Chapter 9 The Stánrocc
The Stánrocc
Osric
Some things are cold and yet burn. Mint. Hlutoform. Blinding winter sun off snow. Fairhrim. Fairhrim’s betrayal.
Osric had enough self-awareness to know that the betrayal went both ways; he had promised her something and immediately broken the promise.
But her betrayal was worse: it was premeditated.
She had bided her time. She had put these seith markers in him and known, all these months, that she could bring him to his knees.
His betrayal was a reaction. Hers was Betrayal Aforethought, and therefore worse.
That day, the Fyren Order received a summons to the Stánrocc to explain, if they could, their leader’s attempted attack on the Haelan Order.
The Fyren Order held a grim meeting. As the Order’s second-in-command, Sacramore was the lucky designee appointed to represent them at the Stánrocc.
The Stánrocc was a stone circle where the eight Orders gathered to resolve occasional disputes among their members.
Clashes between the Orders themselves had grown rare since the signing of the Peace Accords, which banned direct acts of aggression between Orders, on penalty of death.
Sacramore was not pleased with his promotion. He spun his blaecblade upon his palm and, irascible and distrait, paced in front of the assembled Fyren. Approximately eighty of the Order had shown up to the meeting, resulting in an opinionated hubbub:
“Really? Tristane had to go for Swanstone? So we could piss off both the Haelan and the Warden Orders at once?”
“We’ve got to get her released.”
“She knew the risks. I say we let her hang.”
“It’s Tristane. Do you know how much she’s done for this Order?”
“All of us owe our extremely comfortable lives to her.”
“If Tristane was going to break the Peace Accords, she should’ve involved us in the decision.”
“This situation is an omnishambles. We’re going to look like a right bunch of tits at the Stánrocc.”
“I just want to know how many millions she had been promised, to do something like this.”
“Who’s going to the Stánrocc?”
“I’m not.”
“Be repentant, Sacramore. And make it clear that this wasn’t the Fyren Order’s decision. It was hers and hers alone.”
“Exactly. We must avoid triggering hostilities with the other Orders.”
Sacramore sighed. “I’ll see what I can negotiate for her.”
“It won’t be much,” said Lirain in her velvety soft voice. “They caught her dead to rights and they know it.”
“Will they bring Tristane to the Stánrocc tonight?” asked Osric.
“Doubt it,” said Sacramore. “The Wardens will have no faith that, having violated the Accords once, the Fyren Order won’t do so again and try to free her.
They’ll leave her at Tintagel.” He turned to the assembled Fyren.
“Will any of you join me tonight? We’re allowed eight representatives, including myself. ”
Silence greeted Sacramore’s request.
“Really?” said Sacramore. “You lot are going to send me to be chastised alone?”
The assembled Fyren muttered, “Yes” and “Sounds about right” and “Break a leg, mate.”
Eventually, Sacramore guilted Osric into coming with him, as well as Lady Windermere, Beaufort, Lirain, and—because he walked in late and didn’t know what was happening—Leofric.
The little group gathered around a waystone.
“No violence or threats of violence, please, darlings,” said Sacramore. “We must maintain the balance. Is everyone unarmed? You know the rules at the Stánrocc.”
There was a longish silence.
Lirain, touching at a locket at her throat, said, “Ish.”
Beaufort, who had a massive hammer hanging at his belt, shrugged and said, “I’m the blaecsmith.”
Lady Windermere twirled a spiked adornment at the end of her plait. Osric, who had a thin blade concealed between his right brace and shoulder, whistled. Leofric flipped his tongue out; a razor blade gleamed and slipped back into place.
“Right,” said Sacramore. “That’s about as much as I could ask of you.”
“Have you really not got anything on you?” asked Osric.
Sacramore plucked a long metal toothpick from his pocket. “I am a stickler for oral hygiene. Come on. Let’s get this over with.”
Six hellhound tācn glowed red and were pressed to the waystone.
The Stánrocc consisted of an enormous solitary monolith at the centre of a ring of standing stones in the northernmost of the Tīendoms, Fortriu.
For the convenience of the Orders and their assemblies there, the Leyfarers had integrated the monolith directly into the waystone graticule.
Only those with tācn could use it as a waystone.
The ring of standing stones was divided into eight sections by low, worn rocks starting at its centre, like the spokes of a wheel.
Every Order had its place in the circle.
There was a certain logic to the arrangement.
The Wardens stood across from the Dreor, stoic defence versus frenzied offence.
The Ingenauts, who manipulated matter, faced the Agannor, who manipulated mind.
The Leyfarers faced the Hedgewitches—travellers of different kinds.
And finally, the Haelan Order stood across from the Fyren Order—lifesavers versus death-dealers.
Osric and his fellow Fyren materialised at the foot of the Stánrocc. Sacramore threw his scarf over his shoulder and, casting a dark look towards his companions, went off in search of the Heads of the other Orders.
Osric observed the Orders as they settled in. Weapons weren’t permitted at the Stánrocc, but he was certain everyone had something in the folds of their cloaks or under their armour—and, of course, with their tācn, many of them were walking weapons by nature.
The Wardens were among the first to arrive, gleaming in white-blue armour and helmets.
They brought the full allowed complement of eight members of their Order.
Only their leader removed her helmet, revealing close-cropped grey hair and ice-blue eyes.
She was by far the shortest in her group, though just as broad in the shoulder as the rest of them.
With a surfeit of leather jackets, goggles upon foreheads, tattoos, and chewing tobacco, four Leyfarers arrived. Their tācn, in the form of a compass, gleamed bronze on their right palms. They looked, as always, bored of being on solid earth instead of whizzing through unexplored ley lines.
A small group of Agannor, cloaked in purple, arrived next.
Osric avoided looking at their tācn, which allowed them to control minds.
Possession by an Agannor was said to be euphoric; there was no decision-making, no pain, no thoughts.
Some people deliberately sought it out; some were addicted to it.
Their leader was a woman rivalling Xanthe in age, her eyes bright with intellect, her neck bent into a scholarly hump, victim of too much reading.
One had to assume that the Agannor Order hadn’t already possessed all of the other Heads to do their bidding tonight.
The Hedgewitches sent a single representative, a figure in a green hood who spoke to nobody. Amber eyes glowed from the depths of the hood. On their hand, Osric caught a glimpse of the Hedgewitch tācn: three hares in a circle, green.
The Dreor sent no representative. Osric had attended several gatherings at the Stánrocc over the years and never seen one.
A half dozen Ingenauts arrived with their golden gear tācn shimmering, but they held little interest to Osric as their arrival coincided with that of the Haelan. Eight figures in white materialised at the Stánrocc.
Osric recognised Xanthe’s pouchy face immediately. And who could be beside Xanthe but her, positively aglow with self-righteousness—
He found himself elbowed sharply by Leofric.
“It’s Haelan Hot Tits,” whispered Leofric, pulling his cowl up higher. “The one who fixed my nipple. Hide your face.”
Fairhrim’s impassive gaze slid over both Osric and Leofric without a flicker of recognition. Leofric sighed in relief. Osric hated nothing more than Fairhrim’s indifference and entertained a wild fantasy of snogging her in front of everyone.
Some of the Haelan greeted members of the other Orders. Fairhrim spoke with the lone Hedgewitch. Her body language was cautious and respectful in ways it never was with Osric. Their exchange was brief; Fairhrim ended it with one of those deep hand-on-heart bows of hers.
The leaders of the Orders moved into the centre of the circle.
Xanthe, representing the Haelan, stood next to Sacramore.
The Head Leyfarer, a lightly built man called Shearwater, chatted with the lead Ingenaut amid smacks of chewing tobacco.
She was a woman named Birtwhistle, with hair like a dandelion gone to seed.
The solitary Hedgewitch stood a little to the side, spinning a bit of clover between long fingers.
Osric felt a stabbing sensation at his temple. He turned to find Fairhrim glaring at him. She deliberately moved her glare to the cluster of Ingenauts, and Osric, following her line of sight, understood why: Perfect Aedan numbered among them.
Osric tucked his face deeper into his cowl and stepped behind Beaufort.
It wouldn’t do to be recognised by Aedan.
They had met at Fairhrim’s family home while Osric was undercover as a scalpel merchant.
He should have recognised Aedan sooner: the Ingenaut was unusually handsome, other than his ears.
(Fairhrim had disagreed on the latter assessment, but then again Fairhrim had no taste in men; QED: she wasn’t in love with Osric.)
The Head of the Wardens, whose name was Dinadan, called the meeting to order with a clap of gauntleted hands. If it wasn’t for the fact that she was going to push for Tristane’s death, Osric might have liked her: she dispensed with long-winded formalities and got down to business.