The Silver Scar Read online

  Trinidad twitched a nod.

  “I swore not to tell you. I am breaking that. I’m more than willing, because you are my son and Castile is very nearly like one.”

  Trinidad closed his eyes. “I thought he was dead. I wish I’d known he was there. I wish …”

  Father Troy shook his hand slightly to get his attention and gave him a weak smile. “I thought it best that you not know. Adjusting to your life as a novitiate was difficult enough as it was. But for Castile, just the thought of you still alive and safe kept him going in prison. It was only recently he admitted to me that he needed you in his life. What you don’t seem to realize is how badly you need him.”

  The door handle twisted, stopped by the lock. Trinidad heard the scrabbling of a key. He ducked into the bathroom, shut the door, and slipped behind the shower curtain. He reached for the cold steel of his pistol but reconsidered. Chambering a bullet would echo against the tile. Instead, he slid his sword from its sheath. The stink of body waste drifted up from the drain, mingling with his own sweat.

  “How are things in here, Father Troy?” A friendly voice, female. Trinidad recognized it. Same voice that spoke to the guard on the delivery platform. His eyes narrowed. She called Father Troy by name, so she was in on the secret.

  He’s on painkillers, Trinidad thought. He could do anything, say anything. But Father Troy just said, “Fine, thank you. Resting.”

  “Oh, look, your pitcher is empty. I’ll fill it for you.”

  “Not necessary, really—”

  “Don’t be silly, it’ll only take a moment.”

  Trinidad held his sword across his body, muscles tensed to swing. The door to the bathroom opened, shedding a little light and silhouetting a vague shadow through the fabric. The tap spit air before water trickled out. The water pressure had been bad in this area for years, ever since an ecoterr bomb had taken out some water pipes. Trinidad held his breath, wondering how big a pitcher it was and how distracted she could get from watching water trickle into it. He watched her shadow carefully, but at last she shut off the tap and retreated.

  “Here you are, Father.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Any visitors?” she asked.

  Trinidad cocked his head, eyes narrowed.

  “No,” Father Troy said. “Trinidad is my son. He would never harm me.”

  “But the reports are … disturbing.” She sounded sympathetic. “Two archwardens are dead. And his Wiccan friend is a convicted terrorist.” A beat. “I’ll look in on you later, yes?”

  “You’re very kind, thank you.”

  Trinidad waited for the door latch to click and still counted to thirty before stepping into the room, gripping his sword at his side.

  “Castile believes you are meant to stop the crusade,” Father Troy said.

  “Witches don’t believe in fate.” The words came out harsher than he meant.

  “I put that badly, then. But he does believe in you. He knows you were supposed to die with your family.”

  A vice clamped down on Trinidad’s chest. “Why are you bringing this up now?”

  “Because, Trinidad, you walked away from an explosion that killed all those people. Castile understands how special you are. I’m trying to make you understand.”

  Trinidad gave the priest a close look and glanced at the clear bag hanging next to the bed, wondering what was in the drip. Father Troy’s beard could no longer hide his gaunt cheeks, his pallid skin. White brows hung over his sunken, dilated eyes. He wasn’t in his right mind.

  Christ, no. He’s dying.

  Trinidad’s gaze blurred with tears and he swiped at them with the back of his hand. He couldn’t get into all this now, what the explosion was, and what it wasn’t. “Father. You’re wrong about me. Castile is wrong.”

  Father Troy arched an eyebrow at him. “Was Christ wrong to take you on as his soldier? Is He wrong about you?”

  Trinidad ducked his head. He didn’t have an answer to that. He’d failed Christ too many times to count, starting with the day his parents blew themselves up. It had felt wrong, all wrong, from the start. He’d stood there and done nothing.

  “I should have gotten him out. Israel,” he said, his voice breaking on the name.

  “His death is not your fault. But his loss can make you a better man. A man of peace, not war. A man of Christ.”

  Father Troy held out his arms, barely raising them from the bed. Trinidad obediently bent over him and allowed himself a moment to lean on the old man’s familiar chest. Countless times Father Troy had hugged him, even when he didn’t want it, even when he pushed him away.

  “I won’t see you again, will I?” he whispered, drawing in the scents of antiseptic, of blood. Of death.

  “Your parents made a mistake,” the priest whispered. “But without it, I never would have known you.”

  It felt like shards of glass were working their way through his lungs.

  Father Troy reached up and thumbed a cross over Trinidad’s forehead with his quivering hand. “Go with God, my son. As you always have. I will see you again.”

  Trinidad couldn’t think, couldn’t answer.

  He pulled free of the priest’s weak embrace, crossed the room, and opened the door, fighting the urge to look back. If he did, he might not be able to walk away.

  Seth and Malachi stood in the hall with bared steel and black cloaks emblazoned with the red crusader’s cross.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Reine d’Esprit huddled in her cloak, a hood concealing her Indigo locks. A young man waited at the church gate, but he didn’t challenge her. He just bowed his head to her and called her ma’am. The church grounds were deserted even in the middle of the afternoon, emptied by the burgeoning army of crusaders gathering on a stretch of bare land inside the eastern wall. The church building itself was empty and cold. A few torches flickered, reflecting against the polished wood stretching up to the ceiling and the boarded-over colored glass windows. Beams arched into the darkness. Unlit lanterns swung overhead, caught in cold drafts. She crossed to a bench in the front and lowered herself to her knees, like she heard Christians did. She’d stay a few moments to prove to anyone who might appear that she had reason to be here, and then she’d go find Paul.

  She’d come inparish to start her own war, something to distract the bishop from her crusade, but she’d been suffering second thoughts since she’d crossed the parish wall. That damn wall had made her think about her own freehold walls.

  Spearguards were working day and night laying traps of razor wire and trip lines around their freehold walls. Patrols roamed their county acreage, non-coms and children dug fighting ditches, and spies had been dispatched inparish. Two riders had raced out to seek help from other tribes. If they could bring in another sizeable, well-equipped tribe or two, they’d have a decent chance of withstanding a siege. At least their mines and spears might damage the crusading army enough to give the children time to escape, though to where she didn’t know. Hopefully the warning of the coming crusade was enough to firm up alliances. She didn’t kid herself about winning any battles outright. It would be ugly. But worth it, so worth it, if they could fight off the Christians and if the tribe survived in some form. Even if they lost their freehold in the process.

  Maybe Paul could help. Maybe he could stop the bishop.

  She folded her hands on the back of the pew and stared at the grand table of wood raised up behind steps. It had a deep, beautiful sheen even by torchlight. Strange sculptures peered down at her from a glass case behind the table—a lion, an eagle, a queer-looking bull, and a man. She tried to relax, but the place was spooky.

  Paul had been here, guarded his bishop here. She supposed he prayed here. He was a believer, willing to lay down his life for the Church. They rarely discussed religion. But he wore prayer beads around his neck and never hid the tattoos of his order, even when he snuck away to see her at her freehold. He bore scars from his duties as an archwarden.

  She thought o
f the dream, his blood splattering the sand. Trinidad’s sword had made a wound no man could survive.

  But it wasn’t real. It was just a dream.

  A commotion behind her made her turn, her hand slipping to the knife inside her cloak. Four archwardens entered, carrying a litter between them. Cloth, white with a golden cross, draped the body head to toe. Sickness slithered through her gut. She got to her feet, glad she’d kept her locks hidden under her cloak hood. It was cold in here; it wouldn’t be so strange.

  “Don’t feel as if you must go,” one of the archwardens told her with a respectful nod. “The funeral isn’t until evening. You’ve plenty of time.”

  She opened her mouth, made words come. “What is his name? I. I will pray for him.”

  They stared at her stoically, and she thought they were trying to see under the shadow of her cloak hood. One of them said at last, “He was called Paul.”

  She sank onto the bench behind her. They progressed down the aisle, carried Paul up the few steps, and laid him on the raised floor before the altar. They lit four candles and set them on the floor around the pallet.

  One of them paused on their way back and glanced her way. “Are you all right, ma’am? I can stay if you’re uncomfortable alone with him.”

  “No,” she managed, sounding strangled, even to herself. “I’m fine.”

  The archwarden glanced back toward the altar. A frown rippled through the tattoo on his forehead. “He was a good man.”

  I know. Fuckin I know. She twitched a nod.

  The archwardens strode toward the back of the church, their weapons and armor making little noises of war. The doors slammed behind them, echoing like explosions against the high ceilings. The flickering candles around Paul’s body cast a glow against the pristine cloak shrouding the ugliness of his death.

  Reine waited, hands gripping the railing in front of her, half-healed cuts stinging fingertips and palms. She got to her feet and walked to Paul’s body. He smelled of rot and sweat. After a moment she lifted the cloak.

  His face had puffed and bruised on one side. His lips hung slack, open, and one eyelid parted to reveal the white. Death had stained and stretched his face nearly beyond recognition.

  She sank to her knees. Pain tore down her body as every muscle clenched in a spasm of grief. She squeezed the burial cloak in her fists, her forehead bowed against his chest, cold and still as a mountain cliff. It was real. Trinidad had killed Paul, had twisted his cursed sword through Paul’s chest. Real blood. Real death.

  A hand on her back, petting, soothing.

  Reine raised her head.

  Javelot didn’t smile or taunt or speak, just offered her a hand. Reine stumbled blindly, pulled along by her sister. Jav opened the door to a side room—a closet, really—filled with crosses and cloths and they slipped inside, closing the door.

  A door at the back of the church slammed. Footsteps pounded the stone, several people striding along the aisle. Rustling and muttering. Reine couldn’t tell if it was male or a female. All that mattered to her was the silence surrounding Paul. Then another door opened, interior and closer to them, followed by quieter steps. Seconds passed in silence, finally broken by a hard voice.

  “You told me Father Troy was dead. You lied.”

  Trinidad.

  Reine started forward, a silent snarl on her lips, but Javelot gripped her arm in the darkness, holding her back.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Seth and Malachi had Trinidad by the arms and forced him to his knees before the altar, though he would have knelt without protest. Seth climbed the steps to put Trinidad’s confiscated sword in the archwarden armory. Malachi stayed behind Trinidad, his blade out. The point stung the back of Trinidad’s neck.

  The bishop stood on the steps leading to the choir loft in the sanctuary, gazing at the body, surrounded by candles. She passed a moment straightening the white drape over Paul before turning to Trinidad.

  Trinidad bowed his head to the altar, crossed himself, and let Marius stare him down. He didn’t attempt to look too contrite. She wouldn’t have believed it anyway. Still, the effect of the sanctuary, the bishop in her robes, and the candles all reminded him of his well-honed sense of duty to her and to the Church. He thought of Paul ambushing him at the Barren, Castile in that bloody cell, of Hawk’s brutalized body, of his priest dying alone.

  “You told me Father Troy was dead,” he said. “You lied.”

  “For his protection,” Marius said.

  “I would never harm him.”

  “How could I know that? After all, he came back with a bullet wound.”

  “It’s gone septic, Your Grace,” Seth said softly. “He’s weak with infection and he’s not long to live.”

  “Sadly, in the end, it doesn’t matter after all,” Marius said.

  It mattered. It all mattered. But Trinidad’s mind had calmed despite the injustice and grief. He’d had plenty of time to think in the stiff silence on the ride from the hospital to the church.

  “You knew Roman would tell me Father was alive. Did you torture him?”

  “Of course not. Roman is just trying to do what’s best for you. He knows your proper home is with us.”

  Trinidad shook his head, unsure whether this was just another lie. “You never would have left Father Troy without guards unless you knew I wouldn’t harm him. You used him as bait.”

  She exchanged glances with Seth. “Actually, I expected you to come to your Wiccan friend first.”

  “Leave Castile out of this.” He cursed the tremble in his voice.

  “Castile is already in it. He’s an ecoterrorist. A murderer.”

  Trinidad lowered his gaze. “We’ve all done things.”

  “Like killing Roi d’Esprit? Like rebelling against the Church you swore your life to? Like helping an enemy of the parish? Those sorts of things?”

  Trinidad shot Seth a wounded look. He must have told Marius about Roi. “Like crusading against innocent people,” he shot back. “Like trying to bend God’s will to yours.”

  She frowned and stepped closer. Seth grabbed Trinidad’s arm to hold him in place, though he didn’t move.

  “It’s not God’s will I’m concerned with. It’s yours. Oh, yes, I know what you are. You think I am blind to your wickedness?”

  Trinidad looked at the faces of the archwardens but saw no shock. That could be their strict discipline, but he had a feeling this concept was not new to them. He suffered the inane urge to laugh. How many people had been accused of being both the Second Coming and the Antichrist within an hour?

  “You give me too much credit,” he said, realizing as he spoke that it was how she would clinch the parish’s dedication to crusade. Trinidad made a good story to tell the parish. He had become the ribbon to tie around her neat package of lies: her scar, the angel demanding she crusade, and now Trinidad, the convenient Antichrist. His shoulders fell.

  “They’ll never believe you,” he said. But his tone wouldn’t have convinced himself. “The parishioners may be ignorant and hungry, but they aren’t stupid.”

  “But we have the perfect witness,” she said. “Castile is quite compliant now.”

  This time Trinidad lunged forward with a growl, but he barely touched the hem of her robes before the world tumbled end-over. His lungs screamed for air. He found himself on the stone floor, staring up at them through a fog, arms and legs limp. Malachi stood over him with a marshal’s shock-bat. Seth stared down at him, some unreadable emotion on his face. Pity. Or loathing.

  “Our efforts at reformation are wasted. Take him away,” Marius said.

  Hands rolled Trinidad over, stripped him of his armor, and bound his arms together behind his back. He couldn’t raise the least fight in his limbs, the effects of the shockbat still numbing his body and mind. Their voices sounded like they came from a vacuum.

  “Tell them,” he mumbled. “Tell them where I killed Paul. Tell them about the Barren.”

  Or maybe he never spoke at all. No
one responded to him. Apparitional voices mentioned the jail and other things, too, but fog thickened around him, obscuring the beamed ceiling of the sanctuary and the crosses overhead, banishing thought and protest.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Reine sank to the floor as the bishop and her people left the sanctuary. Neither Javelot or she spoke or moved for several minutes. There was the low rumble of a dray, someone shouting orders. Then all fell quiet as a grave.

  Javelot opened the door and peered out. The light from Paul’s candles brushed a ghostly glow over robes, boxes and a large jeweled cross on a staff. She started to prowl around the small room where they’d hidden. “You all right?”

  Reine didn’t answer.

  Javelot got her knife out and tried to pry one of the jewels from the cross.

  “Leave it alone,” Reine said. Her voice sounded empty, faint.

  “Why? Superstitious? You a believer now?” She jammed the blade at the metal and twisted. The crimson bauble fell onto her palm.

  Paul had believed. Reine let her forehead fall to her knees.

  “Besides,” Javelot added. “We need money for wherever we end up. Shit to trade and the like.”

  Reine’s finger found the knife at her belt. It slid over the hilt, found the top of the sharp blade, and pressed hard and pulled. She tipped her head back and breathed, savoring the burn. It seared up her arm right to her brain. Hot blood dripped over the blade to the floor.

  Javelot reached down and closed her hand over Reine’s wrist. “Stop,” she said softly. “Just stop.”

  “That thing’s not worth the trouble. It’s not real.” She twisted from her sister’s grip and knocked the big glass bauble from her hand. It skittered across the floor in pieces. “You disobeyed a direct order. You were supposed to stay at the freehold.”

  “Didn’t think you’d have the stomach for the job.”

  Reine flared at the impertinence but forced the rigidity from her body. One thing at a time. Javelot’s punishment could wait. She let her knife slide back into its sheath. “You’re here. Make yourself useful then.”