The War Priest Read online

  Another infinitesimal flinch. It seemed probable that Callum saw where she was going with this, but he didn’t interrupt. Probably got that patience from all the devotionals he’d learned in the order.

  “Bristow women are strong, you see. It was over ten years for Pru, and she still got it done. Hasn’t been nearly that long for me. So…I won’t pine for you. I’m only telling you how I feel so I can get over you.”

  “Wish you didn’t have to, kit.”

  She smiled slightly. “But I do. Because you’d never be happy with me, if you betrayed your brothers, who stood by you in your most desperate hour. The man I fell in love with is tough and honorable and this is the path you must walk.”

  Without me.

  “This is closure,” he said, low.

  “It is. I won’t seek you out after tonight. Good night, Callum.” Her eyes welled with tears, but she didn’t let them fall.

  Not until he moved past her, checked the hallway, then slipped out of her room for the last time. Then she melted into a puddle on the floor, crying silently into her hands. She couldn’t decide if it made things better or worse that her skin still smelled of him. As soon as she calmed down, she had to visit the bath and scrub all signs of close contact away. Otherwise, someone would smell him on her, and the scandal they had avoided might destroy his life. Joss could never let that happen. She didn’t want to become a punishment to him, a consequence of imprudent behavior.

  When she finally calmed, she gathered her supplies and rushed to the bathhouse like a spy, dodging all potential encounters. Only once she was submerged and had lathered her body three times did she relax.

  There. We got away with it. He can resume his role with the order like nothing happened. And she’d meant what she said to Callum, but closing that door felt as if she’d slammed it on her own heart.

  The throbbing would surely subside soon enough. If Pru could do it…

  In time, there would be someone else to quicken her pulse, someone else who made her feel as she only did when she sang, alight with joy and music. Time would be the cure.

  It was too damn bad she was stuck here, but hopefully the siege wouldn’t drag on too long. As she washed up a final time, Joss wished she could contact her family.

  But wishing was an unreliable system, no more useful than speaking of her dreams to the distant stars.

  Midnight. Callum should be asleep by now, as it had been a long day, but his brain teemed with anguish and unrest.

  He didn’t want Joss to get over him.

  That made him a monstrous bastard, and he knew it well. He acknowledged the thought and its inherent selfishness, then he let it go, tried to imagine that attachment like paper consumed by fire, until only curls of ash and wisps of smoke remained.

  Easier said than done.

  In the end, he didn’t sleep and he went to the chapel at dawn because the abbot would expect him to abide by certain customs, even if his devotions had been lax since he left.

  Abbot Ambari was already there, along with a handful of the brothers. The rest arrived shortly after Callum, ready to partake in the rite of dawn. These were the rituals that gave him comfort, year after year.

  “We take nothing for granted,” said the abbot, starting the service. “Each day is a gift and we greet it in Saint Casimir’s name.”

  “In his name,” the brothers echoed.

  Callum let out a slow breath. There was still peace in this, even if the feeling no longer filled him as it once had. He offered his candle to the monk on his right and lit it from the existing flame, then he did the same for the brother on his left. The monks were a mixed lot, so multiple scents surrounded him: bear, wolf, great cat, and even a whisper of bird of prey. Even now, he found that diversity comforting, as it meant Saint Casimir accepted anyone who came to him. All slates could be wiped clean; no one was too wretched to serve.

  After the service, he greeted Andarion, his closest friend in the order with a brutal, back-slapping hug. People always joked about the two of them, saying that Callum had gotten all Andarion’s height and most of his hair since Andar preferred to shave it all off, and he wasn’t especially tall. He hailed from Hallowell of wolfen stock, and he’d been a postulant when Callum arrived at the monastery, half out of his mind and obviously heartbroken.

  “It’s good to see you,” he said, smiling.

  Andar returned the hug and then punched him. “I can’t believe you left without saying good-bye.”

  As a courtesy, Callum grunted, though he barely felt the strike. “It seemed better that way. Did you talk the abbot into this?”

  “Like I have the power to sway the old man on my own.”

  That wasn’t a denial, however. “But you had something to say.”

  “We all did. Choosing the silent path doesn’t mean much if the rest of the world falls to a tyrant.”

  “Burnt Amber isn’t the whole world, but I’m grateful that you came.”

  “If the Golgoth get a foothold here and use bear mines against everyone else, the tide will turn soon enough, and not in a way that’s good for religious freedom.”

  He hadn’t even thought about that, but it seemed likely that the Gol despot would cram whatever god he followed down the survivors’ throats. Or hell, Tycho might even make people build temples dedicated to worshipping him. Based on what he’d seen and heard, it didn’t seem implausible. Bastards who wanted to rule the world rarely had an off button, a saturation level that made them say, this conquest, it’s enough, now I can stop pillaging and take up gardening.

  “You make a good point,” Callum said.

  Andar started walking, heading out of the chapel, and he followed. “I thought so. First, we need to thin their numbers, but skirmishes are troublesome with the grid active. I’m glad you told me about the secret tunnel before you left. We needed that inside knowledge, or we would’ve been flanked and slaughtered.”

  Cold suffused him at the thought, and he couldn’t even remember why he’d been rambling about Burnt Amber. “I was drunk,” he admitted.

  “Never could hold your mead worth a damn,” Andar teased.

  “It’s not something I had much of before I joined the order.” Ale, certainly, and sometimes lager, but mead took a particular brewing process, one that the order had perfected, resulting in cyser mead as one of their chief exports.

  “That’s an excuse, but I’m not here to agitate you over your low tolerance.”

  “Abstemious,” said Callum in a mock-pious tone, but he couldn’t hold the matching self-righteous look.

  They both laughed, though Callum could never forget just how screwed up this situation was.

  Outside, the morning brightened from a misty dawn to a sunny day, belying the fact that they were trapped by the Gols and the grid with no help and no supplies coming and now he had fifty more mouths to feed. The brothers were used to scant, simple meals, so they wouldn’t complain if they had to go on rations later.

  Just outside the chapel doors, the abbot cleared his throat, as brisk a rebuke as physically speaking words to state that they were acting with inappropriate levity. Callum sobered at once, turning to see what the old man wanted.

  “I propose a strategy meeting. Gather your advisors while I alert the best military minds in the order.”

  That rankled a little because he was in charge here, not the abbot, but he couldn’t bring himself to challenge the old man’s authority. Through clenched teeth, he said, “One hour from now in the conference room next to the security office.”

  “Well enough. I’ll see you then.”

  “Am I to be included in this great meeting of minds?” Andar asked.

  “Of course. I value your input, even if you’re not a strategic genius.”

  The bald man grinned. “Who says I’m not? I nudged the abbot until he started thinking this mission was his idea.”

  “Then maybe you can talk the Gols into surrendering and going home.”

  Andar’s gentle amusement
faded into regret. “Would that I could, brother. But going home with their goal unmet means death for them.”

  “True enough. Could we use that? I hear that the Gol prince offered a deal to his people. If they switched allegiances, they’d get perks and freedoms under his new regime.”

  “I doubt the same trick would work twice.” Yet Andar looked thoughtful. “And even if the offer moved some of them, we don’t have the power to extend it.”

  Callum swore. “And I can’t even call out to ask without letting the enemy do the same. I don’t want them getting in touch with anyone in Golgerra, not for strategic guidance or to request reinforcements. To make contact, they’ll have to ride out of range of our jammers and the delays work in our favor. The situation is bad enough as it is. If Tycho sends more troops or orders those here to charge the hold, regardless of the grid, we’ll soon be overwhelmed.”

  “Why are they so determined to take Burnt Amber?” Andar asked.

  Since he wasn’t from here, he wouldn’t know, but Callum saw no harm in telling him. “They think we manufacture our tech on site. The wolves have aerial support to defend their war machines, so we’re seen as the weaker link.”

  “But there’s no industrial work here,” Andar said. “I’d smell it.”

  “So will the Gols if they get close enough,” he replied grimly.

  For the first time in Callum’s memory, Andar swore. “This whole battle’s a feint. To protect the actual facility.”

  “If necessary, we’ll blow it.”

  Just like Hallowell. That would destroy the bear economy and set them back years in terms of development, but he’d give the order if it came to that. With all his heart, Callum hoped to hell he never had to make that call.

  “Let’s not worry about it right now.” Briefly Andar set a hand on his shoulder, meant as a comforting, bracing gesture. “Who should we gather for the abbot’s meeting?”

  After a moment’s consideration, he answered, “Jere. Garven. Trini and Emilia.” Sighing, he added, “Probably Renna as well, as a courtesy.”

  “Who’s Renna?”

  Succinctly he explained the circumstances and Andar shook his head. “Awkward. She must feel very forlorn right now.”

  “I suspect so,” Callum said, though in all honesty, he’d never given much thought to Renna’s emotional state.

  Few people could wring any response from him other than irritation or indifference, like he was an instrument designed to play only in one key.

  “Best if we make her feel needed. Work is the best cure for grief after all.”

  Callum wasn’t sure if Renna was grieving, but he was, mourning the life he’d never share with Joss. “There’s plenty to go around, brother. Let’s get after it.”

  13.

  For the next few days, Joss didn’t see Callum at all.

  During the day, she kept busy knitting, working on the sweater she had promised Renna, alternating between that project and a green one for Callum. Hopefully she’d finish both before the siege ended. Already there were whispers that the food was running low—or would be soon—and rumblings of discontent with Callum’s leadership, even more now that the order had arrived. The bears didn’t appreciate interference from the monks in day-to-day matters of clan management, and it looked like Callum might run into trouble, sooner or later. The gossip around Burnt Amber was that he needed to choose; either he was a monk and he should step out of clan affairs or he was the head of Burnt Amber, and he ought to stop taking orders from the abbot. Joss suspected the matter was more complex than that, and Callum must feel the tug of those conflicting loyalties.

  Not my business.

  Resolutely she went back to knitting and she didn’t yield to the urge to seek him out. At night, she donned the red dress she’d borrowed from Renna and headed over to Nayan’s club. Thankfully, they had stage makeup in stock, as Joss hadn’t brought any of her own products with her. She studied her own reflection as she painted on the confidence of her performance persona, eyes shadowed in gray, lined with exquisite flair, false lashes, a slash of crimson on her mouth. Then she pinned up her curly hair, showing the vulnerability of her throat.

  She raised her chin at the woman in the mirror, then she stood and took her place on stage as the lights came up. With the spotlight focused, she could generally only make out shadowed faces, but as the pianist played the opening bars for the first song, she recognized Callum immediately, sitting at a table near the back with Garven and a slim, bald man she didn’t recognize. Judging from his attire, he was probably from the order.

  Her heartbeat stuttered, and she tried to calm her nerves. It doesn’t mean anything. Someone else probably suggested they check out the show, and he didn’t have a rational reason to refuse. Briefly, she closed her eyes, gathered her composure, and when she sang, she forgot about the audience entirely. Joss ran through her set with all the joy and magic music always brought her. She poured her intensity into the upbeat, sparkling numbers that had her moving about the stage, and then she segued into the bright, bolstering songs that she’d selected because they might help morale, remind the soldiers what they were fighting for.

  Tonight, however, she couldn’t resist closing on a fresh note. She signaled the pianist subtly, and Britte slid out of her way. Joss settled on the bench. “Tonight, I’ll do something a little different, a bit special, and share a song I’ve been working on. I’m dedicating this one to everyone whose heart is aching, everyone who’s ever wanted something they can’t have.”

  “Eight o’clock, and I’m thinking about you,” she sang. “Everything I said that day was true. Late o’clock, and I should know better. Need you so, but we can’t be together. Wait o’clock, please don’t stop me, no, I can’t have you, and my heart’s been aching. Nothing shocks me, my heart is breaking. Can’t stop, can’t stop wanting you, needing you, loving you…”

  Periodically, she made eye contact with Callum as she sang. His gaze locked onto hers, every time she crooned the words ‘can’t stop needing you, wanting you, loving you’. His look seared her, glowing with intensity, and she could imagine how his jaw must be clenched, the way his hands would be fisted beneath the table. Possibly it was a bit cruel to provoke him this way when she’d pledged to get over him, but hell, she was a cat, after all. Cats could be snuggly for sure, but they had claws for a reason. If Callum felt the scrape of her nails in this number, so be it.

  Despite the lyrics, the song was jazzy and up-tempo with simple refrain, and she invited the audience to sing along when she reached the chorus. Soon, the whole room was alive with everyone chiming in as Joss played the notes staccato style. She finished the number with a flourish and then she got up. Though the crowd had been receptive since her initial show, this was the first time they gave her a standing ovation. She resisted pleas for an encore, bowed graciously, and then slipped backstage as the curtain came down.

  Nayan had warm tea laced with honey waiting, perfect to soothe a tired throat. Joss settled in to sip it. Normally she lingered backstage for a while to discourage assholes who might still be pursuing the bet Garven had mentioned. By the time she had a drink and removed her makeup, most of the crowd would have dispersed. Tonight, she took even longer than usual, pausing to chat with Nayan and some of the staff, who invited her to a private supper, which Joss declined. The food aspect would be great, as she gave all her energy to the audience, leaving none for herself. Performing was a perfect high, but she crashed afterward and it would be better for her to get back to her room before that happened.

  At last, she emptied her mug and finished cleaning her face, then she headed through the back entrance. After overhearing about that stupid bet, she’d learned her lesson about exiting along with the patrons. It would take a special sort of stalker to lurk around the employee entrance, and she doubted she had attracted that much attention, especially as there was a war going on, and at best, she qualified as a distraction from it. As she’d reckoned, nobody was waiting when she sl
ipped out and hurried back to her building.

  With the hold quiet for the night, she heard distant sounds of battle, mines going off and bear soldiers on recon, working to replace the ones that detonated. Other patrols skirmished with the Gols, who were struggling to reach Burnt Amber for reasons she only half-understood. Hell, none of this made sense. Things seemed fine up until the conclave, but clearly, they hadn’t been, or the world wouldn’t have caught fire so fast. There must have always been embers of resentment burning, down low where people didn’t see the danger until it was too late.

  Sobering to realize that the bears were fighting at all hours, taking shifts, while noncombatants struggled to pretend that everything would be fine, despite all evidence to the contrary. There has to be something I can do, something more than singing. Joss had no desire to take to the frontlines, but as she went up the stairs, she wracked her brain for a solution. How did we communicate before?

  And then it hit her. She’d heard the story of how Dr. Sheyla Halek managed to get in touch with Prince Alastor from the bunker. They used antiquated signal tech. Maybe we could do the same here. I could send word to Pru, using the code we played with when we were kids. Assuming she still remembers. That way, even if the enemy intercepted the message, they wouldn’t know what it meant. To anyone who didn’t have the key, it would be gibberish.

  Maybe this wasn’t the best idea, but the possibility of helping in some way brightened her spirits. If things had been as they were before, she’d have gone to Callum immediately with the suggestion. Instead, she ran back down and jogged to the security office with a burst of fresh energy. Doubtless she’d pay for this later, but Jere could at least tell her if the equipment was available, if they were on duty.

  Sure enough, she found them cruising through drone-cam footage. The security chief looked exhausted, like they hadn’t slept in days. “Are you all right?” she asked, momentarily forgetting why she’d come.