Free The Pagan Night by Tim Akers Page B

to establish and lists to enter, and we should present ourselves to our host. Let him know we’re not here to reave.”
    “
You’re
not here to reave,” Dugan grumbled. Malcolm ignored him.
    “Why do we have to stay in a pavilion, Father?” Ian said when he had caught up with the elder Blakley. “Surely the duke will provide us with rooms in the castle?”
    Malcolm didn’t answer for a minute. He went a little faster, until there was some space between them and the rest of the train. When he spoke, he looked straight ahead.
    “Sir Dugan is not all wrong in his warning,” Malcolm said. “I would feel safer in my own tent than surrounded by Halverdt stone.”
    “And the duke won’t take offense?”
    “He may. He well may.”
    The first sounds of the city reached them. It was a great tumult of horses and livestock and wagons and the unending sound of voices in the streets, arguing and yelling. Above that, weaving in and out of the clatter and chaos of the city, came the sky hymn. It rolled out from the cloud-white dome that dominated the skyline at the top of the terraced streets, its arches and smooth white towers looming over the lesser mass of the citadel.
    The hymn came and went as the winds shifted and the chorus drifted, but Ian was sure he could pick out the chords of summer mixed with autumn’s melancholy, and on the edges of the harmony was the dirge of winter, the first trace notes of the coming court just starting to weave themselves into the hymn.
    “Gabriel Halverdt is a painfully holy man,” Malcolm said, marking his son’s attention. “He employs the finest choir outside of Heartsbridge. Perhaps finer.”
    “I had forgotten about the hymn,” Ian said.
    “Hard thing to forget, boy, but you’ll stop hearing it after a while.”
    “No,” Ian said. The hymn was weaving its way into his mind, even as they moved toward the gates. “I don’t think I will.” The city gate loomed just ahead of them, but Malcolm directed the column away from it, to the tourney grounds, which lay outside the walls to the west. The knights who had come with them, and many of the men-at-arms, unraveled themselves from the caravan.
    Ian could see a canvas town, several villages’ worth of tents huddled in the shadow of the city walls. The sounds coming from that direction were louder, happier, somehow more joyous than anything coming from the city proper. The perimeter of the tourney grounds was guarded by a rope fence, hung with the icons of the summer court and blessed by clerics of Lady Strife. A number of priests of Cinder were circling the fence, checking it for doctrine and scrutinizing the icons their brothers of summer had chosen to use. Ian marked this, and leaned over to his father, pointing.
    “Do they truly need to ward against gheists this close to the Allfire?” he asked.
    “Need? No, there is no need. But the duke of Greenhall is… cautious, when it comes to gheists.”
    “He’s scared shitless of shadows,” Dugan said. “He keeps a cadre of torchbearers in his room to ward off the pagan night.”
    “Not exactly true,” Malcolm said, allowing himself a grin, “but he does spook easily. Of all the things you might fear in Greenhall, we can be sure there will be no gheists under the bed.”
    “There will be danger enough, without your pagan gods,” Beaunair called out. Ian and his father twisted to see the high elector riding slowly toward them, his shining face leaning out of the lead wagon. The priest’s column of wagons had fallen behind as soon as they left Houndhallow, creating an intentional gap. Beaunair and Blakley had agreed that they shouldn’t arrive at Greenhall hand in hand. Even their arriving on the same morning would put Halverdt on edge. The high elector waved happily to the city, the pavilion, the sky itself. “But there will be joy as well. Find the pleasure of the bright lady on the Allfire, Duke. Your task here is to join the church together.”
    “My task here is to