Storm Without End (Requiem for the Rift King Book 1) (33 page)

He swallowed and flexed his hand. A thousand needles poked at his fingers and trailed up his arm. When the sensation faded, all he felt was the cold.

“We should have been doing this a week ago,” the Lord Priest said in Mithrian, turning in a slow circle to glare at all of the mercenaries. Kalen kept his head ducked down and narrowed his eyes. “Four more pairs, and I want them by the sunset two days from now. Do not fail this time.”

Silence answered the Danarite.

“What are your names, children of Kelsh?” The Danarite spoke in Kelshite. The faint accent was pleasant, an enhancement to the words that caught—and held—his attention. The man’s dark eyes focused on him, but when Kalen didn’t lift his head, the Lord Priest looked away. “You first,” he said, gesturing to the boy at the other end of the line.

Kalen caught a glimpse of blond hair from a child no taller than him. A murmur answered the Danarite.

“Louder. I can’t hear you.”

“Bornen.”

“You’ve been given the honor of being a sacrifice of Selestrune, sent from Her domain to shine light in the darkness. Serve Her well and the paradise of Her sun shall be your reward, Bornen.”

Once again, silence answered the man’s words. The Danarite stepped to the Kelshite bound to Bornen. “What is your name?”

Kalen shifted his weight from foot to foot and leaned forward. The setting sun tinged the Kelshite’s blond hair red. The second boy’s lean, long-limbed youth had not yet made way for the bulk of a man, but there was nothing child-like in the lifted chin and clenched jaw.

“She is displeased with your defiance, host. Speak, or the name will be torn from your lips as you scream for mercy that will not come until She is satisfied that you have paid your penance.”

Kalen’s throat dried, and swallowing didn’t ease its ache. A tightness in his chest cut off his breath and the sensation spread to his gut. His muscles tensed, and he stared at the Danarite. Hatred hardened the Lord Priest’s eyes. The Kelshite looked away and sweat glistened across the teenager’s brow. “Garett.”

“Traitors,” his partner hissed out.

One by one, the Lord Priest took the names of the three pairs before reaching Kalen and the grumbling youth he was tied to. He kept silent and couldn’t force his muscles to relax or control how he quivered. It was feeling of waiting for the moment to strike, knowing that if he was too early or too late, he would be killed before killing.

“These two I lay claim to, Carthcrak.” The words were spoken in Danarite, and Lord Priest Tsordin stepped from between the gathered mercenaries into the circle of stones. Tsordin. Heat spread through his body and he gave a tentative tug at the ropes. His partner didn’t move. His breath quickened. “The little one seems to be mute, and I name him Selestorenist.”

The Lord Priest turned, but not before Kalen caught sight of the man’s surprised expression. “What a peculiar name, Tsordin. So you’ve finally chosen your sacrifice?”

“I have faith he’ll be more suitable than the others.”

“So be it, then. And the other? Have you claimed his name yet?”

“I have, and he is named Foresk.”

“And I suppose you wish to choose the stance for your pair?” Lord Priest Carthcrak turned to face him, nose wrinkled and eyes shadowed.

“Who else for the west but the ones of
my
choosing? Don’t forget your place, Lord Priest.”

Carthrak flinched. “My apologies, High Lord Priest.”

Kalen clamped his teeth together to keep his mouth from falling open. How long had there been ranks of Priests higher than Lord Priests, and why hadn’t word of them ever slipped into the Rift? What was this so-called High Lord Priest doing in Kelsh?

The man was a lot like him, he hoped the gathering shadows of dusk masked the grin he struggled to contain. Two things in this world that shouldn’t exist, and they stood together—but only he knew the truth of it. The need to pull free and find out just how powerful the High Lord Priest quickened his breath.

The chill of the First’s presence drove away the fire burning within him. Kalen tensed and waited for the surge of hatred and malevolence. Instead the creature’s neutrality smothered his anger and his need for the man’s blood. It soothed when it should’ve antagonized.

The memory of sunlight and warmth wrapped around him, and the sensation spread through his entire body.

Kalen’s breath slowed, and his muscles loosed and relaxed. The First retreated again, but its quiet offering of peace and tranquility didn’t fade. Of the creature’s fear, there was no sign.

“Shall we begin, then?” High Lord Priest Tsordin asked. The man gestured to the sundial. “Bring them forward and let the light of Her glory shine down upon us all.”

Lord Priest Carthcrak’s jaw twitched. “Servants of Our Lady Selestrune, come forth!”

Young men in yellow robes emerged from the ranks of the mercenaries. A hand grabbed the back of Kalen’s tunic, and he was shoved forward. Still tied to him, Foresk struggled against the hold of two of the yellow-robed Danarites. Kalen’s arm was jerked, and he felt something in his shoulder give. The ground lurched under his feet and his vision darkened to a hazy gray. The collar of his tunic cut off his breath. He stumbled back, and bursts of light danced in front of his eyes.

Foresk pulled him one way, and the Danarite pulled him the other. Someone laughed. The pressure eased. Tears obscured his vision. He shook his head. Nausea welled up from his stomach, and he tasted bile.

The crack of a whip on flesh ended Foresk’s protests with a shrill scream. Kalen’s shoulder was jerked again and only the hand gripping his clothes kept him standing. A third red-robed priest step forward. The end of the whip slapped against the mud. Panting, Kalen struggled to stand.

“You only need to be alive for this, heathen. Or, perhaps, you like the feel of the lash? I can accommodate.” The Lord Priest drew his tongue over his lips. Kalen shuddered as the man’s lustful stare settled on him.

“You may have one of the others after,” Tsordin replied in a dry tone. “Please control yourself, Dedelus. The sun sets soon. Bring the robes and the blades.”

More of the yellow-robed figures emerged carrying robes like the ones they wore, led by a fourth Lord Priest. Kalen’s eyes widened. Four jeweled daggers were offered up, the bearers standing with their heads bowed. Words of prayer were spoken. The blades glowed with an orange light that matched the hue of the setting sun.

High Lord Priest Tsordin took up the longest of the daggers, stepped forward, and seized Kalen’s elbow. He sucked in a breath and flinched, but he couldn’t manage to pull away. The metal was warm and sliced through the rope. Beads of blood welled up from thin cut down the length of his arm. Something stirred in Kalen’s thoughts and for a brief moment, the buzz of whispers drowned out all other sound. Heat spread over his arm and up his shoulder. His fingers tingled. Two pinpoints of ice stabbed through the top of his hand. His breath was trapped in his lungs.

Kalen’s arm was lifted and cold lips pressed against the wound. The edges of his vision darkened and the strength flowed out of him. He wasn’t aware of falling until his knees splashed down into the mud.

“Dress him and take him to the western altar.” The man’s voice was muffled, as though someone had wrapped his head in a heavy hood. The buzzing faded and left an uneasy fluttering in his gut. A hand under his arm jerked him upright. He tried to pull away, but his body betrayed him and all he could do was stumble forward. Robes stinking of sweat smothered him until rough hands yanked his head up. They draped off of him and the fabric pooled at his feet.
 

“Why bother claiming them when you use them as a source before the rituals? You just kill them off that way,” Carthcrak said. Kalen struggled to lift his head enough to look at the priests. He caught a glimpse of Tsordin smiling. The man’s dark eyes, lit by the last light of the sunset, were full of secrets.

Carthcrak growled, huffed, and stomped across the circle to the eastern altar when the High Lord Priest said nothing in reply.

It took four of the yellow-robed Danarites to lift Foresk up onto the altar and pin him down. The Kelshite thrashed and struggled. His curses rang out until he was gagged with a scrap of cloth. Kalen stared down at the young man, the haze of exhaustion numbing him until he was amazed he stood at all. Something warned him to struggle, to run, to take advantage of the chance to try to escape, but the First’s presence roused within him again.

~Wait,~
the creature said. It vanished once again, not leaving any evidence of its existence in its wake.

The High Lord Priest stood beside him and seized Kalen’s wrist. Something wet and hot pressed against him, and the pain of it roused his awareness. Strength flowed into him and he tensed to move, but the First’s command still rang in his mind.

He had to wait. Kalen’s anger flared to life once again, but it too faltered and bowed to the creature’s demand.

“Guide us, Sunset Priest of the Moment of Night, and may She shelter us from His night,” Tsordin ordered and leaned down in a bow. Kalen was yanked forward and the man whispered in Kelshite in his ear, “I will pray that you forgive us when She pulls you into Her embrace, little one.”

Kalen narrowed his eyes. The Danarite straightened, the man’s grip tightening on his wrist.

The indigo-clad Danarite returned to the circle carrying a golden bowl. A crimson haze wafted from the liquid sloshing in its depths. It cast a bloody light that engulfed the circle. “Let us pray to Her,” the old man rasped as he placed the bowl down on the center of the sundial.

The Danarites bowed their heads and began to chant. A column of light stretched toward the sky. It flared the bright gold of the noon sun. The prayers rose in volume. From the center of the pillar, a tendril of red rose up. Kalen flinched at the cold wind that whipped his hair into his eyes. He frowned and drew a long breath through his nose.

It was the scent of heated stone, of wind-borne sand, and of the relentless sun.

The chanting stopped and the light was consumed from within by the crimson of blood. Darkness engulfed Kalen.

~~*~~

Kalen drifted, smothered in warmth and darkness. A tingle spread from his fingers up to his elbow, and the phantom pains of his left arm anchored him to consciousness. He opened his eyes to the crimson glow of sunset bathing the clearing.

“I call forth the host of the northern wind, the one who shall forever more embody the will of Selestrune.” Tsordin’s words cut through the fog in Kalen’s head. The First’s presence chilled his bones and further roused him from his stupor.

Mercenaries led one of the captives to the northern altar. The robed child kicked and screamed. Kalen was aware of someone holding upright. Staying limp was easier than trying to stand. He watched with an odd sense of detachment. Anger was growing within him, but it wasn’t his. The First’s chill intensified and numbed him.

It was sheltering him. Kalen felt his brows furrow. Imprisoned in his own body, he was forced to watch, although the need to act nagged at him.

He couldn’t do much, not while held, not against so many, and not without a weapon, and he knew it, as did the First.

The child was forced down onto the altar and pinned there by three men.

“I call forth the host of the southern seas, the one who shall forever more embody the strength of Selestrune.”

The hazel-eyed boy was shoved forward, but unlike the younger child, he walked of his own will, his eyes burning with defiance and pride. He, too, was shoved down on the altar and pinned into place.

“I call forth the host of the east, the defiler of the Silent One’s Night, the one who shall forever more embody the glory of Selestrune.” The youngest of the children was hauled up onto the eastern altar.

“Bring forth the host of the sunset, so that her glory shines down upon him, so that he may become the one who shall forever embody the divinity of Selestrune!”

Foresk was dragged to the western altar. The young man’s eyes were dull, and he didn’t resist the mercenaries who held him in place.

Tsordin lifted his right hand to the darkening sky. “Priests of the Sunset Ascending, join with Her so that you might serve as the vessels of Her children.”

Two of the pink-robed men stepped forward, and one moved to the northern altar while the second strode to the south. Tsordin watched, then nodded his approval. The High Lord Priest met Kalen’s eyes.

~Do not fear, child,~
the man’s voice whispered in Kalen’s mind.
~She has blessed you. She will not abandon your soul to the Silent One.~

Kalen held his breath.

“Behold, the sacrifice of the east, he who represents the full power and glory of Selestrune,” High Lord Priest Tsordin cried out, gesturing with his left hand. One of the older Kelshite boys staggered toward the eastern altar, his eyes unfocused and expression slack.

High Lord Priest Tsordin approached Kalen and seized his elbow in a steel grip. “Behold the source of Her Light and Her Glory, the one who shall forever more have the power to conquer the Silent One’s darkness. Come forth, faithful, so we might all witness the birth of Her children together.” He was dragged to the western altar. The priests in the ring of stones took their places. When they were situated, Tsordin fell to his knees, pulling Kalen down to the ground. His knees hit the ground and the shock of impact rattled his teeth.

The Danarites kissed the ground and prayed.

When they rose, the red-robed priests, Tsordin included, drew jeweled daggers. Kalen tensed. The need to escape broke the hold of lethargy, and he searched for a way out. Two mercenaries flanked the altar. The High Lord Priest held onto his elbow. More mercenaries ringed the ritual grounds.

They stood with their swords at the ready, as if hoping someone would try to make a run for it.

One by one, the priests sliced the edge of their daggers across the opened palms of their right hands. Golden light radiated from the bleeding wounds. It illuminated the boys held down on the altars. The few who struggled stiffened before stilling.