A Dark Sacrifice

by Madeline Howard

  Skerry balled up his good fist and slammed it against his thigh. “By the time we heard about any of that we were penned up inside, and we had no way of following after her—supposing we were foolhardy enough to try and carve a path through thousands of Eisenlonders and hundreds of the bloody giants and skinchangers.”

  “But how, in the end, did you contrive to kill so many?” asked Prince Ruan, leaning forward in his chair. “Or where did they go?” Aell looked equally intrigued by those same questions.

  Kivik shook his head again. “Some of them left that first night, and I don’t know why. Otherwise, they killed each other as often as not. Once they were inside the walls this cursed place proved to be no more lucky for them than it had been for us—and more quickly fatal.”

  Sindérian could well believe it. Even now there were evil spells at work here. Around the edges of the room darkness wavered, something shifted. In a far corner, a shadow vaguely resembling a rat sat up and chittered at her. No one but she seemed to notice—except perhaps Prince Ruan, who flared his nostrils and narrowed his eyes when the chittering was loudest.

  “All day yesterday,” Kivik was continuing, “they divided their time between scaling our walls and fighting among themselves—and rather more often it seemed to be the latter. There were three different groups of them, so far as I could tell: the giants and skinchangers; the Eisenlonders; and those others we’ve been fighting this last year whose language we never understood. The trouble seemed to begin when the Skørnhäär and the Varjolükka took offense at something the Men did or said. They killed fifty or a hundred—just squashed men flat or tore them to pieces—and then loped off.” He grimaced at the memory. “That was the last we saw of them. But afterward, it seemed that the barbarians split into many warring factions and bloody battles kept breaking out between them.”

  “Impossible, after all the things we’ve seen, to doubt that there is a curse on the fortress,” added Skerry. Unshaven and ill kempt, they had little of the prince or lord about them. Everything they wore, everything that was not made of metal, was patched and mended, right down to their scuffed leather boots. “Though why we survived it so long, and why it turned on our enemies in the end, I don’t understand.”

  Sindérian thought that she knew. Blood will have blood, that was one of the oldest and cruellest laws of magic, and however civilized and learned magicians and wizards became, it still held true. The Eisenlonders and their allies had initiated the violence here, and it was for them to pay the heaviest price.

  “However it happened, the last group of them staggered off this morning, nursing their wounds. Either they knew that you were coming,” said Kivik, looking toward his father, “or they finally realized the Old Fortress had a deadly influence on them.”

  “We would already have formed a rescue party to go after Winloki, long before this,” Skerry added, “but whether to head north, south, or east, to go farther into the mountains or back to the flatlands again…” His voice trailed off in frustration.

  There is only one way the Furiádhin will be taking her, said Faolein, leaving his place on Sindérian’s shoulder, walking sideways down her arm, and balancing on her wrist. They will be riding south by the easiest way, at least until they come to the sea.

  Sindérian thought the same. “They will—they must—head south and eventually west, toward Phaôrax,” she told the King. “They have no reason to go east to Eisenlonde, and they have no more use for the Eisenlonders, now that they have the Princess.”

  Skerry drew in his breath sharply. His eyes moved from Sindérian’s face to the hawk, and then back again. She thought he was probably finding it difficult to make sense of things—particularly those things he had been told about her and her father. “That was the cause of it then, the entire bloody war—because Ouriána of Phaôrax wanted to abduct Winloki?”

  “I think…” Sindérian hesitated, turning the idea over in her mind, then went on. “I think you may have been the victims of Ouriána’s mistake. She has her seers and astrologers, a certain degree of Foresight herself. She must have been conscious of a threat in the north, and until she learned that Winloki was alive—”

  “She thought we were the threat? The whole Skyrran nation? Or that we would become a threat as she moved her armies north through the coastal principalities?” Another glance passed between Skerry and Kivik; it seemed the idea was not entirely new to either of them. “But this can’t be the end of it. There are too many old grudges between Eisenlonde and Skyrra. The barbarians won’t turn around and meekly go home, just because that woman on Phaôrax has suddenly lost interest in stirring them up.”

  “No, it won’t end here,” Sindérian agreed regretfully. “There are some things that, once started, can’t be so easily stopped.”

  An uneasy silence crept over the gathering and lasted until Prince Ruan asked the one question on every mind. “But can we really believe the lady is still alive? She’s been in their power for two days already. They tried to kill her once before, when she was only a helpless infant. Would they hesitate to do so now?”

  Another message passed between father and daughter. “They tried to capture her before,” said Sindérian. “What they meant to do to her afterward we only guess. And whatever Guirion might have intended then, this time it is Camhóinhann, the High Priest, who has her. He is wiser by far than any of the others—and therefore infinitely more dangerous. To kill the daughter of Nimenoë is not something he would undertake lightly, nor something he’s apt to attempt while still on Skyrran soil.

  “If indeed Camhóinhann intends to harm her at all,” she added at her father’s prompting, “it may be that Ouriána has reserved that task for herself.”

  “But can we rely on that being so?” said the King, wrinkling his brow. “Can we be certain that he will, in any case, not harm her immediately?”

  “No. That is far from certain. Any rescue party would have to leave soon.”

  Ristil hesitated; he seemed to be weighing matters very carefully. “We almost killed our horses getting here,” he said with a shake of his head. “Nor have we provisions enough to start a thousand men on the road again, not until the supply wagons come.”

  “But small parties travel more swiftly than large ones,” Kivik offered eagerly. “And our horses here are well rested. If Skerry and I took a handful of men and went on ahead—”

  The King interrupted him with a look like a thunderstorm. “Neither of you look capable of sitting a horse. And even if you were able to ride, what do you believe such a small number could accomplish against three of Ouriána’s priests? By all accounts, their powers are terrible.”

  “We will go, too.” The words were out of Sindérian’s mouth almost before she thought them. “My father, Prince Ruan, Aell, and I—we will go with Prince Kivik. If we can’t stop the Pharaxions, perhaps we can at least delay them until you and your army arrive. And it sometimes happens that a small party can manage by luck and ingenuity what a greater army never could by mere force.

  “As for your son and Lord Skerry,” she added with a glance in their direction, “no doubt your healers here have exhausted their strength trying to help so many. But if you will let me try what I can do, it’s possible they may be able to ride by morning.”

  After the King gave his consent, Sindérian transferred Faolein from her arm to Aell’s, braided back her hair, and pushed up her sleeves.

  She made each young prince lie down in turn on a bench by the fire. Then she made a careful examination, feeling with a combination of touch and intuition for broken bones, flesh and nerves stretched past their limits, animal spirits failing, and blood running thin. In this way she learned that Kivik had three cracked ribs and Skerry a broken arm, in addition to many gashes, scrapes, and bruises between them. As she had expected, in each case there had been a great loss of blood.

  Having determined so much, Sindérian began to set her charms: drawing the runes quornü, rühas, craich, and güwelan in water and ashe
s, pouring thought and intention into battered flesh and broken bones, along with as much of her own vital and animal spirits as she dared, to compensate for the loss of blood.

  “Omaro gürdath maren, oma gürdath onés,” she chanted under her breath as she worked the final shibeath on Skerry. “Diohach séo güwelean nésoma!”

  Already exhausted by long days in the saddle, short rest, and less sleep, she was white and trembling by the time she had finished. She took two steps away from the bench, and her bones turned to water, her knees buckled, the world went spinning away into a grey void. She would have fallen if Prince Ruan had not somehow anticipated her swoon and moved in quickly to catch her.

  “That was not very wise,” he hissed under his breath when he had helped her back to her former seat by the fire. “One day, you will go too far.”

  It was now near midnight and far too dark, under the withered moon, to think of riding out. That meant there was time enough for rest and to eat a scanty meal.

  After they ate, one of the healers took Sindérian through the maze of stone and shadows that was the keep, and finally into a tower room where she could sleep.

  Strange thoughts danced in her brain, a procession of fey, bright images: wicked queens, bone-grinding ogres, owl-headed witches. I have seen this place, this fortress, before, she told Faolein as she sat down on the small makeshift bed. I dreamed of it long ago. It was different, as things often are different in the way of dreams, but still too like to be mistaken.

  And was it a good dream or an ill one? her father asked.

  Sindérian shook her head, uncertain how to answer. Neither good nor bad. But I dreamed that dream on the day after the night the Princess was born, and I can’t help thinking we were intended to meet here, she and I.

  Neither said so, but they both knew what that meant. If the meeting had occurred as it was fated, everyone might have been spared much trouble and grief. As they had not met, no good could come of it.

  In the small hours of the morning those who had been chosen for the rescue party headed for the stables, where horses and provisions were already awaiting them. A cool dawn wind swirled through the courtyards, causing the torches that some of them carried to flicker wildly.

  Striding along beside the two Skyrran princes, Sindérian felt stronger after her short sleep. Dismay at arriving too late had given way to her native stubbornness—which always had an invigorating effect. Her mind was so busy with thoughts of the days and challenges ahead, she was taken by surprise when Prince Ruan abruptly reached out and clasped her by the wrist, drawing her away from the others.

  His handsome face was pale and oddly intent. “You have some plan you chose not to reveal to the King—when do you not have a plan? But this time the risk is too great. It’s not too late to change your mind, wait here with the King, and follow after us later.”

  Sindérian stopped walking. “Do you think I am afraid to share in the danger?”

  “No, I think you are careless of your own safety—and therein lies the peril. I think there is something you have been hiding from the rest of us, ever since we almost drowned in the Necke.” His grip on her arm tightened; his suspicious frown deepened. “‘By luck and ingenuity,’ you said. You have a courageous spirit, but even with the greatest luck in the world, what do you think you can do to hinder three Furiádhin?”

  She shook back her long, dark hair, made a dismissive gesture. “Éireamhóine faced six of them, and killed three.”

  “Éireamhóine had nearly five times your years and experience, and by the King’s account he paid dearly for those three deaths. If I were killed or maimed, who would suffer for it except myself? My grandfather has more than a dozen grandsons. And King Ristil has other sons besides Prince Kivik. But you have gifts that would be sorely missed.”

  “Then let me use those gifts! Let me not waste them,” she said passionately. “And you seem to forget that Faolein will be with us.”

  “I forget nothing. But Faolein seems to have lost the power to do anything beyond changing his shape—and never back to the one he had before, the one best able to help us.”

  Unable to endure his steady, unnerving gaze, Sindérian slipped out of his grasp. The others, after hesitating a moment to see if she and Ruan would follow, were getting too far ahead. Fearing to lose her way in the maze of yards, she gathered up her full skirts in both hands and hurried to catch up with them.

  “It’s true my father can no longer make the signs or speak the words,” she tossed over her shoulder, “but every spell and charm he ever knew is still with him. You saw what I was able to do in Arkenfell under his instruction. If Faolein goes, then so must I, to serve as his hands and voice.”

  Drawing even with her, the Prince strode along at her side, still scowling ferociously. “It is not for me to tell you what to do. The wizards of Leal are the High King’s allies, not his subjects. But if you were my sister or my cousin—”

  “If I were your sister or your cousin,” she retorted, “you still wouldn’t have the power or the right to change my mind!”

  12

  For a night and a day they travelled at a punishing pace—priests, acolytes, temple guards, and their angry, confused, and terrified prisoner—without sleep, without food, stopping only briefly to rest the horses or to perform their accustomed rituals at moonrise and moonset. At night, the Furiádhin conjured up eerie spinning globes of green luminosity to light the way down dangerous mountain roads. By day, they raised the hoods of their crimson cloaks and rode with their faces in shadow, protecting their moon-pale skin from the sun.

  Winloki sat up as straight as she could in the saddle, tearless, defiant, determined to show neither weakness nor fear. She had passed beyond exhaustion into that waking dream-state where the body no longer knows it is being pushed beyond its limits. Her captors had bound her so securely to the saddle there was no danger of her falling off during this wild ride over sometimes rough terrain—they had also, more ominously, manacled her hands. Thin silver bracelets encircled her wrists, joined together by a fine but exceedingly strong silver chain.

  Otherwise, they had done her no violence, handled her no more cruelly than the conditions of their headlong pace required. Yet she was sick and terrified with the knowledge that violence must be coming, perhaps as soon as their first stop to eat and sleep.

  And always she was aware of the silver bracelets lying smooth and chill against her skin. The chain was long enough to allow some freedom of movement, but a potent magic in the bands themselves thwarted her every attempt to work her own spells, whether to heal muscles bruised and aching after so many continuous hours in the saddle, or to try to escape. She had been worrying her tired brain for hours trying to come up with a reason why such elaborate precautions would be necessary. These creatures, so terrible, so powerful, what need have they to fear me and my untrained gift? Why cuff me and constrain me like a thief or a murderer?

  When she finally realized what it might mean, the blood rushed into her face in a burning blush and the rest of her body turned cold. She knew stories—stories told in whispers, stories overheard, never intended for the sheltered ears of a princess—about the cruelties inflicted by violent and wicked men on female prisoners. At the same time, there was a widespread belief that no healer need ever endure rape, because the man who attempted that outrage would find himself assaulting a corpse.

  Could something so simple and horrible be the real reason behind her abduction? Or was it—considering the extraordinary nature of her captors themselves—likely to end in some worse violation she could not even imagine? These thoughts, when she allowed them, left her dizzy with horror.

  Oh yes, she knew herself well enough, knew the extent of her gifts well enough, to be certain that she could take her own life rather than face torture or degradation—but the bracelets robbed her of all choices, whether to live or to die. And whatever these men intended, be it rape or worse, she was helpless to prevent it.

  They had followed
a descending track since morning, leaving the pinewoods behind, riding through country that was harder and chancier: a region of rockslides, chasms, plunging waterfalls, and a scattering of shrubs that had somehow rooted themselves in what looked to be solid stone. Shortly before nightfall, Winloki’s mysterious abductors finally stopped to set up a camp in a little alpine meadow of thin, dry grasses beneath high cliff walls.

  While the guards saw to the horses, the acolytes pitched tents made of the same coarse black cloth they wore themselves. She sat neglected astride her horse, gritting her teeth, trying not to droop in the saddle, until one of the men remembered to untie the ropes holding her in place and lifted her down with surprising gentleness.

  As soon as her feet touched the ground, the world swung around her; she turned light-headed and giddy. It was only pride that kept her upright. A swarm of black-robed figures closed in, ushering her over to a place where the ground sloped, and one of them indicated she was to sit. Then she could finally let her legs give way, sink down in the rough brown grass.

  The crowd parted before one of the hooded priests. His ankle-length scarlet robes were split for riding; he was booted and spurred, belted with a sword and two long knives; yet she thought he had an austere look about him that suggested a cloistered, meditative life rather than battlefields.

  He offered her a drink from a leather flask. Too parched to refuse, Winloki warily accepted, holding the bottle in both hands, taking an experimental swallow. The spirit was so potent she almost choked, but it satisfied her thirst, with an unexpected taste of honey and herbs.

  There had been ample opportunity by now, just by watching and listening, to learn some of their names, to learn a little about the men who held her prisoner. Camhóinhann, Dyonas, and Goezenou: those were the three Furiádhin, more horrible in the flesh than imagination had ever painted them. The others were their acolyte-servants, or else guards attached to their temple in Apharos and by extension to the priests.