Eve of Snows: Sundering the Gods Book One Page 2

  Tikotu grumbled. “You go rushing down them steps and half of you’d be dead from the fall before you got there. We wait.”

  Guntar’s jaw muscles flexed in clenching pulses near his ears, and Tokodin feared the man’s words. Guntar carried a temper, and as a bearer for Istinjoln, charged with delivering important messages, his status in the Church lay beyond his years.

  Guntar’s diplomacy suggested the answer to who bore the weight of authority. “I bow to your wisdom, of course.”

  A pulse of light and another rumble echoed from the deeps, interrupting the power play. In the bass of the echoing thunder, a subtle, higher-pitched shriek caught his ear. Could humans scream so loud? A chill prickled his skin, pervasive, unfading even in the ensuing silence.

  The chasm went black and silent. Monks and priests meandered from the Crack, muttering reassuring words as time passed. Tokodin could not. He stood pensive, staring, ears strained for any sound.

  A quarter candle later the notion of screams hiding in the rumbles still haunted his ears. “What were they doing down there, Tikotu?”

  The older man scrunched his face and rested his arms on his belly. “I haven’t the slightest pissin’ idea.” He chortled, his eyes nervous. “But don’t ever believe our betters don’t come up with damned fool notions.” The priest’s eyes scanned for listeners. “I did hear—”

  The pulley bell clanged four times, echoing through the hall, and explosions followed. Flashes of white as intense as a thunderstorm crackled across the depths of the Crack and streams of fire lended hues of orange and yellow and blue. This time the screams were of men dying.

  Tokodin’s fingers tingled in panic, chest pounding faster than the rhythm of the thunder below. “Twelve Hells.”

  Tikotu hefted a lead brick, trembling fingers fumbling its weight until it dropped in the bucket, and it plummeted into the abyss. Adherents swarmed the edge of the Crack to gain a view as the rope whirred, but the pulley jerked to a sudden stop. The post strained as a fishing pole that’d caught a whale. The oak cracked then snapped, its tip and pulley spiraling into flashes of fire and lightning.

  Guntar fumed. “We’re headin’ down.”

  Tikotu clutched the bearer’s robes at the chest and shoved him backwards. “Down is dead! Gather your faith and prayers. Spread out. Anything that pokes its head from the Crack that ain’t a man, you burn it to the Forges.”

  Guntar found his footing and stared hard at the big man, but he didn’t make a move. “You heard the Third Priest! Fan out and hold faith in Sol.”

  A gong sounded in the cavern, deafening Tokodin to further commands; he knew the reverberations in his ear from training, and they straightened his spine with a tingle. The call to battle, to defend the Church with prayer, steel, and blood.

  Tokodin rushed to snatch his staff amid others scrambling for weapons and gear. The nine hands of oak reinforced with iron caps stood a finger or two taller than him, and its heft in his hands lent small comfort. He trotted back to the Crack and edged close to Tikotu as the gong’s echo faded. “What the Twelve Hells is going on?”

  The priest glanced for eavesdroppers. “Them dice may be the best part of your day.”

  Tokodin stared, stymied. “Colok?” The beasts had slaughtered priests on hallowed ground before, but not a major shrine so well protected.

  “No.” The man gnawed his lip. The old priest wanted to let slip the secret, but Tokodin never expected the man to break. “Shadows from the Stone, that’s what we call them.”

  “Shadows? Stone? What the hells does that mean?”

  The priest shook his head with a snarl followed by a panicky laugh. “You’ll regret finding that answer.” The priest pushed him back and faced the top of the stairs.

  The Crack of Burdenis returned to darkness and remnants of thunder trailed into silence.

  Guntar shoved past him, his shouts booming. “Focus. Prayer. The gods will listen and answer.”

  Tokodin found Loepus and stood by his side. “Not liking this.”

  His friend sported a nervous grin, and he cleared his throat after his voice cracked. “Well, we didn’t join an escort to meditate.”

  They waited in the dim light of braziers and torches, the only sounds their breathing and shuffling feet. Too quiet, too long. The adrenaline of a game of dice couldn’t compare to the chilled blood in his veins as time drug on. Nothing was coming up those stairs, friend or foe. Eyes meandered from the Crack, looking to each other for answers or questions, perhaps reassurance or inspiration. But no one dared utter a word.

  A soft sound came from the chasm with a stuttering cadence, and all eyes retrained. Waited. Gasping breaths and the slap of leather soles and hands on stone. A priest struggled from the stairs and collapsed to his knees, his chin sagging and rising from his chest with every desperate breath. His words were a fight for air as he raised a quivering arm with tubes clutched in his fist. “Diamond failed. Hells’re comin’.”

  Tikotu grabbed two scrolls from the man’s shaking hand, opening the one unsealed. His eyes flicked across the page as Guntar stepped to kneel before him. The Third Priest exhaled a deep breath and handed the bearer the scroll sealed in a leather tube. “To Istinjoln with haste.” The big man leaned to the bearer’s ear, but his nerves made his whisper loud enough to hear. “No aid from Istinjoln, and every soul here is forfeit.”

  Guntar took the tube and bowed his head, his voice determined. “On our lives, we swear it.” He leaped to his feet and raised an iron-clad staff over his head. “Ready escort!”

  Tokodin trotted to the gaming braziers with a snort and snagged his dice from the floor before grabbing his pack. He tested the buckle strapping snowshoes, a shovel, and a hatchet to its side, and made certain his jerked deer and canteens lay buried beneath his fleece-lined trousers. The latter in case the weather took an unseasonable turn. Wool wax coated the soft-soled elk hide boots and wool robes he wore, to repel snow or rain, but extra gear never hurt in unpredictable mountain weather. He yanked the drawstring and pulled its straps over his shoulders, praying he wouldn’t need any of these things.

  Priests and monks rushed into the cavern from several directions, answering the gong’s alarm, but the auburn locks he sought were nowhere in sight. He banged the butt of his staff on the floor in frustration and strode toward the bearer. He’d dreamed of important missions when he clasped arms with Guntar and pledged his life, but with the moment upon him, his stomach knotted.

  “Leaving so soon?”

  Lovely Meliu, such a relief to hear her voice.

  He turned, caught by a hug. He smiled despite his terror. “Whoa, girl, no time for that. Well, all right.” He grabbed her hand and dragged her several feet into darkness before she pulled free and slugged him hard enough to sting.

  “Naughty boy.”

  The humor faded and his grin died as he looked into her eyes, wishing there were more light to see their soft beauty. How many monks and priests served this shrine? How many were friends? Everyone’s lives were in danger. Meliu’s life. “Shadows from the Stone?”

  She shot him a cockeyed glance, her mouth opening and closing without a word before she planted her feet. “You shut up about those, you hear?”

  “I hear you.” A dead subject, whatever those words meant.

  “No time for kisses, monk!” Guntar and the remaining escort stared, waiting on him.

  He ignored the bearer at his peril. “You’ll be safe?” Her prayers were those of a scholar, not a killer.

  She fidgeted and giggled, forced a smile. “I’m damned good at hiding, if it comes to it. Next time you’re here, stay longer.”

  He wanted to kiss her, but a lack of courage turned him to stone. No need to prove himself a fool. “It’s come to it, wherever you think is safe, go now.” The smirk on her face hammered his confidence in her. “The diamond failed, and the hells are coming.” She blanched. Tokodin didn’t know what these words meant, but she sure the hells did.

  She shru
gged her shoulders and righted her habit before tromping up to and right past Guntar. “Shortcut. Follow me.”

  Guntar bellowed, “You heard the priestess.”

  Tokodin swiped his forehead and exhaled with a moment of relief, knowing she was with them for a stint. His eyes focused ahead but his ears listened to the caterwauling from behind.

  The clamor of coming battle mangled shouts and screams into a cacophony, but a few rang distinct over the din. “Ignite the fires! Slings with oil!” The voice belonged to High Priestess Endelu if he wasn’t mistaken. Her reputation left no doubt to the power of her prayers, but the pitch to her shouts left no doubt of the edge her emotions walked.

  The cavern narrowed as they traveled with hurried steps, and as the tunnel turned thunder bellowed and a breeze swept over the back of his head, warming his ears. He stopped, afraid to look back even as the bearer’s torches disappeared around the bend. Tokodin never had faith in the gods to answer his prayers, but he kissed two fingers and touched his forehead before he turned.

  The cavern’s walls blazed in ribbons of fire, lightning crackled and sparked, and smoke roiled in billows, as robed priests formed a wall facing an unknown foe. Angin’s hulking form stood out from the rest, whirling a staff wreathed in flame. The holy held their ground against evil by the grace and with the power of the gods, and for a flicker he held hope. Then Angin froze, his arms splayed, his staff dropping from his hands and growing dark, his mass of flesh and bone lifted from the ground, stiff as a straw doll before slammed into the stone floor by an unseen force. Tokodin’s hope drained with the blood from his face, and he ran until catching the escort, panting, unable to bring words to his tongue.

  Guntar asked, “What’d you see?”

  Flames and sparks and smoke and death, but the words stumbled and tripped before reaching his tongue.

  The bearer slapped him in the side of the head. “What’d you see?”

  An oracle, poet, or minstrel might find words for the terror, but there was a deeper truth to utter: “We need to move faster.”

  2

  THE LONELY SCAR

  In Darkness there is no light nor flight, but there is desperation.

  My wings refuse to unfurl, I fall, but go nowhere.

  The laughter is mine, but the Voice is not.

  Who am I? I am not. Never was. Never will be.

  Not until tomorrow.

  —Tomes of the Touched

  Seventeen Days to the Eve of Snows

  Eliles’ eyes twitched beneath drooping lids, deep breaths easing her mind and soul against the tension surrounding her in the Hall of Trials. Imaginings of a pastel blue sky streaked with yellows, pinks, and oranges in sunset pulled her into tranquility, rounding her shoulders with a deep exhalation. A dozen snow buntings lifted from Istinjoln’s cobbled courtyard with breezes warmer than a breath in cupped hands sweeping beneath their wings. The flutter of their heartbeats beat in her chest and her eyes raised to the sky as if she could join in their flight of freedom.

  The slap-crack of a whip shattered her peace, resounding through the deep caverns beneath Istinjoln Monastery. She straightened her back and opened her eyes as a dozen voices rose in a droning chant, the prayer’s energies summoning a spectral shaft of Light. A circular dais of white marble blossomed into a brilliant glow, highlighting silver-and-gold streaks in its polished stone.

  A horseshoe of priests in black robes stood on the edge of the aura across from Eliles, solemn, heads bowed, and hands hidden in the deep bells of their sleeves. Three dozen, maybe, were Masters of Fire and their underlings, each here to witness their students in the Trials, but the rows of faceless robes counted far greater than those instructors.

  Many were here to see her.

  Eliles kneeled at the head of the row of twelfth-year postulants, those here for their final and most difficult trial before priesthood, and she’d be the first to kneel in the circle of blinding light.

  Liermu, Mistress of Trials, stepped from the shadows and into the Light, a snake whip curled into a tight loop in her right hand. Her form cast no shadows as she walked, for the Light of the Gods enveloped all, disallowing darkness. Her black robes brushed the stone floor, her cowl thrown back to reveal its blood-red silk. Liermu’s dark brows were thicker than her narrow eyes and she wore a twitchy smile that suggested she enjoyed swinging the whip known as the Maimer’s Lash.

  Liermu said, “The final trial of priesthood is to ignite with prayer seven candles for the seven heavens.” She pointed to a candelabra hanging from the ceiling and then to twelve candles ringing the room. “And these twelve candles, representing the hells we must cross on the Road of Living Stars in order to stand beside our gods.”

  A high priest with gold silk rimming his robes at the sleeves and hood, took a single step forward. His face hid in his dark cowl, but the voice was deep and mellow, distinct. “Begin.” Woxlin was a pup amongst old dogs. Surprising he’d receive the honor of commencing the trials after four months in the high priesthood.

  Liermu spun on her heel, locking eyes with Eliles. “Maevu, ward and postulant of Istinjoln, and seeker of the Flames of Sol, come forward.”

  Eliles stood before she realized her name wasn’t called, and a squeak came from the back of the row. “Me?”

  “Come forward, postulant. Prove your worth before Sol, King of the Gods.”

  Eliles slumped to her knees, gazing over her shoulder at the terrified girl who rose and inched toward the Light. Maevu should’ve been the last of the twelfth-years to face the whip. She would lack focus; they were throwing the most vulnerable into the Light to bleed first. In her twelve years of servitude, Eliles had never heard of such a break in tradition.

  Maevu trembled as she reached the circle’s center, untying and slipping from her robes, dropping them in a heap around her feet. The girl was naked, showing humility before the gods, and her long black hair was tied in a bun to reveal the forty or more white scars crisscrossing her back, glowing white in the Light.

  “Kneel and face the Trial of Nineteen Candles.”

  Maevu steadied herself with her hands as she lowered her knees to her robes, the only comfort in these chambers.

  Liermu said, “What is easy in practice, with solitude and patience, may prove impossible beneath the stare of hundreds of eyes and in the face of time.”

  A trial-candle ignited. The standard timing-candle held forty-eight conjoining wicks, and twenty-four candles burned end-to-end marked a day. The flames of the wicks alternated between yellow and orange, and flared blue as wicks transitioned. Trial candles flared every quarter-wick.

  Maevu bowed her head, focusing. Muttered prayers murmured from her lips.

  Eliles’ fingers dug into her own thighs, hoping the girl’s count of scars ended here. Maevu was the lowest ranked postulant, Eliles couldn’t imagine what she’d done to deserve this pressure.

  Mistress Liermu sauntered to stand behind Maevu as the candle approached its flare, unraveling the whip to twirl its tip on the floor in a figure eight.

  Maevu’s prayers intensified, and the candelabra above her head lit for the Seven Heavens. The wicks representing the Twelve Hells smoked, glowed orange, but refused to ignite. If Maevu pushed too hard, she’d melt the candles, a flaw punishable by an extra whipping.

  The trial-candle flared blue with a hiss.

  Liermu intoned, “Facing the wars of gods and mortals, a priest must overcome not only the pressure of peers and haste, but the reality of pain.”

  The whip fell with a crisp snap and a fine streak of blood welted on Maevu’s back. The blood flowed a moment only before congealing, the split skin knitting with unnatural speed toward what would in a half candle be a perfect scar, but experience taught Eliles that the pain intensified even as it healed. Priests spoke of the Maimer’s Lash with reverence, a vestige of the Age of God Wars, but Eliles knew it for what it was, a torturer’s device, a slaver’s cruel joke incapable of killing anything but the victim’s will.

/>   Mistress Liermu snuffed the candelabra with a whispered prayer and a wave of her hand, and the trial continued.

  Eliles’ heart beat thirty times before the next flare.

  Liermu stared into Eliles’ eyes and smiled. “A priest’s own life as well as the lives of their peers will rely upon their ability to focus one’s devotion to prayer in the most trying circumstances.”

  The snap of leather left a second stripe down Maevu’s sweating back, and the Mistress of Trials’ twisted lips told Eliles the truth: Whipping this poor girl was a game, a torment from this torturer meant to rattle Eliles’ nerves. Eliles shut her eyes and breathed deep to retain her calm. She fidgeted beneath her robes; she wanted to scream, run, disappear. No, what she wanted was to end this charade by setting the Mistress of Trials ablaze.

  The candle flared, and Liermu said, “When Jæmex of Ilbor was dying, her flesh flayed and her limbs stretched by rope, her prayers immolated herself, and her enemy, to save the lord priest’s secrets. Could you match this feat?”

  The third crack of the whip split skin and Maevu screamed.

  Eliles gnashed her teeth. Whether she surrendered or fell unconscious, Maevu would fail the priesthood.

  Another flare. “A priest unused to suffering will prove unable to summon a prayer to survive or destroy.” The Maimer snapped an X across a healing wound, and Maevu shrieked. She continued her prayers with tears flowing down her cheeks, dripping from her chin like the wax down her candle.

  Please quit, please.

  Eliles chewed her lip, wanting to help the girl, but if a single priest noticed her calling Fire without prayer she’d expose herself as defiled, cursed with the feral magic of Vanquished Gods. It was a heretical and unholy practice punished by torture and death. She could save this girl from the whip, or doom herself trying.

  The candle flared. “Failure is not shame, donning the monk’s habit is not a disgrace.”

  “No,” Maevu blurted, her shoulders tense and swollen red.

  Leather snapped and the girl’s sobs forged Eliles’ will into iron. Damn these priests to their hells, Maevu deserved the priesthood more than most here with her overlapping scars.