The Bones of the Earth

by Rachel Dunne

  Etarro wished he could be that fearless, but he was shaking, and there were tears warm in the corners of his eyes.

  The blades looked to Valrik, who gave a small nod, as though he could see their gazes. Two of the blades stepped forward, to his sides, and gave two more bodies to the pile. Trera had time to scream and name them all traitors before her voice was cut off. Duero died as quietly as a page being torn free from a book, the sickly, surprised look never leaving his face.

  Etarro wrapped his arms around his head, and shook silently. He couldn’t bear to see any more, but from where he hid, there was nowhere else to look. Still, he couldn’t hide his ears.

  Valrik sounded almost sad as he spoke again to the fallen Ventallo. “I have judged you more kindly than the Twins would have. Even had you stood before them not as leaders but as common men and women, they would have found you wanting. May they find you more worthy in your next life than you have been in this one.” He blinked and looked up from the scattered bodies, and it was like he forgot about them, easy as breathing. When he talked to the four who were left living, his voice came harder. “You have your own paths to choose. In my dream, I saw each of you walking at my side down this path . . . but you were shadows, wisps of cloud, indistinct and impermanent. I hope that you would choose to solidify your places at my side, that you will prove your faith time and again. I hope that you will not prove my judgment in you wrong, for when the Long Night comes, there will be no mercy for liars and blasphemers.” Then he clapped his palms together three times, the sound loud enough to shiver the icicles hanging from the ceiling, to make the Icefall vibrate around Etarro’s curled form.

  Etarro wanted to keep his face hidden, to pretend he was somewhere else . . . but he thought of Avorra. If she were here, she’d have her eyes pressed against the Icefall, lips stretched back in a dog’s grin. “All secrets are worth knowing,” she’d say. “A secret pays better than gold.” Etarro lifted his head again and pressed his forehead against the cold of the ice. Great big shivers rolled through him but he didn’t look away.

  A dozen preachers and half as many shaking blue-robed mages came down the tunnel at a slow pace. They went to stand next to the four survivors, in the spreading blood. No one looked down, but they were very careful not to step on the bodies, even the ones who’d blinded themselves and couldn’t possibly see the sprawling limbs.

  “Welcome, brothers and sisters,” Valrik said softly when they stood before him. “You have been chosen, but know this: you are not Ventallo. You are not leaders among the Fallen. In the darkness, there are no kings and queens. You are guides, only. Stars in the darkness, to give our brothers and sisters enough light that they do not stumble, or fall. If you came here seeking greatness or power, leave now. You will not find them here.” No one moved. Only the blood, creeping out slowly onto the frozen lake, stretching out toward Etarro where he hid. Valrik nodded his head. “Know this, too: I am Valrik, and I am not Uniro, but I will lead the Fallen to our destiny, and I will face the Twins’ punishment for placing myself above you. I will bear this burden, so that no others have to. If you cannot abide this, speak now.”

  There was silence again, broken only by the creaking leather armor of the blades, who stood with their arms crossed at the waist, ready, waiting. No one spoke against Valrik.

  “Good. Then, my brothers and sisters, there is something we must begin here, word you must spread among the flock. We have found powerful allies in our friends, the mages. But Delcerro Uniro—may his spirit rest at ease among the stars—was not wise in their deployment. The mages are spread out among us, and we keep them as servants, as assistants. They can be so much more. We must correct the mistake of my predecessor. United under one hand, our mages will be a powerful force indeed. Neira.”

  A woman stepped forward from the group, the hem of her robe heavy with blood. She’d been one of the ones to stand still and silent as her brothers and sisters died around her, her empty eyes fixed on Valrik. She stepped to his side now, her feet sure and her steps steady, and she lifted a small jar before her. It was the same as so many other jars in Raturo, full of the black paste called skura that made the mages . . . helpful. Neira held the jar like it was something holy as she said, “Our sister Dirrakara was the one to create skura, but she did not unlock all its uses. She gave us the key to binding a mage to one preacher, but . . . I’m sure you remember Gerthis.”

  Etarro shuddered. Gerthis had been a mage serving Serteno, one of the oldest preachers in the mountain, and old Serteno had died in his sleep. Gerthis had gone slowly mad—or more mad than all the mages were—and his screaming had echoed through Raturo for days until he’d finally died in his sleep, too. At least, that was what everyone said had happened to him.

  Neira smiled faintly. “We won’t have that problem again. I’ve found that skura is quite versatile. We can change its binding powers.” She lifted her other hand with a flourish, and Etarro could hardly see what she held between her thumb and forefinger—something small like a bead, and deep-ice blue. She dropped it into the skura, and then pulled out a small knife. Valrik held his hand out to her and she pricked his thumb, letting a few drops of his blood fall into the skura jar. She stirred it all together, and then she called the mages forward to spread some of the black paste on each of their tongues.

  There were a few heartbeats where nothing happened . . . and then, one by one, the mages collapsed, screaming and screeching, hurt-animal sounds that made Etarro’s teeth ache. He screwed shut his eyes and clapped his hands over his ears and tried not to add his own screaming to theirs.

  It felt like it went on for hours, shaking the Icefall so that he was sure it would crumble around him, fall to pieces so that they’d all see him curled there, cowardly and snooping, and the blades would come forward with their star-bright swords and his body would join the others on the cavern floor, his blood creeping along the ice . . .

  The screams stopped suddenly, though the echoes were slow to fade. Etarro peeked one eye open and saw that the mages were sitting up slowly, holding or shaking their heads, groaning and muttering. He couldn’t see any kind of wound that would make them scream like that, and they seemed to be fine now—or as fine as the mages ever were.

  “Rise,” Valrik said, and the mages got to their feet as quickly as they could. Valrik went on. “You see that they’re still obedient, still helpful. They’ll still aid any who ask it from them. But . . . Neira?”

  The woman stepped forward to stand right in front of one of the mages, tapped his forehead to get his attention. She pointed to one of the black-armored blades and, holding the mage’s gaze with the empty pits of her own eyes, said slowly and clearly, “Kill him.”

  Etarro could see the panic touching the blade’s face as the mage began to twist his fingers in the shapes of sigils, murmuring the spell under his breath. The spell built and built, and Etarro could feel the pressure of it behind his eyes. The blade drew his sword, and then couldn’t think what to do with it, he just stood facing the mage and the glow of the killing spell building between the mage’s dancing fingers. The mage made the final flourish and was halfway through throwing it at the blade when Valrik said softly, “Stop.”

  The mage scrambled to pull the spell back, curling into himself, frantic fingers weaving wildly. The spell shattered, knocking the mage to the ground with its force, and Etarro nearly choked as the sudden change in pressure made his nose begin to bleed.

  “Kill him,” Neira said again to the mage, who was sprawled and gasping, but he didn’t move, didn’t raise a finger to obey her, and she smiled.

  “Through this process,” Valrik said proudly, “they will heed my word above all others.”

  No one argued aloud against one man having such power, and the silence almost—almost—spoke clearly enough for them. But Etarro knew better than anyone that a silence was easy to ignore.

  “We must bring everyone home now, all our wandering brothers and sisters,” Valrik said. “We will need our
full might for what is to come. Each of us has our part to play, and we must be ready. So go. Send messengers, send the faithful to find our brothers and sisters who have spread the word of the Twins far across the land. Bring them home. We must stand together, tight as family, tight as blood, for we walk a new path. Hear me when I say we step toward power, and greatness, and eternal acclaim. These are our first steps on the road to a glorious present.”

  They cheered him, the Ventallo who remained and those Valrik had named shepherds for the Fallen. If they were unhappy about the mages, the unhappiness faded away quickly. They praised his name, and he bade them to go forth and spread the word that all should prepare, that their time was nigh, that the faithful would be rewarded beyond their dreams and the judgment of the Twins would not be a gentle thing for the faithless.

  And then they left, preachers and mages and blades walking unerringly on the icy and stone-scattered ground. The blades took a body over each of their shoulders, and then the Cavern of the Falls was empty of all but Etarro and the freezing blood.

  He didn’t know when the screaming in his head had stopped—sometime after the Ventallo had come, he’d been so focused on them. There was a final sob from distant Fratarro, a lament for the piece of him that had been destroyed and would never be restored, and then he piled it all behind a wall again, to keep the fear and the pain trapped. No one, not even a god, could feel so much pain and survive it. Fratarro had learned to keep his locked away. Etarro wanted to offer some last comfort, but his throat was tight and, now that he didn’t have to hold them together to keep quiet, his teeth were chattering so bad he didn’t think he could speak anyway. In small movements, he gingerly unwedged himself from behind the Icefall. The blood had stilled, frozen with its fingers stretching halfway across the lake. He wondered if Valrik would send someone to clean up the blood, of if he’d have it left there as a reminder, or if it was even something he’d thought about behind his sightless eyes.

  He had to climb over rocks to avoid the blood, but there was no getting around the red boot prints. There was only the one way out of the cavern. He closed his eyes as he always did, and wrapped his arms around his shaking body, and tried not to think much as he left the cavern. When his mind couldn’t stay still, he repeated over and over to himself, A part to play. A part to play.

  “You have to be the people they expect you to be,” Anddyr had whispered to him and Avorra, in one of the times when his pupils weren’t so big that you couldn’t see any color around them. “Think of it like a game. Do the things they’d want you to do, always. Even when it’s just the two of you. Play the part so well that you forget it’s a part. Be what they need you to be. It’s the only way.” And then he’d twisted up, hands grabbing at his stomach, his legs crumpling. Avorra had held his head in her lap, to keep his shaking from making his head thump against the floor, and she’d cried for him. “You have to be what they need,” Anddyr had hissed, his fingers like claws around Etarro’s arm. “If they don’t need you, they’ll kill you.” Etarro had run off to find Cappo Joros, and when they’d got back Avorra was across the room, far away from where Anddyr lay shaking, and Etarro hadn’t known the look in his sister’s dry eyes.

  Avorra had looked at him differently, after that. Her face had gone hard. He couldn’t remember if they’d ever really been young, either of them, but if she ever had been, Avorra wasn’t after that. “You’ll have to tell them,” she’d said the first time he’d heard Fratarro after what Anddyr had said. She could always tell when it happened. “It’s one of the things they’ll want to hear. But . . . you have to act like it’s real. You can’t tell them you’re just pretending.” There had been a question in her face, and a hope, and a need he wasn’t used to seeing. She’d wanted to believe so bad. So he’d nodded and told her he’d keep pretending, just like he had been all along, but he’d pretend even better now. She’d smiled like a starving person finding food and hugged him hard, and never believed anything except the lie.

  There was a part to play. Avorra loved her secrets, but Etarro held on to his, too, when he could. He didn’t tell them when he heard the voice, not always, not if Avorra hadn’t seen his eyes go distant. It was his small way of holding on to himself, so that he never forgot it was just a part he was playing. He thought Avorra had probably forgotten, lost inside the Avorra that had been shaped by the mountain and the Ventallo and the desperate words of a crazed man. He didn’t think she would have cared, if she’d seen what Valrik had done today. He could almost hear her laugh and say, “They should have played along better.”

  Light finally touched his eyelids. He looked at his feet first, and there, among the big red boot prints stretching behind him like a tail, was a set of smaller, fainter prints.

  As he passed by the huge arch this time, he stopped. The carving of Sororra’s face was on a level with his, her mouth set, watching the ground below prepare to swallow her up with her hard eyes. Avorra used to stand here, when everyone else was sleeping, holding a torch in one hand and a piece of polished bronze in the other, her gaze flicking between Sororra’s face and the mirror. It had sent chills through Etarro, the first time she’d gotten it exactly right. It didn’t scare him anymore, it was just the way her face was now. It was the part she’d become.

  He had to step back to see Fratarro’s face, so high above. Mouth open and begging for mercy, face twisted with grief. Fratarro had just watched Patharro destroy his greatest creation, the beautiful lands to the south and the mravigi he’d shaped to live there. There were tears carved onto his cheeks. Etarro couldn’t remember if he’d ever cried. He supposed all children cried, but he’d never been young, never been allowed to be a child.

  There was a part to play, and if Etarro placed any value on his life, he would have to start playing it better. Red boot prints followed behind him as he went to find Valrik. He would stare into the places where his eyes weren’t, and tell him of the screaming and the hand and how things could still be made whole.

  PART ONE

  It’s a lucky man who knows his place in the world.

  We’re not all given such good fortune.

  —Parro Kerrus

  CHAPTER ONE

  Sometimes it felt like not moving at all, like lifting your foot up and setting it down in the exact same place, over and over again and not even knowing it. There was no telling one gray swirling spot from another. Even the sounds here were faded, the snow swallowing up the hoof steps, the wind snatching at any voice. The only thing that made Rora believe they were moving were the drips of blood that trailed after ’em, sometimes tiny flecks of it and other times big splotches that grabbed at her heart and made her kick her horse faster, leaving the blood behind in the snow.

  Joros, the closest thing their little band had to a leader, he’d tried half a dozen times to call a halt, to stop and sleep and eat. Rora’d just stared him down, and she guessed the other set of staring eyes—the giant white cloak she wore had a snowbear’s head for a hood, and its black eyes glared above hers—well, they cowed him a little, too. It was mostly the merra, Vatri, who talked him down, though. Those two were stuck together tighter’n flies on a corpse, ever since they’d found and burned the god’s hand.

  At least Aro was helping much as he could, keeping his horse right at her side. Her brother was good for loyalty, that much was true. The mumbling witch, Anddyr, was sitting double behind Aro. The witch’d been pretty silent ever since the burning—still talked to himself, of course, and he’d point the direction whenever Aro asked him for it, his shaking finger jabbing into the featureless gray. Crazy as he was, Rora hoped he really knew where they were going. He’d got them to the hand in the first place, so that was a mark in his favor, but only having one choice was always harder to swallow.

  She twisted around toward the horse trudging along just behind her. All the blood had spooked it at first, but now it just kept on going, one hoof in front of the other. It looked about as tired as Rora felt, ready to tip right over if it
leaned too far one way. There wasn’t any blood anymore to spook it, and she hoped that was more a good thing than a bad thing.

  Back at the camp, near everyone’d been useless, all of them half-panicked after Scal’d collapsed and they’d seen the blood hidden by his layers of furs. The witch’d said he was tapped dry, no magic left in him until he rested, and Joros’d just glared like he wasn’t used to having to mind when people under his command got hurt. The merra’d fallen on Scal’s chest and wailed like a widow, most useless thing she could’ve possibly done, so it’d been up to Rora to put as much pressure as she could around the big gaping wound and tie him up tight. There wasn’t anything better she could do there, so their best hope was getting out of the fecking North.

  Aro’d surprised her by pulling a few coils of rope out of his travelsack, and even though her blood’d been pounding in her ears, Rora’d paused to lift her eyebrows at him. “Garim always said to keep some rope around,” he’d said as he unwound it. There wasn’t much room in her for anything but the fear right then, but maybe later, once they were safe and she knew if Scal was dead or not, maybe she could think on how her brother might be just as grown as she was.

  The witch had taken the rope and not met any of their eyes when he said he knew how to tie a man to a horse. He’d done a good enough job of it, because even though Scal’d slumped farther and farther down, near curled in half now, he hadn’t tipped to either side. Dried blood stretched down his side, winding down his leg and the rope wrapped around it. He’d been bleeding for so long . . . It had to be that the wound had finally just sealed itself up, stopped bleeding on its own—had to be that, because the only other thing that made sense was that he was out of blood to bleed . . .

  She hadn’t dared to stop, to peel back the layers of clothes and makeshift bandages—stopping would mean time, and that was one thing they didn’t have. And if she checked, then she’d know for sure if he was dead or not.