he saw the old warriors, some he had known since boyhood. Once they had been a proud lot, fiercely protective of his father. Now they sat around this hall, draped with chains and jeweled rings, like a pack of toothless old lions. Some couldn’t even meet his gaze. His father was a sick man, but no one said anything. Can you blame them? They’re afraid to lose their place at the table.
As Arion embraced his father, he smelled strong spirits and the stink of days-old sweat. His father’s clothes were soiled and wrinkled. His laugh was a pale whisper of its former self.
“Tell me everything, Arion. Did you see Hamock? How do the men look?”
Arion brushed a dead fly off the bench as he sat down. “The men are well, and Commander Hamock sends his regards. But something happened on the ride back, Father.”
The duke chuckled, and it turned into a cough. A servant rushed forward with a cup. The duke guzzled it down. Setting the cup aside and mopping his tangled beard with a grimy sleeve, he sighed.
“Father,” Arion said. “Do you remember the first time we came to Liovard together?”
The duke stared off into the distance for a moment. Then he nodded, slowly at first, but with growing vigor. “It was the Feast of Saint Olaf. You were just a boy.”
Kulloch, the oldest of his father’s captains, rapped his hairy knuckles on the table. “I remember that day. Allarand held games, and you won the sword match, Your Grace.”
For a moment, Arion saw a glimmer of his father’s old self, the powerful man who had defeated a host of rivals to take the reins of their clan. Then a voice filled the hall, and the duke slouched back in his seat.
“Majesty.”
The captains looked down into their cups. Arion gripped the table as Sybelle came around the throne to perch on his father’s lap.
“We must all address His Majesty as he is due,” she said. “For someday he will be king.”
Arion wanted to hurl the words back in her face. King? His father barely controlled the lands just a few leagues from the city walls, but she filled his head with dreams of conquest and glory.
Arion focused on his father. “I was trying to tell you. On the way back we stopped at a comfort house along the road and had some trouble with the locals. We caught an insurrectionist—he had the mark. But another man interfered with our arrest.”
The duke snorted. “Did you string him up as an example?”
“We tried to take him into custody, but he escaped. And not before he cut down my men.”
“One man defeated your entire entourage?” Sybelle’s throaty laughter clawed Arion’s spine.
His father grinned as he pounded the arm of his throne. “You were drunk again, Arion! And you tried to molest some of my commons, and one of them showed you the useful end of a spade. Ha!”
Arion’s grip on the tabletop tightened until he thought he would break his fingers. “I know what I saw. Brustus is no slouch with a blade, and Sergeant Stiv is stronger than any two men in the company, but this stranger was fast—faster than anyone I’ve ever seen. He toyed with us like we were children. And then something happened.”
As Arion remembered, his stomach clenched. “The inside of the house became as dark as night. And there were these…things…”
Sybelle pushed away from his father. “What kind of things?”
“I don’t know how to explain them, except that they seemed…”
He would have stopped there. Every eye was on him, magnifying his shame. But Sybelle leaned closer. Her gaze burned into him.
“It seemed like the darkness shattered into pieces and came to this man’s aid,” Arion said. “Like they were his pets, or guardians.”
A couple of the captains chuckled. His father just looked away.
Arion struck the table with his open palm. “Ask the others if you don’t believe me! Better yet, go down to the infirmary and see what those things did to Okin’s face. It doesn’t matter. Stiv and I are going back out to find this man.”
The duke rubbed his lips. “That’s out of the quest—”
“An excellent idea,” Sybelle interrupted. “You should find this person and bring him to justice. Lord Soloroth will accompany you.”
Arion shoved himself back from the table. “I don’t need any help from your demon spawn—”
“Careful.” Sybelle raised a finger. The dark irises of her eyes reflected no light. “Soloroth holds his honor as dearly as you. Erric, as you have heard from your progeny’s own words, the maneuvers in the south are well under way. It is time to consolidate your control of this land. We cannot strike southward until our flanks are secure.”
The duke reached for his cup. “As you say, Sybelle. It is time for Eregoth to bow to one master. Wine!”
Arion stood up. Without a word, he turned away.
“Son!” his father called. “Come and we’ll have supper. A feast to celebrate your return. We’ll broach a cask of wine…”
But Arion kept walking, out the door and down the empty hallway. And the witch’s laughter followed him.