The Pagan Night (51 page)

“What does that have to do with me?” Gwen asked.

“You were born into these traditions. Under a façade of Celestial faith, you have been raised in the old ways. Allaister means to come in here and enslave the god at this henge, but he doesn’t have the tools. It would be like throwing pottery with a hammer.” Lucas raised his hands and moved closer to her. “You have the art, Gwendolyn Adair. You can raise the god he means to tame.”

“Raise it, so that you can destroy it?” Gwen demanded. “Or so you can bind it to
your
will, rather than that of the high inquisitor? That’s what I need to know, Frair. What do you mean to do with my god?”

“And that’s where faith comes in,” Lucas said.

Gwen smiled tightly, as if she had eaten something foul but was too polite to spit it out.

“Well, your faith in me may be what’s misplaced, Frair. There is very little of the pagan in me, either in power or inclination. My house has been trusted to keep this secret, and given certain abilities to ensure that trust, but we aren’t bound to the higher orders. You’ll need a true pagan for that.” She stood, dusted off her palms, and gestured to the cairns that surrounded them, forming a new and silent henge. “Unfortunately, we’re running short on those.”

“But surely you must—” Elsa started.

“You may yet get to kill this god, Sir LaFey, but not with my permission, and not with my assistance,” Gwen snapped. She stood abruptly, marched up the embankment, and disappeared into the darkening woods. The mists followed her.

“S
TUBBORN BITCH
,” E
LSA
muttered. “We’re just trying to help.”

“No, Sir LaFey, we’re not. Not really—and I’d imagine she’s less stubborn than she is frightened.” Lucas folded his hands together and sought the naether, drawing it into a crown around his head. “I must think. Keep an eye on her, as quietly as you can. Don’t let her get lost.” His words slowed as the crown tightened to his brow. “We may still have… need of… her.”

Lost in the meditative trance of the naether crown, Lucas’s motions slowed to a crawl, and then froze, his mouth hanging open at an undignified angle. Elsa sighed, walked to the old man and pushed his jaw shut with a clap. Then she gathered some food from her bag, slung her sword belt over one shoulder, and went to find the huntress.

* * *

Gwen wandered a moonlit trail that led from the clearing to a small brook, and from there to a scattering of hovels that must have been where the dead wardens had lived. The contents of the fire pit had been spread out, and their provisions placed outside the tiny huts, offerings to the wilderness. Something had gotten into the bread, but several racks of meat were still lying in the dust. Gwen foraged a candle and set it on a stone, then gathered up what was left of the food.

“Do they always leave their food out like that?” Elsa asked. She came into the small clearing without preamble, surprisingly quiet despite her armor.

“No, but they knew where they were going.” Gwen brought a skin out from one of the huts, brushed the leaves from the meat, and wrapped it up. “They knew they wouldn’t need it anymore. They broke up the fire to keep it from spreading, offered their food to the gods and mice, and went off to die.”

“Hmm.” Elsa toed a haunch of lamb that hadn’t escaped some animal’s attention. “Always thought they were a bunch of vegetarians. I didn’t think they could bring themselves to kill their little totems.”

“Are vegetables any less alive than us?”

“I’ve never gotten into a fight with a cabbage,” Elsa said. “Or a conversation, for that matter.” She sat on one of the stones that made up the fire pit, then drew the embers together and with a gesture kindled them to a steady ruby glow. The fire lingered in the woman’s hand for just a heartbeat, and she winced. The tracery of her veins pulsed bright and then faded.

“Does that hurt?” Gwen asked.

“Only a little, but it’s the small pains that sneak up on you. I have meditations to get me through battle, or to ease the ache after a large casting. These small things, though…” She shrugged. “You just deal with them.”

“It doesn’t make you wonder about Strife? A goddess that burns you alive to harness her power?”

“Everything has a cost. You can’t tell me that the wardens back there died peacefully,” Elsa said.

“They looked peaceful, at least,” Gwen said, looking in the direction of the hallow. She sat opposite the vow knight. “Why are you here?”

“Looking after the old man. Doing my duty to church and creed.”

“Not that. Why are you sitting across from me?” Gwen asked. “Why did you follow me? I don’t know a better way of telling you that I want to be left alone.”

“Ah, the frair asked me to make sure you’re safe, and I thought you might be hungry.” Elsa took some of the cheese from her bag and unwrapped it. She gestured toward the wrapped meat that Gwen had salvaged. “Unless you’d rather share your meal with the rats.”

“Not rats. Wolves, probably, or fox,” Gwen said. She laid some game between them, took the offered cheese, and broke it up in her hands. “I’m serious with that question. Strife demands a lot from her followers. Cinder more. Does that seem right to you?”

“She gives in accordance with what she asks. In the greater sense, she gives to all, and asks only from a few,” Elsa said. “The sun and summer are for everyone, without cost. If she didn’t give to us freely, if the light of the sun only came to those who worshipped her, for example, then our worship wouldn’t be honest. Strife wants our love, but she doesn’t want to hold us hostage for it.”

“And how does that fit in with your power? I’ve seen your scars. You’re burning from the inside out.”

“From the bones and my blood,” Elsa agreed, “but that isn’t truly a cost. Our bodies simply weren’t made to contain Strife’s glory. A torch can’t give any light without giving of itself, yet we never consider the torch’s sacrifice. We’re just grateful for the light.”

“You’re more than pitch and wood,” Gwen muttered.

“That sounds dangerously like sympathy,” Elsa said. “I am a torch—I’m a supplicant, and my god is fire. That is the way of my life.”

“The cost seems high, that’s all. I don’t know how you can trust a god who asks so much.”

“Oh, and what of you? Do the gheists seem worthy of praise and prayer? They roam the wilderness like mad animals, tearing villages apart, destroying crops, breaking lives, and haunting the dreams of the innocent. That’s a worship I would question.”

“It wasn’t always that way. We lived at peace with the spirits. They brought us crops, kept us safe in the forests. Our cities never had walls, because we didn’t need them. Not until you lot came north.”

“Even at their best, the gods of the old ways were fickle. Your stories are full of gheists gone feral, monsters that wrecked mead halls, gods who had to be killed by heroes. Your first named tribesman earned his throne that way, didn’t he? Drugal the Godslayer. Isn’t that what they call him?”

“It is,” Gwen allowed, “but those instances were rare. That’s why they’re worthy of legends and thrones.”

“Not so rare now, Huntress,” the vow knight said. “Look, the truth is that no matter what you do or where you pray, the gheists cannot be tamed. You can only ward against them. Kill them, if need be. Worship will get you nowhere.”

A strange breeze moved through the clearing. The flames of Elsa’s fire guttered, though the candle didn’t flicker.

Gwen chuckled.

“You should remember where you are before you say that sort of thing,” she said. “The forest has a way of remembering.”

“This forest will remember me,” Elsa muttered, “one way or another.”

“And that sounds dangerously like a threat,” Gwen said quietly. “So let’s move the conversation. What of the old man? He seems good enough, but even you have to admit that his god is little more than holy murder.”

“Cinder is difficult,” Elsa admitted. “So is winter, and if we’re discussing sacrifice, his was the first and greatest. The world couldn’t survive under the gaze of two suns, and so he quenched himself and rose to rule the night and the cold. It was the right choice, but it was the difficult choice. He asks nothing less of his servants.”

“But to worship winter… it’s a season to be survived, a sickness of weather that leaves the world barren.”

“Any farmer will tell you that the barren season is important. An eternal harvest would suck the life from the soil as sure as any blight. And we need time to stop, to rest, to reflect on what has been and what is to come.” She picked off the last meat and tossed the bone into the fire. “You won’t hear this from a servant of Strife all that often, but winter is both necessary and vital.”

“What about those who die, of sickness or starvation? What would they hear from you?”

“Pity, and the promise of spring,” Elsa said. “In this life or another.”

“It just seems that there should be a better way. A life without sickness, or a world without winter.” Gwen stood and looked around the tiny encampment. The sheer domesticity of it struck her, the simple things that marked this place as a home—the decoration of a wall, or an idly discarded object. These people were dead and gone, and their things had been left for the wilderness to reclaim. “The gods use us harshly, if they use us at all.”

“You are making a simple mistake,” Elsa said. She stared down into the fire, and her voice was surprisingly gentle. “You are trying to understand. Our gods are fire, and the mad wilderness, and harsh death. We are not meant to understand.” She stood and brushed off her legs. “Not knowing is part of the bargain. Not knowing is acceptable.”

“I’m not comfortable with that. I would rather know. I would rather…” Her voice trailed off.

Something changed. A ripple went across the sky, unseen yet deeply felt. The candle snuffed out, and the flames in the pit flared and then turned to smoke.

“What was that?” the vow knight whispered.

A keening sound went up far behind them, coming from the direction of the river. It sounded like a dirge, the song a river would sing if water was dying. It was followed by a terrible roar, and then silence.

“Something has… something has fallen. Not the wards, but…” Gwen paused, and a hammer fell against her heart. “Something at home. Something with the shrine at the Fen Gate. The god is stirring.”

“Which god?” Elsa asked.

“The one who hides. The one I protect.” And then Gwen was off through the woods, trees whipping against her face, and fear, terrible fear clutching at her heart.

A
LLAISTER STOOD AT
the edge of the madness and seethed. The rest of the shadow priests cowered in a semicircle behind him. Blood was still fresh on his knife and Frair Abreau’s body splayed at his feet, entrails hanging in profane disorder, the scrying of the dead priest’s heart baffled by the pagan wards. Allaister turned slowly to his followers and sneered.

“Are any purer of heart than dear Abreau? Speak now, or find yourself volunteered.”

The others shuffled among themselves, talking and pinching at shoulders with fingers gone stiff from fear, before Frair Galdt stood forward. She bowed her head to the ground, careful to not look at Abreau’s ravaged body.

“The frair was good and holy, and honest to reason. He was gifted of Cinder. No man’s blood could be any purer than his,” she said.

“Then what of any woman’s blood?” Allaister asked. Galdt slid back among her fellows. Allaister shook his head and sighed.

They were a feeble bunch, and dwindling rapidly. His dozen had become five. Allaister had picked them himself from the hosts of Heartsbridge and Cinderfell, young priests primed for zealotry and just loose enough in their theology to be guided. The problem with youth was its proximity to life, and living. They had been unfamiliar with the scrying ritual Allaister demanded, as well they should be, as it was heretical and profane and drawn from tomes so old they preceded the church itself.

Still they had submitted, time and time again. So now their group was diminished, and the wisest of them flinched whenever Allaister drew near. It was a pity. He had once had such hope for them. Or at least, such hope for the power they might provide.

“Enough for today,” Allaister said, wiping the blade on a cloth and sheathing it. “Secure our surroundings. Determine Cinder’s stance in the sky, then sing your songs and get some rest. We will begin afresh tomorrow.”

They scuttled away, two going back to their tents, the other three to the ring of darkstone pillars that surrounded the camp, none larger than a loaf of bread. They had penetrated the wards as far as they could and established this small area of holy ground. The world beyond was madness, the sky cycling through seasons, the forest itself shifting and dripping with profane light, so they had to base their evening prayers on almanacs, determining Cinder’s position in the heavens with ink and abacus, a dry progression for a reasonable god.

Without some sign from the gods or a bit of luck, they would go no further.

Allaister turned back to the darkstone pillars. There, between the shimmering trees, just beyond the ridgeline where they camped, he could make out a glitter of water. Water was often used as a boundary for holy spaces in the pagan way. The ancient witches would dribble it around a house before blessing it, or dig a trench and fill it before resting their heads in a foreign land. The oldest henges were built by rivers, the spirit-benders changing the course of the current to surround the holy places.

It was an old practice, familiar to Allaister only by written word and story, not even observed by the common pagans his brothers in the inquisition rooted out of villages in the north. A practice that had been forgotten, or perhaps a practice so holy it had been hidden, buried so deep that even the modern worshippers had lost it.

Allaister knew he was close.

He returned to the center of the camp and assumed a pose of meditation. There was a hollowness in his soul, the place that had been occupied by the god he had summoned in Gardengerry, a brittleness that he was anxious to heal. Being surrounded by pagan wards wasn’t easing the process. The gheists that shivered among the trees could sense something in him, something familiar yet foreign. They hungered for him.