Jonmarc stood soberly at the back of the funeral gathering. If the villagers noticed his presence, they said nothing, neither welcoming nor shunning him. Fifteen bodies were wrapped in shrouds and laid on the village green, awaiting the full light of day to afford protection to those who would bury them. Most of the dead were women and children- easy prey, Jonmarc thought angrily, remembering the vayash moru who had swooped from the sky like falcons that had caught the scent of a rabbit. Not until the bright streaks of a red dawn lit the sky did the frightened mourners begin to return to their homes. Jonmarc spotted the same village elder he had approached before the battle. "Magistrate," Jonmarc hailed the man.
The old man turned. He looked to be over sixty winters old, white haired but not stoop- shouldered, and by his build, he had been a strong man in his youth. "Lord Vahanian. I guess I should thank you. Without your warning, we wouldn't have stood a chance." "I'm sorry I was right." Jonmarc looked down. "And I'm sorry about your loss." The elder nodded. "Aye. It cuts deeply."
"I think I know where the rogue vayash moru have taken shelter from the day. If they're in their day crypt, they're vulnerable. We could punish the ones who did this."
The elder drew a deep breath and looked past Jonmarc at the rising sun. "I saw that Lord Gabriel was here-and I know they helped drive off the biters that attacked us."
"Gabriel and Laisren are angry about what Malesh is doing. They're bloodsworn to stop him-as is Lady Riqua. But they can't move against Malesh by day. We can."
The elder still looked to the sunrise. "No one has hunted vayash moru by day in these lands for many, many years. We have honored the Truce."
"Honorable vayash moru still respect the Truce. Malesh is a bad seed. He's betrayed his own kind. There's still a chance to stop this before it becomes a war. If this goes on, and King Staden has to get involved-"
The elder nodded, and turned to meet Jonmarc's gaze. "Yes, I know. The price will be high. Too high. We will go with you. May the Dark Lady forgive us."
Later that night, Jonmarc's dreams gave him little sleep. The years faded, and once again, he was in Eastmark. He was tied to the back of a wagon, his wrists chained and his ankles hobbled with ropes. The soldiers hadn't bothered to give him a shirt or cloak when they pulled him from General Alcion's brig. He was shivering with cold, which only made the pain worse. Alcion hadn't been content with forcing him to watch while the men under Jonmarc's command were hanged for refusing the order to burn down a village that could not afford to pay its taxes.
It wasn't enough that the hangmen deliberately made the nooses short, so that his soldiers twisted and convulsed while they gasped for air. Nor was it sufficient to force him at sword's point to watch as Alcion's troops made bayonet practice with their dying bodies. Alcion and his blood mage, Foor Arontala, wanted to make an example of the captain who dared defy them. He had been beaten, whipped, and branded. Arontala had made sure Jonmarc was denied the solace of unconsciousness or shock until Alcion was through with him. Arontala, the same Fireclan mage who had sent magicked beasts to his own village two years before, the beasts that had killed his wife.
When the soldiers dragged him from his cell, Jonmarc expected to see a stake in the courtyard. Death by fire was Alcion's preferred mode of execution for ranking officers who disappointed him. But Alcion's plans were larger. Jonmarc lifted his head defiantly to look at the man on horseback who sat at a safe distance, watching the preparations. Alcion's long black hair framed a face dark as night. That alone told of his pure Eastmark blood. The intricate tattooed markings on his left cheek made it clear that he was also of royal blood. Third in line for the throne, Jonmarc knew, behind King Radomar's oldest son, Kalcen. Lately, Jonmarc had begun to wonder whether Alcion and Arontala had other plans for the succession. Whatever their plans, Jonmarc knew he wouldn't live to worry about it. Two of the soldiers dragged Jonmarc from the wagon. He stumbled and fell, hobbled by the ropes. He heard the whistle of a sword's blade and tensed, expecting to die. Instead, the blade sliced through the rope binding his ankles, and cut painfully into his left calf. "On your feet," the soldier commanded, dragging Jonmarc to stand.
The other soldier pushed the crossbow against Jonmarc's back. "We have a little surprise planned for you-and your friends."
Yesterday, the soldiers had herded all of the villagers into a barn before the executions began. Women, children, old and young. Now, soldiers pitched hay around the barn. More
dragged branches from the woodpile. Behind them stood their captain, a man in the uniform Jonmarc had worn until just a few weeks before. Next to him were three barrels. Jonmarc had no doubt about the barrels' contents. Oil.
"Nice night for a bonfire," the soldier who held the crossbow against Jonmarc's back murmured. "You chose these villagers over your oath as a soldier. Now, you can die with them."
Soldiers opened the barn door far enough to push Jonmarc through. Inside, Jonmarc saw Sahila, one of the village elders. Sahila met his eyes, and Jonmarc saw that Sahila understood. They were going to burn.
The soldiers kept their crossbows trained on the barn doorway until the massive doors were shut and barred. Jonmarc looked to Sahila. "Any other ways out of here?" "Nothing they haven't sealed."
Inside the barn, the only light came in slivers between the old siding planks. Night was falling, and soon even that would be gone. Dust floated in the air, making it difficult to breathe. Dust that would make the barn burn that much faster, once the flames came. Jonmarc looked around, desperate for inspiration. He spied a large iron ring in the floor. "What's down there?" "Grain bins and root cellars." "How many?" "Not enough."
"Get everyone you can below ground," Jonmarc said. "Those bins could become an oven." "Up here, we don't stand a chance."
Sahila nodded. Jonmarc watched him disappear into the throng. He walked the perimeter as quickly as his painfully bruised muscles would allow, but Sahila was correct. All the doors were sealed. And even if they found an opening, soldiers on the other side would shoot them down before they could get far.
Smoke was beginning to waft through the small gaps between the boards of the barn walls. Outside, flames began to lick at the old boards, lighting the inside of the barn with eerie, dancing shadows. Jonmarc turned, and was startled to see Sahila advancing toward him with an axe. "Hold still." "Like hell." "You want to die chained like an animal? Put your wrists on that beam, and close your eyes."
Jonmarc flinched as the heavy axe whistled through the air and clanged against his chains, severing them. He looked around. Sahila had gotten at most a third of the villagers into the bins, but the rest huddled in frightened groups. Outside, the flames burned higher. "Is there anything else below the barn? Even a dung pit is better than being in here when those rafters start falling."
Sahila thought for a moment. "Come with me." Slinging the axe over his shoulder, he led Jonmarc to a place in the center of the hard-packed dirt floor. He flung his axe, and it landed on its blade in the dirt, but it seemed to Jonmarc that the floor beneath their feet shook, just a bit. "Here. Dig here." Sahila motioned for several nearby men to join them. Jonmarc gritted his teeth against the pain as he grabbed a shovel and began to dig. A hand's depth beneath the dirt, they hit wood.
It was growing warmer inside the barn. Jonmarc eyed the rising flames. They were running out of time.
Hacking with their tools and kicking with their combined strength, the men worked until the old wood splintered. Moist, cold air rose out of the darkness. "Caves. They run all through this area. Can't barely plant a field without someone falling into one. No idea what's down there or where it goes. Just remembered my father showing me where they'd closed over one when they built the barn." "Anywhere's better than here. Let's get them inside."
The cave mouth was narrow, allowing only one person at a time to enter. One by one, the villagers descended, as the flames spread up the walls and to the barn roof. By the time the last of the villagers was down, bits of burning wood were falling around them. "Get in," Jonmarc said to Sahila. "What about you?" "I'll come. Just get in."
The roof creaked ominously as Sahila shimmied down into the cave. "Hurry." Jonmarc needed no urging. He jumped into the hole, banging from side to side as he fell, as overhead, the roof gave way. A shower of sparks and a hail of burning wood followed him down the shaft, burning into his back. The heat took his breath away. He landed hard, and his leg folded painfully under him.
"There's no way out," Sahila said, helping him to his feet. "There are shafts-that's why we've got air. But not even the children could fit through them."
The cave was damp, helping to resist the blistering heat that seared down from above. In the distance, Jonmarc could hear screaming. Around him, babies wailed and women sobbed. A few voices chanted in prayer, begging the favor of the Lover. Men cursed under their breath. They waited.
It took a long time for the fire to burn itself out. Hungry, thirsty and cramped, they waited in the darkness until a night and a day passed, afraid that soldiers might be standing guard over the wreckage, waiting to shoot survivors. When Jonmarc finally climbed up the shaft, it took all his strength to shove aside a fallen beam that was still hot enough to burn his palms. Cautiously, he looked around, expecting to feel a crossbow bolt at any moment. He
scrambled out and scanned the horizon. No soldiers awaited them. From the wreckage of the barn, the soldiers had felt assured there were no survivors.
Little of the barn remained standing. Charred timber covered the old barn floor. Sahila joined him and together they ran to free the others who had taken refuge in the bins, throwing aside the wood that pinned the bin doors shut. Silence met them as they pulled back the doors. The odor of burning hair and roasting meat met them. Huddled together, the bodies of the villagers were covered by ash. No one moved. No sound came. Sahila cursed
potently. Jonmarc fell to his knees, unable to look away from the carnage. From the cries of the men around them as they freed the other bins, Jonmarc knew there were no survivors.
"Eastmark's not safe for you," Sahila said. "You've got to run."
"What about them?" Jonmarc said, with a glance toward the survivors.
"We have kin in the other villages. We'll slip away, in small numbers so that the guards don't track us. We'll survive."
"I'm so sorry. I brought this on you."
"Would you have spared us by following your orders? We would all be dead. And you've paid dearly for your honor. We're grateful. But we can't protect you. If the soldiers didn't loot my home, I may be able to get you a cloak and a bit of food. Get out of Eastmark. You're Margolan born. Go home where you'll be safe." Safe. Nowhere is safe.
Jonmarc jerked awake, sitting up in his bed. He was bathed in sweat and his hair hung in his eyes. He looked around wildly, unable to place this unfamiliar room. "You're safe," a man's voice said from the doorway. It took a moment for Jonmarc to recognize the deep, raspy sound of the Magistrate's voice. The man lit a lantern and came into the room. "Did I cry out?" "No. I heard your dreams."
Jonmarc was amazed, but the Magistrate's eyes assured him of the truth of his statement. The dreams had never left him, not in the long years since he'd fled Eastmark. The burning was only one of many memories that haunted him, making sleep elusive. Carina was able to trance with him, blunting some of the force of the memories. It had been a long time since he'd fought his way out of the bedclothes, ready for battle. But even she could not make the scars and memories completely disappear. "Are you a mind healer?"
The Magistrate shook his head. "No. A truth senser-and a dream reader. It explains why I was chosen for my role-and why I never married." "Sorry I woke you."
The Magistrate looked at him with a gaze that seemed to see far too much. "You know what it is to burn."
"Yes."
"And yet, you would lead us to the day crypts."
"What choice do we have? If we don't punish the guilty, innocent vayash moru will be destroyed. It's only a matter of time before the burnings start again. I swore an oath to Staden to be the protector of living and undead. And if that means I stand between them, so be it."
The Magistrate nodded. "You would do this, although vayash moru took both your wives from you."
"And if Arontala and Malesh were mortal, what should I do? Pledge to destroy all mortals in vengeance?" Jonmarc took a deep breath, passing his hand back through his hair to brush it from his eyes. "I do what I'm good at. I fight. I try to be on the side of the good guys. When I can tell which side that is. As for the rest, well, I've been cursed since I was fifteen. Don't know why or by whom, but cursed, nonetheless."
The Magistrate's gaze fell to the mark of the Lady that was drawn on Jonmarc's chest. "You swore the Bargain."
"I wanted some insurance. I have rotten luck."
The Magistrate frowned and extended his hand, palm first, toward the mark, stopping just above the skin. His eyes lost focus. "No. Not cursed. Chosen." "From where I sit, they look a lot alike."
"She won't release you, you know. Not until you've completed the task She has for you."
"Who?"
"Istra."
"I made the Bargain to destroy Malesh and stop this war from starting. That task is over when he dies-and so do I."
The Magistrate's gaze was far away. "Perhaps. Then again, damnation is in the details. You pledged your life and soul to Her, didn't you? But it's up to Her when she claims what belongs to Her. She's chosen champions before. That's what the legends say. I'd ask Lord Gabriel, if I were you. Remember where you are, son. Death doesn't end things here." He seemed to come back to himself. His smile was weary. "You've passed one test." "Oh?"
"I have my own dreams, you know. The Lady warned me of fire and fire bringers. She said to only trust the burned man." He gestured toward the old scar on Jonmarc's shoulder, where one of the burning beams in the Eastmark barn had caught him. Only then did the Magistrate reveal the dagger sheathed beneath his sleeve.
"You really think you could take me-with that?"
The Magistrate met his eyes. "It's poisoned. I think you know the kind."
Jonmarc repressed a shiver, remembering the poisoned blade that nearly killed him last Winterstide in Staden's court, the blade meant for Tris. "Well enough."
The Magistrate stood. "There are candlemarks left before daylight. Sleep well."
Yeah, right.
Come morning, Jonmarc left the village with a raiding party of twenty men. The villagers carried whatever weapons had been salvaged from the ruins of the night before, plus an ample supply of reed torches, tinder and oil. In addition to the day crypts Gabriel and Laisren had told Jonmarc about, the Magistrate suggested several more hiding places. "What makes you think you know where Malesh and his brood rest by day?" Jonmarc
asked the magistrate as they rode through the deep snow.
"I chose the dread places," the Magistrate replied. He had a thick Principality accent and a face weathered from hard outdoor work. "The places that the legends warn us about. Oh, the tales don't speak of biters. Just of men who entered and never returned, or travelers snatched from the road, or children gone missing. Places with strange lights and shadows, where a cold fear takes your heart and tells you that a wise man would turn tail and run." "How did you narrow the list?"
The Magistrate shrugged. "We need to be home before dark. We know they can attack the village, but I'll still feel safer there than near one of these Crone-damned places." A crossroads came into view. As at Crombey, one road bordered thick forest. Beside the crossroads was a shabby shrine, its ribbons tattered and faded with age. Someone seasons ago had piled up eight stones to the Lady as a small altar. Stubs of weathered candles sat among the stones, some recent and some dirty with time.
The Magistrate held up a hand and the group reined in their horses, tethering them lightly to the saplings at the edge of the forest. Jonmarc and the Magistrate led the group into the trees, where the branches blocked the light. Jonmarc's crossbow was notched and ready. Beside him, the Magistrate carried a broadsword; he was the only man in the village who seemed to actually have an idea of how to use one. Some of the other men had bows while the rest brought scythes or newly sharpened pikes. Two men carried bundles of wood on their backs, while another carefully brought a large pitcher of oil. A young man carried a wooden cage with a large cat in it. The hedge witch had forced them to bring it, swearing that the cat could sense vayash moru and would alert them to the presence of undead. Jonmarc noted the group's uneasiness as a sign they were in the right place. From the looks on the faces of the men around him, they were fighting against something that bordered on sheer terror. As they moved into the forest, the cat yowled. "Shut that thing up!" Jonmarc snapped. The dreams had left him tired and irritable. His mood got worse the closer they came to the task. It might be unavoidable, but he didn't have to like it.
Jonmarc spotted their destination. A small family cemetery lay long abandoned among the trees. In the Black Mountains of Principality, villagers gave their shrouded dead final rest in the high treetops and in the rocky ledges, making it easier, legend said, for their souls to embrace the Lover. But here in the lowlands, people were more likely to bury their dead. Bits of glass and metal hung from the lower branches of trees to ward away dark spirits. A few worn monuments stood tilted in the frozen ground. In the center of the plot, a stairway descended into another shrine.
The boy with the cat ventured closer. Before he was ten paces from the stairway, the cat reared up and hissed, crying out like a baby and clawing at its cage. Jonmarc waved the boy back and three men brought the bundles of dried wood and kindling. Jonmarc and the archers covered the men as they went as far down the stairs as they dared before setting the fire. They overturned the pitcher so that the oil ran down the stairs and into the shrine, and then one of the men struck flint to steel. The bundles burst into flame, and the fire roared up, as flames followed the trail of oil deeper into the shadows. Jonmarc set his jaw, forcing down old panic that triggered at the smell of burning oil as his heart thudded wildly, wanting to be anywhere but here.
Behind them, the cat yowled like a crazed thing, hissing and spitting in terror. "Get ready," Jonmarc murmured.
From the depths of the shrine came an ear-splitting wail. A blur of flame rushed toward them up the stairs.
"Fire!" Jonmarc shouted, loosing his quarrel.
Two fiery shapes burst from the shrine entrance. Jonmarc glimpsed faces contorted in agony as the flames consumed the two men and the arrows found their mark. Forced into the sunlight, the vayash morus's outlines flared. Their skin grew translucent, as if the flames glowed beneath it, and then fire shot from their eyes and mouths, rapidly cindering the two forms, which fell in a charred heap in the snow. The smell of burned flesh woke old memories, and he fought the urge to retch. Warily, Jonmarc and the Magistrate approached, but there was no movement, and as one of the men poked at the heap with his pike, it was clear that little remained beyond charred bone. "Were they the ones we sought?" the magistrate asked.
Jonmarc nodded, feeling sick. "I recognized both from the battle. If there were others who used this site, they'll keep their distance now. Let's move on."
The Magistrate led them to another site at the edge of the forest. It was clear that long ago, a substantial home stood here, although only ruins remained. By the look of it, the home had burned. Before the group could get within fifty feet of the ruined building, the cat began to throw itself against its cage, claws reaching between the bars as if it were trying to run for its life.
Jonmarc had always prided himself on not being a superstitious man. Yet as the group approached the burned foundation, he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. It wasn't just a sense of vayash moru presence, Jonmarc thought. It was a shadow that even the bright sunlight did not dispel. He remembered the last time he had felt that coldness: in the presence of the Obsidian King.
"This is an evil place," the Magistrate said. "It burned a generation ago. My grandfather told me about it. Servants disappearing. Errand boys never seen again. They say the lady of the house was mad, and that she murdered the lord and then slept beside his shriveled corpse. Some said that she wanted blood to bring him back to life, but my grandfather thought she bathed in it."
Weapons ready, the group moved warily forward, leaving the crazed cat behind in its cage. They picked their way across the fallen rocks and past the remnants of walls. At the western corner of the foundations lay what remained of a private chapel. The feeling of uneasiness was oppressive here, and Jonmarc knew they had found the right place. He looked around for an opening.
"There," the Magistrate said, pointing to a cracked marble altar. Jonmarc summoned two of the village men, and together they slid the altar a few feet across the snow-covered floor. The air that rushed up from the darkness beneath smelled of decay. "Do you want the brands?"
Jonmarc shook his head. "I'd bet this goes deeper than the last one." He smiled ruefully. "I've had the privilege to sleep in quite a few places like this with Lord Gabriel's folks, under emergency circumstances." He motioned for one of the men to hand him a torch and headed down the stairs warily, crossbow ready. As he expected, the stairs went deep. As several of the other men descended, their torches lit the small antechamber at the bottom. Six other doorways opened from the main room. Pairs of men, weapons at the ready, brandished their torches as they searched, finding only the bones of the dead. Many of the skeletons were missing their skulls, Jonmarc noted; proof that they were not the first hunters to come this way.
The sixth room had a heavy wooden door. Jonmarc approached it carefully, expecting an ambush. Here below the ground, if the vayash moru could extinguish their torches, they were vulnerable in the dark. He jerked back hard on the door, and stumbled as it gave way unexpectedly. When he thrust his torch into the room, he found a comfortably appointed sitting room, filled with furniture to suit a fashionable salon. The room was empty, save for one shape on the floor curled into a fetal position. As Jonmarc held the torch aloft and his bow at the ready, a pikeman poled the shape over.
Uri lay on his side, a shiv in his back through his heart. His body was immobile, but his eyes snapped open at the intrusion, and his gaze locked on Jonmarc.
"Hold your fire!" Jonmarc commanded. "Let's get him closer to daylight-mind that you don't dislodge that shiv."
As Jonmarc kept his crossbow trained on Uri's chest, two of the village men handed off their torches and weapons to pick up the immobilized vayash moru by the shoulders and legs, moving him gingerly with their eyes fixed on the shiv sunk hilt-deep in his back and the large stain of black ichor surrounding it. They retreated until they reached the step just below where the daylight reached. The sun was now high overhead, and after the gloom of the crypt, the forest seemed glaringly bright.
"All right, Uri. Riqua bet you'd burn without too much effort, so I want to make you a very clear offer. I'm going to keep my crossbow against your chest while my friend pulls out the shiv. These two gents are going to hold you on your feet. Any move-any move at all-and I put a bolt through your chest and they let you fall into the sun. You know I'd welcome the excuse. Blink if you understand me." Uri blinked once.
"I want to know where Malesh is. Get in my way and I won't wait for Riqua to watch you burn. Are we clear?" Uri blinked.
Slowly, the Magistrate withdrew the shiv, as Jonmarc pressed the crossbow against Uri's
chest. When the blade was out, Uri remained still, although his features lost their frozen appearance.
"Talk-but don't move."
"Malesh was here. I came to confront him. I told him the attacks must end. I was right about the blood magic. It cancels out my link to him." "Where is he?"
"I don't know. I told you. I can't read him."
"I should put this bolt through you, for what you've done," Jonmarc said quietly. None of the other men around them mattered to him just then; he and Uri might as well have been alone.
"I can be of use to you." "How?"
"I do have control over most of my brood. I can feel them. They're afraid of what Malesh's done. I can call them to fight. Or if they won't fight, I can command them to stay out of the way."
"That didn't work too well the last time." "Even we learn."
"Riqua and Gabriel are still bloodsworn."
Jonmarc saw loss in Uri's eyes. "I know. And they have exacted their price from a score of my children. I have lost enough. I will do what I can, in my own way, to end this war." Outside, the wind caught the trees and for a moment, sunlight blazed deeper into the crypt, catching Uri on the cheek. The pale skin reddened immediately and began to char, but Uri did not flinch, mindful of the bow pressed against his chest.
"If you want your revenge, then you have it sevenfold as my children die. If we are gods, then we are most vulnerable gods."
Jonmarc hesitated, his finger on the trigger of the crossbow. No one would fault me. Riqua and Gabriel are bloodsworn. I could claim their oath. After a moment, he drew a deep breath. "Turn him around," Jonmarc ordered the guards. They turned Uri so that Jonmarc and the mortal fighters had their backs to the sun, able to step into its glare. One of the villagers picked up the shiv, and Jonmarc slipped it into his belt. "I didn't make an oath with Gabriel and Riqua, so I'll do it now. Do what you can to stop Malesh. But betray my trust, and I'll not only shiv your heart, I'll saw through your neck and tie you in the sun. Is that clear?"
"Bright as day," Uri said as Jonmarc signaled the guards to let him go. He disappeared into the shadows, and Jonmarc and the guards retreated hastily into the sunlight. "M'lord? What now?" "We continue the hunt."
They burned out six tombs before the afternoon shadows began to lengthen. The revulsion Jonmarc felt hardened into coldness, and the memories were pushed away to allow him the clarity he needed to fight. He would pay a price for that, later. They routed a dozen vayash moru, and every time, it took all of his willpower not to flinch at the smell of their burning flesh and the human
terror in their death cries. Uri had said Malesh only had at most two dozen fledges. That meant others had joined Malesh, because given the vayash moru who had fallen in battle, Malesh should be out of fighters. Jonmarc doubted very much that was the case. It was too late to ride for Wolvenskorn. Given the day's activities, Jonmarc had no desire to chance riding by himself after dark. By the time they returned to the village, bonfires circled the town square. Huddled under rough woolen blankets, the villagers slept under makeshift shelters, too afraid to spend the night in their own houses.
"How long can you do that before you've burned all the wood for the winter?" Jonmarc asked as they rode back.
"Not long." The Magistrate sighed. "As you put it, what's the choice? Be murdered now or die of cold later?"
"Not much of a choice at all, is it?" For any of us.
Late that night, Jonmarc sat near one of the bonfires, his cloak drawn around him. There was no pretending that he was going to get any sleep. Not after today. Not after the dreams. With Malesh still at large, he didn't dare take the edge off his fighting skills, although he longed for a brandy to blunt the memories that were more difficult than usual to push away. Eleven years, and you still want to throw up when you smell burning meat. Would they still consider you the Lady's Champion if they knew that the bottom drops out of your stomach every time you hear a gallows door spring open?
He pushed away the mocking voice in his head, and it pushed back. Maybe you really have found your true home in Dark Haven. Everyone you care about dies. Easier to handle if they're already dead when you meet them.
But that wasn't really true. The casualties among the vyrkin and Gabriel's vayash moru were mourned just as deeply by the undead as they would have been by the living. Dead was one thing; destroyed, Jonmarc had come to understand, was entirely different. Worse, the Magistrate's words rang in his ears. It's up to Her when She claims what belongs to Her, he'd said of Jonmarc making Istra's Bargain. The thought of living chilled him much more than any dread of death. Dark Haven without Carina would be unbearable. There had been many years when every night was a battle with himself over whether or not to see dawn. Guiding Tris and the others to safety last year had stopped that. He'd hoped that with Carina in his life, that battle was won-permanently. Now, those dark thoughts returned. But what he'd seen of
the restless dead in his year with Tris made him less certain that death actually ended pain. And while Tris could make his passage to the Lady, Jonmarc was not at all sure he was in any hurry to find out which Aspect would come for him. So much for suicide. "I thought I'd find you here."
Jonmarc looked up to see the Magistrate. The older man was smoking a pipe, and the sweet smell of the leaves was a wisp of normalcy amid chaos. "Was anyone looking?"
The Magistrate shrugged and took a seat next to him. "I wanted to thank you. I know what it cost you to do what you did today." He met Jonmarc's eyes, and Jonmarc knew that, with the Magistrate's truth sensing, the older man really did know.
"Had to be done."
"You're not going to sleep?"
Jonmarc shrugged ill-humoredly, knowing the other could guess his reasons.
"I imagine that asking for a mind-healer's help is out of the question."
"They aren't something I come upon every day. I'm used to it by now." Carina had hoped to become a mind-healer someday. Someday.
"I suppose you'll leave in the morning?"
Jonmarc nodded. "Gabriel's waiting for me at Wolvenskorn. We think Malesh may make his next move at the Lady's Temple. It's as good a place as any to make our stand."
The Magistrate looked at him for a moment in silence, and the far-away look in his eyes made a chill run down Jonmarc's back that had nothing to do with the bitter wind. "Shadows and fire," the Magistrate murmured. "And an arrow without a bow. Your place is between the living and the dead."
"Come away from the window, Carina."
Reluctantly, Carina turned away from the window at Taru's prodding. Beyond Dark Haven's courtyard, the night was too black to see anything except the stars. "I can't help hoping that I'll glance out and see Jonmarc and the others returning safely."
"You have the scout's report. At least we know something of what's going on."
Carina sighed and moved toward the fire. As if she needed further evidence that she balanced between living and undead, the fire did not warm her, just as the noxious mixture
of blood and milk that kept her alive never seemed to sate her hunger. "We know that the village at Caliggan Crossroads was destroyed. We think there was a battle there, but we didn't find any vayash moru remains. And the scout said everything was at least a day old. Not much to go on."
"I've sent Kolin to Wolvenskorn. If Gabriel's headquartered there, we may know more soon," Riqua said.
"I know it's too early for your messengers to reach Tris, but the waiting is awful." Carina's voice was quiet. "I'm getting weaker."
"If our relay is working, this will be the second night. Your letter should reach Tris tomorrow night. We can hold the working the next day."
"Assuming the messenger is able to get through. Assuming that Tris isn't so thick in the midst of battle that he can't do the working." Assuming I'm still alive by the time the letter reaches him.
Whatever Riqua might have responded was cut short as the door opened and Kolin stepped into the room. "M'ladies," he said with a perfunctory bow. One look at his appearance elicited a gasp. Kolin's straw-blond hair was singed on one side, and his cloak and left sleeve were burned. A seeping burn was healing on his face, and his hands and cheek showed new, deep scratches that were just beginning to fade.
"What happened?" Carina asked, taking his hand in hers out of reflex before remembering that she couldn't heal.
Kolin's blue eyes showed more fear than Carina had ever seen in a vayash moru's gaze. "I'm late coming from Wolvenskorn," he apologized, with a gesture toward his disheveled appearance. At second glance, Carina could see that his pants were torn and wet with snow. "Looks like Jonmarc wasn't able to keep word about Westormere from getting out. There've been two more attacks since then-you've heard about the Caliggan Crossroads. Malesh hit a third village yesterday, but Jonmarc and Gabriel were waiting for him. He got away, but they were able to save most of the villagers." "Most," Carina repeated quietly. "How many is most?"
Kolin met her eyes. "Gabriel said it was bad." He looked back to the others. "Jonmarc stayed behind in the village today, hoping to find Malesh's day crypts and run him down. Gabriel didn't know how that went, and Jonmarc isn't due back in Wolvenskorn until tomorrow."
"Burning day crypts," Riqua whispered. "Sweet Istra. It's come to that."
"Gabriel and Laisren didn't like it, but they had to agree it was one way to contain Malesh. Oh, and Uri's gone missing." "There's a surprise."
"So Jonmarc's alive-at least, he was yesterday?" Carina asked. Kolin kissed the back of her hand before releasing it. "Yes, m'lady. Gabriel said that Jonmarc hoped if he led the villagers to where Malesh's brood slept by day that they might stop other villagers from harming innocent vayash moru." He grimaced. "Unfortunately, that part didn't work so well. He's not the only one to realize that we're not fond of fire." "You were attacked?" Lisette exclaimed.
Kolin nodded. "I wasn't being careful. But Lady True! It's been so long since we had to worry, here of all places. I stopped hiding from mortals a century ago." He glanced down at his scratched hands and burned clothing. "I'm out of practice." "Tell me what happened." Although Riqua's voice was steady, Carina could hear the controlled anger beneath her words.
"I left Wolvenskorn and I was riding back. There didn't seem to be a need for quicker travel," he said with a glance toward Riqua. "When I rounded a bend in the road, I could sense mortals in the forest ahead. I figured them for brigands-and desperate ones, to be about by night in these times. Brigands they were, but not seeking human prey. The next thing I knew, a ring of fire sprang up around me, and burning arrows were shooting from every side. They'd placed hay bales soaked in oil just beyond the trees on either side, and then sealed front and back when they lit the torch."
The burn on his face was nearly healed, and the scratches on his hands were fading. But Carina knew by Kolin's eyes that the memories would take much longer to go away. "They were amateurs, thank the Lady. I lost my horse to them, but I was above their arrow range before they knew it. Without knowing how many there were, I didn't fancy a fight. Even so, I'm worse for the wear."
"Have you checked on the others?" Riqua's anger was clear in her voice. Kolin nodded. "Our places are empty. From what Gabriel's said, all of our brood who aren't here guarding Dark Haven are with him, at Wolvenskorn. That's the real news. Malesh isn't acting alone, and it's not only his own fledges. Either Uri lied or Malesh really was able to keep him out of his thoughts. Gabriel says that there were vayash moru older than Malesh in the battle at the Caliggan Crossroads. That means he's not only drawing in vayash moru from Uri's brood, but some of Astasia's as well-and maybe from Rafe's, too." "Damn. Then the war has begun."
"I'm sure if Gabriel knew there were hunters out looking for us, he would have warned me. That may not be widespread-yet. But every village Malesh destroys makes it more certain others will take revenge," Kolin said quietly. "Gabriel hasn't been idle. The vyrkin are massing at Wolvenskorn. They hold common cause with us. It seems that Yestin can be quite persuasive." Kolin looked down. "Eiria is dead. She was killed in the first battle." Lisette covered her mouth with her hands. "I'm so sorry," Carina said. "Gabriel says that they think Malesh is planning something on Candles Night at Naithe Dorzhet Bene," Kolin added. He looked to Carina. "The temple of the Dark Lady." Riqua looked up sharply. "Even Malesh can't be mad enough to think himself fit to be consort to the Lady."
Kolin shrugged. "The timing fits. Candles Night is only two days away. The old legends say that Her consorts wooed Her with blood."
"Those tales are corrupted," Riqua snapped, more upset than Carina had ever seen her. "The Dark Lady doesn't want blood sacrifice. Only Nameless ever demanded blood, and even then, it was in the ancient stories."
"Still, Gabriel has a point. If Malesh is mad enough to think himself fit to be the Lady's consort, then all this may be an offering to prove his worthiness. In the old stories-" "The old stories are lies." Riqua's eyes flashed dangerously.
"Not completely." They turned to see Royster in the doorway. "One of my colleagues at Westmarch spent her life researching the Old Ways, before the worship of the Lady. Only fragments from those days remain. Peyhta, the Soul Eater, is a story from those times. So is Shanthadura."
"We do not speak that name." Riqua made a warding sign. "Those days are gone." "Perhaps not." Royster seemed completely oblivious to Riqua's dark mood, pursuing the topic with a scholar's fervor. "My colleague found that in the high country, back in the remote villages, the villagers used the names of the Eight Faces of the Goddess, but the practice at the shrines and the murals in the temple were of Peyhta and Sh-" Royster caught himself. "The Destroyer."
"According to my friend the Keeper, Peyhta and. the Destroyer were two of the three death goddesses," Royster continued excitedly. "Konost is the third. She guided the souls of the dead. They are the bringers of plague, famine and war. Together, they are the Shrouded Ones."
"I don't see what this has to do with-"
"It all makes sense," Royster bubbled, eyes wide. "If Malesh knows the old tales, then he's heard that every year at Candles Night, in the old stories, a young warrior was offered to the Shrouded Ones in the sacred place. The three light goddesses sent their champion to kill the warrior before he could join with the Shrouded Ones. Two goddesses judged the battle-Fate and Ohainne, the goddess of the undead. If the champion prevailed, plague, famine and war would still occur, but only for a season, and then the land would be healed. But if the warrior won." Royster's voice drifted off. "What then?" Carina found that she had been holding her breath.
Royster's excitement sobered. "Then the Shrouded Ones would be loosed upon the land for a generation."
"Superstitious rubbish, all of it!" Riqua's voice was strident. "Listen to you! A scholar, telling fish wives' tales."
"You remember those days, don't you." Kolin's comment stopped Riqua mid-stride. Riqua stiffened, and then nodded. "You don't understand how it was, in those days mortals don't want to remember and we Elders can't forget," she said quietly. "How we feared the spirits in every tree and barrow. How many were sacrificed to bring the rains, or assure the harvest, or end the pox." She turned to Carina and Royster, and for the first time, Carina saw old pain in Riqua's eyes. "When I was six years old, they took my older sister to the bogs. They weighted her down and let her sink. They said it would end the famine. But her ghost came to me every harvest, and I knew that it was a lie. When the Shipmen came across the Northern Sea and the Riders invaded from the East, it was a terrible time-war that seemed to go on forever. But they stayed long enough that we heard the stories of their goddesses, and gradually, the old ways blended and changed.
"Even the Crone and Nameless are not as fearsome as the Old Ones," Riqua said. "Those ways should remain buried."
"If it's true that Malesh used blood magic to hide from Uri, then maybe he is trying to become a consort," Kolin mused. "After all, Uri's told his brood often enough that the vayash moru are like gods."
"And right now, the Flow favors blood magic," Carina added. "It's wounded, and the blood magic tears at it. First Arontala, and now Curane's mages, and whoever is supplying Malesh with his charms."
"There are always blood mages," Taru said. "Not always mages of real strength, thank the Lady, but dabblers who still can do harm. The Sisterhood has known that blood magic was being practiced, but the blood mages are good at hiding. Foor Arontala was also vayash moru-perhaps old enough to remember some of what Riqua recalls. The Obsidian King claimed to be the consort of the Shrouded Ones. Perhaps that was part of Arontala's interest in becoming the vessel for the Obsidian King's spirit."
"And now Malesh is going to offer himself for the honor?" Lisette said, aghast. She made the sign of the Lady and turned to spit on the ground, warding against evil. "None of this makes any difference," Riqua said sternly. "Maybe Malesh is mad enough to believe in old superstitions. It doesn't matter why he's going to the Dark Lady's temple, only that Jonmarc and the others find him and stop him."
Carina turned slowly to look at Riqua. "Gabriel sought out Jonmarc. He told Jonmarc that the Dark Lady came to him in a dream. He called Jonmarc Her 'chosen.' Jonmarc makes two blood sacrifices of his own to fight Malesh, doesn't he? My life-and his own." Riqua and Kolin exchanged glances. "Gabriel is one of the Elders. He's older than I am, and more. observant. My faith was buried with my mortality. Only fear remains. But Gabriel has always been a mystic. He says very little about those days, but his family had the Sight. When Gabriel told the Blood Council about his dreams, we saw no reason to stop him from finding Jonmarc, although privately, some of us had our doubts. When we saw Jonmarc's capabilities, Gabriel's vision seemed possible. Now, I no longer know what to think."