Chapter 27

  Glitvall followed High Shaman Greythorn into the tent, the heavy flap falling closed behind him with a weight that felt more significant than just hide and leather. Inside, the air was thick with smoke from burning herbs he couldn't name, their scent sharp and earthy all at once.

  The tent's interior was larger than it appeared from outside, or perhaps that was just the way the shadows played against the walls. Pelts covered the ground in layers, some white as fresh snow, others dark as a moonless night. Bones hung from the support poles on leather cords, arranged in patterns that Glitvall had learned long ago not to question. Some were from animals, others from enemies, all of them serving purposes that only the shamans understood.

  In the center of the tent sat a fire pit, its flames burning blue and green instead of the normal orange and red. The light it cast made everything look otherworldly, like they'd stepped into a place between the mortal world and whatever lay beyond. Carved idols ringed the pit, each one representing a different aspect of their gods, their stone faces seeming to watch with more awareness than simple carvings should possess.

  Against the far wall stood what might have been an altar, though Glitvall had never been comfortable calling it that. It was more a collection of offerings and relics, arranged with a care that spoke of decades of ritual. Skulls served as holders for candles made from animal fat. Weapons too damaged to be used in battle were arranged in specific patterns. And in the center of it all sat a bowl carved from ice that never melted, filled with something dark that Glitvall chose not to examine too closely.

  High Shaman Greythorn settled onto a low seat made from what looked like a single piece of carved stone, worn smooth by countless years of use. She gestured to another seat across from her, this one made of wood and leather, and Glitvall sat.

  Silence stretched between them, comfortable in the way it could only be between two people who'd known each other for decades. Glitvall let his eyes wander the space, noting the small changes since the last time he'd been here. New charms hung from the poles. Different herbs lay bundled near the altar. The arrangement of bones had shifted.

  "I like the changes you've made," Glitvall said finally. "The new totems near the entrance. They're good."

  Greythorn scoffed. "Flattery you bring, when promises is what you ask for. Speak then, Warchief. Why come you here? Why does the Southerner with him strange aura sit in my space?"

  Glitvall leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "You won't believe what I'm about to tell you."

  "Try me," she said, her pale eyes fixed on his face.

  So Glitvall told her. He told her about Francis Lancaster, the skinny southern boy who should have died in the first battle. He told her about the deaths and the resets, about how Francis returned each time with his memories intact, learning from each failure. He explained Stenson's theory about the parasite, the Blood of the Undying, and the possibility that their enemies might have one as well.

  Glitvall told her about the training, about watching Francis die again and again to the Ursaloths, about the boy's determination and the way he refused to quit no matter how many times he was torn apart. He told her about the Master rank, which Francis had achieved at seventeen years old through nothing but dying, learning, and dying again.

  And Glitvall told her why he was here, why he needed to ask for what was promised, why Francis needed to learn their ways despite being an outsider.

  Through it all, Greythorn's milky white eyes remained fixed on him, unmoving, unblinking, showing no reaction to even the most impossible parts of his story. When Glitvall finally finished, she was quiet for a long time.

  Then her eyes closed.

  Glitvall felt it before he saw it. A pressure in the air, like the moment before lightning strikes. Greythorn began to shake, her body trembling as if caught in a violent wind that only she could feel. A slight aura appeared around her, barely visible at first but growing stronger with each passing second. It was the color of ice and starlight, cold and ancient and vast.

  When she spoke, it wasn't her voice that came out.

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  "Glitvall, you have come here with something that shouldn't be here and knowledge you shouldn't have." The voice was powerful, resonant, filling the entire tent with a presence that made Glitvall want to prostrate himself on the ground.

  He bent his neck instead, lowering his gaze slightly in respect. "I am honored you have come, my god. I know not why or how, but this one has come to help us defeat the army we have not been able to."

  "What you speak of is... beyond mortal ears and minds. That kind of magic is powerful and not one that should be possessed by any. It appears our foes have unleashed something we thought none would do so... what you face is... dangerous. To both you and to us."

  Glitvall's chest tightened. If the gods themselves were concerned, then this was worse than he'd imagined. "And what should I do? Turn away the weapon they have given us? Help him become something that might defeat them? I cannot kill him, for he would only return."

  Silence echoed through the tent, heavy and suffocating. Then the aura around Greythorn shifted, the color changing subtly, and when she spoke again, it was a different voice. Gentler, warmer, but no less powerful.

  "No... you must help this one grow to be what we need to root out the enemy we face. We will inform the others of what you speak of... but we cannot promise that our actions will be remembered."

  Glitvall's eyes widened. "It's that strong?"

  "That is not for you to know, but yes. Strong enough to limit our influence. Strong enough that you must find a way to do what you have told our Chosen one."

  Glitvall swallowed hard. If the gods themselves could be affected by this power, by these parasites, then what chance did mortals have? "Can he learn your ways? He's... not one of us."

  "Then make him one," the voice commanded, firm and absolute.

  "The old ritual?" Glitvall asked, his mind already racing through what that would require. "It hasn't been done in–"

  "Then they will know that the time has come, and he will bear a mark that will last." The power radiating from Greythorn intensified, and Glitvall had to fight the urge to look away. "We will tell our Chosen that this is our command. You must prepare those here and the one you have outside for what he must endure."

  "He will be able to," Glitvall replied without hesitation. "I have no doubt he can."

  "Then make it so. This battle... this war... is for more than just your lives and what they mean to us."

  A few seconds of silence stretched between them, heavy with meaning Glitvall couldn't fully grasp. Then he felt a hand on his shoulder. The touch was warm, almost familiar, and it drew his gaze upward.

  Greythorn's white eyes were open now, radiating with power that made them glow like small moons in the dim tent. But there was something else there too, something gentle and personal that made Glitvall's breath catch.

  "You have done well," the voice said, softer now. "Know your wife is proud of the man she married, and the day you join her, you two will have a special place if you can help this one defeat our enemy."

  Tears flowed from Glitvall's eyes before he could stop them. He nodded, his throat almost too tight for words. "I will… make sure… that Francis Lancaster becomes what he must."

  The hand pulled back, and a low moan came from Greythorn. The aura around her flickered and faded, the light in her eyes dimming until they were once again just milky white orbs in a painted face.

  She gasped for air, her body swaying before she caught herself and fell back into her seat.

  "You... they... that boy..." she muttered, her voice hoarse and weak compared to what had come before. "He must become one of us."

  "I know," Glitvall replied, wiping the tear that was still on his cheek and lifting his finger so he could look at it. The moisture caught the strange light of the fire, glowing faintly. "I will prepare him. When will you be ready?"

  "Tomorrow night, when the moon reaches its peak. Do not be late."

  "We won't be," Glitvall said, and then he kissed the tear gently on his finger, a private goodbye to a memory and a promise for what was to come. "We won't be."

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