This night, the Sworn rode to battle. Jair rode with them, ready to fight. To his right was the leader of the trinnen, Alin. Talwyn was to his left, armed for magic and for battle. Pevre led them, and the insignia worked into his leather armor made it clear that he was a chief and a warrior. With them rode more than twenty Sworn warriors. Emil and Mihei, the warriors who had been wounded with Jair on the journey from Dhasson, were with them, fully recuperated. Each of the warriors carried at least one stelian, and many, like Jair, had a variety of wicked-looking blades on baldrics across their chests, as well as a two-handed blade in a back sheath. Despite an array of weapons that would have been ample in pitched battle, tonight, Jair felt unarmed. He fingered the new amulet at his throat nervously. Talwyn had given each of the Sworn fighters a charm that she said would ward them against the Black Robes’ magic. Although Jair had the utmost faith in Talwyn’s power, he found it difficult to put his trust completely in a talisman to protect him. For that, he relied on his stelian.
A man stepped into the moonlit path ahead of them, and Pevre motioned for them to halt. The scout moved into the moonlight, letting them be certain of his identity, before venturing closer. He made a quick bow toward Pevre and Talwyn before turning toward Alin.
“It’s as we thought. The Durim are massed near the barrow.”
Alin nodded. “How many?”
“Equal numbers, perhaps more.”
“Are there captives?”
“We counted two. A woman and a man. They had also brought a goat and a chicken.”
A mirthless smile touched Alin’s lips. “Sounds like they were worried about running out of blood.”
They were still a distance from the barrow; half a candlemark on foot, Jair guessed, and less than that on horseback. Alin motioned to the soldiers behind them, and half of them slipped down from their horses to tether their mounts among the trees. Pevre was among them. Jair and Talwyn remained on their horses.
“Pevre will signal Talwyn when we’re close,” Alin said quietly. “Mihei will come with us. We may need his talents to help conceal our approach.” The land mage inclined his head in acknowledgment. “With luck, we’ll strike before the Black Robes can work any real magic or properly ward themselves.” He made the sign of the Goddess in blessing. “May the Lady’s favor ride with you.”
With that hushed blessing, Alin and his fighters melted into the night. Though Jair had mastered much of the Sworn’s lore, he still could not move as silently as the best of the warriors, despite years of practice. On the other hand, courtiers in Dhasson often noted his silent approach. But tonight, there was no room for error, and so Jair willingly stayed with those on horseback.
Jair had his stelian in hand, as did the rest of the riders, prepared to fight. Finally, a distracted look crossed Talwyn’s face, just an instant before she smiled with grim purpose.
“They’re in place. Let’s ride.”
Talwyn and Mihei timed their magic so that a brilliant flare of light burst from both sides of the assault in unison. As the riders and the foot soldiers attacked, Jair could hear both mages chanting the counterspell to weaken or destroy the Black Robes’ warding.
The woman captive screamed. Jair could see that the goat and the chicken had already been sacrificed. The man lay on an unlit pyre, unmoving. Their attack appeared to have interrupted several of the Black Robes who were digging into the side of the barrow.
The autumn night felt thick with power. Though Jair had no magic of his own, he knew the tingle of it against his skin. Talwyn and Mihei blocked a blast of the Black Robes’ mage, and the sky lit in an arc of white light. But a prickle at the back of Jair’s neck told him that more magic was in play.
“What was that?” Alin held his stelian in hand, watching the night around them. Jair had just the barest glimpse of movement, like a shadow among the trees.
A cry went up from the foot soldiers, who surged forward as Talwyn and Mihei forced down the Black Robes’ warding. Alin ordered the horsemen forward, riding from the cover of the forest to attack the Durim’s flank.
Magic crackled in the air as Talwyn and Mihei battled the Shanthadurists’ wardings. If the Sworn had grown more alert to the barrows desecrators, then the black-robed Durim had obviously learned to anticipate an attack. A red-tinged dome of power encompassed the Durim’s ritual area and the barrow. The warding was translucent; it looked as if a red haze hung in the air. Inside the dome, where the Durim’s black-robed priests had begun digging into the side of the barrow, they had erected what looked like a wooden door frame around the hole. The lintels and cross piece were marked with bloody sigils, and a slaughtered goat hung by its legs so that blood dripped into the freshly turned soil. A dead chicken hung beside the goat, and around the base of the door frame were dark objects that looked from a distance to be severed body parts. A woman knelt beside the door frame, bound to the rough wood. She sobbed hoarsely, as if she were too terrified to scream.
The man lay still on the unlit pyre. Bundles of grain lay around the base of the pyre like offerings. Above the pyre, one of the Black Robes lifted a pitcher of what appeared to be oil and poured it over the man’s body. Over the pyre was a scaffold with three large wheels made from dried cornstalks, one for each of the Shrouded Ones. The Durim priest lit the wheels and they began to spin, sending arcs of flame and sparks into the night air and lighting the oil to set the pyre aflame.
Talwyn and Mihei sent a blast of golden power simultaneously, and the red-tinged warding flared brightly, glowing blood red. The wheels of flame inside made the red warding pulse like a heart. Mihei beat a rhythm on a hand drum, and his chanting followed Talwyn’s as they sent wave after wave of golden light against the warding.
Emil’s band of soldiers was ready to attack the moment the wardings fell. Alin ordered the horsemen into position. Jair threw up his arm to shield his eyes as the light grew brighter and brighter. Inside the red dome, the female captive screamed in terror.
With a blinding flash, the red light flared and disappeared. The Durim’s mage, one of the Black Robes, collapsed to the ground, and as Talwyn’s power reached him, his robes began to smoke and then burst into flames. For a moment, the entire clearing was bathed in a golden light like sunset. Emil’s foot soldiers let out a battle cry and began their run toward the Black Robes. There were a dozen of the Shanthadura priests in the clearing, as well as the dead mage. Three of them drew long, wickedly curved and serrated blades, ready to meet the Sworn’s challenge. The other two continued with their ritual, chanting in a language Jair did not recognize.
Jair kicked his horse into a gallop, riding into the fray. The Black Robes were vicious fighters, buying time to complete the ritual.
One of the Black Robes advanced on the captive woman, even as the night rang with the clash of swords and the pounding of hooves. He raised a large damashqi dagger overhead, ready to strike as the woman gave a terrified, piercing scream. Jair rode his horse straight for the man, leaping at the last moment over the sobbing woman to ride down the Durim priest. His stelian sang through the air, taking the Durim’s head off, and it fell still covered by the man’s black cowl.
A bolt of red lightning flashed from the hand of one of the Black Robes, catching one of the riders square in the chest and knocking him from his mount with a smoking hole in his ribs.
Talwyn and Mihei were in the front lines of the battle, and Jair realized that Mihei was working defensive magic while Talwyn turned her power against each of the Durim in turn.
Jair rallied the horsemen for another salvo. But before he could give the order to ride, shadows rushed toward them from the forest. Jair’s eyes widened. Dimonns? he wondered, even as he readied his sword to strike. Whatever they were, if they passed the line of mounted soldiers, this new dark power would have a clear shot at Talwyn’s back. Jair reined in his horse and readied himself to face a new enemy.
“Hold your positions!” Jair shouted as the dark shapes passed over them. Men swung at the shapes with their swords, but their blades passed through them with no apparent effect.
The horses changed footing restlessly. Jair was sure that their mounts could see whatever loomed in the trees. The autumn night was suddenly cold, and Jair fought a feeling of fear that urged him to flee. By the looks on the faces of his fellow soldiers, they felt it, too.
Screams rent the darkness. They came from the shapes in the forest, and rose high and frenzied above the panicked shouts of the two captives. The screams were followed by a deep, rumbling laughter that was cold and menacing.
“Hold your place!” Alin shouted. “They’re not dimonns. They’re ghosts.”
A hail of rocks came from the shadows that slipped among the trees. They struck men and horses with force, and bounced against Jair’s shield hard enough to send a shock through his shield arm.
Behind him, Jair could hear the sounds of battle as the foot soldiers engaged the Black Robes. But as much as he wanted to take part in the fight, exposing their flank and their mages to the darkness from the forest seemed a bad idea, especially now that their disembodied attackers proved themselves able to draw blood.
In the moonlight, Jair saw shapes among the shadows. The oppressive sense that something awful was about to happen grew stronger, as did the primal urge to flee. The wailing from the shadowed shapes became louder. In a rush of cold wind, the shadows became blade-thin, rushing at them from the forest to streak among them and through them.
Jair cried out as a dead coldness passed through his body, making his heart seize as if it would stop altogether. For an instant, Jair could not breathe and his terror was complete. Then the coldness vanished, but not before Jair’s horse reared in utter panic, nearly bucking Jair from his saddle.
The dark shapes circled them, and the soldiers positioned themselves in a line, facing outward, creating a barrier between the forest and the battle. The shapes grew more solid, stalking them now from the shadows. Whatever the shapes were now, they had the form of men, though their eyes burned like fire. Some had features, and others were like a starless night cut in the shape of a man. The shapes stretched and contorted as if to prove that they were not bound by the constraints on living men. One of the shadow shapes stretched out its arm toward Jair, and the clawed hand moved toward him, though the arm grew impossibly long. The entire shape slowly elongated, growing gaunt and huge, menacing in its reach.
By the cries of the men around him, Jair knew he was not the only one to be terrified by the apparitions. He struggled to keep control of his frightened horse. Maneuvering as best he could to evade the outstretched hand, Jair was mindful not to expose his back.
The shadows seemed to grow thicker and more solid. This time, the shapes that passed among them felt cold and firm. One of the warriors screamed as he was abruptly pulled from his saddle and flung to the ground. Alin, sword already swinging, charged toward the shadows. Solid as they had seemed as they passed him, his blade made no contact, though it disappeared into blackness. Unseen hands shoved Alin backward. Jair charged forward on horseback, only to have his horse rear, eyes wide with panic. Shadows swarmed over the soldier on the ground, and it looked to Jair as if they slipped into his mouth and nose, slipped underneath his skin. The downed soldier gave a terrified shriek.
Darkness poured like blood from the soldier’s eyes, ears, mouth, and nose, and when the darkness cleared, the man lay unmoving on the ground.
Alin had regained his feet and was advancing slowly, stelian upraised. “What the hell are we fighting?”
Before Jair could answer, more of the shrieking shapes swooped from the forest. There was nowhere to run, and Jair had no intention of abandoning their line and opening their companions to a second enemy. Anger filled him, and Jair shouted a battle cry with all his might. He ran at the blackness, leaping over the body of his fallen comrade, and he realized something as he hit the ground.
The dead soldier was not wearing Talwyn’s charm.
Shapes rushed him, and utter coldness filled his body as the darkness slipped beneath his skin. Cold hands touched him, grabbing at his arms and legs. It was hard to breathe. His lungs felt as if he had gulped frozen air, and there was a weight on his chest. Jair staggered and fell to his knees. Spirits slipped against and through his skin like hundreds of blades. Jair reached beneath his tunic and touched the talisman as the darkness closed around him. The talisman flared with a blue light. As the glow grew brighter, the darkness drew back, rushing away from him. He gasped for breath, clutching the amulet, which was now almost too bright to see.
“Use your amulet!” Jair shouted.
Suddenly, the glade was filled with light. Blue-white light streamed from the amulets of the soldiers, which they held out in front of them to drive back the darkness. Jair realized all of the men were now on foot. They closed ranks, shoulder to shoulder, holding the amulets out in front of them. One step at a time, in unison, they advanced on the darkness, forcing it back into the forest.
“We can hold them back, but for how long?” Alin shouted. “It’s a standoff.”
Just then, a golden glow like sudden dawn flared between them and the shadows. A clear, bell-like chime seemed to sound from everywhere and nowhere. Screams rose from the darkness, but where the shadows had shrieked before to terrify their victims, now the cries that came from the darkness sounded of pain and terror.
The shadows fled into the tree line. Alin, Jair, and the others did not take their eyes from the edge of the forest until they were certain the shadows were gone. Only then did Jair turn to see Talwyn behind them, her arms upraised, face turned toward the sky, lips moving in a chant. Another blast of the golden glow streamed along the floor of the forest, beneath the lowest branches. It illuminated the forest floor like daylight, showing it to be clear of threat.
Talwyn lowered her arms and fell silent. Jair wondered if the others could see how much it drained Talwyn to work her magic. He could see the strain in her eyes, though he said nothing.
“Thank you,” Alin said, and his voice was not entirely steady. “What were those things?”
Talwyn’s lips pressed together in a thin line. “The restless dead. The blood magic of the Black Robes calls many things to its power. Restless and malicious spirits are hungry for warmth. And while they don’t have the power of dimonns, you see that they’re dangerous, nonetheless.”
“Gather the wounded,” Alin ordered. Out of the soldiers who had ridden with them, three had been injured during the encounter with the spirits. Several needed to bind up gashes before they would be ready to ride, and the healers came forward to tend them. More than one man cast wary glances toward the forest, expecting the spirits to return, as the healers bent to their work.
“You did well to hold the spirits here,” Talwyn said. “The Black Robes put up quite a fight. Their mage was more powerful than I expected, and it kept Mihei and me busy, so it’s good that we didn’t have the malicious dead to worry about as well.” She looked back toward the barrows.
“We took some casualties until we were able to strike down their mage. No one’s dead, but our healers will be busy for a while.”
“And the Black Robes?” Jair asked.
Talwyn sighed. “One died in the battle. That was their mage. Seven died fighting. We took the other four for judgment. They had already killed the man they took prisoner. The woman will need a mind healer. And from the preparations they’d made for the ritual, they’d obviously killed some other people. We had more body parts than bodies,” she said with a grimace.
“You’re certain they’re Durim? Were they trying to open the barrow?” Alin pressed.
Talwyn looked tired, and Jair could hear the fatigue in her voice. “Yes, they’re definitely Durim. We collected enough of their trappings to tell that they’re part of the cult of Shanthadura. And from everything we found, we’re betting they thought their power was stronger now because it’s the eve of the Moon Feast.”
They were walking within the area that had been inside the red dome. Jair could see scorch marks on the ground where the powers had clashed. The pyre still burned, and the air was heavy with the stench of burning flesh. The three cornstalk wheels had burned to cinders. Jair’s boot kicked something, and he looked down, bending for a better view. A human figure made from corn husks lay near his boot, and as Jair looked around the area, he saw others like it. Some were painted with symbols, while others had been dyed in colors. Many of the figures had been maimed, missing limbs or heads, or pierced through with nails. The wind shifted, carrying away the noxious odor of the pyre, and Jair caught the strong smell of camphor, rosemary, and thyme.
“Talwyn, have a look.” Jair motioned for her to see. Talwyn knelt next to the pile of figures Jair had made.
She let her hands hover above the poppets for a moment, and Jair knew she was sensing for magic. Then she opened her eyes and began to gingerly handle the figures, turning them and frowning as she looked at the symbols.
“This gives me a whole new perspective on those spirits you fought,” Talwyn said, sitting back on her haunches. “We assumed the Durim called them to attack you. But I don’t think that’s what happened. This is going to sound really strange, but I think you actually saved those spirits.”
Jair looked at her in utter confusion. “How do you figure?”
Talwyn held up the corn husk figure in her hand. It was a reddish brown, and Jair bet the coloring came from blood. The figure had been struck through with a wooden nail. “The Durim weren’t content with the people and animals they killed. They were trying to raise real power here, and they wanted more sacrifices. These dolls are symbolic sacrifices. That’s why they’ve been ‘killed’ in effigy.” She looked around the battlefield in horror. “By the Dark Lady! It’s true what the old stories say about Shanthadura’s followers. Their appetite for blood is never sated.”
“Where did the spirits come in?”
Talwyn looked toward the now-quiet forest. “They would have become sacrifices, too. It’s the Moon Feast tomorrow. We celebrate the harvest from the crops in the fields. But there are old stories about another harvest that used to be held, long ago, before the ways of the Sacred Lady came to these lands.” She looked to Jair and met his eyes. “They called it the ‘soul harvest.’ ”
“What’s a ‘soul harvest’?”
Talwyn’s eyes took on a faraway look. “The stories say that the Shanthadura priests-the Black Robes-would cull the herds, taking out the sick, the old, and the lame. Those animals would be eaten, or offered as sacrifices. But they would do the same among the people, reducing the number of mouths to be fed over the winter. Those people became sacrifices, too. There would be bonfires, and sometimes, a huge effigy of Shanthadura, made of cornstalks and branches, and in its belly, some of the people would be burned alive.” She swallowed, then went on. “The Black Robes used that blood magic to bind the spirits of the dead. They called it a ‘soul harvest.’ They drew on the power of the souls to feed their own power, destroying the souls and robbing them of their rest. The weak souls they destroyed, but the stronger souls escaped them. Those they caught and couldn’t destroy they ‘hollowed.’ They left them like disembodied ashtenerath, wandering, mindless, out of control. They became like minor dimonns, tortured things that preyed on the living.” She shivered, and Jair put his arm around her shoulders.
“So those spirits we fought were actually being called to their destruction? The Black Robes would have hollowed them?”
Talwyn nodded. “That’s my guess.”
Jair looked around the battlefield. Emil and Alin’s men had carried away the Sworn’s wounded and had stacked the bodies of the dead Shanthadura priests in a row. The survivors were bound and hobbled and thrown over their horses. Talwyn looked up sharply.
“Don’t burn the Black Robes or the corn figures!” Talwyn rose and strode over to where Alin froze, midmotion, just about to throw the body he had hefted onto the pyre.
“But Cheira Talwyn-”
Talwyn shook her head. “The pyre’s been spelled. If we add bodies, we feed the sacrifice. Send two men to bring lye from the soap maker. Go to the village if you must. These were blood mages, so we’d best also assure that they don’t rise with the new moon.”
“M’lady, they’re dead.”
Talwyn met Alin’s eyes. “Some blood mages have the ability to bind or project their souls so that something of them exists, even after death. It’s not a full summoner’s power, thank the Lady, but I don’t want to meet these particular Black Robes again.”
“What do you want us to do, Cheira Talwyn?”
“Remove the head, breastbone, and right hand. Cover those with lye and let the lye eat them,” Talwyn directed. “What remains of the bodies, we’ll use to placate the spirits of the barrow. If anything remains of the Black Robes after that, I’ll leave it to the Dread to deal with them.”
“What about the captives?” Jair asked with a nod toward the sullen Durim priests who were bound and kneeling.
Talwyn’s eyes grew cold. “We will take them for judgment before the Consort Spirits. They chose this night because the spirit world is closer. They’re about to find out just how close it is.”
Only a few candlemarks remained before dawn by the time the Sworn warriors returned to camp. Talwyn, Pevre, and Jair knew the night’s work was still not over. Jair oversaw hurried preparation to bring the four captive Durim priests to judgment as Talwyn and Pevre readied for the working.
Though the bells of a distant village sounded the third candlemark of the morning, all but the children of the Sworn filed silently into the common tent. A fire burned in the center, and incense smelled of sandalwood and juniper. At the four quarters of the compass, gemstones hung from the roof supports, flickering in the firelight with the colors of orange chalcedony, jade-blue aventurine, green peridot, and yellow citrine, one for each of the Light Aspects of the Sacred Lady. At the cross quarters hung bloodstone, garnet, iron, and salt-tribute and wardings for the Dark Aspects.
Tonight, it would not be the Aspects that judged the Black Robes. For a high working such as this, the Sworn relied on the four Consort Spirits. A drum beat a solemn rhythm as the people of the Sworn assembled. Jair, Emil, Alin, and one of the other trinnen warriors escorted the captives into the gathering space and forced them to kneel in a line facing the center fire. The four warriors were clad in black, with cloth head wraps of black fabric that covered all but their eyes. Their large stelian blades glimmered silver in the firelight. They were present to keep the peace, but they would not be the agents of the Consorts’ judgment this night.
When the prisoners were in position, the drum began a different rhythm. The crowd stirred for a first look at the figures entering the round tent. Four beings with the bodies of humans and headdresses like the heads of animals entered silently. Their robes were the colors of the Moon Feast, red, gold, yellow, and orange, honoring both the moon and the harvest. One figure wore the head of a bear. Another wore the head of a stawar, the great dark-furred cat that roamed the Eastmark wilds. The third wore the face of a wolf with glistening black eyes. And the fourth looked like an eagle with a sharp, hooked bill. Talwyn, Pevre, Mihei, and Estan, a senior healer, wore the costumes but something about their manner made Jair wonder how much of each Consort’s powers the ritual participants took on.
Incense hung heavy in the air, and the firelight danced from the warding stones to cast a shifting pattern of light on the walls. Jair fought the shiver that coursed down his back as the murals painted on the canvas walls seemed to move.
The four prisoners each wore a silver charm that kept them from wielding their magic. Their black robes had been confiscated, leaving only men in loincloths who looked ordinary and defeated. Outnumbered, bound, and stripped of their power, they awaited the judgments of the Consorts with sullen glares.
The eagle figure stepped forward. Jair knew it to be Talwyn, but the figure spoke in a voice unlike hers, shrill, like the cry of a raptor. “Black Robes, Durim, priests of the Shrouded Ones, of Shanthadura, you have brought blood magic among us. You desecrated the barrows of the Ancients, and you committed human sacrifice, in fact and effigy. What do you say for yourself, here in the Judgment, that we might hear your plea?”
The four prisoners remained silent, glaring up at their judges defiantly.
“If you will not speak, then we will let your spirits speak for you,” the Bear Consort rumbled. The figure raised its arms, with palms out and fingers spread. The air seemed to resonate with magic. One of the helpers poured a mixture of herbs into the fire that stretched between the Consort judges and the accused, creating a cloud of smoke that smelled of spice and pine. Four shapes appeared in the smoke, and the crowd murmured as it became plain that the shapes were those of the prisoners’ smoke walkers.
It was the Stawar Aspect who spoke next, its voice a low growl. “For whom did you sacrifice?”
The smoke images of the prisoners lacked the defiance of their counterparts. “We serve Shanthadura.”
“And for what reason did you violate the barrow?”
“We must awaken the Ancient Dead.”
“Why do you seek this?”
“He Who Calls Us ordered it. We are to make ready. His legions will sweep across the land, bathing it in blood and awakening the old ways. Everything will be swept away, and from that chaos, Shanthadura will rise once more, making new.”
“Who is this who calls you?”
“He is called many names. We know him as Cataclysm, and he is the right hand of Shanthadura.”
“Did you call the Restless Dead?”
“We called them for the soul harvest. We must feed the Ancients.”
“And did you call the dimonns? What of them?”
“They have been bound inside the barrows for centuries. They hunger. Shanthadura welcomes their blood offerings. We fear nothing from them.”
“Have you attacked vyrkin and vayash moru?”
“Their blood is a potent sacrifice, filled with the Wild Song and the Dark Gift. Our mistress covets their blood.”
The four Consorts turned toward each other, and though they said nothing, it looked to Jair as if they conferred. Finally, the Eagle being turned back toward the assemblage.
“You have murdered the living and desecrated the places of the sacred dead. You have made sacrifices of the vyrkin and the vayash moru, who are favored by the Dark Lady. And you have hollowed the souls of the Restless Dead, which is an abomination. For your crimes, you must be destroyed.”
The smoke walking spirits showed their disdain. “We welcome death. Our deaths feed Shanthadura. We have no fear of it.”
“Your judgment is up to the Consorts,” the Eagle Consort replied.
The drums began to beat faster, and the smoke was heavy with power. The figures of the four Consort Spirits seemed to waver. Three men and a woman wore the costumes of the Aspects, but the smoke figures that emerged were of the animal Aspects. From Pevre’s costumed form came the smoke walker of a great bear. An eagle flew free from Talwyn’s form, as if it launched from atop her shoulder. They were joined by the powerfully muscled figure of a stawar, with its large paws and sleek head, and the figure of a huge gray wolf. The smoke walkers of the prisoners disappeared, and for the first time, Jair saw fear in the captives’ faces. One of the prisoners tried to rise to his feet to flee, but a guard gave him a shove that forced him back to his knees.
In unison, the four figures raised their heads. The stawar was first to strike. With a growl, the large cat sprang at one of the prisoners, passing completely through the man’s body to emerge with a very real heart clenched between its jaws. With a look of astonishment, the Durim priest swayed and fell backward.
The bear lumbered toward its prisoner, rearing to rake its huge smoke claws down the man’s chest. Deep gashes tore across the prisoner’s body, deep enough that his organs spilled from his belly. The wolf passed through the fire as if the flames were not there, launching itself toward its prisoner and clamping its strong jaws around the man’s neck, tearing through his throat and bone. The last Consort was a huge eagle. Its wingspan was as wide as the bodies of the four prisoners. With a shrill cry, the eagle brought one taloned foot down on the skull of the last doomed man, and with one sharp movement, clenched its claws so that they penetrated bone, crushing the head within its grasp.
The smoke wavered, and the spirit walkers of the Consorts dissipated, leaving behind only smoke and the mauled bodies of the condemned men.
Through it all, the drumbeats had never faltered. Now, indifferent to the stirring of the crowd, the four Consort figures turned and filed from the tent, followed by Jair and the other guardians. By the time Jair reached the outside, Talwyn and the others had vanished.
“I’ve seen that done only once before,” Alin said quietly as he walked beside Jair back to the tent that was the headquarters of the trinnen and the barracks for those among the elite warriors who were not married. “I don’t know how Talwyn and Pevre and the others do that, and I don’t think I want to know.”
As often as he’d seen Talwyn work her shaman’s gift, Jair found it both wondrous and unsettling. He tried not to think too hard about the fact that the woman he held in his arms at night was also able to be the direct channel of the spirits of the Consorts and the Lady’s Aspects. How the power worked, he didn’t know, and he doubted Talwyn could explain it to him. From what he gathered, even among those with a shaman’s gift, training was more by example than it was something that could be reduced to words.
“I’m happy to stick to my swords,” Jair replied. “Swords are simple.” But he knew as he said it that it wasn’t completely true. Swords were indeed simple, but wars never were. And if the boasts of the Black Robes were correct, then war was coming, and it would be anything but simple.
The morning of the Moon Feast dawned clear and bright. And although Jair knew that Talwyn and Pevre had to be exhausted from the battle and from the working of the previous night, they were ready for the festival to begin when the sun was high in the sky.
“How do they celebrate in Valiquet?” Talwyn teased as they watched Kenver compete with the other boys at bolas throwing.
“The way they celebrate everything-with a feast and chamber music,” Jair said, feigning an exaggerated yawn.
“Perhaps when you become king, you can liven it up for them,” Talwyn replied.
Despite how tired he was from the events of the night before, Jair laughed. “I can just picture Lord Scovitt and Lord Janev competing at goat herding.”
“Oh, but surely the palace bakes a meal to rival ours.” Talwyn’s grin showed how much she enjoyed needling Jair about the other half of his life. “After all, how can roasted goat compare to the delicacies they must cook for you every feast night?”
Jair took in a deep breath. The smell of roasting goat mingled with the scent of cooked leeks and onions. A groaning board of the first fruits and vegetables of the harvest would be served tonight around huge bonfires that would light the night, offered to the living, the guardian spirits of the ancestors, the Dread in the barrows, and to the Lady and her Consorts. Mead would flow freely, and the afternoon belonged to the young men in games of skill. The night was for the bards and storytellers, who would recount legends of long-ago warriors and great chieftains, and tell of the magic and victories of revered shamans. It would be a day and night of feasting, with handfastings encouraged to begin a new cycle of birth in the spring. Jair felt more at home here, among the Sworn, than he ever felt amid Valiquet’s opulence.
“Actually, the palace cook makes a passably fair roasted goat,” Jair replied, pulling himself from his thoughts. “Although venison is more favored at court. Most of the nobility prefers wine to mead, and the spices take more after the western fashion-bland, compared to what we use here.”
Talwyn took his arm. She and Pevre had completed their official morning duties to begin the festival, and when darkness fell, she and Pevre would usher in the night in the traditional way, by setting a large, tarred wagon wheel aflame and rolling it down a path on the highest hill in recognition of the setting sun and the coming shorter days of winter. “Do you think Kenver will win with his bolas?”
Jair chuckled. “He’s got good aim for his age. Give him time. From the dents he’s put in the hitching post, I’d say he’s been practicing.”
Talwyn laughed, and her long dark hair fell around her face, framing it and making her amber eyes gleam. The festival robes she wore indicated her rank as cheira and shaman, but without the formality of her ceremonial regalia. And when she laughed, Jair saw a rare glimpse of the beautiful young woman unburdened from her position and responsibilities.
“This is my favorite time of year,” Talwyn said, resting her head against Jair’s shoulder. “First of all, you’re on the Ride with us. But I love the autumn weather and the harvest foods. I don’t even mind the winter if the harvest has been good. And I’ll admit that as much as I enjoy Winterstide, the Moon Feast and the Feast of the Departed are two of my favorite festivals.”
A question crossed Jair’s mind, something he had wondered from the events of the night before, but he pushed it away, unwilling to spoil the mood. Talwyn noticed the shift and gave him a questioning look.
“What is it?”
Jair frowned. “Just something I heard last night. We didn’t really get a chance to talk after the tribunal.”
Talwyn’s mood sobered. “Sorry about that. There are rituals to follow after a working like that to ground yourself back in this realm, and offerings to be made. By the time I came back to the tent, you and Kenver were both fast asleep.”
Jair leaned over to kiss the top of her head. “It’s not that-I know you have obligations. But when one of the Black Robes was rambling, he talked about a war and chaos. Did that make any sense to you?”
Talwyn sighed and withdrew her arm, walking a few steps ahead. “Unfortunately, it does.”
“That doesn’t sound good.”
Talwyn looked out across the camp. Children’s laughter echoed with the sound of singing and the thunder of hoofbeats as young men raced their horses in the distance. “There are legends about how the world was made, very ancient stories. According to the legends, the world has been made and unmade several times. The Dark Aspect of the Formless One is chaos, where worlds are torn apart and new worlds are born. She’s neither good nor evil-she just is. But Shanthadura and the Shrouded Ones embraced the chaos. They revered the power to destroy, but not to create. That was one of the main reasons why some of the kings like Hadenrul the Great worked so hard to supplant the cult of Shanthadura with worship of the Sacred Lady. You can just imagine what it would be like with the Black Robes running around with the power to do real damage.”
“Where does the war come in?”
Talwyn walked slowly, and she held out her hand to Jair. “The old stories talk about the World Cycle that moves much like the year. Everything is new in the spring, it blossoms in the summer, it bears fruit in autumn, and it lies barren and dead in winter, only to begin again. The stories say the World Cycle begins and ends in a great war, the War of Unmaking. That’s what the Black Robe was talking about. To the blood mages and the dark summoners and the worshippers of Shanthadura who draw their power from death, it’s the ultimate source of energy, the destruction of everything. For those who worship the Lady and her Consorts, the focus is on rebirth and the power of creation.” She met Jair’s eyes. “As you can see, it’s another point of contention between the two sides.”
“Do you believe him? That there’s a dark master out there who is going to usher in the War of Unmaking?”
Talwyn shrugged. “The sages warn us against trying to predict such things. Worrying about the War of Unmaking is a lot like fearing your own death. It comes whether you fear it or not, but you miss out on all the living up to that point.”
“But could it be true this time? So many things are happening. The Durim and the Black Robes bringing back the cult of Shanthadura after hundreds of years. The desecration of the barrows. And now this power that’s rising. Could it be true?”
Talwyn shivered, although the day was warm. “I don’t know, Jair. I don’t know. Those are exactly the things that the old stories say happened before the last War of Unmaking. And does it change anything? Do we sit by and let this dark power-whatever it is-rise? Maybe it’s not the War of Unmaking. Maybe it’s just one more man with too much power. Maybe the War of Unmaking is just a legend, a story that’s been made of old wars all added together and given a good dramatic twist by some long-ago bard.” She met Jair’s eyes. “It doesn’t really matter. If the Black Robes are right and there’s a darkness rising, then I have to fight. The Sworn will defend, so long as we have breath.”
Jair took her hand in both of his. “Where you ride, I ride. That’s why I asked. Because I think war is coming, and when it comes, I plan to fight.”