Sacrifice

by Cayla Kluver

  Inspiration came to me in a strange fashion. My mother was helping our maid dye some muslin fabric blue in order to make day dresses for my younger sisters. All that was involved was soaking the cloth in the watery dye until it penetrated the fabric; the longer the muslin soaked, the deeper blue became its color. The dye also colored the sticks the women used to stir and flip the fabric so that all fibers would be exposed; and if you weren’t careful, it colored your hands. As I watched the process, it slowly dawned on me that the blue in its deeper shade was the same blue of our Hytanican flag, a blue that I longed to see waving in the breeze, displayed on our military uniforms and blanketing our horses. And that was when my scheme took form. If the dye could color not only fabric, but sticks and hands, could it dye hair? And, in particular, could it dye horse hair?

  I waited until my mother and our maid had left the fabric soaking in a tub, then dipped a mug into the liquid and carefully carried it outside. I walked with it to the barn, setting it down next to Alcander’s stall, for his coloring was better suited to my purposes than that of my own mare or Celdrid’s gelding. He turned to look at me, and I patted him on the neck, then plucked several strands of his cream-colored mane. Kneeling down, I placed the hair into the mug to determine if it would soak up the dye and, if so, how long it might take. After waiting impatiently for fifteen minutes, I checked the strands, pleased to see they were indeed turning blue. To turn a dark enough blue would take a while, however, for the hair of a horse’s mane and tail was quite coarse. Would the hair of the coat work better? I grabbed a grooming brush and entered Alcander’s stall, then lifted one of his hind feet to brush his white sock and fetlock hair. Feeling I had enough fuzz on the brush, I tried my experiment again. This time the effect was more dramatic, and it didn’t take as long for the color to grab hold. I smiled, for what I had in mind could definitely work. The dye would be easy to obtain and transport, I was comfortable around horses, and I knew my way around the military base. The biggest problem was that the work could take an hour or more; but at least it would be a quiet process.

  Over the course of the next two days, I surreptitiously collected and stored some of the dye, thinking I would need at least a bucketful. I also left the house at every possible opportunity, walking toward the military base, then surveying it from a safe distance, taking particular note of activity around the stables. My father had been the cavalry officer, so I was familiar with the layout of the barns, having visited them many times while he was alive. But I needed to know when guards were posted, how many were posted, and were the buildings ever left unguarded.

  As I expected, there was a lot of activity around the stables until late evening. But after all the horses that had been ridden during the day were returned and the animals had been fed, lights went out, the doors were locked and all was quiet. No guards in sight.

  The military base itself was a different matter—there were always guards on patrol. But they only passed in the vicinity of the stables once every half hour; and the barns could be approached from the blind side—the side that faced the apple orchard which separated the military base and the palace. While many of the trees were scorched, they would still provide good cover.

  My basic thoughts in order, I waited for an evening with adequate cloud cover, then put my plan into effect. After tying my hair back, I snuck downstairs and out the back door, then hurried to the barn, where I had stored the blue dye. Just before I went inside, I rubbed my hands in the dirt, then smeared some of it across my cheeks and forehead, hoping it would make me less visible. Entering the tack room, I picked up the bucket and grabbed several cloths that would normally be used for cleaning tack. Suddenly struck by the danger of what I was about to do, I hesitated, wondering if I should forget the whole idea. Was the prank I had in mind worth the risk? What would happen to me if I were caught? Then I pictured the Cokyrians leading away my father’s horses and hate rose inside me, giving me the courage to act and the confidence that I would succeed.

  I walked toward the palace, hugging the sides of buildings so as not to draw attention, then waited in the shadows of the apple trees until the guard had passed on her rounds, giving me an initial half hour. With a deep breath, I covered my light brown tresses with my hood and hurried forward, not giving myself a chance to change my mind. Bypassing the stallion barn, the foaling barn and the training barn, I moved to the main building that housed the working horses.

  I arrived safely enough, ready to face my first challenge—getting into the building itself. But time spent on these premises had taught me that the bottom half of the double swinging doors did not have a separate lock and was the least secure. I pushed on it with my shoulder until it swung inward, then ducked beneath, carrying the bucket of dye with me. I stood, letting my eyes adjust to the dimmer lighting, then approached the first stall. While the horse had a dark mane and tail, it had two white stockings, easy enough to work with. I soaked two rags in the dye and entered the stall, offering some oats that I carried in a pouch on my belt. As these were well-trained military horses, I simply ran a hand down a hind leg, then wrapped the damp cloth around the white sock above the hoof, repeating the action on one of the forelegs. I then left the stall to select another appropriate animal.

  A little farther down the aisle stood a white horse, and a thrill passed through me at my good fortune. I carried my bucket of dye over, grabbed a nearby brush and entered the stall. As the mare munched the oats, I dipped the brush into the dye, working it into her mane and tail, leaving them wet enough that water ran down her neck and the back of her legs. I stepped back to admire my handiwork, and grinned. This was fun, this was sweet and these Cokyrian horses were going to look magnificent in Hytanican blue.

  I returned to the first horse and retrieved my wraps, then moved down the line. Deciding I would have to work faster, I focused on white stockings and white manes, letting the dye set as long as I could. A sound at the barn door told me a half hour had passed, and I ducked down inside a stall, praying the sentry would not come too far down the aisle. To my relief, she raised a lamp and gave a cursory glance around, then departed, once more locking the door. I now had another half hour.

  My bucket rapidly emptied, covering six, then seven horses. I hadn’t known for sure how many mounts I would be able to “beautify,” and was extremely pleased with my number count. I was almost done, and things had been quiet other than for the occasional horse’s snort or stamp of a hoof.

  I swished the remaining liquid in my bucket, thinking I had enough for one more animal, then spotted a beautiful gray gelding on the opposite side of the aisle. I entered his stall, talking softly and extending a handful of oats. He snorted them off my hand, apparently not interested, which should have been my first clue.

  Thinking the gelding was perhaps a bit skittish, I laid a hand on his hindquarters, intending to give him some time to get used to me. Before I even knew what was happening, he whirled to face me, his ears pinned back against his head. I froze, then he reared, slamming his forelegs down while I scampered to the side. My second clue that I had not made a good choice.

  The horse spun, kicking out at me, his hooves crashing like thunder against the wood. With no way to defend myself, I grabbed the bucket with the remaining dye and tossed it at the loco gelding, as much landing on me as on him. Desperate to escape, I yanked on the stall door and stumbled through it as more kicks resounded. Faint with relief, I fell onto my hands and knees, panting heavily, my arms quivering, only to hear a so
und like the clearing of a throat.

  I stared at the floor and saw four black boots, then I felt the flat end of a sword against my chin, lifting my head until my eyes met those of two unamused Cokyrian guards. My heart dropped to my stomach, for in all my planning, I had not considered how to explain myself if I were caught.

  “Well, well, what have we here,” said a female voice.

  “Looks like a rather scruffy Hytanican to me. Or perhaps it is a Hytanican pony, given her position.” This speaker was male, so the woman was no doubt his superior.

  “No, I think she has finally learned her place, down in the dirt at our feet.”

  Despite how scared I was, resentment was pushing at my very skin, seeping through my pores.

  “If you think you can handle the girl,” jested the woman, “I’ll take a gander and see what she was doing here.”

  She walked up and down the aisle, peering in the stalls on each side, occasionally holding her lantern closer to one of the horses to get a better view. I remained on my knees, although I was now sitting upright, sweat trickling down my neck as my mind whirred to find a means of escape. Would they let me go if I vomited? That was a feat I was quite certain I could pull off, for it felt like I had been hit by the plague. But it was too late for that, for the woman had already seen some of my masterful work. It wasn’t long before she returned, each of her footsteps resounding in my head.

  “Well, it appears we have a prankster in our clutches. She has made quite a mess of several of our horses. Rava will be extremely displeased with her and highly satisfied with us.”

  “On your feet,” ordered the man, and I hastily complied, wishing I had never had such a foolish idea, for then I never would have attempted it, and I never would have ended up on my knees in the dirt in front of two Cokyrians. The woman yanked me around to bind my hands behind my back, and I winced as the rope cut into my wrists.

  “This is going to be entertaining,” she said, and my legs shook so violently that I doubted I would be able to walk. Steldor and Galen were brave, they were daring, and they could handle fear. I had none of those qualities. Panic hit me in waves at thought of the treatment I might receive from my captors. It was entirely possible I would never again see the light of day.

  CHAPTER NINE:

  POWER STRUGGLES

  ALERA

  I ended afternoon audiences earlier than usual and walked into the King’s Drawing Room, intending to pass through it and seek out Miranna. She had not joined me in the Hearing Hall as had become her habit over the past few months, and I worried that she might not be well. I did not have to go far to check on her, however, for I nearly bumped into her when I entered the corridor. She squeaked in alarm and clasped the hand of her best friend, Semari, who was standing beside her.

  “Alera,” Miranna gasped, a blush rising in her cheeks. “You startled me!”

  “I think we startled each other,” I responded with a laugh, then I greeted Semari, immediately understanding what had been more important to my sister than listening to the petitions of our people.

  “What plans do you two have?” I asked, glad to see Miranna was socializing.

  “We thought we would take tea in the garden,” Semari answered, her voice and demeanor telling me she had grown up considerably since I had last seen her. She would soon turn seventeen—had her father begun to consider suitors for her?

  Miranna reached out with her other hand so that she held mine in addition to her friend’s.

  “Join us, won’t you? It will be like old times.”

  “I was actually looking for you, so of course I’ll join you.”

  With a brilliant smile, Miranna led us through the doors that opened onto the garden at the rear of the Bastion.

  The midafternoon weather was warm, sunny and altogether delightful. We walked along one of the paths toward the fountain situated at the garden’s center, where the servants had prepared a table, complete with a steaming pot of tea. We seated ourselves around it, and Miranna, our hostess, poured the amber liquid into three cups. Pleasantries were exchanged, then the conversation turned to what I had inferred might be on Semari’s mind—her marriage prospects.

  “It hasn’t been easy,” she revealed. “With the war, there are twice as many eligible young women as there are men to marry them. Papa has suitors in mind for me to meet, but I honestly don’t know what to expect.”

  I frowned, for it seemed unlikely that a girl of Semari’s breeding would have difficulty enticing a husband, even given the tough times. Her father, Baron Koranis, was a rich man; she would bring a large dowry to a marriage.

  “Surely you exaggerate. A young woman with a background like yours will always draw good marriage prospects.”

  Semari shrugged. “Well, there is the other factor. Half of them are afraid of me.”

  I glanced between my sister and her friend, now thoroughly baffled. “Why in the world would men be afraid of you?”

  “Well, they all know Narian is my brother and, I suppose, that taints my blood. Or perhaps they worry he’ll, I don’t know, come after us.”

  “They think Narian will come after you?” I repeated in disbelief. “What is he, a mon—” I stopped, and all three of us looked down.

  “I’m sorry,” I breathed, distractedly fingering the betrothal ring around my neck.

  “Where did you get such a beautiful necklace?” Miranna exclaimed, grasping for a change in conversation, and my unease doubled.

  “I purchased it,” I began, knowing there would be no stopping my sister once her curiosity was engaged. In desperation, I knocked the back of my hand against my teacup, spilling the liquid over the tablecloth and onto Semari’s lap. She sprang to her feet, followed by Miranna and me.

  “I am so sorry,” I fussed, firmly tucking the ring inside my dress while Miranna dabbed at her friend’s skirt.

  “No, it’s quite all right,” Semari graciously replied. “It’s only a small amount, hardly a stain at all.”

  We once more took our seats, and my sister struggled to restart a polite conversation, but my spirits never did recover. Perhaps people would always believe Narian evil. That thought made me more depressed than angry, for I knew so much better.

  Finished with our tea, we walked through the heavy oak doors and back into the Bastion; at the same moment, Narian emerged from the stairwell of the spiral staircase, and I felt that our discussion had been prophetic. We all halted, and it seemed that we had gone back in time to the fateful day when brother and sister had first met—Semari and Narian were staring at one another as they had then, their faces so strikingly similar that the resemblance had been the impetus for Narian’s identification as a Hytanican. But their expressions, then as now, were opposite—Semari seemed inclined to hop behind Miranna and hide, while Narian had shut down so completely that not even I could conceive of what he was thinking.

  “Good day,” he finally said with a nod of his head.

  Semari’s mouth flickered into a smile, and she gave a small curtsey. Narian’s gaze went to me, but I did not know what he wished me to do or say. Without another word, he walked away from us toward the front of the Bastion.

  “I didn’t know he’d be here,” Semari whispered, and Miranna laid a hand on her arm. I didn’t respond, too dismayed for words.

  After parting from Miranna and Semari, I spent time in my study, then returned to my quarters for a light dinner. With great effort, I exiled the melancholy that h
ad lingered in the aftermath of my conversation with my sister and her friend, for it did no good to dwell on things that were outside my control. And no matter how I felt about his situation, Narian had reconciled himself a long time ago to his relationship, or lack thereof, with his family, just as he had accepted the way Cannan, Steldor, London and the rest would always regard him.

  I changed into my nightgown and propped myself against my pillows with a book, hoping Narian would come to visit me. It wasn’t long before he dropped with ease through my window, and I smiled, laying the novel aside. He removed his sword belt and came to sit on the edge of the bed, more subdued than usual, then drew one knee up against his chest, his body turned away from me.

  “How are you?” I asked, his demonstrative posture suggesting that he had either reached a new level of comfort with me or was particularly upset. While I hoped for the former, experience told me it was more likely the latter.

  “I’m fine,” he said, those two words confirming that he was troubled.

  “It appears something is on your mind,” I noted, trying to make this easy for him, if he did want to talk.

  My words had some effect on him, for he stood and faced me, although he simultaneously crossed his arms in a posture to block me out.

  “Do you think it’s…?” He trailed off, shaking his head. “Never mind.”

  He again sat on the bed, facing me this time, an indication he had come to a decision with which he was content.