Just for a moment, he saw hatred in those blue eyes so like his own. Just for a moment—and when it cleared, it cleared completely. Skatval also saw the Videssian priests visibly willing Kveldulf to lie. But when he answered at last, his voice was firm, if low: “The Avtokrator names those candidates.”
“There, you see?” Skatval turned to the converts who had heard him argue with Kveldulf. “You see? Aye, follow Phaos, if you fancy the Avtokrator telling you how to go about it. Videssos has not the strength to vanquish us by the sword, so she seeks to strangle us with the spider’s silk spun by her god. And you—you seek to aid the Empire!”
He had hoped forcing Kveldulf to concede that Phaos’ faith was dominated by the Emperor would of itself make his people turn away from the Videssian god. And indeed, a couple of men and women left the gathering, shaking their heads at their own foolishness. To the Halogai, Videssos’ autocracy seemed like a whole great land living in chains.
But more folk than he expected stayed where they were, waiting to hear how Kveldulf would answer him. The priest, too canny by half to suit Skatval, saw that as well, and grew stronger for it. He said boldly, “No matter whence the faith comes, friends, its truth remains. You have heard that truth in Phaos’ holy scriptures, heard it in my own poor words, and accepted it of your free will. Apart from the cost to your souls in the life to come, turning aside from it now at your chief’s urging is surely as slavish as his imagined claim that you somehow serve the Empire by accepting the good god.”
Skatval ground his teeth when he saw several men soberly nodding. People stopped leaving the field in which the returned Haloga was holding his service. Kveldulf did not display the triumph he must have felt. A Videssian would have done so, and lost the people whose respect he’d regained. Kveldulf merely continued the service as if nothing had happened: he was a Haloga at heart, and knew the quiet gesture was the quicker killer.
Skatval stormed away. Forcing the fight further now would but cost him face. As he tramped into the woods, he almost ran over Grimke Grankel’s son. “Are you coming to cast your lot with Phaos, too?” he snarled.
“A man may watch a foe without wishing to join him,” the servant of the Haloga gods replied.
“At least you see he is a foe: more than those cheeseheads back there care to notice,” Skatval said. “A deadly dangerous foe.” His eyes narrowed as he looked back toward Kveldulf, who was leading his converts in yet another translated hymn. “Why, then, does he not deserve some deadly danger?”
Grimke glanced at the sword he wore on his belt. “You could have given it to him.”
“I wanted to, but feared it would set his followers forever in his path. If you, however, were to slay the southrons—and Kveldulf, their stalking horse—by sorcery, all would see our gods are stronger than the one for whom he prates.”
Grimke Grankel’s son stared, then slowly smiled. “This could be done, my chief.”
“Then do it. Too long I tolerated the traitor among us, long enough for his treachery to take root. Now, as I say, simply to slay Kveldulf and his Videssian cronies would stir more strife than it stopped. But you would not simply slay him, eh?”
“No, not simply.” Grimke’s face mirrored anticipation and calculation. “Hmm … ’twere best to wait till midnight, when the power of his god is at its lowest ebb.”
“As you reckon best. In matters magical, you know—” Skatval broke off, stared at his sorcerer. “Do you say that even you acknowledge Phaos a true god?”
“This for Phaos.” Grimke spat between his feet, as a Videssian would in rejecting Skotos. “But any god is true to one who truly believes, and may ward against wizardry. Given a choice between sorceries, I would choose the simpler when I may. Thus, midnight serves me best.”
“Let it be as you wish, then,” Skatval said. “But let it be tonight.”
Even at midnight, the sky was not wholly dark. Sullen red marked the northern sky, tracing the track of the sun not far below the ground. Seeing that glow, Skatval thought of blood. Only a few of the brightest stars pierced the endless summer twilight.
A small fire crackled. Bit by bit, Grimke Grankel’s son fed it with chips of wood and other, less readily identifiable, substances. The fickle breeze flicked smoke into Skatval’s face. He coughed and nearly choked; it had not the savor of honest flames. Almost, he told Grimke to stamp it out and set sorcery aside.
Grimke set a silver laut-bowl in the fire, which licked around it until the gods and savage beasts worked in relief on its outside seemed to writhe with a life of their own. Skatval rubbed his eyes. Heat-shimmers he knew, but none like these. The bowl held a thick jelly. When it began to bubble and seethe, Grimke nodded as if satisfied.
Above the bowl he held two cups of similar work, one filled with blood (some was his own, some Skatval’s), the other with bitter ale. Slowly, slowly, he poured the twin thin streams down into the laut-bowl. “Drive the intruders from our land, drive them to fear, drive them to death,” he intoned. “As our blood is burnt, find for them fates bitter as this beer. May they know sorrow, may they know shame, may they forget their god and gain only graves.”
Filled with assonance and alliteration, the chant rolled on. Hair rose on Skatval’s forearms and at the back of his neck; though the magic was not aimed at him, he felt its force, felt it and was filled with fear. The gods of the Halogai were grim and cold, like the land they ruled. As Grimke prodded them to put forth their power, Skatval wondered for a moment if Phaos would not make a better, safer master for his folk. He fought the thought down, hoping his gods had not seen it.
Too late for second thoughts anyhow. Grimke’s voice rose, almost to a scream. And other screams, more distant, rose in answer from the tents in which the priests dwelt. Hearing the horror in them, Skatval wondered again if he should have chosen Phaos. He shook his head. Phaos might make his folk a fine master, but the Avtokrator Stavrakios would not, and he could not have the one without the other.
Grimke Grankel’s son set down the silver cups. The flickering flames showed sweat slithering down his face, harsh lines carved from nose to mouth corners. Voice slow and rough with weariness, he said, “What magic may wreak, magic has wrought.”
Kveldulf woke from dreams filled with dread. The sun shining through the side of his tent made him sigh with relief, as if he had no right to see it. He shook his head, feeling foolish. Dreams were but dreams, no matter how frightening: when the sun rose, they were gone. But these refused to go.
He had slept in his robe. Now he belted it on again, went outside to offer morning prayers to the sun, the symbol of his god. Tzoumas, Nephon, and Antilas remained in their tents. Slugabeds, he thought, and lifted hands to the heavens. “We bless thee, Phaos, lord with the great and good mind—” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Skatval bearing down on him, but took no true notice of the chief until he had finished the creed.
“You live!” Skatval shouted, as if it were crime past forgiving.
“Well, aye,” Kveldulf said, smiling. “The good god brought me safe through another night. Am I such an ancient, though, that the thought fills you with surprise?”
“Look to your fellows,” Skatval said, staring at him still.
“I would not disturb them at their rest,” Kveldulf said. Tzoumas in particular could be a bear with a sore paw unless he got in a full night.