Sacrifice

by Vicky Walklate

  “We’d better decide what supplies to take with us,” she said tonelessly. “We won’t have room to carry everything the dwarves provided.”

  Hopping off the helm, she strode across the deck with her chin raised. Possessive pride skittered through him at the dignity she demonstrated. His little human possessed true mettle.

  He found himself back on the Zenith, remembering her whimpering cry when he carved his symbol into her skin. He’d hated every moment with that dagger, forcing himself to concentrate on the horrific task at hand rather than meet her terrified gaze.

  A vivid image of what would have happened if the ritual had worked hit him full force. A stark, bloodstained visual of their journey’s end: plunging a blade into her heart; watching the life fade from her golden eyes.

  Realization hit him with the force of a battering ram.

  He couldn’t do it.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Libby

  Libby rummaged through the supplies, determined not to show any dismay or hurt. Despite their growing friendship and obvious attraction, the god hadn’t displayed any reluctance over killing her. She suspected he couldn’t afford to. Not with demons advancing across his realm.

  She found two empty rucksacks in one crate. Medium in size—large for dwarves, she supposed—with adjustable straps and waterproof material, they were full of pockets and compartments. Perfect for a trek across mountain terrain.

  Pleased to have something other than the god to occupy her, she decided to catalog everything in the crates and select who would carry what. She separated the food into perishables and longer-lasting items, nibbling at another delicious sandwich at the same time. The dwarves had provided fresh spring water; she allocated two flasks to each rucksack. After dividing the medical supplies, she lugged out a pile of coarse blankets and stiffened.

  At the bottom of the crate sat a dagger. Small and unassuming, secured in a leather sheath.

  She glanced at her companions. Rhetahn frowned at his feet, his gaze distant. Dax remained fast asleep at the bow.

  She reached into the crate. The weapon was close to weightless in her hand, the dark wood hilt and grayish-black metal unfamiliar. Shoving it into the pocket of Dax’s jacket, which she’d re-donned after the episode with the bluecaps, she ambled to the berth entrance.

  “Where are you off to?”

  The god’s enquiry made her muscles seize. She did her best to sound casual. “To use the water closet. Some privacy would be appreciated.”

  “Ah. Understood. I’ll carry on sorting the supplies.”

  He leapt from the helm and she gawked at his effortless grace. Realizing she was staring, she shook herself and climbed down the ladder.

  Below deck, she opened the door to the water closet and shut it again, pretending she’d squeezed inside. Instead, she eased onto a bunk and unsheathed the dagger. The blade was dull and innocuous in the dim cabin, yet brushing the edge with her finger nearly broke her skin.

  She frowned. Did she need it? She could wield magic now, enough to cause harm if she tried. She weighed the benefit of carrying it against the chance of Rhetahn catching her with it, and his prospective response if he did.

  “You will die at my hand, girl.”

  “I need you hale and whole when I reattempt the ritual.”

  “Your life is mine to do with as I choose.”

  Decision made.

  She fastened one strap above her ankle and the other below, her lack of height aiding the fit. Sheathing the blade, she drew her socks over it until just the hilt peeked out, then covered it with her pant leg. The dark material masked the bulge above her boot, making her grateful for the oversized pants. Unless someone sought it, she doubted they’d notice her new accessory.

  Taking a deep breath, she climbed back up to the deck. Rhetahn was shoving items into the bags with much less care than she’d taken. The play of his muscles under his shirt made her mouth dry.

  She cleared her throat. “How are you getting on?”

  “Almost done. Are you sure you can manage two water flasks?”

  “Of course. I carried a bigger pack from my village to Flat Peak.”

  “Perhaps I should call you little ox, rather than cat.”

  She snorted and joined him with a pounding heart, half-expecting him to pounce on her leg straight away. They folded the blankets in silence, putting two in each rucksack.

  “What is your village like?”

  She started. “Why?”

  “It’s not a trick question. I’m curious. Whereabouts in Paskyll do you hail from?”

  “Firstocket, in the South Brecks province. It’s small and nondescript. Not like Trivium.”

  “How many people reside there?”

  “Around three thousand.”

  He smiled. “Not really a village.”

  “I suppose not.” She shrugged. “It has grown a lot in the last twenty years, since Thassa made it his home. Settlements with resident sorcerers are popular. They’re considered lucky.”

  “Has your father been your province’s leader for long?”

  “Yes, for almost thirty years.” She studied him. “Why are you interested in my background? I thought the less you were acquainted with me, the better.”

  He shrugged. “It must be evident I’m interested in you.”

  Her pulse quickened. “You said what happened between us won’t happen again. I’m the sacrifice, remember?”

  “Yes, about that.” His voice was careful, as he packed one of the rucksacks. “What if your status could be reconsidered?”

  “Reconsidered?”

  He met her gaze. “What if I used someone else?”

  She found herself lost for words.

  “Sacrificing you might be a grave mistake,” he said. “Your blood affected Mhaljett so negatively. Once we kill the council’s demon escorts, the sorcerers can cleanse my amulet of your essence. I’ll demand a fresh sacrifice, one without magical abilities. They must be traveling with a few servants. Thassa can redo the selection spell using them as aspirants. Thus, we’ll thwart his malicious intentions whilst completing the ritual and you can stay...alive.”

  “It would be nice to stay alive,” she said slowly, trying to make sense of this reversal.

  “Yes, and as such, we’ll continue our journey to the high sorcerer, discover why he machinated you as sacrifice, and request an alternative one.” He cocked an eyebrow. “Agreed?”

  She hesitated. Part of her wanted to leap into his arms for his repeal. Another part was intensely curious about why he’d changed his plans. The third part...realization made her freeze.

  “You would demand a different sacrifice?”

  “Correct. A new one.”

  “Another girl like me.”

  His voice filled with wariness. “Possibly. Sacrifices can be anyone aged eighteen and onward. As I assume you know.”

  She crossed her arms. “I would be expected to stand aside as a poor, innocent servant takes the blade meant for me.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Lissabet, you can’t have this both ways. I have offered you a way out. Do you appreciate that even by suggesting it, I’m breaking millennia of custom and tradition?”

  “I’m grateful, but it feels wrong—”

  “Why?” He pointed an accusing finger. “You intend to make a break for it anyway. Not to mention you now have a knife sequestered on your person. I saw you take it from the crate. You already plan to fight your fate, so why the onset of survivor’s guilt?”

  She squirmed, biting her lip. Clearly, she had overestimated her covertness with the blade. “I didn’t think you’d skip off to get someone else if I ran. I assumed you’d—”

  “What? You assumed I’d what?”

  “I don’t know,” she admitted. “I wasn’t being rational; I just didn’t want to die. But I can’t bear the idea of someone taking my place due to my cowardice.”

  “You’re not a coward.”

  She bowed her head. “I am
. Otherwise I would have returned your amulet as soon as you bade me. I was selfish then and my first instinct is to be selfish now, to accept your proposal and gain my freedom. But I can’t, Rhetahn. I can’t let anyone else go through this.”

  “Lissabet—”

  “Thank you for the offer.” She spoke quickly, in case fear made her change her mind. “Although I appreciate it, I must decline. I won’t run or allow anyone to take my place. I’ll accept my fate. Once Thassa confirms I’m fit to be the sacrifice and my blood won’t do to you what it did to Lord Mhaljett, I’ll let you kill me.”

  He stared at her for an age, his eyes searing her soul. “As you wish.”

  Rising sharply, he strode to the gunwale, keeping his back to her.

  Swallowing, she continued with the rucksacks, blinking back the tears creeping up on her like a thief. She didn’t want to return to their earlier hostile standpoint. Absurd as it seemed, she needed his acceptance of her decision. They’d grown close in such a short time, forging a peculiar and inappropriate connection. Even when they’d been at loggerheads, he’d acted with protectiveness. Shielding her during the demon attack; ordering her to stay away from the nalfies; keeping an eye on her as they’d traversed the ominous underground tunnels.

  She recalled his gentleness on the Zenith, when he’d whispered support in the face of her terror. She would need his compassion again, for next time there would be no unexpected postponement caused by an enraged brother. She wanted her death to be as fast and painless as possible.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  After she finished packing the bags, Libby glanced around for Rhetahn. He stood at the gunwale with his arms crossed, a muscle twitching in his jaw. Walking over to lean beside him, she marveled at how casually she approached the powerful deity now, how easy she had become in his company.

  They studied the water lapping against the sides as the chain hauled the boat onward. She opened her mouth, then closed it again. A dark shape shimmered below the surface. If the otter had remained close in the hope the bluecaps would return, it was staying hidden.

  “You’re angry,” she said.

  “Am I?”

  “You look angry.”

  “Lissabet, I’m perplexed and exasperated, not to mention sexually frustrated, because a stubborn, delectable human sacrifice rejected my unprecedented reprieve.”

  She swallowed and continued doggedly. “I need you to understand—”

  “I don’t.” He spun on her, fists clenched. “From the moment we met, you have done your utmost to deny your fate, from fleeing in the throne room to concealing a weapon minutes ago. Now, you’re prepared to die. You’re happy to let me stab you to death?”

  “Of course, I’m not happy, but I couldn’t live with myself if I allowed someone to take my place. Would you let someone replace you?”

  He faced the river, his voice so low she strained to hear him. “I don’t want to kill you, Lissabet.”

  “You don’t?”

  He gave the tiniest shake of his head, staring at the water. “You’ve gotten under my skin, little cat. I don’t want to harm you anymore.”

  “Then don’t.”

  He whirled to face her again, exasperation in his movements. “You just said—”

  “Don’t kill anyone. Order Thassa to uncover the Rondure and use that instead.”

  The resulting silence was deafening. Even the grinding chains and the echo of water on stone lessened, like the Yarkhelecht itself was listening.

  “What are you saying?” The god stared at her intently. “The Rondure was destroyed long ago.”

  She snorted. “Yes, the council says the same. Surely with Mhaljett’s situation and the demons advancing, it’s best to bury the hatchet?”

  “Bury the hatchet with whom?”

  “The sorcerers.” She fought the urge to squirm under his scrutiny. “Everyone in Paskyll knows the rumors. And I saw the paintings on the wall outside the throne room. You and your brothers came to Flat Peak to take the Rondure after Kalid’har died. The council refused, fearing its power would corrupt you. To punish them, you killed the high sorcerer’s daughter and completed the ritual with her death.” Rhetahn’s jaw dropped as she continued. “You chose to use sacrifices from then onward, ordering the council to hide the Rondure in case you ever needed it.”

  His tone was incredulous. “The Rondure remains in existence, yet we demand sacrifices anyway. The sorcerers declare this?”

  “Oh no. They say the Rondure was destroyed during the amulets’ creation. Everything else is supposition.”

  “Do all humans believe these suppositions?”

  “Many, yes.” She shrugged. “You do accept a sacrifice each time without hesitation.”

  “You believe The Three are malicious enough to hold a grudge for two thousand years? We would rather kill a supplicant every quarter century than make peace?” His voice lowered. “You believe that of me?”

  She recognized more than fury in his expression. She had hurt the proud, untouchable god with her assumption.

  “Tell me the truth, then,” she said. “If the stories are wrong, what really happened?”

  He ignored her question, his gaze boring into hers. “If the entire population believes The Three murder people to renew their power despite knowing there’s an acceptable alternative, why do you worship us? What makes the principals drag people to the selection ceremony each time? Why not challenge the council and force them to reveal the Rondure’s location? Why would you want to venerate such utter bastards?”

  His bitterness shocked her.

  “Because according to the legends, you’ll enslave us otherwise.”

  He gaped again. “You believe we’d subjugate you? After everything our people—dragons and humans—endured under Kalid’har and his demon spawn? You think we’d sink to his level?”

  “We don’t know you, Rhetahn,” she said through gritted teeth. “The Three are mysterious, cryptic entities, mighty warriors ruling us from afar, ready to punish us for the slightest transgression or withdraw any chance of a peaceful eternal sleep. We have no idea what you want or expect beyond our obeisance.” At his glare, she put her hands on her hips. “When was the last time you came to Paskyll and walked among us? How do you protect us from harm when you never so much as fly over our lands? When did you last offer reassurance or guidance, or even talk to a human until I came to Trivium? You leave every aspect of faith to the council. They maintain their word is the word of The Three, and it is law. Deep down, you must recognize this. I think you’re angry with yourself, not me.”

  “Well, I think,” he growled, “I need to be more hands-on in the future.”

  Hauling her against him, he claimed her mouth with wrathful purpose.

  She resisted on principle, but when his lips became more heated and insistent, she melted into his arms like she belonged there. Clutching at his broad shoulders, she allowed him to swing her ’round to the helm platform. The amulets hummed in pleasure and she lost herself in his kiss, the heat of his passion, the feel of his muscles bunching under her hands as he trailed his lips to her pounding pulse.

  “Am I being cryptic now?” He licked the base of her throat. “Do you know what I want, my little cat? What I expect?”

  “Rhetahn,” she whispered as he returned to her lips.

  She waited breathlessly to welcome another kiss. When it didn’t come, she pulled back, her eyes widening at the desperation on his face.

  “I’m not a monster. Don’t see me as a monster, Lissabet.”

  “Libby.”

  He frowned. “What?”

  “You can call me Libby,” she offered diffidently. “If you like.”

  He stilled, his eyes gleaming in the dim light of the tunnel. Then he gave her a wolfish smile. “I would like.”

  Bending his head, he reclaimed her lips.

  Their tongues entwined; he buried his hands in her hair as she wrapped her arms around his neck. Her mind reeled, her fury gone, any r
eserve or discipline lost beneath desperate, yearning heat. He cupped her breast and brushed his thumb over her nipple like earlier, making her gasp against his mouth. Ignoring the barrier of her clothes, he teased the hard nub with his fingers until she moaned.

  Gods, she was lost. Pleasure, heat, passion – her senses fixated on the man manipulating her body with such practiced ease. She arched, offering herself to him as if back on the altar.

  He gave a growl of approval. “Come below with me.”

  Her pounding heart skipped a beat and she glanced at the motionless Dax.

  “He’s fast asleep,” The god trailed his thumb across her swollen lips. “Come to the cabin. There’s more, little cat. Let me show you, teach you. Afterward, we’ll fathom the truth of the Rondure. I promise.”

  She wavered. Passion vied with modesty, ardor with prudence.

  He nipped her lower lip. “Come,” he repeated, a hint of command in his voice.

  She closed her eyes in surrender. He was her god. She was his to command. What was the harm in experiencing intimacy in his arms before she died? No one would begrudge her a few moments of pleasure, even in a cramped cabin on a cargo barge.

  She gave the faintest of nods. The god gathered her into his arms, as if afraid she would change her mind, and headed toward the open hatch. Then he stopped, comically crestfallen, like a boy who had lost his favorite toy.

  She followed his gaze. Ahead, on a narrow ledge jutting from the bank, were four dwarves. A small coracle-style vessel sat moored to the side, out of the way of the moving chain. The dwarves were yelling and gesturing with wild hands.

  He lowered her to her feet. “It’s time to leave this waterway.”

  She cleared her throat. “Shall I help unlatch the claws?”

  “No, I’ll do it. You go wake our slumbering shifter, Libby.”

  He uttered her name like a caress, his voice so warm and intimate, she shivered.