The Silver Scar Read online

  “Your Grace?”

  “Have you taken the cross?”

  He dropped his gaze. “No, Your Grace.”

  “Well, I’m asking. Will you join the crusade?”

  “I …” He blinked rapidly, then his face calmed. “I should speak with my priest, Your Grace. My first duty is to him.”

  “And if he releases you to me?”

  He lifted his dark eyes to meet hers. “Then I will speak with God.”

  Most of the novices had stopped to watch their round and their gazes followed Trinidad as he left the room. A couple frowned at her, especially the scarred boy.

  Roman bellowed, “Show’s over, children. Fall back to ready.” His commands followed Paul and Marius down the corridor as they left the practice hall.

  “The novices didn’t look too pleased with me for besting their pet,” she said to Paul, amused. Trinidad was a pretty thing, despite his stiff manner and intense stare, and a Wiccan convert to boot. “He does seem popular. It might be worthwhile for him to take the cross publicly.”

  Paul shook his head. “Colin heard Trinidad and Father Troy talking after the service. Trinidad is against the crusade.”

  “Trinidad doesn’t know about the Barren,” she answered. “If he did, he would take the cross right away.”

  “You really believe that? He’s ex-Wiccan.”

  She waited until they were in the privacy of her quarters to continue. “Is Trinidad’s loyalty under question?”

  “Apparently he is a model archwarden, but some inparish don’t trust him because of his background. His parents were ecoterrs, suicide bombers.” Paul shrugged his armored shoulders. “Old prejudice dies hard. Boulder Parish has a long memory.”

  A long memory, and Folsom Prison looming over the town to remind them of the ecoterrs held within. And yet the parish remained stubbornly tolerant of outsiders. “What news from Reine? Is she onto you yet?”

  “She trusts me and thinks I’ll see her through the war. That much is clear.” Paul hesitated. “I honestly believe she doesn’t know where Hawk’s coven lives.”

  “Threaten her or charm her, but we need Hawk in the flesh,” she said.

  Paul said nothing, just lowered his chin and clasped his hands behind his back. The tattoo on his forehead was fading to a mottled blue; he’d need to see to getting it refreshed when they finished the crusade.

  “What will convince her to find them for us, then? Food? Medicine?”

  Paul took his time answering. “I’ve already offered her all that, Your Grace. Indigos are starving and dying this winter. She’s desperate. Trust me, she’d turn Hawk and his coven over to me if she could.”

  Marius paced the short length of her quarters, frowning at the concrete floor. Securing the Barren wasn’t happening nearly fast enough. Soon Hawk would realize Denver Parish crusaders were canvassing the mountains, searching him out. He would cut them out of the Barren entirely. And how would she keep the Barren and its healing powers for God then?

  “It appears we’re to go to war, then. I only pray we’re able to find the Wiccans with a minimal loss of life.” She crossed herself.

  Paul mirrored the motion. “With God’s grace, His own should not come to much harm.”

  Not to mention the Christian army outnumbered the heretics five-to-one. She rubbed at her sore ribs absently. The archwarden’s hit had left her bruised. “What if Trinidad can rove us to the Barren as well as Hawk can? Evidently, at least one other Wiccan can rove.” She brushed her fingers over the scar on her forehead. It was so oddly warm and pliant.

  “Even if Trinidad can, he took vows against practicing his old religion, Your Grace.”

  “I’ll give him special dispensation,” she said, waving a hand. “It would solve a deal of our difficulty. If he can rove, having him in our service would make all the difference.”

  Trinidad seemed as pious and disciplined as any archwarden she’d met. She realized with a start that Trinidad reminded her of her hopes for another beautiful, broken boy. Had her son survived, would he have become half the man Trinidad was? Or Paul?

  She nearly winced before refocusing back on the matters at hand. Crusade wasn’t pretty or glorious, but it appeared to be the only way to keep the Barren in Christian hands. If Hawk had his way, anyone could go to the Barren. Foolish man.

  “Do you think Trinidad let me win?” she asked, letting her jacket fall to the threadbare rug.

  Paul swept forward to pick it up. “‘Be patient and you will finally win, for a soft tongue can break hard bones.’ That, to my mind, is Trinidad.”

  “Point taken,” she said.

  Paul dipped his chin and turned to go, but she stopped him with a hand on his armored shoulder.

  “There is time before evensong. Stay,” she murmured and kissed him. Her hardened nipples rubbed against his armor as he took her in his arms.

  FOUR

  Sweat coated Trinidad’s bruised skin, stinging the welts and scrapes from practice. He wasn’t fit to put on his armor harness before he accompanied Father Troy to evensong, so he indulged in a rare warm shower at the rectory. Besides, he figured feeding the priest supper early, as well as a proper show of devotion at chapel, would temper Father Troy’s worries and the bishop’s suspicion. But he didn’t have to face Father quite yet. The rectory was empty.

  Trinidad scrubbed soap into his skin, ignoring the blazing cut on his chest. After, while he laced up his shirt, he glanced through the kitchen window across the churchyard. Candlelight flickered through the windows of Father Troy’s office, evidently the only one currently occupied at the administrative building. Most of the barracks was still dark, including the window to the basement room he shared with Wolf. Best if Wolf was getting some sleep.

  He made a meal of goat cheese, bread, canned applesauce, and warm broth, hoping to tempt the priest’s failing appetite with some favorites. But the food chilled on the table as Trinidad waited. The faint glow from the study windows still smoldered against the night. A few people made their way toward the chapel.

  They were going to be late—not good with the bishop inparish. Father Troy would have to reheat his supper after prayers.

  Thinking the priest had lost track of time or fallen asleep at his desk, Trinidad stored the food and walked across the open ground to the administrative building. The offices inside were dark but for the slice of light beneath Father Troy’s door. No archwarden stood guard outside, as usual.

  Frowning, Trinidad knocked, but Father Troy didn’t answer. “Father? Time for prayers, sir.”

  Cold air leaked from the gap at the threshold. He pressed his ear to the wood and, after a hesitation, tried the latch. The door swung open to reveal the priest’s dimly lit, book-lined office. Candles dripped into saucers and guttered in candlesticks, but no Father Troy. Several had blown out from a cold wind whipping through the open door to his little walled garden.

  It was empty except for the frosted bones of plants. Boots had scuffed the snow. He shut the door and frowned. Only then did Trinidad realize the priest’s desk chair was shoved back, tipped against the wall behind the desk. The blanket Father Troy often wrapped over his knees had fallen to the floor. Trinidad lifted it and Troy’s favorite cross tumbled from the folds. He didn’t wear it outside of service, but he often worried it as he worked at his desk.

  Fear snatched at Trinidad as his fingers closed around the cross. He placed it on the desk and went back the way he’d come, reaching for the gun on his belt. All seemed quiet and well outside, but he chambered a bullet as he strode for the barracks to wake Daniel.

  He knew. He didn’t need to check the sanctuary or search the basement. He knew.

  Someone had taken Father Troy.

  FIVE

  The low all-clear call—familiar from Castile’s days in the movement—should have been comforting. But after seven years in prison it sounded more like a baying hound from the Great Hunt, and he couldn’t shake the feeling he was the Hunter’s prey. He stretche
d his back as much as he could under his armor, seeking the calm that had eluded him ever since he’d left the Indigo freehold six hours before. Even the lack of pain from his injury unnerved him, the ghost of agony still haunting his every movement. He took a deep breath and emerged from the protection of the rock outcropping.

  The ecoterr from the inparish cell was a large man clad in typical homemade clothing. A tatty cloak hung from his shoulders. Not a pentacle in sight. Instead, he wore a cross and several loops of prayer beads around his neck. Castile had never seen any real Christian hang themselves with so much religious swag, but maybe things had changed since he’d been in prison. The ecoterr showed no armor or weapons. It didn’t mean they weren’t there, and it didn’t mean he wouldn’t use them.

  The ecoterr had Father Troy by the arm, more supporting him as they walked over the rocky ground than to keep hold of him. The old priest looked bent and sleepy, raising watery eyes to Castile’s face and beyond. No reaction from him. The drugs maybe. Or a half a century of shepherding Christians had trained him to be as impassive as an archwarden.

  Still, Castile felt nervous, watched. The notion came, no doubt, from yesterday’s scouting trip to check out the gathering troops in Denver Parish. Small companies of Christian soldiers from Denver already scoured the foothills, searching out pockets of heretics.

  “Castile? I’m Bear. You look all right for all you been through.” Bear grinned. His teeth were yellowed but all there, making him younger than Castile would have thought. Hard telling these days. Hunger aged everyone.

  “Surviving, yeah?” Castile said with a forced smile. “Hello, Father Troy.”

  Troy carried on looking past him.

  “None the worse for wear, daresay.” Bear had a gruff voice, strained from smoking too much shitty Alteration. Had the look, too, a gaze that slid too often to the middle distance. The movement wasn’t what it had been in Castile’s day.

  “Let’s get you out of the wind, Father.” Castile offered his arm but Father Troy paid him no heed, pulled loose of Bear’s gentle grip, and shuffled obediently to the coven’s dray. It was a beat-up beast with an armored cab from Castile’s childhood, but it did the job. Hawk hadn’t been thrilled about lending the vehicle to Castile, but he hadn’t been able to come up with a valid reason why he shouldn’t.

  Castile’s heart seized at the hardship he’d caused the frail old man. “I really appreciate it, Bear.”

  “Anything. You know that. You done your time like a man. And Marius, you really outdid yourself with her—”

  Castile hissed for silence. The Bear’s gravelly voice cut off like Castile had slit out his tongue. Seven years of bending over in prison and now he could silence a man with a whisper.

  Bear coughed and cleared his throat. “But this? Stealing a priest? That’s some heavy lifting, Castile.”

  Castile scanned the area again, still feeling eyes on his back. The scraggy ground and rough black road stretching far in either direction was still empty. No one rode over the top of Dragonspine this afternoon. Only a fool would be out in this wind.

  A desperate fool.

  “Didn’t go so well at the coal plant, huh?” he asked.

  Bear cursed softly and spat. “Three of us got caught. One talked. Had to up-end all manner of shit with the cell. Marshals confiscated the last of our blast, too.”

  Castile rubbed his hand over his gritty brows. Bear was coming at it sideways, but he knew what he was being asked just the same. “Gray house with red trim at the west wall. You know it?”

  Bear nodded, face set, all business now.

  “My blast store is on the outside of the wall, ten paces northwest, buried knee-deep at least. Bring a spade to dig, something heavy and sharp. The ground is rocky.” He ignored the cold disapproving breath on the back of his neck, chalked it up to the wind.

  “Goddess keep you,” Bear said.

  Castile turned away without answering.

  In the dray, Father Troy spoke. His voice sounded sure and strong, same as always. “You could have asked and I would have come.”

  Castile shook his head, startled. “Not with the crusade. Not with the bishop inparish.”

  “You’ve forced the archwardens to come after me.”

  He put the dray in gear. “I’m counting on it, Father.”

  “After you sent the message about the Barren and the bishop, I questioned Trin. He denied using magic. He was genuinely shocked I brought it up.”

  Castile ignored the thought that Trinidad had never had it in him to lie. What did he know of the man after twelve years anyhow? “He saw the bishop’s scar? Did he mention the Barren? Did he question you?”

  Father Troy hesitated, ran his gnarled hand along the inside of the armor bolted under the window, touched the gun port where the wind whipped through the hole in the meshed glass. “He only said her angel story was a lie and defended himself against your accusations.”

  Sharply. “You told him about me?”

  “He still thinks you are dead.” A pause. “He’s always been against crusading. I linked the accusations to that.”

  “What did he make of it?”

  “Hard to say. He doesn’t show much.”

  “He’s learned archwarding well.” Castile had never seen an archwarden indicate anything at all by expression. They wore their stoicism like their armor, black and impenetrable.

  “You need to understand,” Father Troy said, “the order saved his life. He dedicated himself to the Church. It was his salvation. I’m sure he felt the accusation quite deeply.”

  They’d had this conversation before. “Is he dedicated enough to lead the Church to the Barren?”

  “Dedicated does not mean blind or stupid,” Father Troy said. “This is a mistake, accusing him, taking me. I only hope Trinidad doesn’t pay a steep price for it.”

  He would. Curse him, he would.

  They fell silent. As he drove, dread crept over Castile again. He drew in a breath of cold air, trying to wash away the ugliness of the past few hours: cutting up that dead body to savvy with the Indigos, putting high grade blast in the hands of people with the will and means to use it, abducting a sick old man who had only ever shown him kindness, who had kept his secrets even when it meant denying his own loyalty to his bishop and church. But this was war and fighting dirty was the only way Castile knew.

  SIX

  Daniel frowned as Trinidad reported Father Troy’s disappearance: the open door, the guttered candles, the obvious abduction despite the lack of evidence. He thought a moment before telling the novice on duty to say nothing to anyone else but to fetch Wolf to help him guard the gate. When the kid trotted off, he turned to Trinidad. “Easy. I think you and I should go alone.”

  “What?” Trinidad bounced on his toes, fists clenched. “No. We need to alert everyone. This is my fault. Besides, the bishop is here—”

  “Trin, think. This isn’t Indigo work. They aren’t this smooth. Roi d’Esprit couldn’t manage to think about trying to kill Father Troy without spouting off so loud it got back to us, right? This smells different. Professional.”

  Trinidad stared at him. “Wiccans.”

  Daniel nodded and lowered his voice. “I don’t like the bishop any more than you do. She’ll twist this somehow. Use it to rile people up. Maybe keep us from searching. Father Troy abducted, maybe dead, is powerful motivation to take the cross for a lot of people. It’ll just goes to prove what she’s been saying all along, that we’d be better off without the Wiccans.”

  “You’re no friend to the Wiccans.”

  “Especially if they did this. But I am sworn, as you are, to protect God’s people. They are His people whether they know it or not. Asking us to kill them for their beliefs is flirting with evil.”

  More than flirting. Trinidad nodded. “What do you want to do?”

  “I just want to do a little looking on our own first. Maybe we can keep this quiet. Maybe whoever took him will talk to us, but they won’t if dozens
of us start hunting them down, right?” He eyed Trinidad, laid his hand on Trinidad’s shoulder and said gently, “Do you remember how to get to your coven’s home?”

  Trinidad blinked. It made sense. His old coven was the closest one with the most ties inparish, and as such, was an important target of the crusade. It was known to foster ecoterrs. He nodded, not meeting Daniel’s eyes, and told him the way.

  Trinidad tucked the toe of his boot under a bar welded to the bed of the dray and steadied the belt-fed rifle mounted on the armored cab as they rolled over a pothole. A bishop’s ransom in bullets rattled in a crate by his feet. The full, red moon cast cold light and frigid wind swept over his bare head, promising more of the bitter cold snap that gripped the front range. In his hurry, he hadn’t taken time to replace his cloak with a coat. He tied a black scarf around his nose and mouth against the blowing ash clogging each breath.

  Old commercial buildings squatted on either side of the street, some gutted by ecoterr bombs, some salvaged into residences by resourceful parishioners. More metal than glass covered windows; few cracks of light shone through. How many ecoterr cells hid behind those windows? Most citizens who lived along the wall were loyal to the parish and confrontational over breaches. Bullet casings and dead souls littered their yards from the attempts. But someone had smuggled ecoterrs and bombs into the power plant just yesterday. Maybe the same cell had taken Father Troy.

  He scanned the windows and crevices between buildings as they passed by, searching for the glint of a rifle barrel, discarded packages that might hold bombs, ecoterrs posing as citizens breaking curfew. But only trash scuttled along the snowy gutters.

  Folsom Prison rose into the darkness as they rounded it on their way to the town gate. The red stone walls had long ago blackened from pollution, turning it into more shadow than building. Impossible to imagine it had once been a university stadium, built for games. Thank God Father Troy had given up making his monthly visits there.