The Silver Scar Read online

  “I’m no angel and I sure as fuck didn’t tell her to crusade.”

  That blew off the cobwebs. “You.”

  “She showed up in the Barren. I was trying to get her to leave. We fought. I cut her. She screamed and I tried to run, give myself space to rove. Her guard attacked me from behind, got me across the back. I couldn’t move my legs, but I rolled over and roved out.”

  Trinidad closed his fingers around the warm sand and let run over his palm. It had been quick thinking on Castile’s part. He’d always been sharp that way, escaping scrapes and eluding blame like Herne Himself led him by the hand.

  “It’s okay,” Castile added. “I had a hood on. She didn’t know it was me … at least I don’t think so.”

  Trinidad released a slow breath.

  “Remember when it was just us? Remember we used to come here and run? Remember when we used to …” Castile’s voice faded as Trinidad pushed himself to his feet.

  Trinidad held out his hand for his sword. “That’s mine.”

  Castile got up and backed away, the sand chiming under his feet. “Maybe I should hang onto it for now.”

  Trinidad took a step forward, noted that Castile did not raise the blade against him. Castile was shorter than him by half a head, and not as bulky, either. “Give it to me.”

  “You going to kill me with it?”

  “I’m not going to hurt you, Cas.”

  Castile stepped closer and pressed the hilt into his fingers. He closed his free hand around Trinidad’s wrist. His fingers were callused. “The only reason I didn’t finish what Reine started … well, fuck. We bled on keeping this place secret and we were friends then, so I think I owe you the chance to explain. But you owe me, too. Why are you bringing her here?”

  Trinidad shook his head, bewildered. “I don’t rove.”

  “Trin. Don’t try and shit me—”

  “I don’t rove. It’s against my vows. I haven’t been here since we were kids.”

  “It’s me, yeah? Tell the truth.”

  The fine line of Castile’s curved nose warped slightly like it had been broken and his cheeks had hollowed in adulthood.

  “You don’t know me. Not anymore. Not if you think I’d go back on our blood and my vows.” Trinidad dropped his gaze, focused on Castile’s fingers clamped around his wrist. A tiny thrill crawled up his arm from his touch. “I swore to Christ I wouldn’t rove again at all. And I haven’t. No matter how many times you ask me, I still haven’t.”

  Castile released him with a little shove. “You never could lie worth a shit anyway.”

  “No. Not like you.”

  They stood in silence, not meeting the other’s eyes. Trinidad broke it. “I thought you were dead.”

  “It was better that way, yeah? Archwarden. Even your Father Troy thought so.” A pause. “He was … very kind.”

  Trinidad forced his fists to relax. “He wasn’t going to tell me, was he? You were never going to tell me.”

  “Hadn’t meant to, no.”

  Trinidad held out his palm, marked with the little silver scar that matched the one inside Castile’s fist. Foreheads touching, both hissing in pain. He swallowed the memory, forced it down. “So I’m here because you think I broke our blood.”

  Castile had a good game face, but even after all these years Trinidad recognized the signs of secrecy: the lowered brows, the lopsided hitch to his hips. Before he could call him on it, Castile talked.

  “Someone is bringing the bishop here. And both our family lines … and the ability to rove … it ends with us, remember, unless you got a kid running around somewhere. Your dad—”

  “My father was wrong.”

  “You ever know your dad to be wrong about anything in his life? He didn’t get to be high priest by being stupid, Trin. He was wicked smart.”

  Trinidad frowned. “Wicked. That’s about right.”

  Castile winced. “Yeah, that. Look, I’m sor—”

  “No, Castile. No.”

  He didn’t want to rehash his parents’ crimes and death. Not with Castile. Not with anyone, but especially not Castile.

  Castile cleared his throat. “It didn’t occur to me that someone else could get here. I mean, I’ve been kind of preoccupied in prison. And it took us long enough for us to figure out the way here, yeah? What in fuck was I supposed to think? It’s …” Castile’s voice fell off as his gaze switched from Trinidad’s face to beyond him. Soft chiming broke the Barren’s underlying silence.

  Trinidad spun. Twenty paces away, two figures ran at them, clad brow to boot in black. One brandished a knife, the other had a sword at the ready. Nearby, the Indigo Reine d’Esprit held a spear over her dreadlocked head.

  “Souls take you!” Reine screeched as her spear took flight toward Castile.

  TEN

  Trinidad had a flash of thought: Castile was unarmed. He knocked the spear aside with a thrust of muscle and a sharp clang and brought his blade back up to defend himself as a swordsman attacked. His hood fell back to reveal a face tattooed with a black cross.

  The bishop’s man, Paul.

  Trinidad blinked in shock, defending from pure instinct as Paul’s sword sought a weakness. He followed it with a try under Paul’s sword, a small part of his mind noting the lack of catch in his muscles from the damage to his chest. Paul twisted his blade around Trinidad’s to counter. It was all Trinidad could do to hold onto the hilt, his arms bowing as they absorbed the force of the blow. Their swords locked; their bodies pressed together. Trinidad felt Paul’s breath on his face. As if in silent agreement, they disengaged and shoved apart.

  Trinidad spat out, “Why are you attacking me?”

  Paul came at him again. Trinidad tried to swing; Paul parried with his hilt. Then he pressed hard, putting Trinidad on the defensive, each blow crashing against his sword. Trinidad cringed inwardly at the damage to his blade, but he had no other defense, no bracers, no armor. Castile shouted his name; Trinidad was too busy using his crossguard to catch Paul’s blade. He tried to disengage Paul’s sword and knock it aside, a risky move that left him open. But Paul kept hold of his weapon, fists bunched on his two-handed hilt.

  Trinidad shoved away. He had to adjust his balance, his bare feet churning the sand, and Paul took the opportunity to provoke him with a feint. Trinidad saw through it, knocking his blade aside, frustration building. They seemed a match. Trinidad might win first blood in sparring, but he had no doubt Paul meant to kill him.

  They repeated their previous stances: both backed up a step, readied their blades, lungs sucking air. Hollow shouting penetrated Trinidad’s concentration, causing him to glance to one side.

  The Indigo who’d thrown the spear was attacking Castile, fists flailing, kicking, spitting like a cat. Castile seemed to realize that his salvaged spear worked for fending her off. But another hooded figure also circled him with a knife, dividing his attention.

  Castile couldn’t hold them off for long. Without thought, without planning, Trinidad swung hard at Paul. It left him open, but without armor to encumber him, he could put extra speed and power behind the blow. But he was out of range even with this lunge, and his blade caught more at Paul’s clothing than his body; he barely spilled blood. It only served to anger Paul. He cursed and darted in close, attacking Trinidad’s high line. The sharp blade nicked Trinidad’s right shoulder. He shoved Paul away with his crossguard.

  He’d gotten first blood, but Paul had answered it on the next swing. Paul was bigger, stronger, skilled. It was going to take timing and cunning to beat him. Meanwhile, Castile might die—

  His shoulder stung deeply. Satan’s Kiss. Trinidad grunted in pain and dropped his right hand from his hilt. He let his sword fall to guard low with his left, praying Paul wouldn’t realize his feint. Paul attacked, aiming high again, for Trinidad’s throat. Instead of parrying, Trinidad ducked, dropping to his knees and stabbing up with his left, his right hand guiding the sharp blade home. The blade slid under Paul’s ribs without resista
nce.

  Paul fell, jetting blood, screaming wetly as the blade sliced through his lung. Trinidad, propelled by the muscle memory of long training, followed him down, twisting his sword to increase the damage and driving it deeper into the wound. Brackish blood fountained across the silver sand and soaked his arm. Paul writhed violently around the blade in his chest, gasping and gagging on blood from his torn lung. Trinidad glanced up at their other opponents. Reine was still engaged with Castile; the one with the knife disappeared around a tomb.

  Trinidad met the dying man’s gaze as the light fled his eyes. “Why?” he husked out, desperate.

  But his voice was overtaken by someone screaming Paul’s name, a woman’s agonized voice, and the sand chiming. Before Trinidad could turn around, Castile tackled him and the silver world spun away.

  ELEVEN

  Paul!” Reine d’Esprit came awake on her feet, mouth shaped around her lover’s name. She stared wildly at her familiar surroundings: quilted cot, guttering candles, corners stained by shadows. Cold air iced her lungs. She hadn’t been roving more than ten or fifteen minutes.

  She yanked on boots with shaking hands, realized she’d never get her pants on over them. Cursed, jerked one boot off, and threw it. It thumped against the hair-plaster wall, probably cracked it.

  A knock from Javelot. “Reine?”

  “Go away.”

  She bowed over the stabbing fear in her stomach, talking her heart down. No future in it. He’s an archwarden. He’s never going to leave the Church, he as good as told you. But the man she knew, the Paul who had come to meet her in person on behalf of his bishop, had been as surprised at their attraction as she, had been tender in bed and out of it, had wanted to find a way to stay together. Memories of the past months surged through her mind. His arms around her. His voice. His calm brown eyes on hers, sharing a laugh and a bottle. The way his tattoos had shifted with his moods. She’d never seen an archwarden smile before Paul.

  And now he was dead.

  She reached for her clothes with a shaking hand.

  Once dressed and armed, Reine stepped out into the night. Coals glowed in a pit between houses, a bloody smear against the dark. Javelot squatted by it, her furrowed brow aimed at her sister. She stood as Reine stomped down the steps.

  “Somethin happened,” Reine said. “I’m goin inparish.”

  “Orders from your new friend?” Javelot hadn’t warmed to the idea of Reine allying with the bishop.

  Reine shot her a glare.

  “You can’t, Reine. You get tracked or caught, you leave us with no queen.”

  “In your dreams.”

  Javelot held out a corked bottle. Part of Trinidad’s bounty from the Wiccans.

  Reine fought off a wince at the sting of the first swallow. “You’re right, by the way. Fuckin should’ve killed Trinidad when we had the chance.”

  She swigged again, clenched her hands around the bottle. The sisters fell quiet for a full minute, listening by long habit for wrong sounds. Only soft, night noises filled the pervasive dark: cleared throats of the guards, a baby’s cough, a child crying muted by the walls of the common house, the snuffle of a horse.

  Javelot tapped her fingers on her wool-clad knees and nodded. “Ancestors talk some sense into you?”

  “They killed Paul.”

  All trace of Javelot’s disapproval vanished. “What? How—”

  “Trinidad. Castile. Killed him.”

  “When?”

  “Tonight.” Reine lowered her gaze. “In that silver place.”

  Javelot sat back on her heels, lips twisted into wry frown. “Just a fool dream.”

  “Was no dream.”

  “Oh, so you got Wiccan mojo now?”

  Nobody, least of all Reine, really believed Wiccan dreamwalking was real. And it wasn’t, not really. Gods weren’t real, not like the souls of people who had actually lived. The Barren had to be a trick. She barely believed enough to admit to Javelot she’d gone there. She sure as fuck didn’t want to believe it now. But seeing Paul tumble to the silver sand …

  Javelot tsked. “Fuckin dream and you’re out here baitin bears? At this rate you’ll get too soft to lead us—”

  “Enough, Jav.”

  “Enough? Enough what? You’re the one head-over-ass for a fuckin archwarden.”

  “Javelot—”

  “I’m second-in-command and I’m your sister. You want me to lie to you?” She jabbed a finger at Reine. “Paul was a mistake from the start. Now you’re soft over him and it’ll cost Indigo lives. Fuckin sharpen up.”

  Reine felt a stillness wash over her, a blank calm. Her foot lashed out and she caught her sister in the solar plexus with her boot. Javelot sprawled on her back in the snowy mud. She lay there for a few seconds, mouth working, trying to gulp air. Finally, she rolled over. She started to coil into position to tackle Reine at the knees. Reine stepped over her, brandishing her drawn knife, and grabbed Javelot’s locks. She yanked her chin up and held the knife close to Javelot’s notched eyebrow.

  Javelot spat a bloody curse. Her fingers scrabbled back, at Reine’s thighs. Reine barely felt it.

  “You want to be queen so bad, call me soft again and fuckin fight me for it.”

  Breathing rough, Javelot managed to shake her head.

  Reine shoved her down but kept hold of her hair. “Lower.”

  Javelot dropped her chin almost to the ground.

  “Got else to say?”

  “No, Reine d’Esprit.”

  “What I thought.” Reine cut two of Javelot’s locks off the back of her head, scraping her scalp bloody, and threw them into the fire. “Let that show how you bow to me.” She gave her sister a last shove and backed away.

  Javelot scrambled to her feet, hatred smoldering in her eyes. But she said nothing.

  Reine jerked her chin toward the common house and the crying baby. “Meds in the bounty. See what’s for that kid before he wakes up the whole fuckin freehold.”

  Reine turned her back on her sister and mounted the steps to her house. Before going back in, she cast a last glance back at their fifty-family settlement, pale lanterns of light glowing behind what glass windows they could salvage, patrols moving like ancestral ghosts along the wall. Javelot had disappeared toward the bounty stores. A spearguard passed by, lit only by the glow of a pipe.

  Probably that Cur, she thought. Makes him a target. But she didn’t have the heart to go slap him around over it.

  In the relative warmth of her house she snicked a match and lit a candle. No sleep tonight with that kid hacking up a lung. She reached for her paper packet of toke—Alteration grew reliably even in their shitty dirt—and her own pipe. Used her knife to ground out the leaves. Now you’re soft over him and it’ll cost lives. The smoke in her lungs didn’t slow her pounding heart.

  She closed her eyes and sliced her knife across the back of her hand. Felt her body settle in and refocus as the sting broke through the worst of her worry. Javelot didn’t know the first thing about queening Indigos, didn’t know leading was about serving the tribe, about dying first, if it came to it.

  She dragged the knife along the side of her thumb, tensing and then sighing.

  But Javelot was right about one thing. Reine didn’t know for sure Paul was dead and rushing inparish over it was a fool’s run. Get herself caught, just to find it was all a dream. Not real. Not true. Just a dream, right?

  “Fuckin you better be alive, Paul.”

  Reine drew the knife across the back of her hand again, crisscrossing the other cut and old white scars, watching the blood well as smoke blazed in her lungs.

  TWELVE

  Castile smelled smoky candle-wax. Gun powder. Dust. He squinted but didn’t recognize the room. Not his rooms, nowhere he’d been before. He’d just wanted to get Trinidad out of the Barren, away, not caring where. It was his dreamscape, all right, the edges faded into nothing like always. A hot, pungent scent slowly overtook the others. He heard his heart thudding. He was dr
aped over Trinidad’s back, a stretch of warm, taut skin. His dreamscape, but something was … different.

  Trinidad knelt over the man he’d killed, gripping his sword with both hands. It stuck up from a cavernous wound. The dead man’s tongue lolled like a pale slug. His eyes were fixed beneath the black cross tattooed on his forehead.

  “By the Crone,” Castile breathed. An archwarden.

  He pushed away from Trinidad, rested on his heels, and looked around. A room with twin beds, a window high on the wall. They huddled before a tatty sofa. The room was dark and grim. And he’d never been here before. “This your place?” He didn’t know why he was so surprised. It could happen; Trin was the strongest dreamer he knew. He’d overrun Castile’s roves and dreamscapes before, like the first time they found the Barren.

  Trinidad slid back, sank to the ground. The bloody sword slid free of the dead archwarden’s chest and clattered to the floor. “His name is Paul,” he said, his voice hollow in the silence between them. “He works for the bishop.”

  “Steady.” Castile touched Trinidad’s back, feeling the muscles contract under his hand. He kept his voice low. “Hey, is this your ’scape?”

  “He’s the head of my order.”

  “He attacked you,” Castile said. “You couldn’t help but kill him.”

  Trinidad’s face twisted into an expression Castile couldn’t label but didn’t much like. “You don’t understand what this means, Cas.”

  Castile cleared his throat and looked away from the gory leavings of Trinidad’s kill to study the dreamscape anew. Everything felt more off-kilter as the seconds ticked by. The colors were off; yellowed and too sharp. The dreamscape felt too big, shelves higher than they ought to be, beds longer.

  He swallowed hard. Had Trin brought them here? He shook his head. That didn’t make sense. Trin was too shaken to overcome Castile’s rove. They should be in Castile’s dreamscape, but he had never been here before. So, someone else, someone who had some powerful mojo, had pulled them in.

  Maybe the same someone who was roving the bishop to the Barren.