Blood Seed: Coin of Rulve Book One (22 page)

It would be justice, and it would be mercy.

Mariat’s face leaped into his thought, the sweet curve of her cheek, the soft glow in her eyes, but he had pushed her out of his life. Pain slashed through him, followed by waves of blistering heat. He ground his forehead against the boards, clutched the edge of the cart.

Burn it all, Rulve. Burn it all away and make me clean at last.

Etane extricated himself from one of Leeza’s aunts—Gerta? Greta?—and threaded his way through the crowd of guests in the yard. Gwin and Voy were supposed to have set up the ale-table in the barn, but he’d better make sure they did it.

He noticed Oris carelessly looping the reins of Tarn’s horse over the fence. The child filched a small cake from the trestle table, turned, and ran directly into his legs. 

“Whoa, boy,” Etane said, grabbing his arm. “What’s Padiky doing back here?”

Oris struggled in his grasp. “I don’t know.”

“Didn’t you hitch her to the kunta-kart like I told you?”

Oris stopped struggling and studied his feet. “I did just what you said.”

“So what’s she doing here?” A feeling of unease came over him. “Is something wrong?”

“
He’s
the one that did something wrong!
He’s
the one that broke the cart. Everything spilled out, but it wasn’t me.” 

“The cart broke?”

“Yes, over there. But don’t tell my father. I’m not hurt.” Oris took a bite of his cake. “I think the foreigner is, though.”

“Sheft is hurt?”

“Who?”

“The foreigner! Is he hurt?”

“Rakes fell on him and there was blood all over.”

The boy darted away. Etane caught sight of Moro atop their wagon, helping Tarn unload the last of the ale-kegs. “We’ve got to get over to Sheft!” he shouted at him. “I think there’s been an accident!”

He quickly tied Padiky to their wagon, jumped in the back, and the three men rattled over the track and down to his newly charred field. A fire had broken out near the perimeter. Smoke roiled around Tarn’s cart and one of the wheels was burning. A trail of farm implements, a few of the wood handles also burning, led to a tangled pile nearby. Sheft was nowhere in sight.

Etane jumped out of the wagon and spotted him, lying face down in the cart. Blood covered his back and pooled on the boards around him. He wasn’t moving, and the wheel burned only two feet away from his pale, soot-streaked hair.

He’s dead,
Etane thought.
Oh God, my best friend died in a terrible accident on my wedding day.

But then he saw fresh blood welling up from a wound over his left shoulder. “We’ve got to get him out of there!”

“Watch out for that burning wheel,” Tarn warned.

Noting that a slight breeze directed the flames toward the field and away from Sheft—at least for now—Etane clambered onto the cart. It shook ominously under his weight, and he had a vision of the wheel collapsing and the two of them sliding into the fire. Sheft moaned in protest as Etane pried his friend’s blood-stained hands from where they clutched the edge of the cart. Through a billow of smoke, he spied a cord around Sheft’s neck, a pendant that dangled below the narrow crack. He tried to pull it free. “Dad, his head’s caught!”

None of them had a knife, and the braided leather cord was too strong to break. Skirting the flames, Moro ran to the other side of the cart and bent to look under it. His body appeared to waver in the rising heat as he shielded his face with his arm. “I can’t get any closer!”

“Tarn!” Etane cried. “Use that spade. Throw dirt on the flames here!”

Tarn snatched up the spade and began heaving soil. Coughing from the smoke, Moro crawled under the cart. On the second try he managed to push the medallion through the crack, and Etane pulled it free. “Get his legs!”

The three of them maneuvered Sheft off the cart and onto the wagon. Etane knelt beside him as it lurched quickly off. His friend lay on his stomach, his red-streaked hands tightly clenched beside his head. “Yell if you want to, Sheft. There’s no shame in it.”

“Blood,” Sheft groaned. “On the boards.”

“God, Sheft! Don’t worry about the damn wagon. You’ve stopped bleeding and there’s nothing on the boards here.” 

But there had been plenty on the cart, even dripping through the cracks. Etane’s stomach was knotted with worry. The ride seemed to take forever and consisted of hard bumps that he’d never paid any attention to before, but which now made him wince in sympathy for what his friend must be feeling. Finally they got to Tarn’s house. Sheft was shaking with pain as they pulled him off the wagon and carried him through the door.

Etane ran up to the loft, dragged Sheft’s mattress down the ladder, and placed it near the hearth. The men laid him on it, face down, with his feet toward the fire.

“Go back to your wedding, Etane,” Tarn said. “I’ll take care of him.”

“We need water! Get that bloody shirt off him.” Etane turned toward the house crock.

Tarn pulled him back. “Listen to me! I know what to do. You have guests from two villages and a bride waiting for you. Get back to them. He’ll be fine.”

He looked down at Sheft, who did not look fine at all, then back up at Tarn.

Tarn squeezed his arm. “Your father has spent much of what he has on this wedding.”

“That’s not important!” Moro protested, but Tarn ignored him.

“You can’t leave Leeza waiting there, in front of her whole family. You can’t leave Dorik wondering what’s happened. Go! I’m an elder of the council. I’ll take care of this. Moro, tie Padiky in the yard and get your wagon back to your house. Stand witness to your son’s wedding.”

“I can’t leave him like this!” Etane cried. “He would’ve been my firstman.”

“Then he of all people would urge you to go.”

Etane winced; Tarn was right. “I’ll check up on him later, right after the wedding.” With a worried backward glance, he and his father hurried out. 

#   #   #

Tarn looked down at the rigid, blood-soaked figure on the mattress and thought about the impenetrable will of Ul.

He had hoped for a boy who would help him fight the dark, but Ul had sent one who was enmeshed in it. The god in his wisdom had seen fit that Sheft should not only live and bring ostracism upon the house of Tarn, but also ruin the very mission against Parduka that Ul should have blessed.

Why? He was a religious man. Why didn’t Ul support his servant’s tireless efforts to bring the light of law into this far corner of his realm?

Tarn bent over Sheft. He had lost a lot of blood, and his wounds—now that he had a chance to consider them—were beyond his repair. Beyond anyone’s repair, by the look of it.

Troubled, Tarn sat down at the kitchen table. It would be mercy to let him die. His death would clear the way for justice to rule at last. With Sheft no longer a factor, Parduka’s fight against the council would be cut off at the knees. Even the devout in the village would be satisfied. He would point out that Ele, no longer angered by foreigners in her sight, would now resume protecting them from the Groper. He could say the goddess had taken care of matters herself, and there was no need for the council to act.

He drummed his fingers thoughtfully on the table. Objections to foreign marriages—Dorik’s, Etane’s, or even, one day, his own—would be forgotten. The Rites would remain unchanged and not revert to the monstrous rituals they once were.

The sweet smell of a spring afternoon wafted in, causing Tarn to notice that the door was still open. A breeze, thankfully, was blowing the smoke of the burn away from his house.

The thought gave him pause. Perhaps Ul had a hand in these events after all. Perhaps the great god’s power was indeed blowing the winds of suspicion away from his house. It could even be argued that it was Ul, not Ele at all, who had acted. With growing wonder, Tarn saw that whatever had happened to Sheft could be the god’s way of redeeming the entire village.

The revelation stunned him with its intelligence, its logic. He felt as if he stood upon a mountain and saw from on high a great pattern, one not visible from lower elevations. As an elder, as Ul’s faithful servant who worked so tirelessly for the light, he had a sacred duty to make this pattern plain to all.

The village would recognize him as Ul’s humble prophet, for he alone had discerned how the deities contended with each other, and which one got the upper hand. Under Ul’s blazing light, the power of Ele would fade away. Even the ridiculous belief in Rulve—which could potentially spread—would be nipped in the bud, because this he-she abomination seemed to have no interest at all in its followers. The council would reign supreme, and in due course he would take his rightful place as Holdman.

Tarn smiled grimly. What at first appeared to be Ele’s revenge would be her own undoing—and at the hands of Ul himself.

The god was even merciful to Sheft, sparing him the hard journey to the north, with its likely fatal outcome. The lad had no future, and his death would be for the greater good.

Tarn got up from the chair and stood over Sheft once more. It would be wrong for him to interfere with the will of Ul. Puny human beings had no business meddling in weighty matters of life and death, for in these things the gods of heaven ruled.

A glance out the door told him the afternoon was waning. He felt a sudden strong aversion to being alone in the house when Sheft passed on, and night fell. It would be best to leave immediately. Going back to the wedding would arouse too many questions, so he’d pay a visit to the widow in Ferce.

Tarn pulled his cloak off the peg, but stopped. He found a blanket and threw it over Sheft’s mangled back, then scooped the last of the water from the crock into a cup and placed it on the floor beside Sheft’s head. Ul might will his death, but neither the god nor he himself was devoid of compassion.

On his way out, it occurred to him that the cart would have to be replaced. He would see about purchasing another, perhaps used, in Ferce. When he came back, he would tell Moro the truth: no one could be found to help Sheft in time, and he had died in the night.

Parduka would insist on displaying the body in the village and then on disposing of it in her own way. In the meanwhile, however, since his vehicle was being used at Moro’s house, he would have to ride Padiky all the way to Ferce, and the wagon-horse did not particularly like being ridden.

Heat beat against his skin. He was going to burn,
needed
to burn. Sheft stiffened, steeled himself to endure it. But someone shouted and hands pulled at him.
Leave me
, he cried, but all that came out was a groan. He was lifted and carried off the cart, the cracked rib jolted, wounds tore open. He fought to close them, shaking with the effort, until the constant jarring stopped and the voices around him faded into echoes, then silence. He lay face down on a sticky mattress. Level with his eyes, flames flickered over an expanse of floorboards. They drifted sideways in a haze of ice reaction.

The fire must have followed him out of the field-burn, and now it squirmed in long lines down his back. Why was it taking so long to kill him? He willed the flames higher, willed a cremation that would roar through him and destroy everything.

Instead, the flames licked at the toltyr pressed against his chest. The medallion grew warm, then hot. It melted under him, spread to the edge of his outstretched arms, then hardened. He was sprawled face down on its iron circle.

Miramakamen, the old man from the green and white tent, leaned over him, but he was wearing the face of Rom the smith. “Do you trust me, niyal’arist? Will you let me answer your deepest prayer?”

Oh God, do what you must.

Pain hammered down, melded him into metal. He burned on the toltyr’s hard surface and its strength was pounded into his bones. Writhing in anguish, he yet opened his back to it, for he could no longer stay the way he was. Something new had to be forged.

In the midst of the inferno great hands upheld him, staying firm while charred chunks of himself fell away. What remained he had once feared the most.

He was summoned. He was niyalahn-rista. He would be wounded: by a child, by his brother, and by the dark.

The first had already happened, and two more awaited him.

#   #   #

A thick snake swirled through the underground passage, his pale green eyes glowing in the dark. He made his way through tunnels beneath the ancient forest, a living root sliding through the earth. Time and distance meant nothing to him, for he was Rûk the shadow-king, Rûk the devisor, and under his rule the Riftwood lay. He emerged from the passage into the cold night. Somewhere beneath the rim of the world, the moon was slowly draining into its full dark circle.

Wask awaited him. Its face was as rough and deeply lined as tree bark, and it wore a thin cloak made of old veined leaves. Bowing low, it spoke in the mind-speech.
“Greetings, great thakur.”

“Why have you called me?”

“Long ago I savored sweet blood. I searched for years, but found no more. Until lately: in the wheat field and then in the wool. Now I sense it again, very strong. It is the blood that makes the earth dance.”

Rûk’s head darted down to Wask’s level. The green eyes glittered
.
“You have seen this?”

“Yes, thakur. Two times.”

“Describe to me exactly what you saw.”

“Root-hairs ground under, seedlings trampled. A strong memory in the earth, of itself teeming with life.”

Rûk’s body rose up and he hissed.
“Why have you not reported this sooner?”

“There was only a little blood. I was not certain. Now there is much more.”

Rûk flicked out his tongue and turned to taste the air. Suddenly he thrust his flat head forward and focused on a certain direction.
“Go. Find the human vessel that contains this blood, and bring it to me.”

“I want to drink my fill of it.”

“No. I have long sought this blood. It has an important purpose.”

“You have decreed me Meerghast. Everything that comes to me, you have allowed me to keep.”

Rûk swayed his head from side to side in warning.
“In the past and in the future, but not this time.”

Craftiness crept over the tree-bark face.
“Perhaps I will do what I like, in a place where you cannot go.”

As if to strike, Rûk pulled back his head. The reptilian eyes hardened.
“Of your own you have nothing. Even your shapes are but shadowy imitations of mine. Disobey me, displease me, and I will ban you forever from my Riftwood. You will diminish, and the sun will burn away your power like a lingering mist. Is that worth one drink, no matter how sweet?”

Wask hesitated.
“It is not.”

“Then bring this vessel to me.”

Wask glanced toward the east.
“Dawn is not far off. As soon as the day is over, I will do as you command.”

“Listen now to what you must say to him.”

“Yes, thakur.”