was young.
Sigurdur thought, you heard about this sort of thing all your life but you were never ready when it happened. You never believed you would attract the interest of the Instrumentalities of the Night.
The woman opened her cloak. She wore nothing beneath. Her body was perfection. It exuded warmth. It could not be resisted.
It was too late even for the wary.
Sigurjon began to worry. 'What'staking him so long?”
He's always been full of shit, but… gods.'
'Maybe he's trying to get it all worked out in one grand-daddy load.'
'He'll get frostbite on his ass if he fools around too long.' Sigurjon rose. He yelled. His twin did not respond. He sat back down, sure that if there was any real trouble he would sense it through their twin bond.
Half an hour later Finnboga and Hallgrim were troubled enough to go out searching, shouting, leaving Sigurjon by the fire.
They found nothing.
'We'll look again after it's light. We can't find anything now. Let's cast lots for first watch.' That would have been Sigurdur's job.
They found the place where Sigurdur had emptied his bowels. Then, despite the tracks they had left all over while searching in the dark, they discovered the trail Sigurdur had left when he headed upstream, beside the river. They found Sigurdur himself half a mile from camp, half in and half out of the river, naked from the waist down. They never found his trousers.
'He died happy,' Hallgrim said.
But Sigurdur's skin was as pale as the snow, not because he was dead but because all the blood had been drained from his body.
The frozen mud retained footprints made by a woman's small, bare feet.
The tale was not hard to read, just hard to believe. You heard the stories but you never really believed.
But the things of the night were as real as cruel death. And every bit as wicked as the stories claimed.
The survivors made no immediate connection between Sigurdur's misfortune and their having turned their backs on their gods.
When they returned to camp they discovered that they had been plundered by their neighbors. The villains had left them with little more than what they wore and the weapons they carried. Which they had come near ruining while hacking out a shallow grave for Sigurdur.
Sigurjon was the smartest survivor. He began to suspect divine mischief when something got Hallgrim a week later. This death in the dark did not leave its victim smiling. It did not leave its victim with a face at all.
Neither Sigurjon nor Finnboga ever heard a sound.
17. The Connec, After the Blood
Brother Candle's captors let several days pass before he was allowed to see Count Raymone Garete. No one accused him of anything. He was known and respected throughout the End of Connec. To be deemed a traitor he would have to indict himself out of his own mouth.
'Well?' the Count asked. 'What do you have to say for yourself?'
'I was on the road. Trying to overtake you. The Arnhanders captured me. At the moment you attacked the Archbishop was offering me the opportunity to be the central character in a heresy trial.'
'I can see why he'd think that way. Why were you trying to catch me?'
'In hopes that I could talk you out of attacking the Arnhanders. This war can only end in disaster for the End of Connec.'
The Count's henchmen laughed, mocked Brother Candle, made chicken-clucking noises. Few were older than the Count. One said, 'Looks to me like the disaster boot is on the other foot, Brother. Twice, now.'
Brother Candle shook his head. 'I have no hope of selling sanity, now. The die is cast. You arrogant young men. Listen! Don't rest on your laurels. Next summer, or the summer after, or the summer after that, the armies of Arnhand and the Brothen Patriarch will return. And they'll descend like the Wrath of God Himself.'
That was not what they wanted to hear. They wanted to be told that Santerin would never stop feuding with Arnhand. They wanted to hear about dynastic troubles that would cripple Arnhand. They wanted to be told that the Patriarch was a bucket full of wind, with the Grail Emperor hard on its flank, poised to strike the instant Sublime overextended himself.
Brother Candle had enjoyed success in his worldly life. His success as a Perfect was more limited, because he was now a holy man. A holy man who lacked the advantage enjoyed by Sublime: an army to make dimwits listen.
He did not remain with the Count. He got back on the road. He would rejoin Duke Tormond and try to subdue the future from Khaurene.
There was no way to stop the coming war. Arnhand's leading families would all demand it. What he had to do now was keep emotion from gaining complete control. The more the emotions could be blunted the gentler the future would be.
He would try to convince the high and the mighty — Tormond in particular — that they must prepare for the worst.
He did not want war. But if war could not be avoided, then the Connec should be prepared to respond with a ferocity and vigor that would overawe anyone interested only in fattening his fortune.
Brother Candle walked the ancient, cold highway to Khaurene uncomfortably aware that the one last thing he had to do in this world, and had to do better than he had done anything before, was a work that he loathed. He had to nurture and guide the Seekers After Light through an age of horror and violence that would determine whether their faith persevered or vanished from the earth forever.
The Maysalean Heresy would not go meekly, however gentle its hopes. Ironically, though, those Connectens who would bear the brunt of the expense and fighting would be devout Chaldareans defending themselves from men who claimed to be the champions of their own faith.
18. Plemenza: The Dimmel Palace
Plemenza was a bright and colorful city but the captives got no chance to enjoy it. The troops who brought them in made sure they had no contact with the locals. As far as Else could tell, the locals were not curious.
The party passed through the gates of the Dimmel Palace. And that was that, for a long time.
Nothing cruel happened. Nothing happened at all. The captives entered a section of palace where the windows and all but one door had been bricked up. Then they were ignored. Though meals did arrive regularly. Initially, Bronte Doneto raged and demanded to see someone, anyone, even the Emperor himself. The only servant they ever saw never responded in any way.
Doneto was outraged but not concerned for his safety. 'This is just a logical escalation in the Emperor's squabble with Sublime. If Johannes keeps me away from the Collegium, the Patriarch will have a lot of trouble getting their backing.'
Else listened closely. If removing one man could paralyze the enemy's center of power… A little work with some sharpened steel and…
Much better, more clever, to make a key vote disappear somewhere away from Brothe. Keeping the survival of the voter a mystery.
The Collegium could not replace Bronte Doneto unless they knew he was no longer healthy enough to assist
