Page 45 of The Exquisite Torment of Loving Your Enemy

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 tacn, 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 tacn, 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 tacn, which allowed them to control minds. Possession by an Agannor was said to be euphoric; there was nodecision-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 tacn: 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 tacn 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 buther, 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 namedBirtwhistle, 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.

“Right,” said Dinadan, “you all know why we’re here. The Head of the Fyren Order was caught at the Haelan Order’s waystone. She attempted to escape and gravely injured a Warden in the process. On her person were poisons, explosives, and weapons of various descriptions. The Heads of every Order have received a full inventory as well as a report of the events of the night of her capture. She insists that she merely intended to drink at the Publish or Perish—”

“Hah,” said Xanthe.

“Which does not, of course, explain her immediate violence against a Warden when the wards caught her. These wards were painless, set to trap, and not to dismember. Tristane is being held at Tintagel Castle, awaiting the Stánrocc’s judgement. We’ve gathered to decide what should be done.”

“The Peace Accords are clear on the consequences for those who contravene them,” said the Head Ingenaut, Birtwhistle, consulting a hefty tome. “We needn’t extend this process unduly. Tristane showed up armed at the door of another Order with obvious ill-intent. She seriously injured a Warden, who only escaped death because she was surrounded by Haelan. No act of aggression against another Order is permitted under the Accords, unless in self-defence. The penalty is death.”

“Are there any objections among my colleagues to my asking the Fyren representative to speak?” asked Dinadan.

No objections were raised.

Sacramore stepped forward. “Thank you. With respect to the items found on Tristane’s person, I wish to advise my colleagues that none of those objects are unusual for a Fyren to travel with; they are the tools of our trade.”

“Have you any idea why she went to Swanstone?” asked Xanthe.

“None. The Fyren Order was not involved—and, indeed, has no information on what, exactly, Tristane hoped to achieve at Swanstone, if it was anything other than a drink at the pub.”

“If we entertain the notion that she was merely passing through, have you any explanation for why she retaliated so fiercely upon capture?” asked Birtwhistle.

“I think any of us would react similarly, if trapped,” said Sacramore lightly.

Cynical looks were exchanged between the Bright Path leaders.