Season of Sacrifice (7 page)

Before Reade could act, though, Duke Coren settled a reassuring hand on his shoulder. Then, for no reason at all, the duke gave him a bite of meat from beneath the steaming crust of his pie. The duke shared his ale as well, pouring from his pewter tankard into a small pottery cup. Reade’s eyes grew heavy as his stomach grew full. He was almost asleep when Duke Coren stood and picked him up, moving toward the stairs.

“Allow me, Your Grace.” Donal pushed back from the table and reached out for Reade. He was still chewing; he had taken Maida upstairs earlier in the evening, when she had refused to touch the kidney pie. Maida said the pie smelled funny.

“Stay, man,” Duke Coren said easily. “Finish your meal.”

Donal bowed and returned to the table. Reade put his head on Duke Coren’s shoulder as the tall man carried him up the stairs. He could feel the duke breathing, feel warm hands across his back. The nobleman needed to stoop low to enter the room at the top of the stairs. Da had needed to duck to pass through the door of their cottage.

A serving girl sat beside the bed. She bit off a small shriek as Reade and the duke entered the chamber. “Begging your pardon, Your Grace,” she said, and she dropped a curtsey. “I was just watching the little girl, as your man ordered.”

“Very good,” Duke Coren said. “You may go now.”

“Aye, Your Grace.” She bobbed up and down again. “Is there anything I can be getting you?”

“Nothing. I’m just putting the boy to bed.”

“I’d be happy to do that, Your Grace. You can return downstairs. Have another mug of ale.”

“I’ll attend him myself.” The girl ducked out the door without another word.

Duke Coren helped Reade out of the cloth-of-gold. Every night, Reade was stripped to his smallclothes. It was hard to fold the golden fabric. It kept slipping on itself, and it was hard to make it stay in a neat pile.

Maida’s golden robe, though, already rested at the foot of her pallet, and Reade could just make out her white linen shift, poking out at the top of her coverlet. She was breathing deeply. Maybe Donal had given her some of the sweet water to drink. Thinking of the golden cup, Reade remembered a question he wanted to ask Duke Coren.

“How much longer until we get to Smithcourt, Your Grace?”

“Still many days, Sun-lord.”

“When will we stay at another inn that has venison?”

“I don’t know, Sun-lord.”

“Didn’t you like the venison stew we had last night?”

“It was good, Sun-lord.”

“Why do you send Maida upstairs each night?”

“Because she asks too many questions, Sun-lord.”

Reade heard the warning, and he fell silent while the duke folded up the last of his golden cloth. Without planning to, Reade opened his mouth and yawned so broadly that he heard his jaw pop. “I’m not ready to go to sleep yet,” he protested, as Duke Coren pulled a linen shift over his head.

“You’re barely standing on your feet,” the duke said, laughing.

“Tell me a story!” Reade begged. Da used to tell stories every night. Reade and Maida would huddle on the pallet they shared by the hearth, and Da would sit close to the fire, his hands working his nets as he spoke. Da would tell of wondrous things—about the Guardians of Water and their towns beneath the sea, about the age before this one, when there were no people, but only talking animals. “Tell me a story,” Reade repeated, whining a little as Duke Coren forced his head back onto the heavy bolster.

“Very well,” Duke Coren said, and he smiled as he pulled up the coverlet. Reade smiled, too. “Lie back. And close your eyes. And no talking while I speak.”

Reade opened his mouth to agree, but the duke shook his head. “No talking,” he repeated. “None at all.”

Reade settled his head on the bolster and closed his eyes, stretching his arms and legs out straight. There was a pause, and he heard Duke Coren swallow. Then, the story began. “Years ago, before the boyhood of your father’s father’s father, there was great unrest in all the land. Brother raised arms against brother, father against son, and crop after crop failed because the fields were watered with too much blood.”

What type of story was this? Da never told a story with blood! Da never told any stories about people fighting. Reade started to ask a question, but he stopped himself just in time.

“In the midst of that chaos, there was a great woman, the Queen of the Cave, who wed a great man, the Smith of the Skies. The Smith led foray after foray against his enemies, always emerging the victor. When the Queen was heavy with child, she pleaded with her husband to stop his battles, for she feared that she would die in childbed, and she did not want her child to be an orphan. The Smith, though, was scornful of the Queen’s fears, and he was far afield when his wife collapsed in labor.

“For two full days, the Queen cried out in childbed, and only when a soldier brought her news that the Smith had indeed been slain in battle did the Queen bring forth not one child, but two, a boy and a girl. The Queen looked upon them and blessed them with their names—Lord of the Sun and Lady of the Sun. Then, she foretold their terrible future.

“Their lives would be hard and dangerous, and their own children would rise up in arms against them. Even as the Queen spoke those words, she knew that her death was upon her, and she ordered her trusted maidservant to take the two perfect children and slay them, lest they suffer the dolorous fate that she foresaw.”

Reade thought of those two little babies, with their mum and their da both dead. His throat tightened. He was about to open his eyes, about to tell Duke Coren that he didn’t want to hear
this
kind of story, a scary story. Before he could speak, though, Duke Coren settled a hand on his belly. Heat flowed through the coverlet, heat and weight, like a magic blanket, protecting Reade.

The duke continued: “The maidservant grieved so at the passing of her lady that she could not do as the Queen commanded. Instead of slaughtering the innocent babes, she took them to the woods and left them on a bed of softest moss beneath a tree.

“Before night fell, the twins were found by a doe. The deer raised the two children as if they were her own fawns, and the twins learned grace and beauty and how to flee the hunter. And when they were of the proper age, the old doe took the Lord of the Sun and escorted him to the far northern edge of her forest, and she took the Lady of the Sun to the far southern edge of her forest, setting them on the road to make their way in the world.

“The Sun-lord traveled and his adventures were many. He married and had a dozen children, strong men and women all, who became great warriors and led scores of heroes into battle. The Sun-lady traveled as well, and had adventures as well. She, too, had a dozen children, and they, too, were great warriors, who led scores of warriors into battle.

“But the day came when a son of the Sun-lady all unknowing lay with a daughter of the Sun-lord, and she grew heavy with child. She became ashamed that she could no longer lead her warriors, and she told her family that she had been taken by force.

“The children of the Sun-lord grew hot in fury and rode against the children of the Sun-lady, all the while not knowing that they fought their own kin. Village after village was burned to the ground, and field after field was sown with salt.

“Only when the Sun-lord and the Sun-lady faced each other across a field of blood-red mud did they learn that they had fulfilled their mother’s bitter prophecy. The twins fled their embattled children, riding until they reached the end of the earth, where the sun last touches the land before dying every night.”

Reade’s mind whirled. The Sun-lord and the Sun-lady had ridden to Land’s End! They had come to the
People
! Reade could not help but slit open his eyes, looking up at the duke. The nobleman smiled and nodded.

“Aye,” Duke Coren continued, and his eyes were for Reade alone. “The Sun-lord and the Sun-lady settled among the People on the Headland of Slaughter, intending to live out their lives in hardship to atone for the bloodshed they had brought to the inlanders.

“Every month, though, as the moon reached its fullness in the sky, people came to Land’s End to call back the Lord and Lady. All of their children had died on the bloody battlefield, and the kingdom had no one left to guide it. Nevertheless, the twins remembered how fate had driven them to destroy what they loved best, and always they refused.

“Finally, after five years, a pair of children arrived at the distant point of land. They were clothed in robes of gold, and they walked hand in hand. They were of an age, and the Sun-lord and the Sun-lady knew that these children were twins like themselves. When questioned, the children said that their father had died on a great battlefield, and that his body had never been recovered from the bloody mud. Their mother had died at their birthing, cursing the day that she had started the great war that had destroyed her land. As soon as the twins could walk, they had been driven forth from the sorrowful castle of their childhood, accompanied only by a single guard, the faithful Culain.

“Then the Sun-lord and Sun-lady knew that the twins were their own grandchildren, and they welcomed the boy and girl with open arms. The old twins knew that they had wasted valuable years trying to flee their own destiny, and they left Land’s End. They traveled back to Smithcourt, the old twins and the young, along with soldiers gathered from the countryside to accompany them, all led by the honorable Culain. Upon their return, there were more sorrows and more prophecies, but in the end Culain himself took the throne, one thousand years ago, and the days of chaos were finally ended.”

Reade struggled to sit up, but Duke Coren shook his head. The duke’s hand was still heavy across his belly, and Reade settled for whispering, “Why did Culain become king? Why didn’t the Sun-lord and the Sun-lady rule the People?”

“Those are other stories, Sun-lord, for other times.”

The duke had so many wonderful stories to tell. Reade was missing so much as he slept through day after day. He flushed and gripped Duke Coren’s arm. “Please, Your Grace. Tomorrow, I don’t want to drink from the golden cup.”

“The ride is long yet. We have to cover more ground every day, until we reach Smithcourt.”

“I don’t care.” Reade smiled his best smile. “The ride was long for the Sun-lord, too, and Culain would never have made
him
drink.”

Duke Coren stared at the boy. All of a sudden his eyes were dark, sharp. “Ah, Sun-lord, you’re probably right at that. Once you set aside the golden cup, though, I’ll not let you change your mind.”

“I won’t. I swear it.”

“The Sun-lord’s oaths are not casual things,” the duke warned.

“I’m not a baby!”

“No, Sun-lord. You most certainly are not a baby.”

“Then you won’t make me drink tomorrow?”

“I won’t, Sun-lord. Just remember that you are the one who asked for the privilege.”

A shiver crept down Reade’s spine. He remembered how much his legs had hurt on that first day, when he rode without drinking the sweet water. He remembered crying, even when he was trying to be brave. His nose had run, no matter how much he wiped it on his arm.

For just a moment, he thought that he would tell Duke Coren that he had made a mistake. Maybe he wasn’t big enough to ride without the golden cup. Maybe he needed to break his oath.

Then, Reade remembered the Sun-lord in the duke’s story.
He
would have been brave enough. He would have been strong enough. Even if it hurt like a stinging eel, the Sun-lord would keep his promise.

Reade would be brave and strong, too. Sitting on the stallion in front of Duke Coren, Reade would act just like the Sun-lord.

Irritation pricked Alana’s eyes as she stepped into her empty cottage. Of course, not a single villager had thought to set a fire on her hearth. Not one person had brought her supper, despite the fact that she’d spent the entire day at the Tree, stretching her powers landward, struggling to commune with the oak’s earth-power, harnessing the air-power that hovered between the Tree and its woodstars. She sighed in exhaustion, even as a swirl of thoughts drifted into her consciousness from other woodsingers, from the women who had gone before her.

“The People never realize the sacrifices I make,” whispered one old crone, her tremulous voice captured forever in the woodsingers’ communion with the Tree.

“Would it be so hard for them to lay a fire?” asked another of Alana’s predecessors.

“Couldn’t they set out some food? I don’t need fresh-baked bread—anything, really, after a long day tending the Tree….”

Alana took some grudging comfort in the fact that she was not the first woodsinger to be slighted by the People. In fact, she managed to think in a moment of lucidity, the People were not mean, or even lazy. It most likely never occurred to them that the woodsinger would
want
her privacy invaded. Nevertheless, the cottage was chilly and dark, and Alana had to comfort herself with a tough heel from yesterday’s loaf of bread.

She sighed as she collapsed onto the low stool by her hearth. This landward business was draining. In the past fortnight, Alana had taught herself to extend her powers into the Tree’s roots, to feel the rich earth beneath her. She had felt the Tree gather up the land’s rich, dark energy, the nutrients that stretched across the earth from the western edge of the Headland of Slaughter to Smithcourt. The Tree’s earth aspect, though, was bound tighter than its familiar, watery soul, and Alana’s jaw ached with the power of concentrating on her new skills. She had ratcheted up her concentration until she felt like a child’s top. By the end of each day, she ached to spin free.

And reaching through the air was no easier. Alana felt the breezes ruffling the Tree’s leaves, she absorbed the free and lithesome energy of the Guardians of Air. It was hard to focus that force, though, hard to keep a single gust blowing all the way across the Headland, over the land to swirl around Reade’s bavin. Over and over, Alana caught her own breath, starving her lungs until she gasped with the effort to guide the wind.

Even when she was away from the Tree, even when she had set aside her efforts to harness earth and air, she did not find much relief. Each night, when she managed to stagger back from the Headland, she was confronted by the dusty shelves of journals in her cottage. The moldering leather volumes were filled with the cramped notes of all her predecessors. The journals captured words that had never been spoken to the Tree, information that she could not glean by focusing on the swirl of voices inside her mind. It took concentration to read, though, concentration in the stillest part of the night, when her eyes were grainy from lack of sleep. A few of the accounts were written in a strong hand, the words easily made out, but most sprawled like spider webs, spun out across the page with gossamer strands lost to aging parchment and fading ink.

So far, Alana had not deciphered anything useful. There were meticulous accounts of the Tree, of course, of its growth from year to year. Her sisters recorded the springtime ritual of bringing water from the Sacred Grove to fortify the Tree’s roots against the corrosive ocean air. Alana read how she could harvest the Tree’s acorns to make a sustaining bread that would take months to go stale. She could weave the Tree’s autumn leaves into thatched roofs to keep water out. So many pages, so many secrets, yet nothing to instruct her further about stretching the bavins’ power over land.

Alana’s tightly wrapped tension had sprung loose only the night before, when Goody Glenna stopped by to check on her progress. “There’s so much here!” the woodsinger had exclaimed. “How am I supposed to learn it all?”

“By doing what you’re doing. By reading and studying.”

“It’s not fair! Woodsingers are supposed to be trained by the women they replace.”

“Who ever said that the Guardians are fair?” Goody Glenna’s face drew into a scowl as she wiped thick dust off one of the journals. “We all encouraged Sarira Woodsinger to take an apprentice, but she refused. She died before we had a chance to change her mind. But you know all that—that’s why
you
were chosen. The Women’s Council, the Men’s Council, and the Spirit Council all agreed that you had the urge to learn, that you could regain the wisdom we lost with Sarira.”

“But—” Alana began, but Glenna shook her head.

“Back to work, woodsinger.” When Goody Glenna had left, Alana forced her way through another three years of journals, reading, hoping, and all the time rubbing her tired eyes.

She was still angry with Goody Glenna when she awoke the following morning. Nevertheless, the day began like every other since the children had been taken. She awakened just before sunrise. She grabbed a handful of dried apples, remnants from the winter stores. She made her way to the Tree, losing her thoughts in the crunch of frosted grass beneath her feet.

When she arrived at the Headland, she found everything as she had left it the day before. The oak had completely healed from giving its bavins, but Alana could sense the power of the lacy wooden knots, power that grew stronger as she settled her hand over the gnarled bark. She had scarcely leaned against the great oaken trunk when Teresa appeared on the path, floating toward the Tree like a ghost.

“Woodsinger!” the mother called, her voice as harsh and urgent as a gull’s.

“Teresa.”

“How are the children? What is Reade thinking today?”

“I don’t know yet, Teresa. I need to check on Maddock.”

“Maddock! He doesn’t need you! You have to help Reade—he’s just a child!”

“Teresa, I know that.” Alana tried to keep her voice even, tried to forget that they had engaged in the same debate every morning for the past two weeks. “Teresa, today I have to check on Maddock. That was the whole reason I sang the second bavin. Let’s see how close he is to the children.”

“You can’t! Check on Reade first! Tell me about Reade and Maida! Don’t abandon my babies!”

“Teresa—” Alana began, but the young mother threw herself at the woodsinger, clutching at the hem of Alana’s patched cloak.

“You promised! You have to! Please, watch my babies!”

“Teresa, no!” Alana loaded her exclamation with anger, fighting to pull her cloak from the woman’s claws.

Teresa’s sobs crested into a high-pitched wail. Without warning, the woman convulsed and arched her back, her arms stiffening into boards. Her teeth locked around the guttural howl that knifed from her belly, and her legs began to thrash. White foam blossomed at the corner of her mouth.

Alana stared in horror. “Teresa!” she managed after a moment. “Teresa, stop it! Teresa, it’s all right! I’ll look to Reade! Stop it, Teresa!”

But the young mother was beyond hearing. Her eyes stared into the Tree’s branches, and her limbs continued to twitch. Alana ran for the village.

Goody Glenna stood on the edge of the green, as if she had expected Alana to return from the Headland so early. The old woman listened to the woodsinger’s horrified gasps and then nodded her head slowly. She raised a commanding claw to summon two brawny fishermen. “Carry Teresa to my cottage.”

“That’s all?” Alana asked, shocked into calmness.

“What else would you have me do? I’ll brew her some lionsmane tea. Get back to your work, woodsinger”

“But Goody—”

“Go and do your job, woodsinger. I’ll do mine.”

And so Alana climbed back to her Tree, barely acknowledging the two fishermen that she met on the path, Teresa’s now-limp body strung between them. For just an instant, she thought that she
should
check on Reade. She should be ready to report on the boy when Teresa came to. After all, the sun was already high in the sky. She’d lost the entire morning, the long hours that she had intended to use, checking on Maddock’s progress.

The very lateness of the hour, though, made Alana realize that she must exploit the small reprieve she had been given. She must check on Maddock’s progress, as she had not been allowed to do for the past several days.

Besides, whatever Alana learned from Maddock’s bavin, it couldn’t be worse than watching Reade’s confusion, watching the child bounce back and forth between terror and bravery, between calling for his mum and challenging Duke Coren.

Alana did not want to linger in the boy’s thoughts. She did not want to lose herself in the mind of a child who had lost all the things he held dear.

She especially did not want to think about how desperately Reade sought a man to be his father. The boy’s sorrow on that count was too close to Alana’s own. The five-year-old might be more vocal about his loss, but he could not miss his father more than Alana did hers. She knew Reade’s ache; she knew his rage. She knew how it felt to mourn a father who had been safety and security, gentleness and wisdom, all spun into one good man.

Setting aside her sorrow, Alana took a deep breath. The spring days were still short; darkness fell early, especially on the inland roads, where no ocean reflected the sun’s dying glints. She had wasted far too much time, dealing with Teresa, worrying about which bavin she should watch.

Alana exhaled slowly and drew on the tricky powers of the Guardians of Earth and Air, reaching for Maddock’s bavin across the landlocked leagues.

“Bogs and breakers!” Maddock swore loudly as his horse stumbled in the dim twilight. Fourteen days since they’d ridden from home. Fourteen cursed days of rising before dawn and riding hard until dusk, but still the kidnappers were well ahead of them. Maddock had more ability in his left thumb than that damned tracker Glenna had chosen to accompany him.

Of course, Maddock would have been forced to admit in a moment of sane contemplation, Landon wasn’t a bad man, and his skills
had
been useful until their prey had reached the cursed hard-packed earth of the Great Road. It was just that the tracker was so blasted negative. Every decision Maddock made was questioned minutely, held up to scrutiny as if Landon were the Men’s Council, Women’s Council, and Spirit Council all rolled into one.

Bracing himself for the challenge he was certain to receive, Maddock reined in his horse and waited for Jobina and Landon to come up on either side. “I think we’d better leave the road for tonight.” He gestured toward the carefully laid out fields to either side. “We’re obviously getting near a village, and I’d rather not have some farmer armed with an overactive imagination and a pitchfork decide that we look like highwaymen.”

Jobina nodded, arching her back as she stretched for a more comfortable position in her saddle. The movement strained the fabric across the front of her riding dress, and Maddock let himself be distracted for a moment. Landon, of course, did not spare the healer a glance as he busily scanned the horizon. “Over there.” The tracker gestured toward a smudge in the distance. “It’s a line of trees. There must be a stream running through there.”

“What I wouldn’t give for fresh water to wash in.” Jobina made the wish sound like a promise. Rather than trust himself to answer steadily, Maddock dug his heels into his gelding’s flanks. The horse took off like an arrow, hurtling across the unplowed field.

They reached the line of trees as the last bruise of sunlight faded behind them. As always, the cursed tracker was right—there was a stream, and a convenient clearing between the trees and the riverbank. The rivulet, though, proved too shallow for bathing, and Maddock smothered his disappointment by ordering Landon to build a small fire. When the tracker started to protest, Maddock cut him off, acerbically noting that they had not seen anyone for the entire day, and they had purposely ridden this far from the road to enjoy some privacy.

Landon finally had the fire crackling when a lamb wandered into the clearing.

The animal was little more than a newborn—some shepherd and his dogs had been lax in their duties. The pitiful creature was mewling when it reached them, long ears bobbling about its face as it stumbled from one person to the next, trying futilely to suck on their fingers.

Jobina was the first to suggest that they dine on meat that night. The thought of fresh food was as tempting as the Guardians’ gold, and Maddock had his dagger unsheathed before Landon could frown. The blade was level against the creature’s throat by the time the tracker made himself heard. “Maddock, you’d better not do that.”

The warrior felt the tight woolen curls shudder beneath his left hand. “And why not?”

“We’re guests in this land. That lamb belongs to someone, and they’re certain to realize it’s missing.”

“We’re travelers who are dying of hunger on the road. What sort of people would forbid us hospitality?”

“Shepherds who rely on lambs for their livelihood! Maddock, these people live by their animals. Besides, we’re not starving.”

“Then we’ll buy the cursed thing, if anyone asks.”

“Maddock, we’re likely trespassing on someone’s land right now, someone who could summon the sheriff and enforce the law.”

“If you’re afraid, Landon, just say so.”

“Dammit, I’m not afraid!” The men stared at each other across the flames of the fire. Without a word, Jobina drew her dagger, sitting back on her heels to strip green bark from three long sticks. Maddock could imagine the aroma of fat sizzling into the open flames.

“If you’re not afraid, then act like a man.” Maddock gathered up the squealing lamb, avoiding the hard little hooves as he passed his wriggling victim to the tracker. “Be quick about it.”

Landon stared at him with a look close to hatred. It had been like this for all of Maddock’s life. Ever since he was a child, since he was first called to be the huer on the cliff face, he had been the fastest, the strongest. The village boys had always hated him, and most were afraid of him. He had learned to take a firm hand with his playmates, never hesitating to enforce a little respect, even from older boys. His strategy had paid off—all the village youth, boys and girls, had known who was the leader.