by Claire Vale
Welcome to the Tithe, where life is bought with death and love is paid with sacrifice.
Two things are ever certain in Ironcross: the beasts outside the wall and the Tithe.
When Senna Rhys turns eighteen, she must go through the Tithe, a rite of passage to adulthood that claims ten souls for the treaty with the wall. The unpaired are chosen first—securing the next generation to supply the Tithe is the foundation of Ironcross’ survival!
We’re encouraged to champion the concept of the Tithe and not dwell on the detail. ‘Sacrifice the few to save the many’ is not a motto that promotes healthy town morale. I’ve avoided thinking about it for most of my life, but there’s no escaping it now.
Welcome to the Tithe!
There’s Gabriel, the gorgeous boy next door with blue, blue eyes. He’s been my best friend since forever. He’s the keeper of my heart.
There’s Kane, arrogant and self-assured and darkly beautiful. He wants everything but my heart and has an irritating habit of catching me when I fall.
There’s Ironcross. The wall that keeps the beasts out. The fear that keeps us in. The Alders who rule with ruthless clarity.
Above all else, there’s the Tithe. The pact and sacrifice and pairings that bind our world.
Tithe is a post-apocalyptic romance and adventure with some disturbing themes set in a dark, dystopian world.
1
EIGHTEEN YEARS AGO today. That’s the day I was born. Now it’s time to pay for the privilege. Today may be my last birthday in Ironcross, definitely my last birthday as Senna Rhys. I’m the youngest in my Tithe year, having made the catchment by two measly days. Which means I get to enjoy being an official adult for exactly two days before my Tithe. I’ll be taken away and when I return, (if I return), everything will be changed. I’ve managed to avoid thinking about it, mostly, for the past eighteen years, and I see no reason to upset the pattern now.
The dawn sky is a brittle gray. The ground is muddy with yesterday’s summer squall. The rain is gone but there’s a persistent damp in the air that permeates my bones as I make my way across the scraggly patch of grass to the chicken coop.
“Wake up, my beauties,” I call in a singsong voice as I walk the line between the nest boxes, throwing open the hatches to let the day in.
I get a lonely cluck and a couple of beady-eyed looks as I scoop a measured quantity from the grain box and carry it out with me to sprinkle in the yard. A waist-high fence separates my hens from a timber barn and much larger yard, that’s where the real egg laying is done to hatch the chickens that go to market. Our farm is small (Gabe calls it a farmlit when he wants to tease me), and barely produces enough coin for us to scrape by, but I wouldn’t trade this living for town life any day of the week.
I glance around but don’t see Dad as I head back inside to fix breakfast (today is omelet with parsley and tomato.) I’m tipping the mixture into the pan when he comes in from outside, going straight to the sink to wash up.
“Morning,” I say cheerfully because he won’t register I’m here unless I make him, maybe he won’t even remember I’m his daughter and I live in this house.
It takes a breath for his gaze to focus on me. “Morning, honey,” he says as he turns the faucet off and grabs a dishtowel to dry his hands.
It’s not Alzheimer’s or anything that can be found in a medical journal. It’s not old age either. Dad isn’t yet forty, but his face is carved with lines and his hair is snow white—I tend to think it turned overnight, but I can’t be sure. Mom’s death hit us both hard and I walked around in a fog for weeks. When I noticed again, his hair was a shock of white. The rich mahogany color of his hair is not all Mom took from him. He wanders about through each day, looking for the great big chunks of him that went missing. It’s been six years now and if he hasn’t found them yet, I guess they’re gone for good.
I know Dad loves me and he can be present when it counts. As if he has some internal alarm clock that goes off whenever I fall toward a red zone. Like when Gabe left school at thirteen and I decided that was a perfectly reasonable idea. The final two years are just an overview of the various apprenticeships available to us and Gabe already knew his place was on the Setter farm. Just like I knew my place was here, but Dad was having none of that. You’re too young to limit your future, Senna. He insisted I stay on to the end of school and while I kind of resented him exerting his opinion over mine, it’s also nice to know he cared enough to do so.
When I turn from the stove to serve the omelet, Dad’s eyes find mine, searching, and suddenly he brightens like a light turned on.
“Wait, I have…” He pushes out of his chair and disappears through the living room, reappears moments later with a wide, flat cardboard box.
I stand there, pan in hand, watching as he makes space at the table for the box and sits. My heart blossoms into a smile. Not just because the yellow bow clearly signifies it’s a gift, but because he remembered. He doesn’t always.
His gaze lifts to me, his expression an odd mix of regret and pain.
My smile falters. “Dad, what is it?”
“Some days I forget, that’s all, how much you…” He gives a slow shake of his head. “It’s like looking at Elise.”
He’s remarked on this before, how closely I resemble my mother (I have Dad’s coloring, long dark hair and blue eyes, but everything else is Mom.) Usually it’s with the ghost of a smile and a faraway look in his eyes. Not like this, fully present, studying me as if he’s trying to absorb the essence of everything I am and everything I will be.
A shiver ripples down my spine. I’ve never considered what it must be like, the constant reminder. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry, ever,” he says softly. “Not for that.”
And yet I am. I’ve never seen it before, but I see it now. The pain. “It hurts you to look at me.”
He opens his mouth, probably to deny it. We haven’t had an honest conversation (or much of any conversation) about Mom since she died. When he dips his gaze without a word, the knots winding my gut release. Dad’s not the only one who prefers to keep his wounds tightly stitched. I learnt that the hard way when I was too young to know better, provoking him into endless weeks of raw anguish with my stupid questions and selfish need.
I don’t remember much from that day. I don’t remember Mom making us breakfast that morning even though she always did and I don’t remember us sitting around this kitchen table to eat it even though we always did. I don’t remember her last laugh even though she was always laughing.
I remember her clutching her side, keeling over the kitchen sink in pain.
I remember Dad coming to sit beside me in the clinic waiting room and telling me Mom would be okay, it’s just a simple operation, a very safe procedure. He held my trembling hand but I was eleven, too old to naively accept it would be simple or safe. I knew from the books I’d read that this world wasn’t always so (or maybe it was and that’s just fiction) but nowadays operations killed as many as they saved. In the end, it wasn’t the operation that killed Mom, it was the timing. Her appendix burst, spreading its toxic bile before the doctor could cut it out.
“It’s okay,” I say as I get myself moving again to divide the omelet between our plates, “we don’t have to talk about it now.”
“If not now, then when?” His gaze follows as I place the pan back on the stove and pull out a chair at the table. “This feels… Our days are running out, aren’t they?” He breathes deep before he continues, “You were right, honey, it does hurt to look at you, but only because I’m afraid I’m going to lose you, too.”
Oh! Of course Dad would be thinking about that. I bite down on my lip, bite down on the urge to reassure him. I’m not going anywhere. I’ll never leave you. We both know that’d be a lie. As
an only child, I’m a low risk candidate, but there are no certainties with the Tithe.
“I’ll do my best to stay,” I promise quietly, more worried for Dad than for myself right now.
He reaches over to squeeze my hand, a brief smile, then retreats to his side of the table. “Happy birthday, honey,” he says, picking up his knife and fork with a nod to the large box. “You going to open that?”
“You bet,” I say with a somewhat forced laugh to lighten the mood. The ribbon loosens with a tug. I don’t know what I expect, maybe a new pair of boots, maybe a drying rack for the dishes or a set of mason jars for my preserves. Something practical. Something necessary.
What I find nestled in a bed of rice paper takes my breath away. A burgundy hooded cloak of the finest velvet my fingers have ever stroked. I lift it out carefully, stand so I can try it on. “Where on earth did you get this?”
“I had Mr. Delaney make it for you,” he says, astonishing me even more than the luxurious gift.
My brows shoot up. “You must have ordered this weeks in advance.”
“I had a little help from Gabriel,” he says wryly. “The boy came to see me last month, reminded me eighteen was a big birthday. I wanted you to have something beautiful.”
The admission doesn’t detract from my joy; it only adds a few more layers. Dad can’t help the way he is, he does his best, and Gabe is always there to fill in the gaps.
“Well, I love it.” I fasten the velvet ties at my throat, enjoying the way the material swirls just below the knees. “Thanks, Dad.”
“I haven’t always known what to do, with you, when it comes to you.” His eyes are warm, the warm blue of a summer sky. “Your mother, she was good with that. She should have been here with you, especially this year.”
My throat thickens with emotion. “You’ve done okay.”
2
GABE ISN’T STRICTLY the boy next door. Although the Setter farm does butt against our land, the orchard is worked by three cotter families and Gabe lives all the way on the East boundary with his parents and twin sisters.
There’s no privacy in that cottage but it’s filled with warmth and love and noise, a lot of clutter to drown out the world. I spent a lot of time there after my mom passed.
The sun has dropped from view, the sky trailing blazing pinks and oranges when a tell-tale electric whizz stirs me out of my head and to my feet. Dad calls it the demon cycle, but it really isn’t. Gabe built the motorbike from scraps and I’m pretty sure my bicycle could keep up in a race, but there is the Hells Angels artwork on the body that’s all spitting fire and demon black.
My reflective mood lifts as I watch his approach from the bottom of the porch steps.
The wind scrapes his blond hair back from his face and molds a soft cotton shirt to muscle. His eyes are a deep blue and his jaw is square but not too hard. He stands about four inches above my five-foot six although he’s not standing now, obviously. His jean-clad thighs grip the body of the motor cycle with solid strength and every inch of me is aware of just how gorgeous he is.
I’ve been noticing for a while now, but I’m not sure what to do with it. I don’t have any experience with guys and I can’t afford to get it wrong with my best friend.
Gabe pulls up beside me with his cocky grin, puts one foot out to steady the bike. “Hey there, birthday girl, look at you all grown up.”
I roll my eyes at him. “Hilarious.”
He doesn’t bother cutting the engine. He waves hello to Dad, who’s looking out from the kitchen window. “How’s he doing today?”
“Good, actually.” I swing a leg over the saddle to shuffle in behind him. “And oddly sentimental. Thanks for the gorgeous velvet cloak, by the way.”
He sends me a look over his shoulder. The grin is gone. It’s just his blue, blue eyes and a vast ocean of warm amusement. “If that’s a hint, you should have dropped it in time for me to buy it.”
“It’s just a thank you,” I say with a laugh. “Dad mentioned your little visit a few weeks back to prod him.”
“He probably didn’t need it.”
I smile and say nothing more. We both know he probably did.
Gabe looks forward and clicks into gear to take us out onto the road. My arms go around his waist and butterflies flutter my pulse as I press my cheek to his shoulder, inhaling his familiar scent.
“So, where are we going?” I call out, my eyes grazing the passing farmlands.
“It’s a surprise,” he says and stubbornly refuses to bend to my half-hearted wheedling.
The scenery changes as the road slices through a swathe of ponderosa pines to the town. There’s no warning. In the blink of an eye, the line of plush green ends and the dense patchwork of timber, raw brick and plastered facades start.
The last census put our population at 2,368 (we take such things seriously here) and not everyone lives in town, but there’s not a lot of town either. The bulk of land inside the wall is reserved for farming, then there’s the mines, the industrial zone, the bits of wooded forest, and Mount Claire of course. The wind turbines that sit atop the rugged hilltop can be seen from almost every point of Ironcross.
Motorized vehicles aren’t permitted in town and Gabe cuts a hard left onto the Ring, a paved road that circles the town with a wide border of cut field.
He doesn’t pull into the parking lot on the outskirts, though. He rides on, weaving onto a dirt road that takes us back into the woods north east of town.
I assumed we were meeting up in town with friends, but we appear to be heading toward Mount Claire, which means the lake although obviously not the usual south beaches. We’ve been travelling about ten minutes when I hear the noise, the telltale whoops and laughter and buzz of chatter.
Gabe slows us to a stop right there in the thick of the woods, a short walk from the gathering.
We pause on the edge, our arrival not immediately noticed as I take in the scene. I haven’t seen much of my old classmates since school ended and everyone scattered to their various apprenticeships.
They’re camped around three log fires that are far apart enough to separate the groups, close enough to make this one big party. Which kind of defines how secular we live our lives. As small as Ironcross is, we’re all confined to this small sphere of humanity and yet still we cling fastidiously to our even tighter inner circles. I don’t count faces, but most of the thirty-three from my Tithe year appear to be here.
I know exactly what this is. “Pre-Tithe parties are outlawed.”
“That’s half the fun.” Gabe’s grin stretches from ear-to-ear. “And why we’re calling it your surprise birthday party.”
“I’m surprised, trust me. Apparently I was the only one not invited.”
“That was Jessie’s job, to make sure you weren’t.” He grabs me by hand, pulling me along. “Else it wouldn’t be a surprise, would it?”
I get the odd smile or wave as we walk past, the rest don’t pay us much attention.
Jessie rushes me with a sloppy hug, taking over from Gabe to drag me to our fire. There’s her boyfriend Harry, with his clean-cut looks and dimpled smile. Chris and Daniel, of course. And two girls from Jessie’s social circle in town, Emily and Rose. I roll my eyes as they all break out into a howling rendition of the birthday song. Chris calls Gabe over to their side of the fire for boy talk and I slot in between Jessie and Emily.
A brown beer bottle is pushed into my hands—not necessarily beer. I take a sniff to confirm my suspicions and pass it on. Daniel’s uncle brews some nasty stuff in a shed at the bottom of his yard.
The talk around the fire turns to our Tithe, inevitable since it’s only two days away.
“I heard Tommy Bradshaw and William Peters were held back,” Emily tells us.
“Luke Williams was held back first,” Jessie says. “But he appealed and then they went to Tommy.”
If there’s a considerable discrepancy in the gender numbers, the Alders’ may attempt to balance it by holding some people ov
er for the next Tithe year, or sometimes even the year after.
Rose scrunches her nose. “Why would he appeal? It’s not like he’s already hooked up with anyone and even with two less guys, the numbers are still skewed. He’d have better luck next year.”
Jessie shrugs and Emily shakes her head.
I get it, though. “Even with the worse odds, I’d rather Tithe with my peers.”
The conversation veers off the deep end of the Tithe after that, all pointless speculation and not much else.
We don’t know much about the beginning. It’s been over a hundred years since that small group of survivors barricaded themselves in here—our ancestors, the last remnants of humanity. The plague spread and devastated so quickly, there was no time for a proper accounting, no time for the world to understand what was happening. The virus killed off most of humanity, left only the ferocious beasts that roam beyond the wall. There were many breaches back then, the beasts coming over the wall to steal and feast on human flesh.
Until the Alders struck a deal with the beasts.
The Tithe.
The word Tithe originates from the Bible. It actually means “a tenth”, not ten—our treaty uses creative accounting. Each and every year, ten of us are Tithed to the wall in the year we turn eighteen.
It’s scary.
It’s necessary.
We don’t know much about the Tithe itself, only that the next two weeks will determine the rest of our lives and ends with ten of us gone, Tithed to the wall, never to be seen again. That’s as much as anyone knows. Except the Alders, I guess.
We do know a little about the Alders’ mindset when they decide who will be selected. Not fact (and there are always exceptions), just basic observation that’s bled through the generations of Tithing.
As an only child, I’m at a low risk. Same applies for anyone who has already lost an older sibling to the Tithe. Devastating an entire family is not the Alders’ style—for multiple reasons. There’s the town morale. There’s genetic diversity to consider, especially with such a small population. There’s the need to encourage larger families, so we can maintain the minimum population required to supply the Tithe and keep Ironcross functioning and for the general survival of the human race.