Sacrifice (Book 4) (20 page)

The brothers accompanied her back to her room, and when she entered and shut the door, she was surprised to find Fenna there nursing her baby. Lady Blackshire’s eyes gleamed with anticipatory light.

“So, when is the wedding?” she said. “I’ve so wanted to go back to Mikmir! I can’t wait. He is such a delicious man!”

“There will be no wedding, Fenna.”

“But, he asked you, didn’t he? How could you refuse him after his gallantry in your behalf this night?”

“You mean when he courageously ignored the instructions from a man more wise and powerful than he was and got himself nearly killed?”

“Chalaine! That is unkind!”

“My name is Lady Alumira now, Fenna,” the Chalaine said evenly. “He did not ask, and I will not be drawn into romance and courtship during this time. The last weeks have been ones of toil and hardship. We are not at court during sunny, carefree days. There are dangers and horrors to fight and plans to be laid, and I must do it. I need no distractions from Dason or anyone else.”

Fenna appeared on the verge of tears. “What has happened to you, Cha . . . Lady Alumira?”

“I’ve had to grow up, Fenna,” she replied, softening her tone. “I am sorry if I was sharp just now. I know you mean well, but my heart is sealed. Get some rest, Fenna. Starting tomorrow, everything must change.”

The Chalaine found her brief sleep fleeting and uneven, but when she rose an hour after dawn, she didn’t feel tired. Her mind buzzed with the arguments she must make in Embriss two days ride away, and she turned them over in her head, trying to hone them into something irresistibly persuasive. The only direct evidence of Mikkik’s treachery would come from her experiences, but Ethris’s arguments had helped show her that other circumstances would help in confirmation. The ease of the battle of Echo Hold, the unreasonable assumption that Gen had acted under Mikkik’s orders, and even Ethris’s own death suggested Mikkik’s hand.

The smells of broiled pig and sweet porridge wafted up to her room, though the savory odors failed to induce hunger in her twisting stomach. She pried open the shutters. Outside, a gentle morning drizzle saturated the dazzling greens and reds and purples of the flowers and trees around the Blackshire Manor, though the light clouds and a brisk, fragrant breeze promised change.

The door cracked. “Shall I call for the maid?” Gerand asked.

“No thank you, Gerand,” she replied. “I will fend for myself this morning.”

She brushed her hair and dressed, wondering if Gen had reached Echo Hold yet. If fortune had favored them, her mother might soon be free—or the both of them dead. The Chalaine tried to shove this gnawing worry away. Her mother had always tried to instruct her not to fret over things she could not control, but she had always found the notion a little strange. What one couldn’t control was precisely what demanded worry.

Their party for the trip had shrunk to Maewen, Dason, Volney, Gerand, General Harband, and around five hundred soldiers. While not a formidable force, it couldn’t easily be ignored, either. Maewen greeted her outside the dining room where she had packed her sparse provisions.

“Any word from Falael?” the Chalaine asked.

“Not yet,” Maewen said. “It is hard to say when he will return. I offer my condolences for Ethris. His loss is a fell blow, indeed. I wish Amos were here now.”

“So do I,” the Chalaine agreed.

“It is my counsel that we stay off the road as much as possible,” Maewen said. “We must move about unexpectedly to avoid a trap.”

General Harband entered, his appearance as fierce and discomfiting as always.

“I will get the men up and ready to march,” he said. “I hunger for an opportunity to bash in the heads of a few Church boys, creepy little geldings that they are.”

The Chalaine smiled at the idea of someone as fearsome as General Harband possessing such a sentiment. She said, “I would like to leave within the hour. Two hours at the most.”

He nodded and left, and the Chalaine went into the dining room to find Fenna and Dason talking in the corner again, and she groaned within herself. Volney and Geoff stood as she entered and she asked them to sit. Dason cast longing, hurtful looks in her direction and she ignored him pointedly. Gerand stood calmly behind her, and she wondered if his older brother’s behavior shamed or amused him.

The anemic conversation did little to cheer the meal, but while they ate, a servant entered. “Lord Blackshire, there are three Puremen here who carry a message to you from the north and wish to dine with you.”

“Let them in,” Geoff said. “Illisa! We need three more plates,” he shouted back to the kitchen.

Everyone turned as the three Puremen entered, and as soon as they crossed the threshold of the kitchen everyone jumped away from the table as swords were drawn. Padra Athan, Padra Nolan, and Padra Wolfram stood before them, Athan stretching out his hands in a placating gesture.

“We wish to talk and to eat,” Athan said. “Nothing more. This does not need to end in bloodshed.”

The Chalaine waved the weapons down, fighting to control her fear. Gradually the room relaxed, a nervous Illisa placing the three plates on an unused side of the table and retreating hastily back to the kitchen. The three Padras sat, and for several minutes they did nothing but eat their food while the rest of the company nibbled at theirs and watched them.

“How did you find me?” the Chalaine asked.

Athan threw her a disappointed look. “It was clear your army made for Rhugoth. It is really quite obvious that you would seek to rest and recover under the roof of old friends. Though even if you had thought to seek refuge somewhere more clever, I could find you anywhere in the world.”

“So did you arrange a little bargain with the Ash Witch to kill Ethris last night to keep him from interfering?”

The trio of crinkled brows and surprised expressions answered the question, but Athan seemed incredulous.

“Ethris is dead?”

“His body lies in the Chapel.”

“We had nothing to do with that,” Athan professed. “The Ash Witch is his mother! This is indeed a strange turn of events, though I would be lying if I pretended to be sorry about the loss. But enough banter. Eldaloth has asked me to relay this message to you in good faith. If you do not accept this offer, then he will send an army to raze Blackshire until you relent.”

“Your barbarity will only hurt your cause, Athan,” the Chalaine said. “Every innocent you kill in the name of Eldaloth will only expose him for who he really is.”

Athan wiped his mouth with the table cloth and retrieved his utensils. “Your deception is so ingrained and deep that it makes me pity you. Listen carefully. Your mother dies at dusk today. Eldaloth offers this: if you will consent to heal him, he will ensure that the death is dignified and will not have her run through the streets. If, after you heal him, you do not wish the passage to Erelinda, he will not force it upon you, but you must remain at Echo Hold under his protection. Do not answer now. Consider carefully what I have said. And eat. You will need your strength. His wound is grievous.”

She asked, “And where is Mikkik? Must I go to Echo Hold to heal him?”

“Do not profane his Holiness!” Athan roared, pointing his fork tines at her. “Eldaloth has favored Blackshire with unusual condescension. He awaits your ministrations in the Chapel behind this building. Do make your decision quickly. Depending on what you choose, Lord Blackshire may have a lot on his mind. Such a beautiful country, here. It would be a shame to see the streets running with blood and its quaint buildings choked with fire.”

Athan returned to his breakfast, eating heartily as if famished. The Chalaine sat back, defeated. She would not sacrifice an entire town on principle. Her mother might have the stomach for it, but the Chalaine’s heart couldn’t bear the thought. The entire company sat on edge save the Churchmen. Unbidden, tears came to the Chalaine’s eyes. She would march to her doom and never see her mother or Gen again. Mikkik might make promises, but if he saw her as a threat, he would evaporate her into nothingness just as he had Chertanne. The Chalaine stared at the smug Athan, hand itching for a sword. He would ruin the world by his willful ignorance.

Athan cleared his plate and set his silverware down. “So what will it be, Chalaine?”

“Please call me Lady Alumira,” she said. “I will go.”

“No!” Maewen said. “You cannot fall into his hands!”

“There is no other way, Maewen,” the Chalaine replied. “I will not have this place burned to the ground and its people slaughtered on my account. Give my love to my mother and . . . others . . . if I do not return. Let’s get this over with.”

“A wise choice,” Athan congratulated her, smiling. “You will soon see that there never was anything to fear.”

Dason, Volney, and Gerand fell in around her as they left the house and traversed the beautiful stonework path that led around to the Chapel. The Chalaine lifted her veiled face to the rain, offering a silent prayer to a God whose existence she had begun to doubt.

A slight glow emanated through the windows of the Chapel, the Puremen standing on the steps before the carved door. He bowed as they approached. “Welcome, brothers,” he said, voice adoring. “Eldaloth has come to
my
humble Chapel. It is marvelous!”

“I will see him alone for a moment,” Athan said. “Everyone else, remain here.”

Athan entered and closed the door. The Chalaine’s hands shook and felt clammy. She glanced about at her Protectors, each solemn and silent. They would die for her, but she would prevent that if she could. Athan returned a short while later.

“He will see you alone, Lady Alumira. He is quite pleased you have come, at last.”

I am sure he is.

“We will go with her,” Dason said, standing tall.

“Eldaloth says she comes alone,” Athan said, voice regaining its edge. “And you will not disobey. Your swords will be useless against the magic of the Padras assembled here, and if you defy the wishes of Eldaloth, we will not hesitate to use it.”

“Stay, Dason. Stay, Gerand and Volney,” the Chalaine ordered. “No valiant notions or gallantry now. This is beyond the power of any of you. I will face this alone.”

“But. . .” Dason protested.

“But nothing, Dason!” she said, raising her voice. “You will obey me! Do not follow. Athan is right. Your swords will avail you nothing, here.”

She hiked up her dress and took the familiar stairs, Athan holding the door open for her as she entered. With an ominous, echoing boom he shut it, remaining outside. She walked forward resolutely, trying not to dwell on the pleasant memories of the place that would never bear fruit.

Mikkik, tall, regal, and shining, stood by the altar at the front of the Chapel, a wound in his side dripping golden blood onto the floor. As the Chalaine walked forward, a young woman came from a room at the rear of the Church wearing a simple white gown. Her face, while pretty, was severe.

“My child,” Mikkik said, “you have come home at last!”

“You can drop the pretenses, Mikkik,” the Chalaine said flatly as she approached. “I know who you are.” As she neared the dark god, he seemed to flinch and pull in on himself. “You can hardly stand to be in the same room as me, can you?”

“Heal me,” he said, stretching out a hand, unable to look at her.

“Why should I? You will only kill me.”

“Because I hold in my hand the life of one you hold dear. It is in my power to make her death slow and painful, or quick and merciful.”

The Chalaine could feel him push into her mind with alarming ease and power. There he implanted an image of her mother on the floor of her cell, weak, emaciated, and nearly unconscious. Three rotted heads lay on the floor about her, members of the Dark Guard she had sent into Echo Hold as spies. The image faded.

“Heal me,” he said, “and I will be merciful.”

With tear stained cheeks, she grasped the large hand, Mikkik convulsing at the touch as if burned by a white hot fire. The wound, a gaping hole in his back where Gen had stabbed him, seeped blood from a cut she could have put her fist through. She gripped the reluctant hand tightly and set her will to work knitting the wound. As she did, eyes closed, she felt a seal in her mind released, uncovering the memory of the night before.

The dark shadow in her room had approached and enveloped her. When she came to, she found herself on the edge of large pond surrounded by tall grass and a few large trees. The terrain appeared similar to Blackshire, but in the light of the moons she could see little more than the soft hills that enclosed the water near where she stood. An old woman hunched over next to the bank close by. A man sat with his feet in the water a little distance off, holding a fishing line. A soft breeze tickled the grass, but the pleasantness ended there. The ill-favored woman adjusted a dark cloak around her hunched frame and stepped forward.

“It is a pleasure to meet you at last, Highness,” she said, voice scratchy. “Be at ease. I mean you no harm.”

“Who are you?” the Chalaine asked, stepping backward.

“I am Joranne, Ethris’s mother. That is his simpler brother, Dethris, just there.”

The Chalaine shivered, trying to master her fear. The Ash Witch. She had heard the tales of this woman and her odd cycle of aging and rebirth, of her capricious actions that had both hurt and helped them.

“Do not fret, Chalaine. I’ve only come to relay a message, but first I must know how he died.”

“Who?”

“Gen, the one known as the Ilch. I raised him until the Millim Eri took him from me.”

“He died fighting the Uyumaak to buy me time to escape,” she said.