At first, Derian had thought this must be a very old temple. Then he realized that the reverse was what was true. This was a very new temple, probably not more than a decade old. That probably explained its roughness. The temples in u-Seeheera had been built before the Plague. Their builders had used magic to help them along. If they hadn't used magic, they'd at least had experience on their side. This temple had been built without magic, with trial and error as an architect, and—again Derian was sure he was right—on the sly.
His skin began to creep, and this time the sensation wasn't due to the proximity of the two carnivores who lay on either side of him. If anything, they were a comfort.
Why did they bring me here? Why didn't they bring someone like Varjuna or Tiridanti or even that rather silly woman who likes the bears? Why me? Why now?
Derian couldn't ask, though he longed to do so with almost a physical pain. Instead, he settled himself and resolved to figure out the answers through observation.
A ritual of some sort was under way. Derian had the feeling that they were just warming into it. He tried to count how many people were down there and to see how many there were. Two disdum fussing about on top. The fellow on the drums. A woman playing very softly on a flute. Then there were what Derian figured was the congregation, a couple dozen men and women settled in prayerful attitudes far enough back from the pyramid that they could see the top.
There wasn't a single bonfire as he had thought originally, but smaller fires set along the steps, so that what was going on at the top could be clearly seen. The centrality of the firelight cast everything else into shadow, so it was a while before Derian saw the group on the far side managing the animals. To be honest, he didn't focus in on them until a woman in the formal garb of a kidisdu of birds started climbing to the top. She was holding a snowy white cockerel in one hand. The bird was hanging limply, as birds that have had their eyes covered usually do.
The congregation started singing something low but fervent. Derian struggled to get a clearer look at the group clustered with the animals. They were on the far side of the pyramid from him, and that made seeing difficult. Then suddenly, he realized that what was important wasn't how many there were, but why they were here.
The woman holding the cockerel had surrendered it to one of the men at the top and then dropped to her knees one step shy of the top. She bent her head. The singing rose in intensity. The man now holding the cockerel raised his voice in triumphant song. The bird struggled just a little as if suddenly sharing Derian's feeling that something wasn't right.
Then the disdu holding the cockerel nodded to his subordinate. The other brought up a gleaming knife and slashed. Blood went everywhere, splattering the stone and the robes of the three disdum atop the pyramid.
The cockerel was set down on the cloth that topped the altar, and when the blood had run through it, the dyed cloth was held up for inspection.
Derian continued to watch, but although he registered detail after detail, his thoughts were in a whirl of confusion and horror. Hadn't Rahniseeta or someone told them that animal sacrifice had been stopped as part of the treaty with the yarimaimalom? Sacrifice of any animal, he was sure, not just the yarimaimalom. Yet here in this hollow in the woods, he'd witnessed it. He recognized the man who held the cockerel up before the congregation, too.
It was Dantarahma, the junjaldisdu, a member of u-Liall—and apparently, a man willing to break with what his people believed was the will of the deities.
Chapter XXVII
The swim across the inlet posed a challenge nearly as great as getting the wolves out of the cellar. Moon Frost was already learning to run and even hunt with her broken foreleg, but swimming would remain beyond her.
"I could remain on this side," Moon Frost said, but it was clear from the cant of her ears that she didn't want to do so.
"I could see if there are any water folk who would carry you across," Dark Death offered, "but we would miss this tide." His comment gave Firekeeper an idea.
"Moon Frost, your hind legs are strong enough," she said, thinking aloud, "but without both of your forelegs your head will go under—and this is too long a swim for any of us to support you. But I have an idea. Dark Death, do we have time before we must set out?"
"We do," the wolf replied. "I awoke everyone early in case difficulties arose." He didn't say more, but Firekeeper suspected Dark Death had anticipated Moon Frost's problem—and had probably been wondering if Blind Seer would be strong enough as well.
Blind Seer privately confided to Firekeeper that his head continued to hurt and that he had moments of double vision, but that otherwise he was doing well. He had assured her that he could manage the swim. She took him at his word, privately resolving to swim close, just in case he needed aid.
Keeping these worries to herself, Firekeeper turned her attention to how to assist Moon Frost in her swim. She found the answer in a piece of driftwood, so dry that it was extremely buoyant.
"I'll need your help," she explained to Moon Frost, "in order to get the measurements right."
"What are you going to do?" Moon Frost asked.
"Have you seen rafts?" Firekeeper asked. When Moon Frost indicated she had, Firekeeper went on, "I am going to make a little raft that we will set under the sound bone of your upper leg. The broken portion will hang over the edge and into the water. The raft will keep your upper body above the water, but you will need to work hard to pull yourself along."
"I will try," Moon Frost said, obviously feeling some doubt, "but I hope I am strong enough. I remember how the current can pull."
Firekeeper hadn't considered this, but Dark Death came up with an answer.
"Is the rope you made still good?" he asked Firekeeper.
"It should be," she replied. "I don't think it has had time to dry out."
"Then we will attach one end of that rope to the raft, the other to me. I have made this swim numerous times and know I have strength to spare. I will lend that strength to Moon Frost."
It took some experimentation to get everything right and the tide was beginning to turn when they set out.
"We should still have ample time," Dark Death assured them.
The pull of the current was strong now that the tide was on the rise, but Firekeeper found she could manage. She had experimented with adapting her swimming style, using her legs more than she had before and changing her arm stroke. Blind Seer had learned a few tricks from Dark Death and was so obviously up to the challenge that Firekeeper positioned herself downcurrent from Moon Frost, where she could help keep the injured wolf on course.
All were bedraggled and exhausted when they arrived on the farther shore, but despite this, Firekeeper had to fight down an urge to start running toward the towers Dark Death had indicated were their destination. She could see a few of the tallest through breaks in the trees, and thought she could easily find her way.
Mai-mal-o-da-lu once again beat in her head as a refrain, drumming so loudly that Firekeeper was almost surprised that the others could not hear her thoughts.
However, despite her urge to rush off, Firekeeper made herself rest. Dark Death located a reliable source of fresh water and she rinsed the salt from her skin. As she did so, she looked about. There was evidence of human habitation here as well and she wondered if this might have been a landing area used to cross to the larger island in the days when humans had lived in this place.
"We will rest for a bit," Dark Death decided, "and even so I think we will arrive at the towers before the worst of the heat. Is anyone hungry?"
Moon Frost admitted rather shamedly that she was. Firekeeper could tell that this reduction to puppyhood was hard for the proud hunter.
"I am hungry, too," Firekeeper said, lying just a little. In reality her feelings were so roiled that she could hardly swallow water. Still, she knew she should eat, even if she didn't wish to do so.
Dark Death wagged his tail slightly.
"If you would check Moon Frost's leg,"
he said, "I will hunt for all of you."
Blind Seer pulled himself to his feet.
"I will come with you."
"Rest," Dark Death said. "Your head may not be broken as is Moon Frost's leg, but still it has been given little time to mend."
Blind Seer surrendered so easily that Firekeeper knew he must feel terrible. She wondered if the willow tea Doc had taught her to make would work on a wolf. There were ample trees about and she resolved to find some way to make a brew. Perhaps she could find a cup or bottle mostly unbroken among the ruined buildings.
First, though, she kindled a fire and when it was burning unwrapped Moon Frost's leg just enough that she might check for signs of infection.
"I miss Doc," she said to Blind Seer. "He could set this right in a few days."
"Doc?" asked Moon Frost.
They had mentioned the human healer before, but Firekeeper suspected that Moon Frost was looking for distraction from the pain she was certainly feeling. The raft had kept her afloat, but even with Dark Death's help, the swim had been hard on Moon Frost.
Firekeeper and Blind Seer told tales of their earlier ventures, emphasizing how Doc had saved each of their lives more than once. When Moon Frost drifted off into an uneasy doze, Firekeeper rose.
"I am going to look in the ruins for something in which I might mix you some willow tea," she told Blind Seer. She saw him start to rise and pressed him back, pausing to kiss him on top of his head. "Don't worry. I will be very careful. Stay here and watch Moon Frost. Plight now she's so tired an ambitious ant would be able to carry her off."
Blind Seer panted laughter as he settled himself to rest again. Cheered, Firekeeper went searching for a pot or pan. What she found was a glass bottle. The sides were thick enough that she decided it would work, especially if she kept the glass from direct heat. Then she found a battered metal cup and knew this would serve even better.
I'm not jealous of Moon Frost anymore, Firekeeper thought as she brewed the willow tea, but I know I would be if she started sniffing around Blind Seer again. Maimalodalu. Is that the answer? Can I really have everything I want?
Firekeeper was young enough to hope, and old enough to doubt. The uncertainty kept her from resting. It did not keep her from falling asleep and dreaming.
She is at a ball, an extravaganza the like of which she has never imagined. Music plays its seductive patterns, and though she longs to join the dancing, she waits and watches.
The skins of the dancers are dark and light, soft browns, dark browns, peach, red, golden brown, and even the multihued painted patterns of the New Kelvinese. Some of the dancers wear the styles of the Gildcrest colonies: floor-length sweeping gowns for the women, elaborate multipiece suits for the men. Others wear the billowing blouses and trousers of the Liglimom, the fabric stiff and glittering with embroidered patterns. Still others wear the long robes of the New Kelvinese, the dancers graceful despite their curly-toed slippers, long-braided queues interwoven with strands of sparkling gems.
Firekeeper watches the gaudy throng, searching for someone in particular, someone who is not there. Man after man emerges from the crowd, begging her for a dance. Some are rich, some are young and strong, some are handsome. Her dance card is growing full, but her heart remains restless, curiously dead to the admiration of those who surround her. She inspects face after face, not finding the one she seeks, despair flat and sour in her mouth.
Her temperament is not one that waits. She is a hunter. She goes looking, uncertain who is her prey.
She is pushing through tangled growth, raising curtains of vine, feeling the hem of her gown knotting around her feet. Satin slippers bind her toes. She kicks them off, feels the yielding dampness of the duff beneath her feet. This is better.
She pushes aside the vines, steps around heaps of stone that are the ruins of buildings that once made trees seem small. She hears new music, comes upon another ball. Here the dancers are cranes dancing two by two, their long legs curiously human in their stilted steps, their long feathers as elegant as any silk dress. Now they intermingle with the human dancers, the ballroom's garlands are flowering vines, the candlelight the flickering glow of fireflies.
All at once, there is a pause in the music. Heads turn to see who is entering. He is tall and lean, his bearing graceful. His attire is that of Hawk Haven: knee-britches, waistcoat in patterned silk, white shirt closed at the throat with a flowing cravat. His feet, though, are bare, and the legs that extend below the gather of the trousers are grey-furred and wolf-pawed.
When he turns so that his gaze might sweep the crowd, she sees the bushy tail that balances his height. He turns further, and now it is clear that the face beneath the tricorn hat and the tidy formal wig has a long muzzle, a wolf's face with wolf's fangs, but the eyes that meet hers are blue.
He strides across the room to her. She tears her dance card in half. Tossing it to the polished boards of the floor, she steps with light eagerness to meet him. She lets him take her into his arms, feeling there the thrill she had not at the approach of any of the many human suitors. Together they are dancing, grace and motion wedding them into one. But those who have crowded the sidelines are not smiling; there is no approval on any face. Now she sees that there are beasts among the crowd, and they look no happier than the humans. Hackles are raised, claws extended, lips curled back from shining fangs.
"Impossible!" comes the cry from every throat. "Impossible!" And her partner is dropping onto all fours, his finery shredding about him. Hands are pulling her back, and her struggles mean nothing against that one word: Impossible.
Firekeeper sat bolt upright, finding her hand wrapped around her Fang. She had fallen asleep with her head upon Blind Seer's flank. When the blue-eyed wolf turned his head and looked at her, his gaze that of the handsome swain in her dream, she felt her heart twist with pain.
Dark Death had just entered the clearing. Doubtless the sound of his return was what had wakened her. He was dragging behind him the carcass of a young wild boar, hardly more than a piglet and fat with its mother's milk. The wolf wagged his tail in greeting, obviously hoping for her approval.
With dream-born insight, Firekeeper realized that Dark Death's attitude toward her had changed, that she was no longer a human intruder or useless weakling. Dark Death now saw her strength and usefulness. Wolf-like, he strove to impress her—to win her?
A thrill of mingled excitement and fear washed through Firekeeper, leaving her weak. She gripped dirt in the curled fingers of her free hand, fighting not to let any of her companions know how confusion threatened to overwhelm her.
After several ragged breaths, Firekeeper rose from Blind Seer's side and moved to help Dark Death carry the meat. When she easily lifted what he had been forced to drag, the wolf breathed his approval.
"You are very strong," Dark Death said. "I had not known humans could be so strong."
The wolf's praise thrilled Firekeeper, a thrill she had never felt in response to praise from any human male, though there had been men who had admired her—even those who claimed to love her.
Firekeeper's nightmare haunted her and she ripped her Fang through the young boar's hide, gutting it and throwing the offal savagely away. The wolves swarmed after it, snapping at each other in not quite playful competition.
Impossible.
Derian clung to the dirt as a dog was killed, then a lamb, then a calf.
At least they're domestic animals, right? he thought frantically. The rules don't forbid butchering, do they? No. Just animal sacrifice. How is this different?
He knew he had arrived at the justification the disdum below were using. As such, he could recognize the portents when the white mare was led forth.
She was a beautiful animal. Without looking at her teeth Derian couldn't be sure, but he was willing to bet she was no more than three years old. Her coat was as pale as sea foam, her mane and tail combed out so they shone, giving back the firelight with hints of silver.
She wasn't led t
o the top of the pyramid, so at first Derian hoped they didn't intend to kill her. Then he realized that the clean sand being spread around the base would serve the same purpose as the cloths placed on the altar above. He started to pull himself upright. A huge paw placed directly between his shoulder blades forced him down.
Although the air below must reek of blood from the animals that had been slaughtered before, the white mare was almost impossibly docile. When they led her between two flaming brazers she only glanced at the fire with mild interest. Derian recognized the symptoms.
Drugged. They've doped her with something. It wouldn't do to have your sacrifice bucking and pulling and trying to save her life, not when the whole thing is supposed to be a way for the deities to tell you their will. I wonder how many of those people realize what's going on? How many of them realize that if that horse is killed they're moving into new territory?
During his time in u-Bishinti, Derian had learned that the Liglimom did not typically eat horse meat. An old horse might be killed and its meat then used for animal feed, but horses were not raised to be eaten.
Any more than dogs are, Derian thought. I should have seen it before. These sacrifices aren't some new thing, triggered by our coming. This has been going on for a while. Probably at first they killed a chicken or a rabbit—hardly anything more than any farmer does for the pot. Then they needed something more dramatic, more enticing, more worthy. I wonder how long before they move on to wild animals? I wonder how long before someone thinks to try again with the yarimaimalom?
His thoughts thundered in his head, beating back against the horror he felt as incantations were spoken. As before, the culmination was when the knife wielder slit the animal's throat, but here there was a new horror.
Before the animal had been killed quickly and cleanly, but the mare's throat was only cut open. She shook her head as if feeling the sting, but otherwise remained docile. Blood splattered from the wound, splashing onto the clean sand. Dantarahma looked at the patterns it made in the sand and therein read portents.
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