The Silver Scar Page 12

  Trinidad felt his lips draw back. Hawk. He was no friend. Never had been. “If he’s stupid enough to come here, then he deserves it.”

  “It was a long time ago you hated him. You were kids. Please, Trin.”

  “Hawk doesn’t trust you, Cas. And I don’t trust him.”

  “He gave me soldiers to command, his own sister even—”

  “Don’t you get it? Magpie was sent to watch you, not take your orders.”

  “No, no. He—”

  “He called you Woodwose.”

  Castile’s nostrils flared and he focused on some spot beyond Trinidad. “So? He always called me that.”

  Woodwose was a Wild One. The life of the party. Fun, but foolish and dangerous. “It’s an insult.”

  “Do it for the coven, then. He can protect them.”

  Trinidad shook his head.

  “Please. Trin. House … against the west fence. Gray with red trim. He’ll come. Warn him.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Please. They took me in. Despite everything.”

  Exactly the way Father Troy had taken Trinidad in, a heathen kid with scars too deep to ever really heal. Trinidad closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. “All right. I’ll go.”

  Castile paused to swallow. “I’ll rove if I can. If not, I’m glad I saw you again.”

  Trinidad forgot himself and reached out for Castile again. “Stop talking like that.”

  “Like what? Like I’m going to die? I am going to die.” The edges of Castile—his voice, his body—blurred as he struggled to finish: “By the Crone, man, at least let me say goodbye— Wait. Someone’s here. Go!”

  Trinidad came awake in a shaking panic, his feet on the cold, threadbare rug between their beds.

  Wolf whimpered in his sleep and stirred. Trinidad reached for his brother’s blanket-clad shoulder and shook gently. He startled and blinked up at Trinidad. Gray morning light made fresh shadows on the walls around them and brought out every ridge and valley of his scars. A spider had strung a web in the corner over Wolf’s bed, just like in the dreamscape.

  “He’s hurt,” Wolf said.

  Trinidad stopped breathing, moving. “What?”

  Wolf blinked, rubbed at his eyes and sat up. Trinidad watched realization darken his expression as he recalled Father Troy was dead.

  “That Wiccan man,” Wolf said.

  Wolf never remembered his dreams. Except he remembered seeing Trinidad in them. And now Castile.

  Trinidad drew in a sharp breath. “You were there with me,” Trinidad said, incredulous. “You were the one Castile saw coming.”

  Wolf’s lips parted. “It was just a dream—”

  A knock on their door and it swung open. Seth stepped inside. “You’re up. Good. May I have a word?”

  “Of course.” Trinidad glanced at Wolf. “Go back to sleep.”

  Seth led the way to his room. Three doors down, two archwardens in full kit stood guard outside Bishop Marius’ door. Crimson crusader crosses shone like blood against their black cloaks. She was here, then. Not at the jail.

  Malachi stood inside the room he shared with Seth, waiting. Trinidad passed through the door and waited while Seth closed it behind them. He couldn’t look at Malachi without anger flaring, so he looked down instead.

  Seth said, “Have a seat, bro.”

  He sat.

  “What exactly went down last night?” Seth asked.

  “Danny and I …” He faltered. Seth’s knuckles were bruised and cut. You tortured Castile. “We were out looking for Father Troy. Indigos attacked us. They killed Daniel. Wiccans came and shut them down. They helped us bring Father Troy home—”

  “Why was Father Troy out there?”

  “He knows … knew Castile from visiting the prison. I think, though …” Father Troy was dead. Nothing could harm him now. “I think Father Troy had some problems thinking straight. He was saying crazy things. Castile was very kind to him. When we realized how bad Father was, Castile agreed to help us get back.”

  The words rushed from his lips like snowmelt down a canyon. Lying got easier, the more he did it. Not a comforting thought.

  “The bishop suspects you met with the Wiccan on purpose,” Seth said. “You and Father Troy. Makes us wonder what interest you and Father had with a convicted ecoterr.”

  “I told you. Father Troy—”

  Malachi edged closer. “Enough lies.”

  Trinidad focused on Malachi’s fists. Yes. Enough lies.

  “He’s an old friend, isn’t he? Castile?” Seth asked.

  Trinidad sighed. Who knew what Castile had said under torture? Do I look like I’ve told them anything?

  “You never made any secret of it. You don’t want crusade,” Malachi said. “Admit it. You met with the Wiccan to make plans for treason.”

  Trinidad looked from one to the other. “You don’t want war. Neither of you.”

  “I knew it.” Malachi smacked his fist against his palm.

  “The bishop is making us take the cross today,” Seth said. “What choice do we have, with Father Troy gone?”

  Trinidad shook his head. “The order will back you if you decline.”

  “All the high-ranking archwardens are diocese guards. They all wear crusaders’ cloaks now.” Seth cupped Trinidad’s chin with his long fingers. His other fist hung at his side. “We’re on shaky ground. No parish priest. Two dead archwardens. Bishop Marius out for blood over their murders.”

  “I don’t want to take the cross,” Trinidad said. “I can’t. I won’t. Father Troy—”

  Malachi hissed at him for silence and glanced at the closed door. “It’s your duty. Come with us today and take the vow.”

  Trinidad tried to twist free. Seth cupped the back of his head with his free hand, holding him in place. “If she suspects a whisper of protest, you’ll end up dead, somehow. Friendly fire or an accident inparish. And we’ll end up right there beside you. Guilt by association. See my point?”

  Trinidad swallowed, his throat dry. “I see.”

  “So keep your mouth shut and do as the Bishop says. Even when it comes to the crusade.”

  Trinidad considered. Seth’s eyes narrowed.

  “I’ll keep my mouth shut,” Trinidad said.

  Seth released him with a shove. “All right, then. I knew we could count on you. We’ll see you later, at the service for Paul.”

  Trinidad nodded, lies cinching his heart, and escaped. Back in their room, Wolf rested in his covers, waiting.

  “I told you to go back to sleep.” Trinidad ignored his brother’s curious eyes. The less Wolf knew the better.

  He inched his sword from its scabbard. Paul’s blood still caked the etching on the blade. A sudden wave of nausea caught hold of him. He leaned against the wall, shivering. What he wouldn’t give for a hot drink. He remembered the smell of tea at the coven’s cave. Trinidad pinched the bridge of his nose and tried not to think of his unsteady stomach. It subsided some, but a headache thudded behind his eyes.

  “Are you taking your sword or should I clean it?”

  “I’m taking it.” Marshals wouldn’t find this unusual if he had to pass through a checkpoint; archwardens rarely went about unarmed. Trinidad slid on his armor harness and buckled the straps to his shoulder pieces. Then he pulled the body plates over his head. Wolf got up to secure the latches for him and then looked into his face.

  “Where are you going, Trin?”

  “Wolf, don’t.”

  Trinidad’s body protested every step as he crossed to a cabinet and found their bottle of aspirin. It was running low but he chased three with a mouthful of whiskey, which bubbled on the aspirin and burned his throat. The acidic, foamy taste made him shiver. He took another mouthful of whiskey, letting it smolder on his tongue.

  “You look sick,” Wolf said, retreating back to his own bed.

  “I’m just tired and sore.” Not as sore as if he’d been tortured all night.

  Wolf’s voice broke through hi
s thoughts as if he’d read them. “What are they going to do with the Wiccan?”

  Trinidad scrubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands. “They’re questioning him.”

  “You mean marshals are torturing him,” Wolf said in a small voice.

  Not marshals. Not this time. Trinidad sat on the edge of Wolf’s bed, considering how much to say. He lowered his head in a nod. “Yeah.”

  Wolf’s eyes were big in his pale face. They rested on Trinidad’s chest, where the pentacle lay hidden beneath his armor. “But how can you let that happen? He’s your friend.”

  “We’re not friends. Not exactly.” Not anymore.

  “But he’s one of God’s people. That’s what Father would say.”

  “Castile is a convicted ecoterr. He’s on parole. He knew what he would happen if he came here.”

  “Why did he come then?”

  “Why do you care?”

  Wolf closed his mouth and averted his gaze for long enough Trinidad thought that was the end of it.

  “I guess … because you said the Wiccan helped Father Troy,” Wolf ventured again. “He must not be a bad man, if he would do that, risk torture to bring you both home. He deserves better, doesn’t he?”

  “And you’re implying what? That I should break him out of jail?” Trinidad reminded himself that Wolf was older than he’d been when he had started his novitiate and hardened his tone. “I am an archwarden. I am sworn to the Church. If I tried to get Castile out, it would be treason against the Church.”

  “You’re changed,” Wolf said sullenly. “Something happened to you.”

  That stung. When Father Troy had been in the lead, defying the crusade had seemed more like a game of bravado. But one horrible night had dragged Trinidad down the path of treachery. His brothers-in-arms would have him take the cross to prove his faith, or the pentacle in his chest would clinch a trial against him. And now Wolf was looking at him like he’d completely lost respect for him, mirroring their father-priest’s familiar reproving stare. Wolf had brought it up first: what would Father Troy advise?

  Christ first, always.

  “Fulfilling our vows means forfeiting our own opinions sometimes.” Trinidad locked eyes with Wolf. “Sometimes. Not always. You get me?”

  Wolf gave a stiff nod, his chin up. Trinidad caught the eerie image of the man living within the boy.

  “Where are you going?” Wolf asked.

  Trinidad glanced toward the door and lowered his voice. “To see a man about a Wiccan.”

  Wolf nodded.

  Trinidad considered his brother and thought of Castile’s dreamscape. Had he truly roved? Or maybe Trinidad somehow caught him up in his roving, because of their proximity. He had no idea.

  “Wolf, another thing. Don’t tell anyone what you dreamed last night, about Castile and me. All right? Not Seth or Malachi. Not the bishop. No one. And not a word about …” He tapped his breast plate to indicate his silver pentacle.

  “Who did that to you? Why is this all happening?”

  Not questions he knew the answers to, not entirely. “Do you trust me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then no more questions for now.”

  “You can trust me, too, Trin.”

  Trinidad cupped the back of Wolf’s head and pulled him close for a brief hug. “I know I can. Good dog.”

  It was an old joke between them, but Wolf didn’t smile.

  TWENTY

  Castile lay on his side on the stained cell floor, watching the bishop watch him. Every inch of his body ached, stung, or burned. One eye was swollen shut. Splatters of blood fanned out from him. His swollen cheek scraped against the rough floor, damp with blood and urine.

  Marius had yet to touch him; that was what the archwardens were for. They grunted as they removed Castile’s fingernails with pliers and slammed their fists into his body. They listened with impassive faces as he screamed. The bishop did all the talking.

  “God is here, with you, in this cell. You understand that to succumb to us is to succumb to Him, don’t you?” She bent her head, closed her eyes, and clasped her hands together. “Heavenly Father, let your son Castile see the error of his ways. Pave a path to his heart as You show him the path to Yours.”

  As she droned on, he thought: Are you hearing this, Horned One? But he felt no presence of protection or thrill of anger from his patron. Nothing but a kick to the gut recapturing his attention.

  “That’s enough, James,” Marius said. The archwarden backed off without a word.

  “Let’s start at the beginning, Castile, with what I know. You may fill in the rest.”

  Castile dropped his gaze to stare at the hem of her robe as the archwarden left the cell. She’d repeated this phrase in various forms at least five times in the past few hours. His inevitable silence left him with more pain and humiliation. Tears rolled down his cheeks. His throat was raw with screaming. But she didn’t know enough to hurt the coven, that was clear.

  He might let himself cry. He’d never let himself talk. “Kill me,” he whispered. Just kill me. “I won’t tell you anything.”

  “James?” Marius said.

  “Your Grace?”

  “Secure him to the table as we discussed.”

  The archwarden manhandled Castile up and shoved him face down on the table, bent him over at the waist. Castile fought a little, but weakness and pain kept him from doing much. James chained his ankles to the table legs, stretched his arms out, and secured them to the other legs so that his arms stretched over the edge uncomfortably. He caught a glimpse of the bishop’s bony face, lips pursed in disgust. The light winked out as James shrouded him, waist to head, with a thick, rough blanket, covering his back—his scar—and his head.

  With his backside exposed to the cold air, Castile could well imagine what this was about. Violent trembles seized him. He strained harder against the chains binding him to the table and screamed wordlessly, terror eating him from the inside. He fought until his wrists and ankles were slick with blood from the shackles, until he’d bruised his swollen cheek again by banging his head against the table.

  No one touched him or spoke, just left him alone in his futile battle. Castile had no sense of time within the suffocating cloth, he only knew he’d sworn to himself he’d die before letting himself be used like this again. Bile rose from his gut and filled his mouth. But without the freedom of light and air, and with the press of pain from his injuries, his struggle started to wind down. The shame of past violations struck him anew, and he felt himself slip unwilling into the strange oblivion of submission. Hope for help flickered and died. Finally, exhausted, he sank against the cold steel.

  Herne? Herne, are you hearing me? Great Hunter, free me! “Mercy.”

  The Bishop’s voice felt like a splash of cold water. “Did you give Paul mercy?”

  “No, I—”

  “Did you kill Paul?”

  “I …” He squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself to see the truth of it. He was lost. Trinidad was not. Trinidad had to remain free, to stop their hatred, their crusade. To stop it from happening to anyone else. “No.”

  “Then who did?” A gentle hand stroked the soft flesh of his buttock, patted him like a pet. Like Windigo had always done … Maiden, Mother, and Crone, if you ever loved me …

  Castile thought of the pentacle in Trinidad’s chest, how the Indigos had ruined his flesh, had nearly killed him. “I don’t know.”

  “Where is your coven?”

  Didn’t they see? He was already lost. He had nothing but his own life to offer. The coven wasn’t his to give. He shook his head. The chains slid along the table legs with a metallic scrape. The weight of dread grew in his chest.

  Again, the bishop’s voice assaulted him. “Your Lord Hawk takes me to the Barren. He has allied with me. Already forsaken you.”

  Castile’s heart seized and blood roared through his veins. He sobbed quietly, writhing in his chains, his sore muscles rigid against the hard table beneath hi
s chest, until something inside him fell away, leaving his middle a granite tomb. He was shaking, no longer from fear, but fury. I’ll never doubt your instincts again, Trin. As if he’d ever get the chance.

  “Fourth Street,” he husked out. Someone leaned close to hear; he felt their breath warm the fabric over his head. “Gray house, red trim. Hurry or you’ll miss him.”

  “Your coven is in the mountains.” Marius laid her hand on the back of his neck, rubbed through the suffocating fabric.

  “Hawk …” He coughed and barely swallowed before the words poured from him. “He’ll be there. We were to meet.”

  “See? So simple.” The bishop laughed softly, acidic against Castile’s panting. She took her hand away. “All I had to do was tell you about Hawk and you give him to me.”

  Castile heard a scream in the distance and shut his eyes. He’d do Hawk one better than that. “Horned One, curse Hawk for a fool and a traitor.” Curses worked best spoken aloud. “Slaughter him in your woods, let naught grow where his blood falls, and scatter his soul to the winds, never reborn. Curse him, curse him, curse him threefold. So mote it be.”

  He felt the chill of ethereal breath on the back of his neck, colder than the air on his bare buttocks and thighs. Herne? He let his head fall back to the table. Now, maybe they’d free him—

  “This man killed one of your brothers, James. He is condemned. Fetch the guards.”

  Castile barely heard the words. Trinidad had been right about Hawk.

  Marius was calling names. Seth and Mala … something. Telling them to find the house, find Hawk.

  Castile imagined his lord brutalized and dead. Not a twinge of guilt crossed the chasm of his wrath and fear—

  Trinidad!

  Lady spare him, he’d sent Trinidad to meet Hawk. If the Christians caught Trinidad at the Wiccan safehouse they’d realize he was helping the coven. He had to stall, keep Trinidad alive. Marius would cut Trinidad down next. Fresh terror flooded the fires of his anger. But the archwardens were already murmuring assent to Marius’ orders. Boots thumped away.

  “Trinidad can rove.” He focused on the pitiless lick of cold air over his bare thighs.

  “You’re lying. Now you take it too far.”