The Silver Scar Page 31

  He pushed past Reine and walked outside.

  Seth stood in the shelter of a tent with the bishop’s archwardens, the two left who hadn’t died in the skirmish at Folsom, and several army captains. Seth nodded to him. The archwardens and the army captains stared.

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Just tell them it’s over.” Seth said, and instructed the army captains to speak to their troops. The captains dispersed and the archwardens followed Trinidad as he climbed the rough steps up the wall.

  The sugary scent of Alteration and acrid wood smoke rode the air. The boots of the army churned the snow to icy mud. The rumble of voices slowed and faltered when he appeared, stumbling to a slow skid of coughs and wet shuffling. Trinidad thought the army, Denver Parish in particular, would not simply disband on his command, not after weeks of Marius’ rallying, recruiting, and organizing. They’d been promised war against the heathens, and they still craved blood. He was glad they’d sent the spirit tribes’ army back to the Indigo freehold. A fight might have broken out.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” he told Castile lowly.

  “I go where you go, yeah?” Castile forced a smile, teeth chattering from the cold wind. “But for fuck’s sake, be careful.”

  Trinidad bowed his head. He wondered if they thought he was praying. Maybe he was in a way, hoping God would give him words. He certainly didn’t know where else they would come from.

  He lifted his head. Many of them were easing closer to the wall, trying to get a better look at him.

  He swallowed, cleared his throat, his cheeks flushed and hot, his belly churning.

  “When Bishop Marius came to Boulder Parish and preached crusade, I wanted to believe in angels. I wanted to believe in the Church. But I knew her claims were lies.” He paused and scanned the crowd. Chatter filtered up from the ranks and died. He realized their captains and commanders were walking among them, quieting them.

  “I should have spoken then. I should have trusted God to see it right. I did not and people died for it.”

  Trinidad hesitated, and then started to undo his armor. Castile moved to help him, pulled the plates from his back and chest, collected his cloak and bracers and weapons until Trinidad stood only in his shirt and trousers. Cold swept through the wool. His stomach knotted. But they had to see it. They had to know the truth.

  “When I was young, my parents killed Christians and Indigos. If you asked them, they’d say the Earth is sick and people are her disease. But killing is no answer.”

  He stripped off his shirt and stood in the cold, waited for the gasps and shouts to die down.

  “Reine d’Esprit carved this pentacle in my chest. Not an angel. Reine d’Esprit, here next to me. She sought revenge because I killed her father. He threatened my priest, and I thought I had the right to kill him for it. My parents thought they had the right to kill Christians for harming the Earth. Bishop Marius thought she had the right to crusade against those who don’t believe in Christ. Like I thought I had the right to kill her for crusading and lying.” His voice sharpened. “But none of us have the right and none of it amounts to any kind of faith I’ve ever heard of.”

  The crowd shifted below him, still quiet but for a few coughs. Even those who had to be too far off to hear him kept still and quiet. Too quiet, as if a whirlwind of fury was about to rise up from the ground.

  “I can’t tell you what to do. I have killed. I have sinned. I have turned my back on gods and Christ, and people have died for it. I certainly can’t tell you where to find faith.” He swallowed, his throat tight. “Maybe you’ll find it at home. Maybe you should try there first.”

  Seconds crawled by. Trinidad stared out at them and they stared back, boots in the snow and mud, gripping their makeshift weapons and wearing only the crimson crosses on their shoulders for armor.

  He pulled his shirt on and turned away. The crowd erupted and surged forward with a rush of thousands of voices, of rallying cries, of pleading and questions and cheers and anger. Trinidad didn’t look back as he climbed down off the wall, making his way quickly down the ladder.

  Castile hurried after him, still loaded with the armor and cloak. “You’re just walking away?”

  Trinidad shook his head wearily and kept walking, his long strides forcing Castile into a trot to keep up. “I don’t have any answers for them.”

  “But—”

  “What do I tell them? Do we start roving people to the Barren? How long until war starts up again, once they learn what the sand can do? Or should I lie to them? Like Marius? Like you? Like …” He cut himself off with a sharp breath and kept walking.

  Castile trotted after Trinidad, quiet now. They passed through the city gates under the stares of the marshals. Trinidad climbed into the prison dray that had taken them first to the church and then the command house. He didn’t to know where to put his hands. Hard trembles coursed through him. He clenched his fists to try to hide it.

  “Trin. It’s all right.”

  “It’s not,” Trinidad said. “It’s not enough.”

  Castile dumped the armor and cloak in a heap on the floor. The words came out with a knife’s edge. “It has to be. It will be.”

  Trinidad shook his head and eased down onto the metal bench inside the dray.

  Castile sank to one knee in front of Trinidad. His hair was tangled, his face smudged. They both reeked of blood and sweat. He reached up to wipe the dirt away from Trinidad’s tattoo with his thumb, let his fingers trail over his temple and cheek. Trinidad shuddered under Castile’s touch. He had to struggle not to pull away.

  Crowd noises grew outside, but Castile kept his voice soft. “You stopped the war. It’s enough for today at least, yeah?”

  Trinidad swallowed, hard. From one angle, Castile was right. From another, the world needed more amends than one man could make.

  Castile steadied himself with his hands on Trinidad’s knees, leaned in, and kissed him.

  The world roared around them, a harsh mix of voices, hard and argumentative, low and tired, jubilant. Trinidad tasted salty tears, sweat and dirt and blood. His hands came up to curl around the back of Castile’s neck, locking them together, mouths hungry, teeth bumping, beards scraping. The dray rattled to life. Trinidad yielded to the primal comfort of desire.

  At last they parted, gasping. Trinidad’s heart pounded in his throat. His lips stung from Castile’s unshaven face.

  Castile slid away and heaved himself onto the bench next Trinidad. A noisy swell of humanity surrounded the dray. It bumped along slowly.

  “What now?” he asked.

  “A nap. A long one,” Trinidad said.

  Castile chuckled.

  They had family and friends and enemies to bury. “And I was thinking your chimney needed work. The smoke didn’t draw correctly last I was there.”

  Castile leaned forward, forearms on thighs, and turned his head to look at him. “You’re a witch again? Just like that?”

  The cave was quiet. The Barren was quieter. “No. I’m not just a witch.”

  Castile gave a slow nod. He didn’t answer for so long Trinidad wondered if he’d refuse or argue. But Trinidad couldn’t see another way. Reine was right. The shortest path was best, and the road ran straightest between the parish and the coven.

  At last the dray stopped in front of the church gate. Trinidad started to pull his armor on and then stopped, left it on the muddy floor. He needed a break from its constraint.

  Castile studied the floor as if answers were scuffed into the dirt there. “Your new priest will need your help keeping the peace, yeah?”

  Trinidad eased a breath. “Your help, too, Cas.”

  He offered Castile his hand and the witch let him pull him to his feet.

 

 

 
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