Season of Sacrifice (15 page)

Maddock closed his fist over his bavin. How had Alana come to sing a woodstar for the duke? How had the People been taken in by a handful of beads and a few slivers of glass? What were they thinking when they sold themselves so cheaply?

At least Maddock was spared watching the duke carry out his threat. At Coren’s even words, Reade fell utterly silent. For a moment, Maddock thought it odd that the child did not look up at the newcomers, but then the warrior felt Alana’s presence, felt the woodsinger’s thoughts brushing across his own bavin as she focused on the woodstar still strung about Reade’s neck. The power of the Tree resonated across the knot of its heartwood, and Maddock sensed the pressure on Reade to keep his face buried in the dingy sheets.

Unnerved by the woodsinger’s invisible power, Maddock forced his own gaze back to Maida. Her face was much thinner than he remembered; she had clearly missed meals along the road. Her hair was matted, tangled in sweaty strands against her face. Red blotches stood out on her skin, as if she had rolled in fevergrass, and her breath remained shallow.

“How long has she been like this?” Jobina’s words were twisted by a fair approximation of an inland brogue.

“One full day,” one of the warriors answered at a nod from the duke. “The fever came on suddenly; she woke with it this morning. She’s had a hard journey—she hasn’t eaten well since we saved her from the beasts at Land’s End.”

With awkward hands, the soldier moved to bathe his patient’s face. Jobina, though, clicked her tongue and stepped forward. “You’ll only give her a chill with that filthy water. Innkeep!” The fat man oozed into the doorway, keeping as much of his corpulence from the room as possible, as if he feared to contract Maida’s illness. “I’ll need hot water, as hot as you can get it to me. And soak some bread in milk. She’ll need the sustenance if she pulls out of this.”

The ostler waved a fat hand toward a half-seen servant girl, and that child went running, the echo of her small feet underscoring the urgency of Jobina’s commands. The healer bit her lip and shook her head. Gone was the vixen of Land’s End, the flirtatious wench who had treated Maddock’s burns. Cloistered behind her braided hair and close-gathered cloak, Jobina was another woman entirely.

Maida had only suffered through a half dozen breaths when the hot water appeared. Jobina had already rummaged in her bags, extracting some dried, crumpled leaves that were bound tightly in white linen. When she tossed the dusty greens into the water, the smell was immediate and sharp. The leaves contained the memory of salt on wind-seared grass, and the odor prickled the back of Maddock’s throat.

The soldier-medic who had tended Maida jerked back from his charge, and Reade’s raven head burrowed deeper into the sheets. Jobina leaned over her patient, her movements tight and controlled.

She held the fragrant bowl beside Maida’s head, watching as the steam curled around the child’s bleached face. For one moment, the little girl remained oblivious, apparently lost in her merciful dreams. Then, her nose twitched at the familiar ocean harshness; her lips trembled. Jobina moved the herbs closer, forcing the steam into the child’s next labored breath. Every watcher in the room caught his own breath in fear and wonder, and then Maida was coughing—deep, hearty coughs.

Jobina waited until the child had caught her breath, and then she brought the potent bowl forward again, forcing the smooth edge against her patient’s parched and broken lips. She tilted the liquid with an expert’s hand, simultaneously cradling the semiconscious neck with confident fingers. One labored swallow, another scarcely managed, then a third and fourth in rapid succession.

Jobina barely stepped back before Maida broke into renewed coughing, a body-deep hack that shook the pallet on which she lay. Each gasp brought color back to the child’s face, forcing blood into her chilled fingers and toes, curling her limbs into living appendages.

Maida began to thrash about on the bed, moaning and crying out. Maddock caught the words “whipping” and “Reade.” Even as he wondered what terrors she must have witnessed, what horrors had driven her into her fevered world, Jobina forced more of the healing potion down Maida’s throat. As Maddock stared in astonishment, the little girl’s eyes snapped open, and she cleared her throat twice before croaking, “Food.”

Jobina’s hand was soothing on her brow, and if the healer was relieved that Maida did not recognize her, she gave no sign. “Aye, little one. You shall have your supper.” And then a tavern wench materialized with milky bread in a wooden bowl. Jobina reached for the watery stuff, ready to feed her patient, but Coren put out a hand to stop her.

“Sun-lord.” The duke spoke with a stunning intensity. Reade looked up, blinking tears from his eyes. “Sun-lord, the Sun-lady needs you now. She needs your help.”

Reade got to his feet shakily, keeping his attention fixed on the duke. For one incredulous instant, Maddock felt power surge over his bavin, rush past him to Reade’s woodstar. He sensed Alana Woodsinger pinning the child’s gaze on the nobleman, giving the rescuers a chance to escape undetected. Maddock caught his breath, as if even that slight motion might be enough to disrupt the bavin’s power. Reade, apparently unaware of Alana’s energy stretching through the carved woodstar, waited until Coren jutted his chin toward the bowl that Jobina held. The child turned to the healer, and he reached for the milky bread.

The boy blinked as if emerging from a trance, and a frown creased his brow. His free hand rose, ghostlike, to the leather thong about his neck. He shuddered, and then he dropped the woodstar. “Jobina!” His clear soprano cut through the room as his eyes darted toward the door. “Maddock! Have you come to take us back?”

Coren’s soldiers were well trained. They may have just witnessed a miracle in Maida’s salvation, but there was scarcely a heartbeat of hesitation before they grabbed Jobina. Bread and milk spilled over the bed, splashing across Maida’s chest. The healer twisted like a whirlpool, screaming, “Run, Reade! Run to Maddock!”

The child hesitated, though, glancing at Duke Coren. Maddock read volumes in that one look. Reade was asking for permission, looking for leadership. Maddock swore and grabbed the boy’s arm, jerking him across the bed, heading toward the stairs. Reade was startled, but he managed to fight back with teeth and pummeling fists. Maddock continued to swear as he bustled the desperate child down the steps.

The crowd in the common room looked up in astonishment as the pair hurtled into the room. Maddock’s curses turned to a bellow as Reade caught the man’s fingers between strong teeth, breaking the warrior’s skin as he ground his jaws together. “Windcursed bastard!” Maddock hollered, even as he heard Coren’s men behind him on the stairs, even as he recognized the ominous scrape of steel on steel, of swords clearing their sheaths.

Landon waited at the foot of the stairs, and Reade tumbled into the tracker’s arms as Maddock leaped clear of the steps. The gangly tracker fell backward beneath the child’s twisting weight, and man and boy alike were tangled in golden cloth. Maddock glimpsed the soldiers pulling up as each tried to distinguish a safe opening for his thirsty blade. The snarls in the soldiers’ throats were like the angry roar of a pack of dogs.

Maddock drew his own sword, pivoting painfully on his injured knee. The common room had turned to chaos. Townsfolk cowered under tables, desperate to avoid the flash of iron weapons. Reade’s screams were piercing, and Landon wrestled with the child as if the boy were a sea serpent. Coren’s soldiers searched for room to swing their weapons.

Above the chaos, Maddock locked his eyes on Donal, saw the man hook his fingers in the corners of his mouth. The common room was filled with a series of piercing whistles. “Crusher!” the soldier bellowed. “Thunder!”

Maddock heard the dogs before he saw them. One howled like a wolf, and others set to baying as they ran. There was a scrabble of claws on wood, and a huge beast crashed through the inn’s door, ripping leather hinges and sending the oak planks crashing back against the wall. While Donal had only named two of the creatures, they came as a pack, the same snarling beasts that had terrorized the People on their beach.

Conditioned to terror, Maddock’s heart froze beneath his bavin; his fingers grew clammy and weak on his sword hilt. These Guardian-forsaken animals were killers. They would tear him limb from limb. He still had the smell of the ostler’s stew on his breath; the dogs would rip out his throat where he stood.

Even as one of the dogs tore its way toward Donal, another leveled red eyes on Maddock. The beast slung its belly low to the ground and tensed the tremendous muscles in its haunches. Its growl was deep in its throat, almost below the level that Maddock could hear.

He could smell the animal, though, and he could imagine those knife-teeth ripping at him. Even as he sensed strength pouring through his bavin, even as he felt Alana Woodsinger tugging at his mind, Maddock threw himself past the dogs, hurtling through the tavern door and into the velvet night.

He did not realize that the dark air was cold as his lungs screamed for mercy. He did not realize that his horse was shuddering as he pulled himself onto his gelding’s back. He did not realize that the road was rutted as he spurred his mount into the dark. The sheltering night closed in upon him, cutting off the noise of the embattled inn and the howling dogs and the bellowing soldiers and the high-pitched scream of a terrified young boy.

Alana fought not to wrinkle her nose against the odor in Goody Glenna’s hut. The still, stale smell whispered of death. “Over here, child,” the old woman greeted her, summoning her to the hearth.

Teresa lay on a pallet beside the open flames. Alana caught her breath, shocked at the change in the woman. The young mother’s skin was a pasty white, her lips almost purple in her pale, pale face. Like her daughter leagues away, she had been perspiring with fever, and her hair straggled beside her cheeks in desperate tendrils. Even now, she gasped for breath, and her teeth chattered as if she were caught in a snowstorm in the dead of winter.

“Teresa!”

The young mother grasped at the woodsinger’s skirts, pulling her nearer to the fire. “Please! Tell me about my children! How are my Reade and Maida?”

Alana glanced at Goody Glenna just long enough to catch the old woman’s tiny shake of her head. Not the full story, then. “I’ve been watching them, Teresa.”

“And are they safe?” The mother sounded like a starving woman begging for a crust of bread.

It was wrong for a woodsinger to lie, to offer up false words to the People. Alana reached quickly for her sister woodsingers, asking them what she should say.

“Woodsingers do not lie,” confirmed one of the voices in her mind immediately.

“
I
did not lie, even when I told three women their husbands were lost at sea.”

“Aye, you did not lie, but one of those women hanged herself in her cottage, and another lost the babe she was carrying.”

“That was not my fault! Woodsingers do not lie!”

Alana wanted to cry out at the squabbling hordes in her head, scatter them as if they were a flock of clucking chickens. Instead, she drew a deep breath and forced a smile into her voice, even as she crafted a story for Teresa. “Your children are fine. Reade and Maida are safe and sound.”

“Don’t make up tales!” Teresa’s claw closed around Alana’s ankle, grasping until the woodsinger was embarrassed enough to kneel beside the pallet, to fold Teresa’s hands in her own.

“I’m not making up tales, Teresa.” Alana forced her voice to be steady, firm like the Tree. She had to focus her response past the suddenly silent woodsingers in her own mind, past the surprise among her sisters as they apparently remembered that Alana had real problems to confront—living, breathing people who needed her guidance. Alana chose her reassurances carefully, making sure that every word was true. “The duke has been caring for Reade and Maida as if they were his own children. I swear by the Guardians, Duke Coren acts as if the twins are royalty in his inland court.”

Teresa collapsed back onto the pallet, her breath coming in short gasps that might have been either sobs or grateful laughter. “Thank the Guardians for that. Thank the blessed Guardians.” She muttered a prayer to the Great Mother, her voice scarcely audible as it rattled over her chapped lips. “And Maddock? Will he bring my babies soon?”

Alana swallowed hard, certain that the truth about Maddock’s cowardice would destroy this poor woman. Before she could pick out the threads of another deceiving truth, Goody Glenna stepped forward. “Teresa, you demanded to speak with Alana about the twins, and I gave way to you in that. You must sleep, now. You promised me that you would rest after we got the news.” The old woman produced a mug from somewhere and dosed her patient with sweet-smelling tea. “Sleep, Teresa, and let the woodsinger return to her post.”

“Sleep…. Yes, that would be good,” Teresa murmured, her eyes already closed, her face relaxed. “My brave Reade…. My sweet, sweet Maida….”

Goody Glenna guided Alana toward the door. Pulling the woodsinger’s cloak closer about the younger woman’s shoulders, Glenna bit back a sigh. “It’s as bad as all that, then?”

“Worse, Goody Glenna,” Alana whispered. “Maddock ran like a child—”

“Hush. I don’t want Teresa to hear.” Glenna pulled Alana outside the cottage.

“Goody, I managed to reach Maddock. He felt me through his bavin, when I reminded him to climb the stairs. I’ve become better at this, but I still didn’t know enough.”

“Enough for what?”

“Enough to give him courage. Goody, he deserted the others! He was afraid of the dogs, and he fled the inn! He left the twins, and Landon, and Jobina, even though I tried to keep him there. I tried to make him stand and fight! I tried, but he ignored me. Goody, I
hate
him! I hate him, and his cowardice, and his running away like a child!”

Goody Glenna’s lips tightened, and for an instant, Alana thought the old woman would have no response. Then, she shook her head, stepping quickly into her cottage. When she came out, she handed the woodsinger a small packet, bound up in cloth. “Make a tea with this, child, and drink it tonight. Drink all of it, even the dregs, before you reach out for Maddock’s bavin. It will help to clarify your thoughts.”

“My thoughts are perfectly clear! Didn’t you hear anything I said? Maddock, the man we’ve pinned all our hopes on, is a coward!”

“Listen to your elders, woodsinger!”

Alana’s retort was on her lips, heated by her anger, by her fear, by her nagging guilt that she had not done right by the rescuers. Before she could speak her hurtful words, though, the other voices chorused in her head: “She’s only afraid herself, woodsinger.”

“She speaks out of fear, not anger.”

“She works for the good of the People.”

“She works for the good of Teresa.”

Alana heard her sister woodsingers’ soothing voices, and she let those crooned words calm her own rage. She could not bring herself to speak, though. She could not humble herself in front of Goody Glenna when she knew that she was right.

The voices in Alana’s mind tsked and scolded. Before she could make herself give in to Goody Glenna, though, the old woman softened her own voice. “Get back to the Tree, Alana. Check on the children. Teresa does not have much longer to wait.”

Alana clutched the sack of herbs that Goody Glenna had thrust upon her, and she walked directly back to the Headland. As she climbed the path to the Tree, she wondered at Goody Glenna’s words. Did Teresa not have long to wait because the twins were about to be freed? Or did Teresa not have long to wait because the deadly pallor of her skin hid a darker tale?

The woodsingers inside her mind had no answer to those questions. No answers to Alana’s questions, and no advice for the young woodsinger. The only thing the ancient women whispered was that nobody could live with the fever that pulsed behind Teresa’s pained, crystal eyes, not for long….

Even before Alana was comfortable beneath the Tree, she stretched her consciousness toward Reade’s bavin.

Reade watched Maida stretch beside Donal’s horse. They’d left the inn at sunrise, and now the sun was halfway to noon. Maida had been awake all that time. She was still weak from her strange fever, but she hadn’t cried all morning. She hadn’t even asked for a special break. Mum would be proud of her.

It had been four days since Maida’s fever had broken. They had spent an extra day at the place where Maida had gotten sick, waiting and waiting and waiting while Duke Coren ordered his men to track down Maddock. Other soldiers tied up Landon and Jobina, making sure that Reade and Maida were safe. Even knowing that the outlanders could not harm him, could not carry him back to the Tree, Reade had had nightmares that night. He thought that he saw his own blood poured over the Tree’s twisted roots.

Even now, in the middle of the day, it was hard to remember that those nightmares were not real. He was safe from his dreams. He was safe from Landon and Jobina. The duke would protect him from Maddock. Duke Coren would protect him from everything, protect both Reade and Maida.

Reade was a little embarrassed that the People had fooled him for so long. Of course, they had fooled Mum, too. Mum could not have known what Alana Woodsinger planned. She could not have known that Reade would be tied to the Tree’s roots, that the woodsinger would come after him with her iron dagger…. That was why Da had left! He must have found out what Alana Woodsinger was going to do. He’d been ready to fight to save Reade and Maida, to stop the Tree from drinking the twins’ blood. That was why the Guardians had taken Da away.

Reade was grateful that Duke Coren explained things. He answered Reade’s questions, even when Reade forgot and asked the same things twice, or even three times. Over and over, the duke told how Maddock and Landon and Jobina were evil, rotten to the core like a sick tree. That was why the three adults had disguised themselves, sneaking into the inn. If the People had good intentions, they would have walked upstairs like everyone else, spoken with the duke like other grown-ups, shown some respect. The People should never have drawn steel inside a roadhouse, threatening to harm innocent villagers. They shouldn’t have forced Donal to call the terrible dogs.

Once, Reade pointed out that Jobina had come upstairs to
save
Maida. Duke Coren, though, had only shaken his head and sighed. Reade realized that he had disappointed the duke. After all of Reade’s questions, after all of Duke Coren’s answers, Reade should have understood. Luckily, the duke had the patience to explain one more time, to tell Reade that Jobina had meant to
hurt
Maida, had meant to poison her.

Duke Coren’s voice stayed quiet and calm, even though Reade was being stupid. Even Da hadn’t been patient like Duke Coren. And Mum…Well, there was no need to think about Mum. Not now.

Stretching his legs after their morning of riding, Reade realized that he was thirsty. He wandered away from the soldiers to the stream that ran beside the road. He had learned to drink upstream from the horses, above the mud that the animals churned up with their feet. He had to lie down on the riverbank to get close enough to cup his hands. The water was very cold.

When he wasn’t thirsty anymore, he turned around to find his sister. Maida had already curled up against a boulder. She was fast asleep. That wasn’t right! Maida was acting like she had drunk from Duke Coren’s golden cup. She shouldn’t be tired yet! Maybe Reade should find Duke Coren and ask whether Maida was still sick.

Before he could find the duke, though, Reade saw Landon. The tracker looked like a ragged bear. He didn’t have a lot of hair, but what he had was sticking out from his head at all angles, as if he’d never even heard of a comb. His beard had grown in, but it came in patches, scraggly like plants that tried to grow beneath oak trees in the forest.

A large bruise stood out across the tracker’s cheek, and Reade remembered that the soldiers had needed to beat Landon into silence that very morning. If they weren’t punishing him for speaking at the wrong times, they were beating him for
not
speaking. Just the day before, Landon had refused to tell Duke Coren the color of the horse that Maddock had ridden from the Headland of Slaughter.

Landon wasn’t very smart. He didn’t realize that when Duke Coren asked him to do something, he should do it, well and quickly. Reade was smarter than the tracker. Landon only thought he was smart, because he was friends with Alana Woodsinger.

Alana Woodsinger! Duke Coren had told Reade that the woodsinger was only a girl pretending to be a priestess. Reade had listened when Duke Coren explained that the woodsinger did not have as much power in her entire body as the High Priest of the Seven Gods had in his beard. The duke had even promised that Reade would meet the priest, once they got to Smithcourt.

Reade realized that his fingers had closed around his bavin when he thought of the woodsinger. He let go of the woodstar with a snort of disgust. What was he, some sort of baby? He didn’t need a silly piece of wood to protect him. He should just throw the stupid thing away, get rid of it, like he had his Great Mother.

He reached for the leather thong, but just as he lifted it over his head, Landon opened his eyes. For a moment, the tracker just looked tired. Then, Reade saw something else in his gaze. He looked…sharp. Like he was plotting something evil.

“What are you doing, Reade?”

“I’m the Sun-lord,” Reade said. “You have to call me that.” His fingers closed around the bavin. He didn’t want the tracker to look at it.

Landon snorted. “Aye, Sun-lord.” How did one conspiring rebel make Reade’s title sound so silly? “Conspiring rebel…” Reade liked the sound of that—he had heard the duke call Maddock and Landon and Jobina all conspiring rebels. It sounded worse than anything Mum had ever called anyone in the village. Now, Landon refused to mind his tongue: “But what are you doing?”

“Why do you care?” Reade scuffed his toes in the dirt. “You’re not my da.”

“No, Reade. Your da was a brave man who went to the Guardians too soon.”

“You don’t know anything about my da!” Reade started to raise his voice, but realized that the soldiers would hear him, would order him to step away from the prisoner. Well, Reade was smart enough to talk to a prisoner. Reade wasn’t just a stupid child from the Headland. He was the Sun-lord, and he could talk to any prisoner he pleased.

“I know about your da, boy. I know that he would be ashamed of you, wearing those golden robes, parading around like a Smithcourt prince.”

“My da was
proud
of me! My da was going to take me out on his boat. We were going to bring in pilchards, all in nets, more than the People had ever seen in one haul!”

“You won’t be doing any fishing now, will you, Reade?”

Anger hit Reade like an ocean wave. What did this stupid man know? What did a chained prisoner know about Reade’s da, or what Reade would do when they got to Smithcourt? What did a conspiring rebel know about anything?

“I know one thing, boy,” the tracker said, as if he had read Reade’s mind. “I know that your da would not want you wearing that woodstar. He’d be ashamed that any son of his defiled a bavin, a woodstar sung by Alana Woodsinger herself. If he were here, he’d pluck it from your neck himself, and send it down that stream, rather than see it wasted on the likes of you.”

Reade screamed without words, and he jumped on top of the tracker, kicking and biting and trying to pull his hair. It took only a moment for Duke Coren’s soldiers to come running, and then Landon had new bruises all over his face, all over his arms and legs. One of the soldiers smashed Landon’s nose, and bright blood splashed across the tracker’s face.