Dark Haven (36 page)

Near the fireplace sat a boy about fifteen seasons old, huddled in a threadbare blanket. He did not look up when they entered.

“I’ve warmed him up, but he won’t eat,” the hedge witch said. “Not a mark on him. Don’t know whether the Host did him a kindness or not, leaving him alive to tell the tale.” She looked at Jonmarc. “His name is Kendry. His father and older brother were also with the herds.”

Jonmarc remembered when he shared a similar fate. How long was it before I would tell Shanna’s mother what happened to my family, my village, when the raiders came? Weeks? It was years before I stopped dreaming about it.

“Kendry,” the elder said gently. “Lord Vahanian has come to talk with you. He wants to know what you saw.”

Jonmarc took a step toward Kendry, and when the boy did not start in fear, he hunkered down to be on eye level. “I’m sorry about your family.”

Kendry nodded, never taking his eyes off the fire.

Jonmarc drew a deep breath. “When I was fifteen summers old, raiders came to my village. They killed my family. Everyone but me. No one ever went after them, ever caught the men who burned my village. I want to find the people who killed your family, Kendry. Find them and make 308

them pay. But I need to know what you saw.”

Kendry was silent for so long Jonmarc did not think the boy would speak.

“It was the middle of the night,” Kendry said. “The moon was high and full. We were sleeping.

Gastell saw them first. A score of dark figures, flying through the sky. They circled us, wailing and moaning. And then—” The boy’s voice broke and he squeezed his eyes shut tightly as tears started down his cheeks.

“They were dressed all in black, with masks over their faces. They dived at us. They started to chase us and scatter the sheep. There was nowhere to run. They picked up Gastell and I saw them, saw them—” Kendry buried his face in his hands. Jonmarc laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder as the hedge witch pushed forward to talk softly with Kendry and lead him into a back room.

Jonmarc stood and looked to the village elder. “I’m sorry about your men, and your herd. When he’s ready to travel, bring the boy to the manor. Perhaps Carina can help him.” He looked back to where the hedge witch tended the boy in the back room, and wondered how he could expect the villagers to heed his next request. “I need your word that you’ll let us handle this,” Jonmarc said to the elder. “I’ll go to the Blood Council. There are a small number of rogue vayash moru trying to end the truce. You know that if that happens, we all suffer.”

“Aye. We’ll do our best to keep the peace. But those were our lads out there. The families are going to want justice. And if it happens again—”

“I’ll do everything in my power to make sure it doesn’t. I need you to buy me some time to handle this. Let me bring it to the Blood Council. I promise you, your dead will be avenged.”

“I’ll do as you ask, Lord Vahanian, to the best of my power. But they will be avenged— one way or another.”

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“I’m sorry, m’lady, but they keep coming.” Neirin, Jonmarc’s day manager, apologized. After news spread far and wide about Carina’s healing, Neirin had appointed himself gatekeeper to assure that the crowds that sought her attention remained orderly.

“It’s not your fault. Any more word about what happened in Haven?”

“Lord Jonmarc went from there out to the south holdings. The story from the guards is all I know.”

“Send after the boy tomorrow, please. I don’t dare leave tonight with so many waiting. If he’ll come to the manor, I’ll see what I can do for him.” Carina listened as the bells tolled the fourth hour. “I just wish Jonmarc would get back before dark.”

“Understandable, m’lady,” Neirin said. “And I’ll do as you ask.” He looked out over the long line of people waiting to be healed. How far news had traveled of the attack was uncertain, but waiting patients were edgier than usual. “I’ve brought a couple of the serving girls, and a midwife from the village. If you give them direction, they can help with simple things like binding up wounds. Lisette will come at nightfall. Eiria volunteered as well.”

“I’ll be glad for their help,” Carina confessed. “Goddess! At least when I treated battle wounded I wasn’t the only healer!”

Carina put the two mortal servants to work separating out the sickest patients from those with minor injuries. She set to work, not noticing that the sun had set until Lisette came to take over as her assistant.

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“Your fame is spreading,” Lisette observed, helping Carina calm a small girl with a bad burn on her arm.

“Jonmarc warned me that it had been a long time since Dark Haven had a full healer, but I didn’t realize just what that meant,” Carina tried to distract the girl long enough to heal the burn.

“When Arontala stole the orb from under the manor, Dark Haven seemed to go to sleep,” Lisette observed. “Now, with the new lord, things are awakening, both good and bad.”

“What do you mean?” Carina slipped into a light trance as she sped the healing of the girl’s arm, willing the pain to decrease as the new skin covered the angry burn. The girl’s mother bowed low, repeating her thanks and trying to offer Carina the sparse contents of her satchel in gratitude.

“Last night, the Wild Host seemed closer than I’ve ever felt them. Today, I heard the servants talking about the killings in Haven. None of the mortals can remember when that happened before. Even those of us who have lived centuries have only heard of such a thing on occasion.

The Flow beneath the manor seems to be stirring. I can’t explain it, but I’ve been here long enough to know that its energy is different, darker. I’ll be glad as anyone when the Dark Aspects’

nights are over.”

Carina sat back on her haunches. She still had about a dozen patients waiting for her attention.

She wiped her hands on her robe and sipped at a cup of kerif, now gone cold.

“Tonight is for the Crone?” she asked, beckoning her next patient, a young man with a badly-broken leg. “I thought Principality frowned on Crone worship.”

“They do. But what the Nargi call the Crone has no likeness to the ancient tales. I’ve heard the elder vayash moru tell stories. In the old days, Sinha was a weaver, not a hag with a cauldron.

She spun the threads of life and wove out destiny, determining how long each thread should be.

That’s why woven gifts are given tonight, shawls and blankets. Like Nameless, Sinha comes for 311

unrepentant souls because their threads must be ripped out and woven again. She can be harsh, like the winter wind. She was also a tanner, taking the hides of evil men and rekindling the spark to send their souls back until their lessons were learned.

“But the Nargi took Sinha’s name and put it onto other stories. Sinha wasn’t a destroyer or a monster. The Nargi’s priests have made Her so, because it suited them. Tonight in the procession, you’ll see a very old custom, where Sinha battles Peyhta, the soul‐eater. In Nargi, Sinha and Peyhta became one.”

“Why would anyone want to worship a monster?” Carina removed the soiled strips of cloth that bandaged a festering leg wound. She gritted her teeth against the smell and focused her healing power. At the edges of her power, she could feel a drain—more noticeable now that Lisette had drawn her attention to it. Deep below Dark Haven, the Flow was tainted. Carina could sense its energies, tugging at her. “Laisren says we make our gods in our own image,” Lisette said. “The Nargi priests rule by fear, and Peyhta rides in nightmares to feed on souls. The Nargi give those images power by choosing to worship Her. Sometimes, it’s best to let the old gods die.”

Jonmarc swung down from his saddle, tired and sore. The morning’s events still weighed heavily on his mind. Gabriel would have risen for the night by the time Jonmarc reached the manor, and the briefing would not be pleasant.

Jonmarc stretched. After he’d done what he could to calm the villagers in Haven, he’d spent the rest of the day out with the farmers in the southern holdings, mending fences. This night, sacred to the weaver‐Crone, was considered a lucky day to patch fences, make rope, and tie new nets.

Despite the cold and a constant flurry of snow, the village men and boys had turned out to walk the fence lines, mending the stacked stone and zigzagged wood in preparation for the new herds of the spring. As darkness fell, Jonmarc’s face and hands were red and cold, and he could barely feel his toes. “You’d think after last year, I’d remember what winter in Principality is like,” he muttered to himself. His breath steamed in the bitterly cold air.

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An old memory came back to him as he patted his horse’s neck and led the animal toward the stables. He could hear the snick‐snick of the weaver’s shuttle, as constant a sound in his boyhood home as the clang of blacksmiths’

hammers. An image of his mother came to mind, weaving a shawl of the finest yarns. Soft, light, and delicate, it showed the best of her craft. He remembered watching as his mother carefully wrapped the shawl in another piece of cloth, tying it closed with yarn. Then she placed the package on the doorstep in the snow, along with cakes and a cup of ale. “For the elder-Goddess,” she had said when he questioned. He’d never connected that patron of weavers to the fearsome dark Crone of the Nargi. Now, on the Crone’s Eve, the two images warred in his memory. Which’ was right? And could even Tris know for certain?

He led his horse into its stall and took off the saddle. None of the grooms was in sight, so he hung up the tack himself and looked for a blanket to cover his horse. Only one of the lamps burned in the stable, casting the rest of the barn in deep shadow. Without warning, the shadows struck. The figure tackled him from behind. Jonmarc reacted on instinct, driving his elbow back hard. His elbow connected, but the attacker showed no pain. Arms clenched around his chest like iron bands, and for a few seconds, Jonmarc could not breathe. Then the attacker threw him forward and Jonmarc stumbled, gasping for breath and reaching for his sword. In the half light of the lantern, he glimpsed his opponent, dressed in black, with a black hood and mask. Only eyes showed, and in them,

Jonmarc read a challenge. Behind him in its stall, Jonmarc’s horse shied in fear and banged against its gate.

Jonmarc drew his sword, but the attacker shot upward, out of reach. Jonmarc heard boot steps behind him as a powerful blow struck his hand, knocking his sword from his grip. He swung into an Eastmark kick, connecting with the shadowed attacker’s chest and knocking his opponent backward, but it came at him again with impossible speed. The shadow fighter rushed at Jonmarc, pushing him backward so that he skidded half the length of the barn. He hit one of the support posts and it knocked the breath from him.

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The attacker disappeared into the shadows, and Jonmarc climbed to his feet warily, every sense on alert. A rush of air was his only warning. The black‐clad stranger struck from the side, knocking them into the middle of the empty barn. Jonmarc held on, landing blow after blow with his boots and knee. A human fighter would have been howling in rage and pain. The dark opponent remained eerily silent. Triumph glinting in his eyes, the attacker lifted Jonmarc by the throat with one hand, holding him high enough that Jonmarc’s boots dangled a hand’s‐breadth above the floor. Jonmarc struggled, knowing that the hand that held him could easily crush his neck. The stranger stood no taller than himself, more slightly built; no human could heft him so casually. Pinpricks of light danced in front of him as he tore at the attacker’s hand, trying to free himself. Just as he thought he might black out, the attacker threw him to the floor.

It was the opening Jonmarc needed. His sword lay beyond the lantern light, at the edge of the shadows. Jonmarc dived for his sword, wheeling on his opponent and sinking the blade deep into the attacker’s belly. For an instant, the dark eyes behind the mask met his, and Jonmarc saw a hint of amusement. Run through, the attacker hegan to laugh, and flew backward, freeing itself from Jonmarc’s blade and disappearing into the shadows.

Jonmarc heard a deep growl and a huge wolf sprang from the shadows, leaping past him and landing where his attacker had been just an instant before. Jonmarc recognized the gray-streaked fur of Yestin, and struggled for breath. “You’re too late. I think it’s gone.” He looked at his sword. The blade was dark with an ichor that was not blood. His sword‐stroke should have been a mortal wound, but the sawdust on the floor showed no blood at all.

The wolf‐Yestin slowly circled the barn, growling as it peered into the shadows. The horses now sensed no threat, and watched the wolf curiously or went back to their feed. At the edge of the shadows, the wolf’s outline blurred. The space where the wolf stood rippled and folded on itself, growing larger. Yestin straightened and stood. “It’s a bit cold out here,” he said. “Don’t have any clothes hidden about. And I don’t fancy frostbite!” Jonmarc tossed a horse blanket to him.

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“Thanks for coming. But your timing’s off.”

“What happened?”

Yestin’s frown grew deeper as Jonmarc recounted the attack. “I’m certain he was vayash moru,”

Jonmarc finished. “What I can’t figure out is, why? He had the opportunity to kill me if that’s what he wanted. But I had the sense that he was testing me. As if he wanted to know how I’d react, what I’d do in a fight.”

“And how did you do?”

“The practice with Laisren is paying off. I’m faster than I’ve ever been. Couldn’t get a clean shot to put my blade through his heart, but I ran him through.”

“So there was a possibility that whoever attacked you might have been destroyed,” Yestin mused. “Everyone knows you’re good with a sword. Whether skill or luck, you might have taken off his head or run him through the heart. So your attacker is a gambler. Uri?”

Jonmarc shook his head, sheathing his blade. He threw a blanket over his horse and checked its feed and water. “Wrong build. Too tall. Too thin. The mask and hood covered both face and hair.

I don’t have any idea who it could have been.”

Outside, the bells chimed the seventh hour. “Come on,” Yestin said. “You’ve got official duties tonight. “We’ll figure out what was behind this. I’ll walk you in, and then we’ll find Gabriel. He’ll want to know what happened.”