Eve of Snows: Sundering the Gods Book One Page 6

  “Years of study in the holy scriptures and that’s what you took away?”

  Souls who served as slaves in penance, between hells and heavens, never spoke their names, lest they fall into the Vainglorious Hell.

  Eredin shrugged, pulled a bottle of whiskey from his cloak. “The winds have weakened in our sails, so we’ve a journey ahead.” He popped the cork. “I would have brought a woman or three if I’d thought to get away with it.”

  Ivin mulled his cousin’s words as he leaned against the rail and took the bottle. “What am I missing?”

  Eredin rolled his eyes. “Details, maybe, details I’m not privy to. But birds are singing all across Kaludor. Something foul brews in the Twelve Hells. The Wolverine’s sure to know more.”

  Pikarn, the Wolverine, had commanded the wardens for longer than Ivin drew breath, and it was his patrol he’d be riding with. It felt as if the story was incomplete.

  Ivin cocked an eyebrow. “Names of the Slaves?”

  “I’ve told you all I know. I swear. Sit. Drink.” His cousin’s sideways grin was infectious. “There’s no use to pondering the future without a swallow of fire in the belly to battle the ale.”

  Ivin took a pull on the bottle, a smooth burn with a hint of oak in his throat. Wind, waves, and whiskey, standing wasn’t an option for long.

  5

  GUESTS IN DARKNESS

  Diamond lies from Golden tongue whispers Air to speak from your lungs.

  Tongues. Entwine. Slippery vines with taste of wine,

  Slithering deep, throat, heat and moist in your drums,

  Erasing the cacophony prattling in your Skull,

  the shucked and hollow Hull,

  ’til you bellow sweet anythings for who to hear?

  Do not fear! Your words fall through disappeared ears

  from your dead Lips.

  — Tomes of the Touched

  Seventeen Days to the Eve of Snows

  Eliles had never been happier for the distance between the Chamber of Trials and her master’s cell. By the time they’d ascended three levels and trekked the long hall where the masters of fire resided, they’d walked a quarter candle in silence to cool the man’s mood. They passed through squared tunnels, chisel-and pick-hewn by untold candles of labor, and lanterns hung every ten paces down the halls, telling time by the color of their flames.

  The fires flickered in transition from deep yellow to the light red of the nineteenth candle when they reached Dareun’s cell. Eliles followed Master Dareun into his chambers and closed the door. Dareun’s study was a cramped space with feather-ticked bed, four plain and uncomfortable chairs, and several round oak tables that held thick tomes for instructing postulants. Lanterns for reading outnumbered everything in the room save for shelves of books in an alcove.

  Dareun tossed his hood back, revealing a man in his seventieth year. Maybe handsome once, the wrinkles and long ears grown hairy over the years marked those days as past. It didn’t matter; he was still her sweet master, her mentor and savior. He’d taken Eliles beneath his wing after her arrival at Istinjoln Monastery and concealed her curse from his peers and defended her from jealous words and prying eyes.

  His face pinched to a scrunched nose and pursed lips as he turned his gaze upon her, and his gentle, soulful eyes squinted in a glare.

  “What, by the Vainglorious Hell, were you thinking? Can’t take a blow from the Maimer? I understand, by the gods, I do—but twelve years! Twelve years we’ve worked on making your trials appear the same as other postulants.”

  “I waited until the last moment—”

  “Showmanship! Not a voice dared claim otherwise! Can you? Oh! It was like you threw twelve years of trials in everyone’s face: ‘See? See me, I’ve toyed with you all along.’” Dareun poured himself a mug of mead and slurped.

  Her master might be right, a childish desire to show off could lurk in her soul. She could’ve had them flicker as she did for Mavu. And in front of Ulrikt, no less. “I didn’t mean to.”

  “Liermu herself would struggle to achieve such subtle plays of fire!” His fingers drummed the arm of his chair. “And Mavu?”

  She considered lying, but her master was aware of her every tell. “She practiced the ritual a hundred times and succeeded most.”

  “Girl be damned, that isn’t the point! A single hiccup in timing… by the Mercies, girl.”

  Forgetting wasn’t possible. If her trick revealed her, she died. Sometimes she managed to neglect this complication, but she never forgot. “I’m sorry.”

  “If the girl’s prayers had stopped a moment before your fires lit? An inquisition would discover your truth, and neither I nor that poor unsuspecting girl would have escaped whatever doom Lord Priest Ulrikt prescribed.”

  “I said I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry is a stale and worn word between you and me; this was reckless.” Dareun massaged his wrinkled brow until his berating stare turned to an exasperated chuckle. “Oh, my girl. You’re my blessing and my curse. My headache. We’re so close.” He drained his mug and refilled.

  Her spirit wilted further. In just over a fortnight she pronounced the vows of priesthood, their goal for the past twelve years, but what came after was a mystery.

  “Something else troubles you, what is it?”

  Their years together made feelings difficult to hide, but she wasn’t in the mood for hiding today. “I’ve finished my training. So what do I do, where do I go?”

  “I’m certain you’ll do whatever it is you wish to do, as always.” She pinned his eyes with her glare, in no mood for humor at her expense. He redirected with a smirk. “If you were a normal student of such exceptional ability, I should recommend staying at Istinjoln to educate the next generation. Replace me, maybe.” He waved for her to sit. “Who am I fooling, you’d be a high priestess in a decade, heading a major temple or shrine. Maybe you still could if you avoided antics like this evening. If not for your mouth, you might be lord priestess one day.”

  She appreciated the old man’s attempt to humor her fears. “I’d be better off in the brewhouse. I’m defiled, an abomination before the gods. I need a clear path, a clean cut from Istinjoln.”

  “You aren’t thinking of faking your death again?”

  At twelve, after taking her only lash from the Maimer, she’d decided to escape, but Dareun put an end to the ill-conceived plan that would’ve ended with her buried alive and not faking at all. She blushed and smiled. “No.”

  His lips pinched with a smirk. “Good. The currents in the River of Time pull us in one direction or another; we swim with them or against them. There are many who believe Sol chose you for a reason. That breeds not only jealousy, but the aim to use you for mortal purposes in the name of the gods. We’ve kept your divinations vague, thus far.”

  “Vague will be useless when the high priest asks my intentions.” Eliles slumped in her seat, glancing to a book sitting on the table beside her.

  Its cover depicted the silver spear of Bontore, the son of Sol, and the God of Knowledge and patron of oracles. When young Dareun had trained in the ways of breaking bones and reading their cracks to guess the future, and this book detailed a part of those teachings in its hundreds of pages.

  When she’d arrived at Istinjoln as an outcast child, the potential for the Oracle of Bones to reveal her curse had terrified her. Dareun had assured he would hide her, and as a game they’d opened the book to a random page, discussing the meanings of symbols and signs, making light until she smiled and forgot her fears. They’d continued this tradition until she outgrew the need for reassurance. Tonight, the child within needed to grasp for that comfort.

  She flipped the book open and rose to look at the pages. An elegant drawing of a symmetrical maze, representing the Road of Living Stars and the Twelve Hells, greeted her. The souls of the dead needed to step from star to star without falling into one of the Twelve Hells to reach the heavens. Whether they had lived in piety or sin determined the difficulty of the crossi
ng.

  Finding levity in this dismal book wasn’t easy, but she tried. “Well, at least there isn’t a specific hell for those defiled by the Vanquished Gods.” The Liar, Malignant, Heathen, Heretic, or the False Prophet’s hell, any of them might house her soul well enough.

  Dareun stood with a smile and took a deep drink of his mead before closing and reopening the book. A star sat on the page, eight rays reaching from its center to represent the pursuit of righteous knowledge. It was another of Bontore’s symbols and called the Wanderer’s Star. Dareun chuckled and was about to say something when he stopped, squinting at her. “The Traveling Wisdom.”

  Eliles blinked, it wasn’t amusing, and she didn’t recognize the phrase. “Master?”

  His finger tapped the star. “It frustrates the oracles to find no higher calling in your bones when they’ve deemed you born for some great purpose. We need to provide them with a road to your divine destiny.”

  “Destiny? A destiny written by the Vanquished Gods will send me to the hells, or worse.”

  “You will seek the Traveling Wisdom, as did High Priest Xivcok.”

  The name Xivcok was familiar, a noted high priest who lived in the second century of Remembered Time, a missionary to the common folk, if she recalled. “The Traveling Wisdom?”

  “You will travel the whole of Kaludor, beyond if you wish. Enshrine the words of Sol in the hearts of the people, bring them deeper into the folds of the Pantheon.”

  Skepticism oozed through her tone. “A missionary? I’ll be a priestess in name, not deed.”

  Dareun waved her words from the air. “Missionary, pah! The Traveling Wisdom is so much more. Xivcok didn’t preach to convert the doubters; he sought to enhance his holy knowledge with the common wisdoms of… But that’s of little consequence. Once you step beyond Istinjoln’s gates with the lord priest’s blessing, never look back. Go, find the current which leads to the waters you are destined to swim. Your robes will open every gate on the island and there isn’t a one you’ll need to open unless you wish. Or you could throw those robes to the Ten Winds and live as common as you desire.”

  “Lord Priest Ulrikt won’t question this?” Ulrikt ruled Istinjoln with an iron fist and a thousand watching eyes; she wouldn’t pass through the gates without running for her life without his say so.

  “Throw in some gibberish about weakening the clans and strengthening the pantheon in the hearts of the people and a few might collapse prostrate in a devout froth.” He laughed. “Add my manipulating the bones a touch or two, and we’ll see you safely out of these walls. I promise.”

  A piece of her doubted he’d bring her this freedom, but she needed this faith. A smile spread across her face, for the first time in months she had hope. But, hope carried a price.

  “I couldn’t have had a better father than you. I will miss you.”

  “And I you, my girl… most times. I won’t miss needing to explain away your miraculous gifts as part of my grueling candles of training.” He chuckled into his emptying cup of mead. “Away with you. An old man needs his sleep.”

  A tear welled in her eye as she kissed his forehead. “Sol bless you, my master.”

  He waved her away with a smile.

  She strode into the hall and stood in silence beside a red lantern, at a loss for what she should do. The prospect of parting from Master Dareun saddened her, but leaving Istinjoln gave her thrilled goosebumps.

  The celebration of the autumnal equinox on the twenty-fifth of Yistole, known as the Eve of Snows, would mark her entrance into the priesthood. In eleven days the Oracle of Bones would reveal her future, and another five days before she declared her freedom on the Eve of Snows. The dank tunnels, the half-concealed sneers and contempt, would be behind her. She’d find a new life, find her happiness. She wanted to celebrate, steal a bottle of wine, but such exuberance was premature.

  She swept the giddy thoughts from her mind, deciding on a breath of fresh air. Celebration enough to see the stars. Hurried strides carried her to an exit chamber, one of several sitting beneath the buildings of upper Istinjoln, but this one sat nearest to the stables. A monk stood beside the ladder with a grin on his face.

  Jinbin had spent ten years studying the ways of Light before failing the priesthood and taking the monk’s habit. Only a year older than Eliles, they were passing acquaintances then, but now that he guarded her favorite exit into the world above, they’d become friends. Or at least she liked to think so.

  “Greetings, One Lash.”

  His smirk was unbearable; he knew how much she hated the nickname many muttered when they thought she couldn’t hear. But it was the fact he stood underground rather than in the building above which irritated her most.

  “Bad news?”

  “The Guard is running drills from red through deep red tonight. No one’s allowed outside.”

  Eliles groaned. “They had drills two weeks ago.”

  “Twelve days.”

  She rolled her eyes, then glared at the light-red flames burning in the room; she had time. “I’ll run straight to the wall and I’ll be back whip-quick.”

  He folded his arms and stared. “If you’re out there and get hurt, I’ll be scrubbing every garderobe and pisspot in Istinjoln for a week. A month.”

  It was a famous punishment, and one that forced her to up the ante. “Dareun’s in charge of final inventory for the Eve of Snows.” She grinned and walked her fingers up an imaginary ladder.

  “A travel cask of ale?”

  A ten-marked keg wouldn’t be easy. “I can manage at least a half.”

  His feet shifted and shuffled before sighing. “You’ve a half candle before full red, after, the price is a full cask. Two if I have to dump a single pisspot.”

  She followed him up the ladder into a stone building lit by a single lantern and small enough that three people lacked elbow room. Jinbin stepped to a monk guarding the door leading outside. “She’s a message for the guards at the gate.”

  Eliles didn’t know the other monk’s name, but he was more senior than she’d expect to be guarding doors. He cast her a wrinkled squint and a solemn nod as he opened the door. She bustled through as if in a hurry.

  Recollections of shame and guilt faded with a deep breath of fresh air as she strode into streets lit by stars and scattered lanterns. A chill north wind filled the hood of her robe as she turned west down a road folks called Cricket’s Way, but the shiver running down her spine was welcome beneath heavy wool robes. Her cowl fell to her shoulders, and she reveled in the brisk wind.

  A handful of guards walked rounds and stood their posts in Istinjoln’s streets as they always did, their postures relaxed. It was more quiet and ordinary than she’d expected with rehearsals for war in the offing.

  Her steps slowed to a casual gait as she weaved her way west through winding streets, and she gazed at the sky instead of her feet. The evening was clear but for wisps of clouds blowing toward a horizon in sunset. For Eliles the beauty of the world lay outside Istinjoln’s walls, away from the great tower and its keep, and the squat maze of buildings appearing to kneel before it in prayer and servitude. Everything these walls contained was an ugliness making the outer world so much more beautiful.

  She reached the western courtyard with the main gatehouse straight in front of her, its gates closed, but swerved toward the stables. A set of stairs scaled the wall on either end of the stables, which held stalls for over two hundred horses, if it housed less than a quarter of that these days. She loved the stables, the smell of grass hay stored in the loft and the neighing of the mountain ponies, so she always climbed to the wall’s allure from here.

  She topped the stairs of the northern wall and a guard glanced at her as he leaned against a battlement, but paid her no more mind than to give her a nod of recognition. She passed him and several more, wondering how they were so relaxed with drills less than half a candle away. They mustn’t be taking part, holding their positions on the wall.

  She leaned
against a parapet and stared north to the mountains, their snow-white peaks and evergreen forests. Snow blotted the green of the trees, a gift from an unseasonable storm in a year colder than any she remembered, but here in the foothills the deep snows that bent branches with their weight a morning ago faded with warmer days.

  A strong wind curled through the buildings of Istinjoln and swept up the wall to bring shivers. She willed warmth into her flesh, and a pleasant heat swelled in her heart, flowing through her veins until the world was pleasant as a spring day.

  With a wind in her face that no longer felt cold, she closed her eyes and focused on her breath, losing track of self and time until family slipped uninvited into her consciousness. Once free, she should visit them, make sure they were well. She opened her eyes, angry for allowing a pleasant moment to sputter. Her mother abandoned her in the woods, to hide her from father and the inquisition, but she couldn’t forgive her.

  The memory of her mother’s swollen eyes wrenched her into melancholy. She slouched against the parapet, watching as darkness conquered the sky and revealed stars. The constellation known as the Heart of Januel hung to the left of a valley leading into the mountains, a set of stars love-struck couples prayed to each year, hoping the goddess heeded their prayers.

  The eight stars formed an inverted arch in the sky, its shape representing both her aspects: love and war. A bowl representing her endless capacity for compassion as well as bringing two distant souls together, and a convex wall to safeguard her people from enemies. The Heart of Januel, bringing two souls together and protecting them through all of life’s battles for eternity.

  She gazed at the Heart and prayed now and again, prayed she would find love in this life, but so far Januel showed no signs of having listened. Tonight she did not pray. All she needed was to gaze at the heart above the mountains and marvel at its brightest star.

  “Gates of Istinjoln, open!”

  The cry broke the night’s silence, followed by the grinding iron gears of the rising portcullis. Eliles gazed at the gatehouse along with every guard on the wall. A ponderous, covered wagon with lanterns hanging from its corners rolled into Istinjoln with an escort of riders. Such wagons might bear cargo or passengers, but if it carried supplies it would’ve stopped for the night in the village of Petrin a candle’s walk south, or found the gates closed until dawn.