The Silver Scar Page 24

  Once there, he lay the baby on the pallet and pulled the rumpled covers up around her. She protested at the insult of the cold bed.

  He hushed her, softly. She squawked louder.

  “I don’t even know your name,” he said helplessly. “I’m sorry.”

  Talking to her didn’t work, either. It was cold, so he turned to setting a fire. Castile kept a neat stack of starters and kindling nearby, and it caught quickly. He picked the baby up and moved closer to the hearth, holding her so she could see the flames. “See?” he said. “You’ll be warm in a little while.”

  She settled against him, snuffling and insulted, staring at the play of flames against the blackened firewell.

  “They warned me that calling on you would only bring us harm. I never should have brought you here.”

  Trinidad turned. Castile stood in the doorway, feet apart, his face graven with shock.

  Trinidad rose and laid the baby down again. “I’m sorry, Castile.”

  “Goddess curse you, sorry means nothing. You’re one of them.”

  Trinidad had to pause to catch his breath. The accusation—or maybe it was the truth of it—gutted him. The baby started crying again.

  “Not anymore, Cas.” Trinidad moved toward Castile, toward the cloth-draped doorway of the cave, away from the crying baby. “You’re making her cry.”

  “Fuck you! We could have killed the bishop. You refused because of your stupid fucking vows to your false god!”

  Trinidad’s muscles tensed, his well-honed instinct warning of attack. Castile still got a shot in before Trinidad could throw up his arms to defend himself, a hard knock to his temple that made everything go pitch black for a moment. Momentum crashed them to the rocky ground in a tangle of limbs and bruising armor. Gravel and dirt ground into the back of Trinidad’s head as the witch did his best to knock his teeth loose. Every blow sent sparks ricocheting through his skull.

  Trinidad managed to block two strikes in a row and heave himself on top of Castile. He straddled the witch and pinned his flailing arms to the ground with his knees. Castile snarled beneath him like a writhing cat. The baby wailed from the bed.

  “Stop it,” Trinidad said, spitting blood to one side and leaning his weight on the smaller man until he gasped for air. “This solves nothing. Damn it, Castile. Stop.”

  Castile fell limp abruptly, chest straining, making strangled gasps, his face slick and shining with tears.

  Trinidad put his face down close to Castile’s. “I’ll swear to anything you want, by all the saints and Holy God, by my vows, my life. Don’t you see? They made Wolf rove—” his voice broke.

  Neither of them moved for a long moment. Trinidad didn’t breathe. The baby’s crying punctuated the silence between them.

  Castile stared past Trinidad with oily eyes, black with pain. “Get off me.”

  Trinidad rolled off Castile, sitting on the hard ground for a moment to get his bearings. His head hurt again. The cave walls seemed to be closing in. The baby wailed some more. He squeezed his eyes shut, gathered the shreds of his balance. My God, Wolf, what did they make you do?

  Castile crawled to the baby and cradled her in his arms. He sat with his knees up, staring at the fire. He didn’t move until she stopped crying. Anguish washed all the liveliness from his features. Trinidad crawled closer to the fire and held his hands out to warm them. The light flickered on Castile’s silvered wrists and over his silvered nailbeds. This close, he noticed Castile was trembling.

  He moved slowly, like he would with a skittish animal, and pulled the blanket up around Castile’s shoulders. “How many?” he asked softly.

  “Twelve.”

  Trinidad bowed his head. He couldn’t drag a prayer into his mind. He crossed himself instead.

  Castile wouldn’t look at him. “I need to know you’re with me.”

  He had nowhere else to go, no one else. “I am.”

  “And I need to know you’ll carve your name in the body of whoever did this. For real this time.”

  The air went out of Trinidad. He gave a stiff nod and thumbed another cross on his forehead. “Right next to yours.”

  Castile slept soon after. Trinidad was exhausted but sleeping made him wary. He doubted the bishop would come after them until daylight. He pressed a knife into Castile’s limp hand, watched him for a moment, and then took the baby back to Aspen. She asked him to help remove the bodies.

  He carried them out one by one, recognizing some of their slack faces with detachment, and walked each up the main canyon toward two witches building a pyre. No one spoke, though they gave him curious glances.

  When he got back to the cavern, he found Aspen preparing the altar to honor the dead. She adjusted a candle and turned to him. “They died together; they will be honored together. It’s the best I can do.”

  “Father Troy said our best is all that is expected of us.” He bowed his head to her. “You will honor them and I will pray for them.

  She studied him a moment. “Did the priest die when you took him back?”

  He glanced away. His lips twitched. “He was going to die anyway. Cancer.”

  “Castile brought him here, caused him injury,” she said.

  Trinidad thought of the witch huddling in the silver sand, escaping his torture in the Barren for a few, futile moments. “Castile has atoned. Don’t ask any more of him, my lady.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “I would not have his deeds reap evil against us.”

  “The bishop took him captive, they hurt him—” His voice caught. He cleared his throat. “The wrongs are balanced.” It won’t happen again, he thought. I won’t let it.

  Except, it could be happening to Wolf in this moment.

  She studied him for long moments. He held perfectly still, face and neck hot under the attention. At last she nodded. “You may stay for the ceremony if you wish. But you must clean yourself first.”

  “I remember.” He turned away, knowing he’d never feel clean again.

  FORTY-ONE

  Castile roved. He knew he shouldn’t but he couldn’t help it. At last he found the bishop. Her dreamscape was austere. A room with no windows, four gray walls. Castile realized he had a knife in his hand. He rushed for her but before he could reach her, he tumbled out … into Wolf’s dreamscape. The boy was in Roi d’Esprit’s room again, his back to Castile. He stared out a dark window, holding himself stiffly.

  “Wolf,” Castile said. “It’s all right. It’s not your fault.”

  “I didn’t know what else to do. They killed Wiccans. They were going to kill the slave girl right in front of me.” He paused. “I don’t even know her name.”

  “We’ll get you out, yeah? Trinidad won’t rest until you’re free.”

  “No. Tell him not to come for me. It’s too late.”

  “Wolf—”

  “That’s not my name.”

  “I know. Trinidad told me about the chemwiping. About the amnesia. But you remember this place, yeah? So maybe you remember something else.”

  “I do remember.” He turned. The scars were gone; his face clear, skin a flushed tan, expression as hard as Castile had seen on Trinidad a thousand times. “I am Israel.”

  Wolf’s roving. The dreamscape. The scars. The bomb. Roi d’Esprit and Reine. Shattered pieces fell into place. “I’ll tell Trin. He’ll get you out.”

  “Don’t tell him. Please. He can’t come here. Don’t tell him.”

  “I have to! Israel—” The dreamscape swept out from under Castile. He woke sitting up, clutching a knife in one shaking hand, his blanket in the other. He smelled of blood, of sweat, of fear.

  “Goddess curse you, Reine. Fucking Indigos. Curse you.” She knew; she had to have known. He thrust to his feet and paced, letting his mind fall in with the motion.

  Not telling Trinidad … it was the smartest thing. Trinidad would go back inparish, he would find Wolf … Israel … and with him, Bishop Marius. Trin wouldn’t survive that, and Castile … he bowed his head,
succumbing to his stinging eyes and shuddering middle.

  But only for a moment. “Gods. Just admit it, at least to yourself,” he muttered, swiping his arm angrily across his eyes. He couldn’t make himself hurt Trinidad like that, and he couldn’t bear to lose him again.

  Castile went through the motions of worship woodenly, though the Circle drew the Powers, and with Them, he gained some respite from his roiling emotions. Aspen allowed Trinidad to stay in the grotto. He watched from the shadows. Castile mostly avoided him, but his gaze snagged on him a few times without his meaning to. He felt the others’ eyes on his naked back, on his scar. He said nothing of it. To him, the scar had become just another sigil of war.

  Afterward, he resolved to shove this business with Israel aside and left Trinidad to himself. He didn’t want to talk to him just now. Israel was who he was; telling Trinidad now would only hurt him.

  People moved about, speaking in low tones and cleaning bloodstains from the stone floor, grimly getting on with the business of life. No one spoke to him as he strode through the cavern. Maybe they guessed what he was going to do. Maybe they didn’t want to know.

  After taking refuge in his own home again, he painted the customary protective sigils on the armor Trinidad had given him, horns over a pentacle across his breast plate, the Eye and a Cup on the backplate, triskeles on the forearm bracers. Then he re-dressed and slung his cloak over his shoulders. Before snuffing the torch, he looked around his home.

  It might be sealed up as a tomb for all the chance he had of coming back here.

  He found Trinidad in the gathering area of the main cavern, sharpening his sword. It hissed against the strap and gleamed in the firelight. His armor was also scrubbed clean; someone else had done it because they had painted horns atop a cross over his heart. Aspen sat nearby nursing her daughter and crooning an old lullaby. Others were busy readying weapons for war.

  Castile wondered what Trinidad was thinking. Was he worrying over Wolf … Israel? The truth rose like bile. He swallowed and tried to sound normal, easy.

  “You look better,” he said to Trinidad. “Cleaner.”

  “Lady Aspen told me to wash,” Trinidad said, gesturing toward the priestess. He sounded a little plaintive.

  Castile nodded. He knelt on one knee before Aspen and drew in the thick, sweet scent of mother’s milk, wondering if it could erase the reek of his coven’s spilled blood.

  “I danced with my parents as a child in dense woods,” Aspen said, watching her baby feed. “A young man played Herne and he frightened me, but my papa just laughed and told me it was our friend Will, taken with the Lord’s spirit that day. I was looking forward to someday seeing you dance among the trees instead of in this cave.”

  “Maybe someday you can find trees again,” Castile said. “Maybe you should take the coven and look now.”

  “Not yet.” Aspen looked up at Castile as if noticing his armor and cloak for the first time. “You’re leaving.”

  “I’m going to the Indigos,” he said. “I need to warn them about the bishop roving.” That wasn’t the half of it, but he didn’t need to burden Aspen further.

  Trinidad stopped sharpening his sword and ran it across the leg of his boot, cleaning dust from the blade. He slipped it into the sheath, caught up his cloak in one hand, and walked closer.

  Aspen tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear and cleared her throat. “Hawk made a mistake, one that cost him his life, and those of his coven.”

  Castile released a slow breath. “My lady, I—”

  “Let her speak,” Trinidad said.

  Castile fell silent.

  “He wouldn’t tell me where he roved when he slept, and I didn’t press him. I think I didn’t want to know. But after you went inparish, after the baby came, Hawk told me how the bishop nearly killed you in the Barren. How the sand healed you and you gave her that cut on her forehead.” She glanced up at Trinidad. “And how you killed Paul.”

  The corner of Trinidad’s mouth twitched. “Paul was a traitor to the Church and our order.”

  “Hawk said Paul was a good man,” Aspen said.

  “Like Hawk would know.”

  Aspen’s voice sharpened. “Hawk thought if he could bring the factions together, show them magic and the Powers, he could make peace. He didn’t understand the bishop and the lengths she would take to protect Christianity.”

  “No. He didn’t understand at all.” Trinidad’s gaze rested on Castile instead of Aspen.

  Castile clenched his jaw. Oh, I understand, though. I understand plenty, archwarden.

  “Hawk also said Reine and Paul were in love. Paul must have thought he could keep Reine safe by bringing her into the savvy with the bishop. Paul trusted Marius.”

  “He knew her best,” Trinidad said thoughtfully, and fell quiet.

  No one said anything for a long moment. Castile reflected how any silence with Trinidad in it was hard, unyielding. “There was never going to be peace between us. Why would Hawk take her to the Barren, my lady? It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Because you go to the Barren using magic, Hawk thought—” She glanced at Trinidad.

  “He thought Christianity is false,” he said. “He thought roving and the Barren proved it.”

  Aspen nodded. “I’m afraid so. Hawk meant well, but power is still power by any other name.”

  “Hawk was no worse than the bishop in that,” Trinidad said.

  Castile shook his head and sighed loudly but they ignored him.

  Aspen lifted her chin. “He made mistakes, but in good faith. I wonder if that isn’t Bishop Marius’ way as well.”

  Castile had to physically bite his lip against retorting. Aspen lowered her head, as if she couldn’t stand to see the truth in his face, and he was glad he didn’t speak, glad she didn’t know firsthand the violence that had killed her husband. She looked worn, exhausted, like she’d aged years. Hawk’s mop of black curls, flattened by sleep sweat, capped her infant’s head. Castile realized he didn’t even know her name, that there’d been no chance to welcome her properly. He felt a pang. Aspen was sad because Castile only knew worship within the grotto. What if her daughter only knew a world of war?

  Trinidad turned and paced a few steps away. “If the Indigo queen trusted Paul, if they were together …” He turned to look at them. “There are rumors about the bishop and her archwardens. Paul, especially, was her favorite. Some say he shared her bed as well.”

  The torchlight revealed his reddened cheeks. Castile concealed his amusement at the archwarden’s embarrassment. “You’re saying a love triangle caused the crusade?”

  But Aspen shook her head. “No, but maybe it’s enough to destroy the savvy between Reine and the bishop.”

  “Right,” Castile said. “I’ll find out if the alliance between Reine and Marius is dead.”

  “Yes,” Aspen replied. “If there’s no hope for peace, then we will run, as you say. But just in case, if only to honor Hawk’s efforts, I want friendship between their tribe and our coven, as near as you can get it.”

  Castile shook his head. “My lady, we can’t. She’s not trustworthy. She wants to kill Trin—”

  “Trinidad is welcome to stay here.”

  “No,” Trinidad said. “I go where Castile goes.”

  FORTY-TWO

  The rising sun cast the tribal tent city into long shadows and pierced Trinidad’s eyes as they rode east toward it. He squinted and pulled his hood up. Indigo warriors had gathered to bow to the east. He could hardly blame them. No wonder they had gone back to worshipping the sun, fire, and their ancestors when Christians were so fickle and Wiccans so few and private. Fire and sunlight were precious commodities in hard times, and it was difficult to think of death as the end when it lingered around every corner.

  Scouts patrolled in the distance, small groups stopping to watch them without approaching.

  “Why haven’t they challenged us?” Trinidad asked.

  “They’re outcounty tribes. Thi
s isn’t their land so they’re leaving us to the locals to deal with.” The cold wind threatened snow, pulling strands of Castile’s hair from the strap he’d tied around his head. “The Indigo envoy. Let me take the lead on this.”

  Two Indigos carried banners on their spears, riding ahead of six warriors centered on Reine, all mounted on horses in no better shape than the tired, hungry animals Castile and Trinidad rode. Everyone slowed their horses and Castile raised his hand.

  “Peace to you,” he said. “I come to savvy.”

  Reine d’Esprit stared at him. Dirty blond dreadlocks, woven through with bits of wire and chains that glinted in the sun, haloed her head. She wore her scarf high, covering her face to just below her eyes. It hung over a painted metal breastplate, hammered by a decent smithy. It seemed surreal to Trinidad that she was the one who had cut him, tortured him. She looked the same, but something about her felt different. Gone was the hatred, replaced with exhaustion. That was it. She looked as if she hadn’t slept since she’d hurt Trinidad. He knew how she felt.

  Every spearguard in the small company aimed their weapons at Castile and Trinidad. The poles were salvaged pipe, well-balanced with heads of forged steel sharp enough to slice leather. Indigos killed elk and deer with those spears. Trinidad had seen what they could do if thrown by someone who knew what he was doing: run a body through, cracking armor and ripping flesh. They could certainly kill an armored man within fifteen paces.

  Reine narrowed her eyes, but she said, “You say words to hold my spears.”

  Castile laid his hand on his chest and bowed his head. “I come with information, in good faith.”

  “And you want what for it?”

  “The same from you, and maybe a real savvy this time.”

  “Who’s that?” Reine gestured toward Trinidad with her spear.

  Trinidad pressed his lips together and drew back his hood. The Indigos grunted and he involuntarily stiffened, glad for his armor.