Argoth did not want one of the guards on the walls of the Shoka fortress, jittery from the attacks at the village of Plum, to mistake Hogan for the enemy and kill him. The guards had their orders, but it was night and the moon was only half full. And Hogan was Koramite. So Argoth waited atop the barbican, watching the roads for his friend.
He brought a sprig of spearmint to his nose. Serenity, his youngest daughter, had tied it to a string and made yet another necklace for him. He could never say no to wearing her gifts. In his pockets he carried at least a dozen tokens of affection-a small black stone with a slash of red in it, a finely woven lock of hair, dessicated bits of flowers, the pit of a plum. He inhaled the fine, strong scent of the mint.
Behind him rose the first of two rings of defense. More than seventy years ago, the early colonists had wisely located the fortress here on a wide outcropping of rock that capped one of the three hills of Whitecliff. One side of the hill sloped to the town. The backside of the hill, consisting of cliffs and precarious ravines, dropped straight to the sea.
The first structure built had been a simple timber tower and palisade. That had been torn down thirty years ago. In its place the Clans had erected two walls. The outer wall stood twenty feet high. The inner wall, placed almost twenty yards back from the outer wall, stood double that height.
Tonight, at the base of the outer wall, guards with dogs patrolled the dry moat, expecting some Sleth attack. They stood out against the whitewashed walls of the fortress. The Shoka had learned that trick from an old Mungo slave who had won his freedom: whitewash the bottom half of the walls to make it easier for defenders to see below at night, but leave the top unwashed, allowing the defenders to use the cover of darkness.
They used the idea on the ramparts as well, painting the walkways to allow the men to navigate without torches. As long as the moon shone there would be no torches on the wall. Not a lamp. Not a whisper of light that might ruin a guard’s night vision except in the one tower where men were eating.
The distant sound of laughter carried down from the tower. Then a guard somewhere up on the outer wall called out, having spotted movement in the town.
Argoth looked out toward the town. In the distance he could see the dark, squat towers of the town wall. Closer in and off to the left stood the temple of the Glory of Mokad on its hill. It was too dark to see, but within the round, domed structure stood the altar of sacrifice where the Divines drew Fire. Directly behind the altar stood the raised seat of the Glory. And behind the seat stood the statues of the seven Creators in a semicircle, looking down upon the altar.
During the Festival of Gifts, seven fifteen-foot statues would be made of wood and erected around the temple. They would then be paraded in a long procession to the fortress and then to the sea. Seven statues to represent the seven Creators.
Each was festooned with the creations for which He or She was responsible. The first and greatest was smeared over with rocks and clay. The second was in the form of a tree, woven with garlands of seaweed, flowers, and sheaves of grain; the third had the horns and hides of animals and eyes made of butterfly wings; the fourth wore the skins of sharks and whales; the fifth bore great wings upon its back and was clad in feathers; the sixth was in the form of a man with a face of gold. These were the six, dangerous as they may be, who brought life. The seventh was misshapen and black. Upon its head sat a crown of thorns and about its chest was woven a breastplate made from the bones of a thousand animals.
Who really served Regret? There were rumors of men and women who bound themselves to him. Was the creature that killed the harvest master in the village of Plum one such? Or did Regret work in more subtle ways, coming to you smiling and with an open hand so that you served him and never once thought you were doing anything but standing in the light? Argoth thought of his past before he found the Order. He had been a servant of Regret, even though he didn’t know it at the time. Bless the Six, the Order had found him.
At the base of Temple Hill a light moved along a dark street. It passed behind a number of dark homes. Then it reappeared on the fortress road. Whoever held the torch rode a horse and was accompanied by other men.
A half minute more and Hogan rode into the torchlight at the base of the gate road. Beside Hogan sat one of the barbican watchmen. The man called out his name and rank. “We have delivered Hogan, Bowmaster of the Koramites.”
“He’s mine,” Argoth called down. “Dismount, Bowmaster. Then proceed.”
Argoth descended the stairs from the top of the barbican. Before he reached the bottom, he overheard the guards below.
“What’s the warlord doing letting that thing among us? Who can tell which of them is part of the Sleth nest?”
“Good lord, man, it’s Captain Argoth’s brother-in-law.”
“I don’t care; this isn’t right-”
Then someone must have heard him because the conversation fell silent. Argoth walked into the main passageway and then out to the front of the barbican to stand with the five guards standing posted there. Hogan’s escort had departed back to the city barracks, so Hogan walked the ramp alone.
Argoth could have ignored the guard’s earlier comments, but he chose not to. “Do you know what I love about that Koramite?”
“Zu?” said the most senior of the guards.
“Not his might, nor the many Bone Face kills to his name, but his loyalty.”
“Yes, Captain,” said the guard.
“Mark him,” said Argoth. “I would rather have that one loyal Koramite at my side than a whole company of backbiters.”
“Yes, Captain,” said the guard. “Of course.”
Argoth walked with Hogan out of the barbican and onto a wooden drawbridge that led over the dry moat and to the first gate of the fortress. The gate stood open before them like the dark maw of a giant beast, the raised portcullis a sharp row of teeth.
A set of guards with mastiffs stood just inside that mouth out of sight, waiting and watching for an enemy who might be able to slip by all the outer defenses.
On the drawbridge, away from the guards, Hogan ran his fingers through his beard braids and said, “I will hate to lose this tree.”
The Order patterned itself after an aspen tree. Aspens sent runners under the ground that would shoot up saplings, which in turn would grow and send out runners of their own. A grove of aspens could cover acres and acres, and yet, they were not separate trees. They were all connected to one another at the root. And so it was with the Order. Each area where the Order was established had a Root, a trio of leadership, that governed the tree and branches that might grow in that area. Hogan was the chief Root here, Argoth the second. Matiga, the Creek Widow, was the third.
Of course, the guards wouldn’t call the grove an “order.” To them all combinations of people such as Argoth and Hogan were nests, tangles, or murders. For some combinations those were appropriate terms. But not for those of the Order. Nevertheless, the guards would be horrified to know that a Root of the Grove of Hismayas was about to walk right past them.
A tree might be felled by Seekers, but unless they pulled up the whole grove, the Roots would grow another tree somewhere else, and another and another, until the Order filled the earth. Of course, some trees had to be culled to protect the grove.
“Did you contact Matiga?”
“I did,” said Hogan. “She is prepared.”
In each conflict, the Order took great precautions to make sure the full trio of leaders could never be found together at the same time. If two fell, the third would have a better chance to bear the rest of the grove off to safety and start again somewhere else. Or to mount a counterattack.
“I told her to take the victor’s crown,” said Hogan. The crown of a victor was a special weave. An ancient device used by the old gods that bestowed great might upon its wearer.
“Do you think it will come to that?” asked Argoth.
“This situation is odd. It’s not right.”
Argoth nodded. “So be it. Although I do wish she were here. How can we make a decision to cull this tree without her?”
Matiga was strong-willed. Sometimes to the point of being obstinant. She was currently many months into a grudge against Hogan. She had found an excellent woman for him. The widow of a Koramite boat builder. She’d prepared the woman and asked Hogan and Argoth to consider her for admittance to the Grove. Of course, the woman knew nothing of the Order. She could not. They had tested her in many ways for almost a year. Argoth and Matiga had been satisfied. But Hogan found her wanting. The trio had to act in perfect unison on such matters. And so the woman was rejected. Matiga had been furious. In this case, Argoth thought she had grounds. Matiga might be strong-willed, but she was also perceptive in her odd way. The woman would have been an asset.
Purity was an asset. Matiga’s clear vision was needed here. It was a terrible decision before them. Purity had been a friend for so long. But the Grove couldn’t risk putting all three roots together in this situation. And even if they could, he doubted he would have been able to convince the lords of the Shoka to let him bring in yet another person to see the prisoner.
“If this tree can be saved,” said Hogan, “we will do it. But if it cannot, are you prepared?”
“I am prepared,” Argoth said, his heart heavy. He had brought the required poison with him.
They said nothing more. Argoth led Hogan past the guards and mastiffs, and into the first bailey. They turned left and walked to the second gate and another set of guards.
The whole design of the castle was to create a series of killing fields, areas where attackers would be forced to expose themselves to fire from many directions. The path from the first to the second gate was just such a killing field. The moat, the fortress road, and the spaces before the gates and barbican were killing fields as well.
Something small, probably a rat, scurried out of the gate tunnel before them and into the inner courtyard.
The courtyard itself lay in darkness. An armsman on a horse trotting to the gate nearly collided with Hogan. He jerked his horse to the side and headed for the gate, the clopping of the horse’s hooves on the cobblestones echoing in the tunnel.
Across the deep courtyard, the sea tower rose into the sky, moonlight gleaming dully off its ramparts. From the top of that tower a watchman could see miles out to sea. On a clear day he could see the outer islands.
In most fortresses, prisoners held for ransom were kept in the tops of towers. To escape they would have to make their way through all the defenses below. Besides, it was more comfortable living at ground level, and the lower rooms would be taken by those with authority. But Sleth were a different matter. They could descend heights and break timber floors that other men could not. Experience had shown that they needed to be held behind tons of rock. The cleansing room, the only place in all of the New Lands capable of holding Sleth, was built in the cellar of that tower.
Argoth led Hogan across the courtyard to the tower. They passed a group of soldiers drawing water from the well. A number of yards farther they arrived at the first gate of the sea tower and stopped. The gate was a low wall a dozen paces from the door of the tower. Half a dozen guards stood along the wall with two more mastiffs in their midst.
“Hold,” one of them said.
“Captain Argoth, here on at the warlord’s request. We’ve come to question the woman.”
“Aye,” said the man, then he walked back to the tower door and knocked. The door of the tower was set deeply between two wings much like a fortress gate, but in a smaller dimension. There were dark arrow loops in those wings that would allow archers to cover the door with crossfire.
Moments later, a small block of wood set behind bars opened at eye level revealing lamplight within. Part of a face filled the opening.
“Your visitors have arrived,” the man said.
The face disappeared and the block closed. A moment later the crossbar on the other side scraped, then the door opened. A giant of a man with a bushy beard held the door with one hand and a lamp with the other. His name was Droz. Many straps hung from his armsman’s apron-for not only was he experienced, but he was also a dreadman of immense ferocity. Argoth had seen him chop men in two. Both his right and left forearms were covered with warrior tattoos.
“Ah, Captain,” Droz said. “We’ve been waiting for you.” He motioned for Argoth and Hogan to enter.
Argoth led Hogan through the opening in the wall and to the door. When they entered the dimly lit room, Droz shut the door behind them and swung down the crossbar.
The room was windowless, wide, and bare, with only a plain hearth burning to one side. There were no wooden tables or benches. Not a chair or cupboard. Nothing a Sleth might use as a weapon. The only seats or shelves were those carved in the stone. It was purposely large enough for half a dozen men to wield spears and bows freely. A few guards slept on the floor. Three stood behind Droz holding their weapons. One stood at the far end of the room next to an iron lever set in the wall.
The giant motioned at Hogan with his lamp. “I expect you want irons for him?”
“No,” said Argoth. “He’s working with me.”
“But he’s not working with me,” said Droz, “now, is he?”
“Actually, Droz,” said Argoth, “he is.”
Droz stood a head taller than either Argoth or Hogan. He folded his massive arms across his chest and looked down at them. The three men behind Droz shifted ever so slightly into a stance that would allow them to quickly spring into action.
“Search him,” said Arogth. “In fact, if you’re worried about it, order him to strip. Send him to the cleansing room naked.”
“Now, now,” said Droz. “We’re not in the business of sending pretty men to the witch. This isn’t a brothel, Captain.”
The other men smiled, but they did not laugh.
“Well, there’s your problem,” said Argoth. “Not all prisoners can be cracked directly. Sometimes you’ve got to build a little trust. And Zun Hogan here will do that. So perform your search. It’s late and I want some answers.”
“You’re not going to get any,” said Droz.
“Is that so?”
“We’ve been pressing her. Quiet as a fish, she is. Oh, she’ll struggle and cry out as loudly as the next one, but she won’t talk.”
Argoth truly hoped that, if nothing else, Purity had been able to keep their names hidden. “We’ll see if different methods produce different results.”
Droz motioned for one of the other men to search Hogan. “How many of us do you need?”
“It will be just me and the bowmaster this time.”
Hogan took a wide stance. Then the guard began to pat him down.
Droz grunted. “Just the two of you? Are you sure that’s safe?”
“She wears a king’s collar, doesn’t she? So she’s nothing more than a woman. And an injured one at that.”
Droz nodded. He pointed at Hogan. “He’s her lover then?”
“She had one love,” said Hogan. “And he wasn’t a man even you would want to cuckold.”
Then the guard checking Hogan stood back, looked to Droz, and nodded.
Droz considered Hogan. “So, Zu, why are you here?” He used a polite title, but not the one deserved by a bowmaster.
“I’m a friend,” said Hogan.
Droz looked at Argoth then, and what was going on in that mind Argoth couldn’t tell. Droz was a cunning man. And a man with such a mind just might suspect everything here was not as it seemed.
A beat passed, then Droz said, “Before you go down, you should know: Anything happens, anything at all, and Pony there”-he pointed to a man standing by the doorway to the back chamber-“will pull that lever. That will bring down two portcullises that five dreadmen together cannot lift. One will seal off the cleansing room. But, just in case someone makes it out of the cleansing room and to the stairs, the second will seal that back chamber. Should you be caught behind them with the witch, do not expect us to even think about saving you. You’re on your own.”
“I wouldn’t worry about her getting out,” said Argoth. “I’d be worried about her kind getting in.”
“Nothing’s getting in here,” said Droz.
“Of course not,” said Argoth, hoping he might provoke Droz into revealing more of the defenses. “Who would dare?”
“We’ve got archers in the wings of the entrance,” said Droz. “Men on the wall above. Nobody is getting in.”
“And have you set a crossfire up in here?”
“You don’t need to worry, Captain,” said Droz. “We’re tight as a drum.”
Argoth nodded. They’d planned for everything but a traitor in their midst.
Droz led them to the back of the chamber and through an arched opening. Argoth glanced up as they walked through the short passage. The heavy portcullis hung there. It would not be made solid. No, they’d want holes in it so they might shoot arrows at whoever was caught behind it.
Another lever was set into the wall of this chamber. Argoth supposed it would release only the lower portcullis. There was a stench in this rear chamber. “What is that?” asked Argoth.
“Bones,” said Droz. “The man has the noxious flatulence of the Dark One himself. I think the designers of this tower wanted to suffocate their prisoners. There’s no second window and, therefore, no cross breeze. So what do we do? The best I could come up with was to order the man to release his poisonous vapors back here. They still waft out to torment us, but at least their potency has diminished by a degree.”
Argoth wrinkled his nose. “I tell you what: forget the crossfire. Just put Bones at the door.”
“I’d put him out,” said Droz, “if the man wasn’t such a good swordsman.” He motioned at the numerous squares on the floor with handles in them. “Mind the covers.”
“Murder holes?” asked Hogan.
“Exactly.”
Droz lit and handed both Argoth and Hogan an oil lamp, then held his aloft to reveal the stairs.
“Here’s another thing,” Droz said. “They spent a fortune making this small fortress; you’d think they’d make it safe for the guards. But no, the fifth stair will try to kill you. Just mind its slope as you go by.”
They descended the stairs. Argoth stepped over the fifth one. The stairs followed the curve of the tower wall to what looked like an empty cellar that lay directly below Bones’s stink chamber. This chamber too had murder holes in the floor.
It also had an iron grate door set into the floor on one side. Droz lifted the bar on the door and took them down another staircase. This stair opened onto a flat area about ten feet deep. At the end there was yet another grated door. Two massive iron bars held it shut.
Droz unbarred the door and opened it outwards toward himself.
There was a whistling somewhere above. Argoth suspected it was a window. He glanced back up the stairs and saw nothing but darkness. There was an odor on the air. Old urine and excrement and something else he could not identify. So it wasn’t as tight as Droz wanted them to believe.
The light of their three lamps was only strong enough for Argoth to see the grated doors of the first few cells.
“The woman’s down at the end,” said Droz. “I’ll wait here.”
“Actually,” said Argoth, “I think we’ll accomplish more alone.”
“I don’t like it,” said Droz.
“If you want to rouse the warlord to discuss our methods with him, go ahead. Or maybe we can wait until he wakes. Of course, she doesn’t have many hours left in her. If she dies tonight…”
Droz grunted. “You like to push it, don’t you?”
“No, Droz. We just need some answers.”
“Fine,” said Droz, “But that means I lock you in.”
“Thank you,” said Argoth. “We’ll ring the bell when we’re ready.” Argoth dropped his voice to barely a whisper. “I expect you’ll want to watch. But, please, don’t uncover one of the murder holes directly above her cell. If she is Sleth, she’ll know you’re there. In fact, I’d recommend against opening any of them. Your stink will come through, and she’ll not say a word.”
Droz looked at him, and Argoth couldn’t tell if it was suspicion or curiosity behind those eyes. But then he nodded, locked the grated door behind himself as he left, and retreated back up the stairs.
Hogan stepped forward toward Purity, but Argoth restrained him, and motioned at the murder holes in the ceiling. They waited for the time it would have taken Droz to walk back up the stairs, but they heard no murder hole being uncovered. Nevertheless, Argoth walked about the room, holding his lamp so he could inspect every one. When he was sure nobody was listening, he motioned Hogan to Purity’s cell.
Purity lay in a blanket at the bars of her cell on a bed of straw. Underneath the blanket she was naked except for her bandages. Her head had been shaven. The silver king’s collar ringed her neck. Hogan knelt close to the bars and held his lamp up. Her wounds from the arrows were stitched in tidy rows. Even so, the wounds were red, angry, and corrupting. She would not last long in this room, but she might survive long enough to do the Grove damage.
“Purity,” said Hogan.
She spoke, but did not sit up. “I hope you brought wolfsbane roots,” she said. “If I’m to be poisoned, let it be quick. Not an insufficient dose of hemlock and honey or some two-day mushroom.”
“Calm yourself,” said Hogan. “It hasn’t come to that yet. First, we need to know what has happened.”
She coughed and her breath rattled in her lungs. “I’m sure the Fir-Noy gave you the full report,” she said.
“I don’t care about the battle,” said Hogan. “I want to know about the stork and your child. And what happened to the harvest master’s family afterwards.”
“I thought maybe someone else in the Grove decided to take justice in their own hands,” said Argoth, “but it wasn’t anyone in the Grove. Nobody I know could have drained the bodies like that. Not even a Divine can do that. I inspected the bodies, and they were dry. Completely wrung out.”
Argoth referred to the Fire in the bodies of the family. Death was the separation of Fire, soul, and body. Some said the soul took the Fire with it. Others claimed the Fire poured forth like smoke or steam. However it separated from the body, there was always some that remained and leached away only very slowly. Fire could be found in bones a hundred years old, yet the bodies of Barg’s family had been empty husks.
Argoth continued, “There were the markings of an immense draw of Fire, a blackening of the skin. It looked almost as if some monstrous hand had grasped hold of each victim’s face.”
Purity was silent for a long moment. And then, “I know nothing of what happened to the harvest master’s family.”
Hogan squatted down next to the cell. He reached in and gently stroked Purity’s shaved head. “Whatever you’re hiding, you need to let us know so we know how to set it right.”
Purity looked at them then. Large cuts and bruises covered her face. Her left eye was almost swollen shut. Her lip was split.
“Give me the poison,” she said. “You cannot free me. I have broken our trust. I am willing to abide by the covenant; cut me down and preserve the rest.”
Not a tear fell. And how could she weep? She was broken. Argoth’s heart ached for her.
Hogan continued to softly stroke her hair. “We decide if the covenant is broken. Besides, not all is lost. Your children yet live.”
Argoth had not known that.
Purity looked at Hogan, and now the tears began to well in her damaged eyes. “I have done horrible things.”
They waited for her to continue.
Purity was a handsome woman, but her grief had shattered her. And now her face twisted with what she was about to tell. “In the early autumn of last year the children brought in a young stork with an injured wing. It could not join the others in their flight south, so we decided to nurse it back to health. Sugar and Legs made a pen for it next to the chicken coop and brought it frogs and fish to eat. They loved the excitement of that long, dangerous beak.
“It was a smart bird, and a temptation came to me, a forbidden and foolish thing. I wanted to reach out and touch its soul, to see what the mind of this great bird might be like. I’d done it before with other animals and knew how to be careful. Every few generations someone in my family manifests this gift. I’d been taught by my great-grandmother. But I had never done this while pregnant. I was only a few weeks from delivering Cotton.”
Argoth suspected he knew where the story would end. This poor woman… and yet, that’s why the codes were so strict.
Purity continued, “Something in me slipped. I felt it leave. I knew it was soul and broke the connection. I was horrified, but nothing happened. I lay awake at nights worrying what might happen to me. I inspected myself and the bird every day. But there was nothing. Nothing. Then Cotton was born. He was jaundiced, but that’s common enough and the yellowing quickly faded in the sun. All seemed right. And I thought I had perhaps imagined the slipping.
“The bird healed, but would not fly with its kind. It always stayed close by, as if it were one of the family. We stopped feeding it, but it would not leave. And whenever Cotton was outside, it would come down and eye the babe. At first we thought it saw the babe as a tasty morsel, but it never tried to nip. It would only turn its head to eye him and then settle down somewhere close. This went on for weeks, and we just accepted that the bird thought we were his flock.
“Then one frosty morning I went out to the garden to dig onions. Cotton lay wrapped in the bassinet. This bird rose from its perch on the roof and flapped down to join us. But this time I noticed something… a sore on its head. Of course, I thought it had been in a fight with some animal, but when I inspected, I saw the bud of an ear. And then hair where feathers should have been.”
Purity stopped her tale and stared off into space. Moments later she continued. “Cotton’s foot had been roughening despite the butters and salves I rubbed onto it. And it was very clear what had happened; my soul hadn’t slipped-Cotton’s had. I probed, hoping to untangle them, but the two of them had mixed. My honey child”-a dry sob wracked her-“and that bird. I killed the bird, thinking only a small portion slipped and might return to my boy. But Cotton did not heal. He worsened, then died not many days later, lying in the bassinet on our kitchen table. I could not bring myself to burn them.”
She did not continue, but Argoth could guess. In despair, she’d buried them together, because her son had been in both bodies. She concocted her kidnapping story. And it would have worked had the floods not come this year.
Hogan looked up at Argoth, but they didn’t need to say anything. Argoth drew back his coat and showed Hogan the poison. By the Order’s law, she should die.
“Why didn’t you tell us?” asked Hogan.
“How could I?” she asked.
“Then what about this family that was slain? Is there some dark grove we know nothing about?”
“No,” said Purity. “No. I would never.”
“You were not supposed to touch souls either,” said Argoth.
Purity didn’t answer. She didn’t sob, beg, or plead.
Hogan shook his head. “There’s no way to redeem you from the Order’s law,” he said.
“What about my children?” asked Purity.
“They’re safe for the moment,” said Hogan, his pain showed plainly on his face. “My dear Purity. This can’t be a quick death; we don’t want them to link it to our visit.”
Purity nodded. “Tell them I’m sorry. Tell my children…” but she couldn’t finish her sentence.
Argoth reached for the tin and then stopped. She wasn’t someone who flouted the covenants of the Order. And if they could get her away from this place, if they could give her another chance, he knew great good would come of it. To be sure, there were many covenant-breakers who needed to be put to death. But the good to be achieved by this woman’s death was so little compared to what could be achieved by devising a way to help her live.
“She must die,” said Argoth. “But I don’t believe there is any part of the covenant that determines how soon that must be. In fact, is there not precedence for delaying execution?”
“For a day or two. A week,” said Hogan. “But it was expedient in those cases.”
“What if I said we could get her out of here?”
Hogan waited for Argoth to continue.
“We could use the sally port,” he said. “Tomorrow night. The sally port and then down the cliffs to the sea.”
“You can get her past Droz?” asked Hogan.
“That’s the one sticking point in every plan I’ve devised.”
“It’s too risky,” said Purity. She held her hand out. “Give it to me now.”
It was all fine to have strict rules requiring the death of renegade members, but rules could never have prepared him for this. Lords, but this woman had advised him on how to repair the seemingly dead relationship with his own wife. Her strong purpose and wry humor had been invaluable. He couldn’t do it.
Hogan’s face was grim.
“I have a plan,” said Argoth. “Tomorrow night I drug the guards and free you. You dress in the garb of one of the men. I take the drug so they don’t suspect me. Then you walk out of here on your own with a report from Droz to the warlord. I will hide another set of clothes. You change into them and as a servant escape through the sally port.”
“Except I can’t walk on my own,” said Purity. “I am one tree. I am not the Grove.”
“Then we’ll think of something else.”
“Please,” said Purity. “You risk everything. You risk the lives of my children. If you want to save me, save my children.”
Hogan put a hand on Argoth’s shoulder. “Brother,” he said. “I shall never forgive myself.” Then he reached down and twisted off the lid to the tin. And Argoth couldn’t tell if Hogan was saying he would not be able to forgive himself for killing Purity or if he could not forgive himself if he put the rest of the Grove at risk.
Purity reached out, but her wounds prevented her from extending her arm far enough.
Argoth hesitated, looking at the few inches between the tin and her damaged fingers. And then, as if it were someone else’s hand holding the tin, he moved it close enough for her to take a pinch of rough powder.
“How much?” she asked.
“Two,” he said, his voice miles away. “Two should be more than enough.”
Purity took a pinch then put her fingers to her mouth. She grimaced at the bitterness, sucked her fingers, then reached out and took another pinch.
Hogan’s face fell. He stroked her shaved head again. “My dear,” he said. “My dear, dear-”
Something scraped above them. Argoth motioned for Hogan and Purity to be silent and looked up.
Argoth took another tone of voice, as if they had been interrogating her. “There are many more things you must tell us,” he said. He stood as if to stretch his legs. “Tonight is the beginning. And your children will reap the reward. But it all depends on what you do tomorrow when we return. It is your choice.” He continued in that line as if he were a reasonable interrogator, all the while furtively searching the ceiling. And then he found one of the holes in the ceiling that did not reflect his lamplight back.
It appeared Droz had not been able to contain his curiosity. He was only amazed Droz had waited this long. He made a small motion, letting Hogan know they should leave.
“You’ve been helpful,” said Hogan. “Every Koramite will thank you in their hearts.” It was a good touch. Argoth only hoped it was enough to fool Droz.
Purity said nothing in reply, only sucked on her two fingers.
He led Hogan back to the grate door. A chain hung from the ceiling. It connected to a bell in the upper level. Argoth gave it three good tugs and waited. A few minutes later, Droz opened the massive door and let them out.
On the stairs, Droz broke the silence. “So did you get our fish to speak?”
Argoth looked at Droz. “We know that the murder of the butcher’s family was independent of this woman,” he said.
“Goh,” exclaimed Droz. “There are two groups?”
“At the very least,” said Argoth. “Of course, we’ll have to verify what she said. But if it’s true, then it raises many troubling questions.”
“What else did you find?”
“I’ve already thrown you a bone,” said Argoth. “The rest is for Lord Shim.”
Argoth and Hogan found a place in the middle of the fortress courtyard where they could speak. They didn’t want to be up against one of the walls where their words might echo. And even if their words didn’t echo, they couldn’t know who might be close enough to hear: there were too many crannies and windows and deep shadows. No, it was best to talk in a spot where they could see everything that was to be seen.
Hogan held the reins of his mule. A smattering of clouds had blown in and obscured part of the night sky, but there was still enough light to see most of the courtyard.
“My heart is ash,” said Hogan.
Argoth could say nothing.
“We will make a sacrifice,” said Hogan, “so that her ancestors may be strong.”
A sacrifice of Fire would help her in the world of the dead. But he knew it wouldn’t lighten the pain he felt in his chest.
After a few moments of silence, Hogan said, “So, what emptied those bones? Wizards?”
It had always been a wizard’s dream to collect the bones of slaughtered animals and deceased humans, to harvest Fire without cost. The soul has departed; so there shouldn’t be any power there to resist a harvest of what remained in the bones. Battlefields, slaughter pens, dinner plates heaped with the remains of a meal-they should all be rich with easy Fire. But they weren’t. The bones resisted them. “Either someone has finally discovered how to persuade bones to release their treasure,” said Argoth, “or there’s a new power abroad.”
“Or an old one,” said Hogan. “Perhaps that is what killed Lumen.”
The ancient stories told of gods inhabiting many places. In the beginning, the old gods were servants of the Creators. There were gods for fish and beasts and trees, each chosen from its own kind. Each taught the lore by the Creators themselves so that they might guide and bless a certain small territory: a vale, a wood, or a group of hamlets.
But these old ones had proved unstable. One never knew if a god would end up being a curse or a blessing. And so the legends say the six Creators withdrew their presence from them. Regret, of course, did not. In time, a new order arose, an order of human Divines who sought to battle the old ones and rule huge territories. Some said the new order began with a group of gods seeking the ways of the first parents; others said it had nothing to do with the old ones, but had been established by the Creators directly.
Whatever the origin, the new order began to hunt the old gods. There were many tales of the ancient battles. In the end, the Divines triumphed. They claimed total extermination, yet there were always rumors of old ones that had slipped through the cracks. Could this be one of the old gods who had survived?
“This changes everything,” said Hogan.
“It does,” said Argoth. “Of course, why Barg? That part makes no sense. He was the key to… nothing.”
“A mere butcher, a harvest master,” Hogan said. He shook his head and looked up at the stars.
“Hogan,” said Argoth, “Lord Shim has been making suggestions again. Perhaps this is the opportunity we’ve been looking for. We do have the Book and Crown. Perhaps our time has come.”
“And who can read it?” asked Hogan. “No. We won’t risk that.”
Hogan was overly conservative. The Book and Crown of Hismayas held many things now lost to the world. It was said that Hismayas, the founder of their order, knew things not even the Glories of this world knew, things given him by the Creators themselves.
“We’ve discussed this before,” said Hogan. “Rushing to harvest only ruins the crop. The Order is not yet ripe.”
What would happen if they declared their powers openly? Some would join. Perhaps many. They might defeat the Bone Faces. But many might also prefer to submit themselves to that rot rather than ally themselves with Sleth. Bosser was one of those. He would fight against Argoth, and sooner or later, Mokad would find out; they would send an army to obliterate anyone having anything to do with the Order. The Nine Clans would join with them. Hogan was right: it could only end in chaos and ruin, but that did not make this cold logic any easier to bear.
A guard yelled back at the tower door, a mastiff snarled and was cut off. There were grunts, the sound of something metal clanging violently into the wall.
Argoth turned and looked at the gate, but the shadows obscured everything.
Something dark flashed in the corner of his vision and dropped from the sky. It thudded to the ground not two paces from where Argoth stood. At first Argoth thought it was a pile of rags, and then he realized it was one of the mastiffs that had been guarding the tower door.
It lay in a broken heap.