Season of Sacrifice (21 page)

The People didn’t plant their gardens just for him, Da had said when Reade wanted an extra serving of stew. The People didn’t hunt just for him, Da had scolded, when Reade carried his bow and arrows to the Upper Pasture with the men, but got lost on the way back. The People didn’t fight the sea just for him, Da had hollered when Reade got trapped on White Rock, when the tide came in while he was catching stinging eels.

Well, Da was wrong.

Da had gone off without Reade, leaving him alone. Da was gone, but High Priest Zeketh was here. High Priest Zeketh and Duke Coren. They understood that Reade was special. Reade was the Sun-lord.

Reade realized that he was gripping his bavin even tighter than before. Its pricks hurt his hand, but he did not want to set it aside. It was his, because he was special. It belonged to him, not to any of the other boys back at the Headland. Not to Maida, or even to Duke Coren, not anymore.

“Are you ready to answer some questions?” High Priest Zeketh asked. Reade nodded, and he felt Maida move her head up and down beside him.

“Sun-lord and Sun-lady, will you freely join Duke Coren and me, leaving behind your false home and false faith?”

False home? That must be the Headland. And false faith? That would be the Great Mother and the Guardians. And the Tree, which wanted to drink their blood. Reade squeezed Maida’s hand, and they answered at the same time, “Yes, Your Grace.”

As Reade answered, he felt the woodstar stir a little beneath his fingers. The bavin moved, as if it wanted to pull him back toward his false faith, back toward his false home. The woodstar wanted him out of the chapel and away from High Priest Zeketh, away from Duke Coren. Reade held the bavin tighter, as though to control it, and High Priest Zeketh nodded.

Then the man asked his second question. “Will you work with us for good and not for evil?”

That was an easy question. Maida almost answered first; Reade had to rush so that he said at the same time, “Yes, Your Grace.”

The woodstar shifted again. This time, when Reade closed his hand around it, he could see a white glow between his fingers. He felt the bavin pull at his mind, whisper to him about the People and the Tree. He lifted it up a little, to stare at it, and he heard Duke Coren and High Priest Zeketh catch their breath.

The high priest went on, though, as if he were used to seeing glowing woodstars in his chapel. His words were faster, as if he needed to finish all his questions before the bavin got brighter. “Sun-lord and Sun-lady, will you lead your people in the ways of righteousness for however long you shall live? Will you rise up against the shadows of your past and lead your new people? Will you fight to save your new people from the unholy power of the Tree and the Guardians and the false god of the Great Mother? Will you offer up your souls to all the Seven Gods?”

Before Reade could answer, the light flared high from his bavin, cutting through the incense fog and the candlelight.

It was wrong to answer “yes!”

It was wrong to agree to what the priest demanded.

For one instant, Reade thought that he could take his burning woodstar and turn his back on High Priest Zeketh, on Duke Coren. He could walk down the aisle. He could leave the chapel. He could stop being the Sun-lord and go back to being just Reade. Everything seemed so simple in the white light. Everything seemed so easy.

Before he could turn away, though, Maida said, “Yes, Your Grace.”

Her words made Reade look away from his woodstar, look away from the blinding white light. Maida was staring at the high priest, looking right in his black, black eyes. High Priest Zeketh, though, was looking at Reade. The priest was, and Duke Coren was, too. All of a sudden, Reade was afraid that he had disappointed the duke, that he had ruined everything by missing the right response. Duke Coren leaned forward, eyeing him like a snake watching a baby mouse. Reade swallowed hard and answered, more loudly than Maida had, “Yes, Your Grace.”

The woodstar flared as he spoke, so bright that Reade’s fingers looked like stripes of blood across its prickly surface. Duke Coren darted a glance at the high priest. The men seemed to have some secret conversation; they shared some grown-up words that Reade was not allowed to know. Then, High Priest Zeketh stepped forward and pointed at the bavin.

“What is that trinket you wear, Sun-lord?”

“It’s called a bavin, Your Grace. It’s from the Tree.”

“From the
Tree
?” High Priest Zeketh roared. “From the Tree that lives on child-blood?”

“Y-yes,” Reade whispered.

“And you wear it here? In the house of the Seven Gods?”

“I—I thought…Duke Coren gave it to me.”

“Duke Coren
gave
it to you.” The priest glared at the duke, his white face turning red beneath his long, curling beard. Then, the high priest pulled himself up even taller, taking a step to tower over Reade. Reade had to crane his neck back to stare up at the man’s face. “It was a fine gift, Sun-lord. A fine trinket for your journey to Smithcourt. Now that you are home, though, it does not serve as well.”

“Does not serve, Your Grace?” Reade knew what the priest was going to say. Reade was going to have to give up his woodstar. Even now, the bavin seemed to sense what was going to happen. Its light began to fade, streaming away into the dark chapel as fast as it had grown.

“Sun-lord, you must set aside your past if you would serve as Sun-lord to all your people. You
do
wish to be the Sun-lord, don’t you?”

Of course, Reade wanted to be the Sun-lord. That was why he had come all this distance. That was why he had studied so hard. That was why he had fought to prove that he was brave. “Yes, Your Grace.”

“Very well, then. Why don’t we exchange gifts, then?”

“Exchange gifts?”

“Yes, Sun-lord. I have brought you a present, a token of my appreciation for your hard work in preparing for the Service. You give me your woodstar, and I’ll give you and the Sun-lady the thing in that box.”

The high priest nodded to the wooden box on the altar.

“Do I have to share it, Your Grace? Do I have to share the thing in there?” For just an instant, Reade thought that High Priest Zeketh might actually laugh. He defended himself. “The woodstar was given to
me
, not to Maida. It’s not fair that I have to give it up, and then share what I get for it.”

“The woodstar is old, though. See, even now its light has faded.” Reade looked down at the bavin. It looked like an ordinary piece of wood now. Its prickly points were cold and black, without a hint of the white light.

“But—”

“Here’s a bargain. You give me the woodstar. Then you get to open my gift for you and the Sun-lady.”

“That’s not fair!” Maida cried.

High Priest Zeketh looked at her and smiled coldly. “Do you have anything to trade?”

Reade could see Maida try to think of something, try to dream up a gift for the high priest. She had nothing but the gown on her body, though, and the ribbon in her hair. At last, she was forced to shake her head. “No, Your Grace.”

“Very well, then. Sun-lord? Do we have a deal?”

Reade did not want to give up his bavin. Fishermen got bavins. Da had a bavin. But there was a present sitting in the wooden box. If Reade did not hand over his woodstar, then Maida would certainly get to open the wooden box. High Priest Zeketh and Duke Coren might even let her keep the gift inside, all for herself.

Slowly, carefully, Reade nodded. “We have a deal.”

Before Reade could change his mind, before he could say that he wanted to keep his woodstar, and Maida could have whatever was in the wooden box, High Priest Zeketh nodded to Duke Coren. The duke retrieved the casket from the altar and held it out toward the priest. Zeketh took it and turned back to the twins. “Sun-lord. Sun-lady. The first twins who bore your name, at the beginning of this age, had a special friend.”

“I know,” Reade interrupted. “They had Culain.” Reade realized that he had cut off the high priest, and he caught his breath. The towering man only smiled, though, his cherry lips curling in his black beard.

“This was a different sort of friend.” The high priest nodded toward Duke Coren, who lifted the lid off the wooden casket.

For just an instant, Reade could not figure out what was inside the box. He could see fur—black and tan and white—and he could pick out a long, straight tail. Only when the creature squirmed did Reade see the muzzle and the whiskers. The animal yawned, and Reade saw down its throat, past its black gums and blood-red tongue.

“A dog!” He gasped and jerked backward, hitting Maida and almost falling down the stairs.

“For you, Sun-lord.” The high priest nodded, and his own white teeth stood out against his red lips, his black beard. “For you and the Sun-lady.”

Reade could not catch his breath. He could not fill his lungs. He could not tell High Priest Zeketh that he needed to escape, needed to get away from the dog. Dogs killed people! Dogs tore at bodies on the beach! Dogs were unclean! Even Da was afraid of dogs. Reade clutched his woodstar against his chest. It wasn’t fair! They were trying to fool him! They were trying to get him to give up his woodstar—for a
dog
!

Duke Coren smiled and reached inside the casket. He lifted out the dog carefully, turning it around so that its head was toward the twins. He held it out toward Reade.

The dog was actually very small. It barely filled the duke’s hand. With its mouth closed, the thing was not nearly as frightening. Duke Coren held out the ball of fur, and his lips curved into a smile. “He belongs to you, Sun-lord. You can touch him.”

“No!” Reade exclaimed.

“The first Sun-lord and Sun-lady had a hound named Greatheart who stood by them through fire and flame.” Duke Coren’s voice was calm and gentle. Da had sounded like that when he first showed Reade how to take a fish off an iron hook. Reade had been scared of the fish, scared of its teeth and its glassy staring eyes. But he had been even more afraid of losing the precious iron hook, of disappointing Da and all the other fishermen.

“Just touch the puppy, little man. After all, you have the power of the Sun-lord!” Reade could remember sitting in front of Duke Coren, could remember the comforting feel of the man’s arm around his belly, holding him on the horse, keeping him safe and secure. The power of the Sun-lord, the faith of the Sun-lady, the strength of Culain. Reade was not afraid. Reade was a brave boy. Reade could do anything. Duke Coren stretched his arm toward Reade, reaching out through the incense fog and the smoke. “Touch him!”

Reade could not stop his shaking. He felt as though he’d just been fished out of the ocean, like he stood on the beach in the middle of winter with a full gale blowing. Still, he swallowed hard and forced himself to take a breath. He made himself lean forward. His hand looked as if it belonged to someone else, to another boy, a brave boy. One trembling finger brushed against the puppy’s fur.

The animal did not move at all. Reade caught another breath and found the courage to touch the dog again, this time with three fingers. Duke Coren smiled and nodded, beaming down with pride. Relief crashed over Reade, like a wave breaking on the beach.

Duke Coren was proud of him. The duke would keep him safe. Duke Coren would not let him be hurt. This was a
puppy
after all, not a grown dog. Swallowing hard, Reade started to reach out with both hands.

He’d forgotten, though, that he still held his woodstar. The bavin swung around, came dangerously close to swatting the puppy across its nose. Reade caught the bavin awkwardly and looked up at the two men, embarrassed by his clumsiness.

High Priest Zeketh stepped forward and put his hand on Reade’s shoulder. “Here, Sun-lord. Give me that bauble. In fact, why don’t you put it here, in this box?” He gestured toward the casket that had held the puppy.

Reade hesitated for a moment. He
had
promised, though. And the woodstar’s white light had completely faded away. It even seemed that the bavin had shrunk. It didn’t want him. It didn’t want him to own it.

What did a woodstar matter, anyway? It was just a piece of wood. A piece of dead old wood. Duke Coren was giving Reade something much better. Duke Coren was giving Reade a living, breathing puppy.

Reade felt the animal squirm beneath his palm. He had not even realized that his fingers had been stroking the puppy’s back, rubbing against its soft, soft fur. The puppy yawned again, and then it wrapped its warm tongue around one of Reade’s thumbs. He laughed out loud, squirming a bit because the tongue tickled.

What did it matter if Reade wore some stupid piece of carved wood? Shifting his hands to pick up his puppy, Reade dropped his bavin into High Priest Zeketh’s wooden casket.

Alana shoved her precious iron knife to the bottom of her rucksack before glancing around the cottage. She had little to take on the road. Her patchwork cloak belonged here, with the People. For the next woodsinger, if she did not return.

She sighed and kicked ashes over the last embers on her hearth, then turned to the doorway. “Ai!” she exclaimed, jumping before she recognized Goody Glenna’s shadow across the floor. “You frightened me near to death!”

“You’ll be nearer, soon enough. What do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m riding to Smithcourt.” Alana’s chin jutted defiantly.

“So much for relying on the power of the Tree, eh?”

“It’s no use! Reade’s lost to me now. Now that he’s given up his bavin, I can’t even
try
to help him make the right choices.” Alana heard the rising panic in her voice, and she swallowed hard. “Maybe if Sarira had taught me, maybe if she’d introduced me to the Tree, to the other woodsingers, while she still had her power…. Goody, Reade chose a
dog
over me.”

Alana’s next breath threatened to turn into a sob, and she tried to distract herself by gesturing toward her own new-sung woodstar. Its sharp points still pulsed against her flesh, prickling through her bodice. The voices of her sister woodsingers prickled as well, sharper even than Goody Glenna’s silent gaze.

“Going off and leaving us, you are.” Alana could not identify the individual speaker in her thoughts, but the voice was only one in a swirl of agreement.

“Afraid to work through the Tree, hmm, like a proper woodsinger? Afraid to rely on your sisters?”

“Oh, she’s not afraid of us,” complained another voice. “It’s just that she thinks she’s better than we are!”

“Not better, sister,” crooned a peacemaker. “She’s young, and the blood still beats hot in her veins. She
can
ride, and so she will.”

“Aye, she can ride, but does that make it right to do so? She can throw herself off the Headland to swim with the sharks, but does she think that will save the children?”

“Stop it!” Alana cried aloud, and she was surprised that the other woodsingers fell silent. Alana flushed beneath Goody Glenna’s scrutiny. “Goody, I’ve sung myself a bavin so that the Tree can follow me. When…if the Councils choose a new woodsinger, she’ll be able to find out what happened to me. The other woodsingers will know.”

“You’ve become so wise,” Goody Glenna said dryly. “And to think you’ve only been a woodsinger for two seasons.”

“Don’t laugh at me, Goody! I’m doing the best I can!”

“Laugh at you? I’m not laughing, girl.” The old woman sighed. “Have you spoken to Sartain yet? Which horse are you taking?”

“I-I don’t know. The bay, I suppose. The bay mare.”

“Very well.” Goody Glenna nodded, as if she were crossing items off a list. “I’ve brought you some herbs.”

Reflexively, Alana reached out for the packets, raising each leaf-bound bundle to her face and breathing deeply.

Chamomile, for sweet dreamless sleep.

Redshell, for wakefulness along the road.

Mint, for clear vision.

Heartswell.

“I don’t need these, Goody Glenna.” She did not need the heartswell. The other woodsingers began to chatter in her mind, reminding her of her embarrassment when she had last consumed the herb. Alana gritted her teeth.

The old woman snorted. “You don’t know what you need. Take them. If you never use them, so much the better. I won’t be able to sleep nights, knowing you have nothing to help you on your journey.”

“Nothing!” exclaimed one of the woodsingers, but Alana thrust down the voice, saying instead: “You knew all along that I was going!”

“I knew that what you were trying here wasn’t working.” Glenna snorted with an old woman’s disdain. “Finish closing up your cottage. I’ll fetch the mare for you.”

Alana nodded, not trusting herself to speak, and then she was alone in her home, alone but for the sisters who prowled beneath her thoughts. Who was
she
, a woodsinger, to ride across the country, as if she could help the People’s best warrior and tracker and healer? Who was
she
, a woman from the People, a young woman at that, to think that she could stride into Smithcourt and change things? Who was
she
, to try to succeed where three trained rescuers had already failed?

Taking a deep breath, Alana settled her fingers over her bavin. “I’ll leave you here,” she warned. “If I must, I’ll leave this bavin behind. I’m riding after Reade and Maida. I’m trying to save Maddock, and Landon and Jobina. You won’t stop me.” The woodsingers in her mind fell silent.

The sisters must have finally heard the iron in her voice, the tempered metal that was stronger than wood, stronger than the heart of the Tree. For just an instant, there was a flurry of surprised whispers; then the woodsingers settled into watchful silence. Clasping her bavin, Alana could feel the Tree’s power beat through the woodstar, shining with an ancient force that warmed her against her sudden chilling fear.

Smiling grimly, she trailed her fingers across her folded patchwork cloak, bidding the garment farewell. Then, she reached out with her mind, stretching through her bavin to another woodstar.

For just an instant, she feared that she would not be able to cross the double bridge, that she could not span the gap from her bavin to the Tree, and from the Tree to Maddock’s woodstar. Before she could falter, though, she felt the assembled woodsingers shift, felt their minds fall into neat, orderly place beside hers.

Her sisters were prepared to bolster her power, to give her the strength that she needed for this new feat. Alana could use the double trail of bavins. She could track and ride and reach Smithcourt in good time. And all the while, she could watch Maddock, see what impossible hurdles awaited her in the distant city. She would watch with her sisters, and she would have a plan by the time she arrived in Smithcourt.

Maddock woke slowly, blinking and trying to remember where he was. The walls were whitewashed, and cold sunlight leaked through a glazed window. Maddock’s eyes fell on a small table. A golden pitcher glinted dully, partnered by a matching goblet. Memory began to seep back

Maddock recalled the guard selecting him at the postern gate, flicking cold eyes toward him without a glint of recognition. Before Maddock could even be sure that the soldier was Bringham’s man, he was hustled through the gate and dragged across a white sand courtyard. Coren’s men forced him into hallways so cursed dark that he navigated them better with his eyes shut. He’d finally been thrust into a dingy chamber, a room that backed against a kitchen, if the heat and mouth-watering smells were any hint.

His suspicions had been confirmed when a new guard kicked open the door, swaggering in with a heavy platter. Starving after his encounter with Bringham’s men and determined to have his full strength as he faced whatever Coren planned for him, Maddock had grabbed a capon leg and stuffed it into his mouth, washing the bird down with warm ale. Only as he bolted half a loaf of bread had he noticed that both the platter and the pitcher were gilded.

All of Maddock’s wariness surged to the front of his mind, and he stood to examine the metal in the meager light from the hallway. When he swallowed again, he could taste a metallic tang at the back of his throat. He sniffed at the ale left in the golden pitcher, and there was a heavy note beneath the drink, a sharp taste that made him swallow hard and fight to bring up the food he had downed. He stumbled to his knees, trying to clench his belly, but he was struck by a wave of dizziness. The disorientation was strong, worse than any wave he’d battled as a fisherman. The golden platter and pitcher clattered onto the floor, and he remembered nothing else, nothing before waking in this strange, white room.

Curse Bringham’s men for getting him into this mess! If only they had let him eat the roasted bone that he had gleaned from Coren’s leavings! Better yet, if they had fed him, given him the meanest sustenance before sending him to work their labors in Coren’s palace! Bogs and breakers! Would it have been so much for them to give him a cup of water?

Maddock dared not drink from the pitcher in this prison room, even if he were able to command his drugged body to reach for the gilded ewer. Who knew what potion awaited him beneath the golden surface?

He’d had such strange dreams while he slept—visions of Alana Woodsinger on horseback, bent low across a bay mare’s neck. Once, he thought he’d glimpsed Reade and Maida in some sort of ceremonial hall, surrounded by mist.
That
vision must have been a dream—a nightmare—for Maddock had seen Reade touching a puppy, petting a
dog
as if it were a tame, loving beast.

Sharks and fins! If he’d dreamed such visions, had he cried out? Had he betrayed himself and let Coren’s men hear his Land’s End accent? As Maddock’s heart raced with new adrenaline, he realized that he must have kept silent; otherwise, he’d be in a dungeon. Or worse. He raised a hand to wipe sweat from his upper lip and realized for the first time that his wrists were covered with loops of golden chain, links that glinted as balefully as the pitcher on the side table. A massive lock rested above his hands, heavy and ominous with its empty, keyless mouth.

A quick tug confirmed that the chain was looped around his waist. Staring down, Maddock found that he was wrapped in yards of clean, white samite. Wrapped like a sacrifice to the Guardians. Like an offering for the altar in the Sacred Grove. With an effort, he managed to climb to his feet, staggering a few steps and shaking his head to clear away the fog. Tossing his head made him overbalance, though, and he crashed to the floor.

The chains about his wrists kept him from breaking his fall, and he was forced to absorb most of the impact with his chest. That was when he learned that he still wore his bavin. The woodstar’s spikes dug into his flesh, sharp as tiny knives. He started to curse, but bit back the words when the door to his chamber crashed open.

A finger of chilly sunlight picked out the dripping red knives that were embroidered across both guards’ chests. Maddock snarled deep in his throat, scarcely remembering that he was supposed to be mute. He tried to pull himself into a fighter’s crouch, but only managed to tangle himself in his robes. His determination was rewarded by a harsh laugh, like a boat scraping across a rocky beach.

“Who do you think you’re going to fight, sewer scum?” Maddock could only glare as the older man spat on him. “Let’s go, boy.” The younger guard wrestled Maddock to his feet and prodded him into the hallway.

Bogs and breakers! Maddock was as awkward as a fish on land, flopping against the corridor walls as a length of chain snagged between his feet, and his robes caught between his legs. Grimacing as he slammed his shoulder against a stone wall, he swallowed an angry retort. Soon, the guards had herded him to a tower. They wound down endless spiral stairs, round and round, deeper into the palace walls.

A series of narrow windows informed Maddock that he was closer to the ground, then at the ground, then under the earth. The stone steps were slick with water, as if rain had blown in the unglazed slashes and then flowed down the stairs. Pits had been dug in the rock by the passage of countless feet.

One of the guards kept pushing at Maddock’s back, prodding with his short sword whenever the outlander hesitated. Maddock’s head reeled, as if he’d been wrapping fishing nets around an endless spool. He tried to lean into the stairs’ stony spine, but the guards kept him moving too quickly, stepping too fast.

At last, just as Maddock concluded that the spiral stairs were some endless torture, the men reached the end of the steps. Now they were far below ground, and as Maddock panted to catch his breath, he could smell the damp. Patches of lichen flaked off the walls, scaly yellow and green beneath flickering torches. The colors reminded him of bruises.

Before his head stopped reeling, the guards pushed him toward an ornately carved doorway. Sea shapes writhed above his head, and he reflexively looked for fish that he could recognize. Even as he picked out a carved squid, tentacles waving through the stone like poisoned streamers, the senior soldier set a heavy hand between his shoulders and shoved him through the doorway. “On your knees before High Priest Zeketh!”

Maddock could not keep from grunting as his knees crashed against the stone floor.

“I thought you said this one was mute.” A voice hissed from the darkness on the far side of the small chamber.

“Aye, my lord.” Even as Maddock’s heart pounded in his ears, he heard naked fear in the guard’s voice. “He’s got lungs in his chest and cords in his throat, but he doesn’t say words.”

“He’s a mess! I’ve told you to bathe the prisoners before you bring them here!”

The soldier stammered, “I—I’m sorry, Your Grace. He was late coming to us. We thought that if he wore the robes and the chains, that would be enough.”

“You
thought
!” Zeketh raged. “Did you stop to
think
that this man is here to honor the Seven Gods?”

“N-no, Your Grace.”

“Do you
think
the Seven Gods should be defiled by your incompetence?”

“No, Your Grace.”

“I haven’t time for this foolishness. Get him to his feet! Hand him to me.”

Maddock had to bite his tongue to keep from exclaiming as the younger guard tugged hard on his golden bonds, knocking the breath from his lungs. His legs were trembling from the endless stairs, and he looked as if he were quaking when the soldier handed a length of chain to the priest.

“Very well,” Zeketh said to the guards. “You may wait by the stairs. Do I need to remind you that no one—
no one
—must know that I am here?”

“No, Your Grace,” the senior guard said, even as he and his fellow backed toward the stairwell. The soldiers closed the door behind them, and Maddock wondered how he could already miss their presence, how he could have found the brutes a comfort. Silently, he shivered and reminded himself that he was a warrior. He repeated that admonition more desperately as the high priest unlocked a shadowed door and dragged him into another, larger room.