Sacrifice

by Vicky Walklate

  “But he looks younger than Mhiri!”

  Summer laughed. “Physical appearance works differently among our people. Once we reach maturity our aging process slows, although its speed depends on hereditary factors and activity level.”

  “Brand isn’t immortal though?”

  “No, only The Three are immortal, along with some ice dragon shifters who live in the North Sleets. We hardly ever see them. They’re an unsociable lot, they rarely leave the Sleets.”

  “So the Three and the ice dragons can’t be killed?”

  “They can, but it’s doubtful anyone would manage to kill the gods. They’re practically invincible with their amulets channeling their magic. Plus, they’re outstanding warriors, of course.”

  “How old are you?” Libby studied her. “You look about my age, twenty.”

  “Really? My youngest sister is twenty and she’s only just stopped eating with a bib!”

  Libby snickered. “Come on, don’t keep me in suspense.”

  “I am one hundred and thirty-four years old. A mere infant, I assure you. Well, not an infant, but young compared to some of the old grumps here. Life in the castle is much more starched and proper than my village.” Summer’s gaze became wistful. “Home seems far away.”

  Libby huffed. “I know the feeling.”

  She struggled to comprehend the lifespan her new friend referenced. As a regular human, she expected to live eighty or so years. At least, until today. Fear hit her full force, turning the food in her mouth to ash. She trembled.

  Summer patted her hand. “Would you like to learn more about us?”

  Libby took a shuddering breath and nodded, appreciating the attempt to distract her. Trying to focus, she listened to Summer talk about the people who resided in the valley and in large settlements farther afield; how shifting into dragon form was regulated in the larger towns to prevent mayhem in the skies; how a group of high-ranking ministers advised the gods in the governance of the Shifterlands and beyond.

  “Captain Brand is the Minister for War and Defense,” the girl said. “Technically he’s a general and commands the castle guards along with the main army. He’s The Three’s most trusted advisor, a decorated warrior and member of the nobility, but he’s a down-to-earth soldier at heart and prefers to be called Captain of the Guard. Mhiri says he’s the most honorable of the ministers by a long way.”

  “You work directly for her?”

  “Yes, I’m part of the team running the castle. Although it’s demanding work, it’s preferable to being a kitchen maid. I’d rather clean fifty bedrooms and run a hundred errands than wash four hundred dirty plates.”

  Libby smiled, building up to ask the question burning her tongue. It came out as a whisper. “What are The Three like?”

  She half-expected Summer to berate her for asking such a personal question of their blessed deities, but the young female didn’t seem to mind.

  “I’ve only seen them from a distance. They tend to stay in their living quarters, or in the throne room during minister assemblies and noble gatherings, parties and such. Occasionally they train with the soldiers in the castle grounds. That always causes a stir, not that they seem to notice. Rhetahn is the eldest, he’s very formal and imposing. I’ve been told he can be prideful and doesn’t suffer fools gladly. Mhaljett is the middle brother, he’s the most reserved. Some say he’s grown melancholier over the years, he used to be a lot more jovial than he is now. Storren is the youngest. He’s outgoing, cheerful, and by far the easiest to approach. The courtesans adore him, he—”

  Mhiri bustled back into the room, swathes of silver fabric draped over one arm. A leather bag overflowing with cosmetics swung from her other hand. “Gossiping, Summer?”

  The young woman flushed. “No, ma’am. I—”

  “It was my fault.” Libby raised her palms. “I was frightened and asked her to distract me.”

  Summer flung her a grateful glance and the hearthkeeper’s stern expression melted back into geniality. She lifted her arms. “Look what I have for you, Libby.”

  A few minutes later, she stared at her reflection in the mirror. The shimmering silver gown clung to her curves, falling in gossamer waves to her calves. She almost put it on backward when Mhiri clucked over to help, informing her the V-neck went at the front, not the back. The V-shape displayed half her breasts and most of her stomach, tapering off at her bellybutton.

  Libby grimaced and fidgeted. “It’s practically indecent.,”

  “Yet stunning,” Mhiri pointed out, with Summer nodding in agreement.

  “I take it male sacrifices don’t have to wear anything like this?” she growled, offended on behalf of females everywhere.

  “They do, actually,” the older woman confirmed. “The shirt is similar.”

  Mollified, Libby allowed them to fuss like attendants with a bride, brushing her hair until it shone in golden waves and adding touches of color to her cheeks and lips. The gown was at least skillfully made, she conceded, with hidden support sewn into the bust to prevent her ample breasts from springing free.

  “Good enough to eat, I think.” Mhiri made her twirl in front of the mirror.

  Libby froze mid-spin. “They won’t...I mean...”

  “Don’t worry.” The hearthkeeper squeezed her arm. “We don’t eat humans, not even in dragon form. It will be swift.”

  “How swift? What happens during the ritual?”

  The silence was deafening. Mhiri gave her another gentle squeeze and bent to collect the cosmetics strewn across the room.

  Summer wrung her hands and avoided Libby’s gaze.

  “Am I not allowed to know?”

  “They will carve their symbols in your skin—” Summer began.

  “Silence!” Mhiri’s command caused the younger woman to flinch.

  Libby contemplated the words. “That sounds painful.”

  The hearthkeeper flashed Summer a glare, then put her arm over Libby’s shoulders. “It will be quick. The rite takes place on the Zenith, the top of the keep. The gods will carve their individual symbols into your skin in turn, using blades infused with magic, and place their amulets on your body to absorb your blood. This will cleanse and renew them. Then, each brother will plunge their blade into you in unison, holding their positions until you die—”

  She sprang back as Libby vomited all over the floor.

  “Libby,” Summer exclaimed. “Are you all right?”

  “No!” Staggering away from the pool of vomit on the matting, Libby collapsed. “I’m going to be carved into pieces and stabbed to death, how can I possibly be all right?” She curled into a ball. “I want my mother. I want to go home. Please let me go.”

  She wept on the floor. She would die in agony, surrounded by strangers. How could this be happening? It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right.

  Summer made a move toward her but Mhiri stopped her. The two shifters surveyed Libby in silence as she sobbed, clenching her fists to stem the urge to run. They would stop her. That was why they were there. To prevent her from fleeing. To escort her to her death.

  Eventually, her tears subsided. Her throat ached, her temples throbbed, and her legs were as rickety as a newborn foal, yet she forced herself to rise. Returning to the mirror, she winced. Her eyes were puffy and red-rimmed now, her locks tangled and limp. Somehow though, her dress stayed flawless.

  She swayed in place, as empty as a tree in winter. “You might need to re-brush my hair.”

  Mhiri inclined her head. “We will.”

  Libby remained motionless while the older woman tidied her hair and reapplied color to her face, and Summer removed the vomit-soaked matting. She slipped into the most beautiful, impractical shoes she’d ever seen, made of flimsy white material with kitten heels and peepholes for her toes.

  Although her head ached and her throat was as dry as sandpaper, her mind stayed sharp and savage. That was the last time anyone would witness her tears. She was the daughter of a principal and would die with such d
ignity and poise, The Three would commend her.

  Despite her brave plans, a rap on the door made her jump. When Mhiri opened it to reveal Captain Brand in formal military uniform, Libby’s knees wobbled again. Her gaze locked on to the sleeve of his cobalt-blue tunic, where three godly symbols were stitched in gold thread. Rhetahn’s kite shape with its curved horizontal line through the center. Below that, Mhaljett’s pentagon with its S-shaped vertical line. At the bottom, Storren’s hexagon with two wavy lines through the middle. She had revered those symbols since childhood. Now, at the sight of them, dread crept through her heart like a hand ready to squeeze.

  The warrior’s gaze drifted across her. “Is she ready?”

  “Yes, Captain.” Mhiri’s reply was steady.

  Brand addressed Libby. “It’s time to go.”

  “I need water,” she burst out, her determination to be brave overwhelmed by the desperate need to prolong her life. “Please, I’ve been sick. I need a drink, or I might faint and delay the proceedings.”

  Brand glanced at Mhiri, who gestured at Summer.

  “Bring her outside when you’re done,” the older woman ordered.

  Summer bobbed a curtsey as the others departed. She poured Libby a glassful of water from a jug, handing it over in silence.

  “Thank you,” Libby said, after she finished it. “I’m sorry for earlier.”

  “Don’t worry, I understand. I’d be terrified too.” The young woman took her hand. “Mhiri and I will be close to the Zenith during the rite, in case we’re required. You won’t be alone.”

  Her words made Libby well up again. “Thank you, Summer.”

  “I’m sorry this has to happen. I’ve never met a human before, but if they’re all like you...” She bowed her head. “I wish there was another way.”

  “Me too. Shall we think of one now?”

  The dragon shifter gave her a wan smile. “Why not? We can present it to The Three when we get up there. Perhaps as a mime?”

  Libby’s fear and apprehension made that idea seem hysterically funny. To Brand and Mhiri’s bewilderment, it was two helplessly giggling girls who joined them outside. As the shadows lengthened, the tint of sunset made the castle walls glitter.

  Chapter Nine

  The keep’s windowless entrance hall was lit by flaming torches in the alcoves. Dim light filtered from the level above. Guards slammed the oak doors behind Libby and her escorts, the crash echoing through the foyer.

  Four armor-clad sentries guarded a staircase to her right. At the other end of the vast, empty hall, two smaller staircases—the servants’ routes up and down the keep perhaps?—stood in each corner. There was no furniture, no carpeting, and no décor other than the torches. She shivered in her flimsy gown, wrapping her arms around her body. It would be even colder atop the keep, with wind blasting from the mountains. Would it be against protocol to request a shawl to die in?

  Brand interrupted her nervous musing. “We will ascend to the throne room so The Three can bless you. You will not utter a single word in their presence, understand?”

  “What if they ask me a question?”

  “They won’t.”

  Mhiri squeezed her hand. “We’ll leave now. I wish you a swift death and peaceful sleep, Libby of Paskyll.”

  She stepped aside to allow Summer her own farewell. The young dragon shifter hung her head, her plaits drooping. Without thinking, Libby pulled her into a hug. After a moment’s hesitation, her new friend returned it with alacrity. There was no time to speak when they broke apart, for Brand clasped Libby’s elbow and directed her to the staircase. The sentries saluted their leader as he nudged her upward. Mhiri and Summer headed away too, toward the servant stairways.

  She climbed the steps in silence, her stomach rock hard, as if tied in knots. Stumbling halfway, she bit back a curse.

  “I’m sorry.” She grasped the captain’s outstretched hand and he pulled her upright. “It’s these ridiculous shoes—”

  “Be quiet.” He prodded her on.

  She trudged up the staircase, following its trail when it curved to the left, wiping away the sweat on her brow. They came into a large chamber, a waiting room for visitors if the row of gilded chairs against one wall was anything to go by. Stone floors met three drab gray walls, a stark contrast to the fourth wall, which was vibrant with color. Some sort of painting? At the far end, four more sentries guarded another set of imposing oak doors. One guard saluted Brand and hefted open the door, slipping through and closing it behind him too quickly for her to discern anything beyond.

  Brand led her to a chair. “Sit for a moment. Put your head between your knees if you need to.”

  She straightened her shoulders. “I’d rather get on with this.”

  “Sit anyway until your gods are ready to receive you.”

  She sighed and perched on the chair, clasping her hands to hide their shaking. Despite her brave words, tears pricked at her eyelids and her heart pounded against her ribs. The captain remained beside her, his back poker straight. The other guards stayed silent too, although she could sense them studying her. She resisted the impulse to tug the two sides of the gown’s V-shape together.

  Desperate for distraction, she examined the huge painting daubed on the stone opposite her, running the entire length of the wall. On the far left were three magnificent dragons, each with a godly symbol painted above them. The great beasts were reared up in battle against a lone figure, huge and grotesque, with misshapen horns and tabby-patterned skin.

  Kalid’har. It was a story, depicting the gods’ triumph against the demon overlord. The second illustration showed the monstrous form prone on the ground, three figures above him with swords raised in triumph. Armed soldiers clustered behind them, signifying the great battle that took place prior to The Three slaying Kalid’har.

  In the next design, the soldiers were depicted chasing more horned figures toward a green landmass surrounded by water. According to stories, The Three spared the demons who survived the battle and banished them to Nightspur Island off the southern coast of Paskyll. No one knew how many still lived there. The island was strictly off limits, not that anyone would want to venture there anyway. She shuddered and moved on.

  An outline of three dragons came next, flying toward a mountain with a familiar flat peak and a background of lush, green pastures. Homesickness washed through her like a physical ache and she hastened to the subsequent depiction.

  Canting her head, she squinted at the painting. The eight humans in a blaze of color was obvious: the Council of Sorcerers in their ceremonial attire. But why were they holding out their hands defensively as if fending off the approaching gods? And what was the object in their midst, glowing white and hidden from view of The Three?

  The Rondure?

  She rubbed her temples. The council maintained the powerful stone was destroyed during the amulets’ creation, yet rumors recounted in taverns and markets across Paskyll told a different tale, one very similar to the image in front of her...

  The doors swung open with a bang and she leapt from the chair, forgetting all thoughts of paintings, speculations, and magical stones. Light streamed into the room and she winced, fighting the urge to cover her eyes.

  Brand took her arm. “Come.”

  The bare stone floor gave way to black-flecked cream marble as they passed through the threshold between the guards. Lavish tapestries adorned the cavernous throne room in a rainbow of color, making the ones in the Sanctellium look like scraps and rags in comparison. Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, sparkling like sunrays on water. To her right, a podium held an enormous teak table and a dozen chairs behind a balustrade. High windows lined the wall behind the table, with silk veils screening doorways to the servant staircases in the corners.

  More colored silks decorated the banisters of another staircase opposite her, which led upward, farther into the keep. Enormous china vases brimming with wildflowers bordered the room, their sweet scent masking the ashy aroma of
dragon. Armored sentries stood by the wall, as motionless as statues.

  A crimson carpet began at her feet and split into three across the polished marble like streaks of blood. One path led toward chairs set in auditorium-style rows, with the carpet running along the center. Nine men and two women occupied the front row, cricking their necks to study her. Most were garbed in satin, velvet, and more jewelry than she’d ever seen in her life. Brand was woefully underdressed in his simple military uniform as he led her along the carpet, not that he seemed to care.

  She clung to his arm, doing her best to emulate his stalwartness and hoping the spectators couldn’t see her knees trembling. They whispered excitedly at her approach, but it was the silence ahead that made her quake. Were they there? Were her blessed deities present?

  She lifted her gaze for a moment, whispering a devout prayer under her breath as they reached a simple rostrum. The evening sun shimmered from the windows behind it. Three high-backed thrones sat in a row; a different symbol carved into each top. Seated below the carvings, as unmoving as their guards, were The Three.

  “Kneel,” Brand commanded.

  There was no need, she was already sinking to her knees. She prostrated herself, pressing her hands and forehead against the fresh-scented carpet, her breath coming in shallow bursts. How could she have doubted her destiny? How could she have showed such disrespect when chosen? This was an honor, she accepted that now. Her illustrious gods sat ready to thank her for her sacrifice, for the blood and life she gave them. It wasn’t a sacrifice; it was an honor and a privilege. She would die in grateful humility, knowing she’d served them in an exemplary manner.

  The captain’s somber voice was difficult to comprehend over the buzzing in her ears. “My lords. This humble sacrifice begs your blessing, before the honor of death at your hands.”

  Silence.

  She stayed motionless. They were scrutinizing her. She could feel the weight of their divine stares.

  “She may rise.”

  The voice was smooth and deep, like spiced honey. It sent a shiver down her spine, as Brand helped her stand.