The Pagan Night (21 page)

He hoped to spare Ian the same pain.

“Your son?” asked a voice behind him. He stood and turned.

The vow knight, Sir Elsa LaFey, who with him had ridden out against the gheist nearly a week ago, stood in the shade of a nearby tent. Her hair was growing back, the sides and back still rough stubble, the top unkempt where she had trimmed away the charred curls. Her cheekbones were pockmarked and raw. She was wearing informal robes in the red and gold of her order, hands resting loosely on the pommel of her sword.

“Yes, it is,” Malcolm answered. “He’s more comfortable in the south than I will ever be, I’m afraid. Hard to convince a child of the value of winter when he’s just reaching the heart of his own spring.”

“He’ll come around,” LaFey said. “It’s natural for children to covet what they don’t have. I went through a northern phase, myself.”

“Yes?”

LaFey nodded, a twist of a smile on her lips. “I spent a year as ward to a baron in the far north, Allfire to Allfire. Swanston. Do you know him?”

“Yes, of course, and I’d imagine you had a rough year. Lord Swanston’s domain is mostly rocks and iron trees. Fogdeep, isn’t that the name of his little castle? Quite a change from Suhdra.”

LaFey shrugged.

“I found it invigorating. My family is from the Spear. I wouldn’t call it a soft life, but,” she shrugged again, “I didn’t have a difficult childhood. You’re right, though. Fogdeep was carved from a harsh realm, held together by the people and their bonds. Family. Honor.” She nodded at the memory. “It was a good year.”

“How did a daughter of Suhdra end up as ward to a backwater barony in Tener?” Malcolm asked. “It takes some effort to imagine you, a frail Suhdrin lass, wrapped in furs and howling at the moon.”

LaFey chuckled, clasping Malcolm by the shoulder and turning him down the street. They walked together.

“I had my oldest sister to thank. She fell in love with one of Swanston’s iron-hard sons. They married, and his father expected them to live in Fogdeep and raise iron-hard sons of their own, but Millie wouldn’t have it. So I went in her stead, as an act of good faith between the families.”

“You were there only a year?” Malcolm asked.

LaFey’s face grew still. “Yes. Millicent died—in childbirth. An iron-hard son, after all. Too hard for Suhdrin flesh. Her husband was heartbroken. Couldn’t face the south without his wife, so he came home. Then he couldn’t face the sight of me in his halls. Too much like my sister.” She clapped her hands. “But I found a love for winter. It was in Fogdeep that I decided to swear to the order of the winter sun.”

“Well, I’m glad you did,” he replied, “and I’m glad to see you again. I wanted to thank you for helping me the other day. Ian gets in over his head too often, and too quickly for anything to be done about it. Without your help he might well be dead.”

“It was an honor to ride into battle with the Reaverbane,” she said with a smile. Malcolm made a dismissive gesture, moving the conversation hurriedly on.

“You came to Greenhall with a warning about the gheist,” he said. “How did you know?”

“My frair and I were drawn to Gardengerry by a scryer’s warning. When we found the town mostly destroyed, he sent me on to warn the duke of Greenhall, while he tracked the demon through the woods.”

“Yet the gheist arrived before you. And your frair?”

“Elsewhere. He sent a messenger, saying that he’s tracking another gheist north as we speak. From what I’ve seen of the aftermath of your son’s heroism, our gheist is moving in that direction, as well. Hopefully nothing will come of that, but it’s troubling.” LaFey paused at an intersection, staring down toward the tournament grounds. “Whatever drew that creature to Gardengerry, it was no natural manifestation. Someone had to summon it.”

“And now it travels north,” Malcolm said.

“Yes, into Tener. Into pagan lands.”

“You’ve lived among us,” Malcolm said. “You know we’re faithful to the church. Even in Fogdeep, as far from Heartsbridge as you can imagine, I’m sure Swanston sang the evensong and bent his knee at the doma’s altar.”

“Yes,” LaFey agreed, “but there was always something more. Something beyond the walls, among the trees. Something lurking in the night.”

“The old gods remain, as well you know. Your life is dedicated to controlling them. Just because they live, however, it doesn’t mean the forests are filled with witches and shamans.” Malcolm took the vow knight by the elbow, turning her toward him. “There’s enough mistrust between our countries, Sir LaFey. We can’t let these suspicions persist.”

“No, you’re right,” LaFey agreed. “Even so, someone drew that gheist toward the city, and someone is drawing it north, like a lodestone to iron.”

“Drawing it north, or driving it there,” he said. “There are pagan hearts in Suhdra, as well.”

“Few enough, though—the inquisition sees to that. Perhaps if the church of Cinder had free rein in the north…”

“You and I both know what would come of that,” Malcolm said tightly. “Witch hunts and chaos.”

“Yet those are appropriate, Duke, when you are hunting witches,” she said.

“You would be finding witches everywhere you looked, I’m afraid,” he countered, “no matter how faithful your victims might be.”

“Now who’s letting suspicion cloud his mind?” LaFey asked, her smile sharp and cold.

The tournament horn sounded below. Malcolm and Elsa stood silently, measuring each other, waiting.

“My son is riding in the lists,” he said. “I’m afraid I must—”

He stopped at the sound of running feet, as Sir Dugan hurried up to the duke, his face flushed from the exertion. He pulled Malcolm away from Sir LaFey.

“What’s gotten into you, Gordon?” Malcolm asked. “My apologies, my lady,” he said over his shoulder. “Some Tenerrans can’t seem to learn even the most basic of courtly manners.”

“Never you mind manners,” Dugan hissed. “We need to speak…
alone
.”

“Oh?” Malcolm said, turning to his master of guard. “What of?”

“There’s been a problem.”

“With Ian?”

“Not yet. No, it’s…” Dugan looked over Malcolm’s shoulder, but LaFey was already marching away, her sword and cloak swinging through the lane. “It’s something with the Deadface, my lord. Sir Volent and the young Adair huntress have tangled.”

“Meaning…”

The horn sounded again, and the crowd gave out a cheer. Sir Dugan looked nervously down the road toward the arena.

“Never mind. We have to hurry, my lord, before something dangerous happens. I will explain on the way.”

I
AN MADE HIS
way to the tourney entrance, where a crowd was gathered to examine the matchups. Nervousness dancing in his stomach, he scanned the board to find his banner, the Blakley hound, black on white, with the crest of spring leaves that indicated his rank in the family. First son, last son, only son.

Sir Baird was waiting for him. The tall knight, his curly hair laced with braids heavy with fetishes that reached down to the middle of his back, smiled broadly as Ian approached.

“There you are, lad,” Sir Baird said, pointing at the board. Ian’s name and heraldry were posted near the bottom. Across from him was the black spear and red rose of House Marchand, a garter of vines around it to indicate the youngest son.

“Young Andre Marchand,” Ian said. “He’s old enough to joust?”

“He’s your age, m’lord. He’s just… small. Looks like they’re matching up the heroes of the gheist fight.”

“Andre didn’t ride against the demon,” Ian said. “It was his father, and old Gair turned tail as soon as the beast showed its teeth.”

Baird glanced around nervously, but no one seemed to have heard.

“The people don’t know the difference,” he said, his voice low. “Andre will wear some favor on his spear, blessed by the church. The crowd will roar with holy vigor.” Baird shrugged. “A good show, if not entirely true.”

“As long as the crowd stays for the joust, and we give them the good show they expect,” Ian said, “Andre can claim any blessing he likes.”

“Aye, well, let’s get you prepared. Won’t do for the true hero of the gheist to fall to some coward’s youngest whelp.”

They made their way to the stable yard where the Blakley mounts were kept. The nerves in Ian’s belly were getting worse. He tried to focus on the simple tasks of putting on his armor, securing his saddle, checking each strap and buckle and harness until he was sure everything was in place. Then he went over them all again.

He was so engrossed in his preparations that he didn’t notice the growing tension in the crowds that passed by the stables. When he looked up, small groups of Tenerrans gathered here and there, carrying weapons and wearing armor. The Celestial guards had organized into larger groups, abandoning some of their posts to muster in greater numbers elsewhere. The majority of Suhdrin in the streets walked with grim expressions. Whispers filled the air.

Sir Baird pulled one of the attendants aside and sent him to find out what was going on. When the stable boy returned, his face was pale.

“Sir Volent has returned to Greenhall,” the boy said.

“What of it? Does he mean to join the joust?” Baird asked.

Ian listened for the reply. It was several heartbeats in coming.

“No, my lord, but there has been a fight. The men he rode out with… there are a great deal fewer of them.”

“Was there another gheist?”

“No, well, I mean, yes. A gheist was seen, but it didn’t attack the column.”

“Then what? Gods, boy, speak on! It’s enough to make a man insane.”

“Word is that it was Gwendolyn Adair who attacked them, while Volent and his men were questioning some pagans. Adair’s men ambushed them, disguised as pagan rebels. Volent lost over half his number.”

This drew Ian’s attention. He knew Gwen well, though she was a few years older than him, and rarely gave time to the social pleasantries that occurred between young men and women of noble standing.

“Gwen attacked the Deadface?” he asked. “You’re sure of that?”

“That’s the word going around the tourney, my lord,” the boy said. “They say there were gheists in her hunting pack. The demons led her to Volent’s men, and drank the blood of those what fell.”

“Well, that’s a load of horse shit,” Ian said. “Gwen is their huntress. She wouldn’t be riding with gheists.”

“Again, my lord, the people will care little for the details,” Sir Baird said. He paused, and looked around. “No wonder everyone is on edge. There will be blood in the street before nightfall, if even half of it is true.”

“None of it has to be true,” a voice said from nearby—it was a knight. Ian recognized him as one of Lord MaeHerron’s men, though he couldn’t conjure his name. “The story will be enough to spill blood. The church guards are making plans to sweep the streets at the first sign of trouble.”

“That will solve everything,” Baird said. “Tener and Suhdra are putting swords into each other, and then the church starts drawing steel, as well.” He spat angrily. “One thing’s for certain.” He turned to Ian. “You can’t ride the joust, my lord.”

“What?” Ian asked. “Why not?”

“Tempers are too high. Every joust between Tenerran and Suhdrin has the potential for riot. We’ll have to concede the pennant.” Baird started disassembling the trappings on the caparison on Ian’s horse.

Ian stopped him.

“Like hell we will,” he growled. “The Marchands aren’t suddenly going to put steel tips on their lances, are they?”

“No, my lord, but…”

“Then I will not shrink from the lists.” He climbed slowly up the mounting block. After a second’s hesitation, his attendants hurried to help him.

“Your father has already ordered the men to pack, in preparation for a quick departure,” Baird said. “He will want us to leave. Immediately.”

“If that is his will, he can tell me himself.”

“My lord—” Baird started again, as Ian settled into his saddle and put on his helmet.

“Enough, sir. I mean to ride.”

With Sir Baird sputtering behind him, Ian guided his horse out of the stable ground and toward the jousting yard. The nervous fire in his belly was little calmed by the hordes of spectators and the loose knots of Suhdrin men-at-arms glaring at him suspiciously.

The air around the jousting arena smelled like hot metal and horse shit, the breath he sucked through the narrow slit in his helmet hardly enough to fill his lungs. Ian tried to relax into the saddle, to center himself on the horse, but he kept swaying back and forth dangerously as he cantered into the yard. The tip of his lance caught against one of the overhanging banners, startling him, and he almost dropped it.

Sweat drenched the padded undercloth of his chest. The low murmur of the crowd was muted through the steel of his helm. A hand clasped his leg, and Ian flinched away, nearly toppling out of the saddle.

“Settle, lad. Just settle,” Sir Baird said. Ian twisted around in his saddle to try to see him, but the constraint of the jousting kit wouldn’t allow it. “There’s nothing to this, but it won’t help if you fall into the sand. Keep an eye on your target, another on his lance, and both eyes on your horse. And watch the crowd.”

“That’s more eyes than I have, Sir Baird.” Ian’s vision began to swim in the heat of the tight helm. Sweat stung his eyes, and the blood pounding through his head was beginning to make him dizzy. “I think I’ll just focus on not falling off the horse.”

“Gods hope you can, boy. I’ll be serving as your second.” Sir Baird gave his horse a pat. “Wouldn’t want to explain to your father why his son got beaten to a pulp in a tournament he wasn’t supposed to ride.”

Ian nodded, and Baird slapped him once on the leg and pushed him toward the lists. The crowd gave an appreciative roar as he appeared out of the stable ground, and he raised his lance in salute. Even through the helm, their cry sounded like the grinding tide of the ocean, beating against the black cliffs of Frosthold. Ian twisted back and forth in the saddle, trying to see the people, the pageantry… hell, even the nobles’ booth, so he knew where to salute when the time came. A ripple of laughter went up, and he realized how ridiculous he must look.

How did his father manage it? How did
any
of the knights manage, when all they had was this tiny little slit of air? If only…