The Bones of the Earth

by Rachel Dunne

  “You must come,” Nerrin repeated, grabbing his arm once more. From where he lurked in the shelter of the tall grass, Keiro could see how tight her grip grew, how her fingers dug in. “Now.”

  Saval’s lips pressed into a thin line, and his eyes found Nerrin’s with more scrutiny this time. Keiro could only see the back of her head, and so he could not guess what Saval saw there, but it caused the preacher to turn back and sweep a low bow to the plainswalkers. “Forgive me, my friends. There is pressing business I must attend to. Rest assured, I will return as soon as I am able.”

  There were protests, but they were small things. Even the plainswalkers, who knew so little of the culture among the Fallen, knew better than to argue with one of the Ventallo. Nerrin preceded him, walking into the grass once more, walking past Keiro without a glance. He saw the tightness in her jaw, the way her wide pupils seemed to shake ever so slightly, and then she was past him.

  Saval startled to see Keiro there, and his eyes flickered between the man and the mage. He lowered his voice conspiratorially to ask, “What’s going on? Did something happen?”

  Made mute by guilt and uncertainty, Keiro could only spread his hands helplessly, shake his head. When he looked at Nerrin, she cast a look over her shoulder at him, a narrow-eyed glare, and her words echoed in his head. Oppose us again, and you will take Saval’s place. “You’ll have to see,” Keiro said, hoping his voice did not sound as choked as he feared. “I . . . I cannot explain.” It wasn’t a lie, and it gave Saval enough surety that he followed after Nerrin. Keiro trailed behind, because he could think of naught else to do.

  Nerrin led with confidence through the grass and over the hills, the head of their silent party, her path unerring. Occasionally Saval would glance to Keiro, but neither man strove to break the silence. For Keiro, it was fear of drawing any more of Nerrin’s strange attention, worry of drawing her wrath, and, too, fear of facing again what it seemed he had done to her. He could not say what motivated Saval, but silence seemed a strange state for the man. Yet he held his words, his shoulders stiff and, when he would glance to Keiro, his face was suffused with concern. There were strange strands of kinship binding the two of them now, mutual confusion, shared unease, and Keiro’s earlier dislike of the man seemed a petty thing. He knew little more than Saval, but still, there was a growing knot of dread in Keiro’s stomach, a dark and heavy thing. There was a certainty in him that, whatever was to happen, it was not going to end well.

  They came to one of the mravigi entrances, the hole disguised but easy enough to see if one knew what they were looking for. Keiro had no idea how Nerrin would know of its existence, for it was one not even Keiro had ever used. Her eyes fixed on Saval, and she motioned expansively toward the hole. “Please,” she said, her voice overly solicitous, tinged almost with the bite of sarcasm.

  Saval hesitated, and for one mad moment, Keiro thought about grabbing the other man’s arm and running, pulling him back through the tall grass, losing themselves in the waving sea. It seemed wiser, and safer. But then Saval climbed down into the tunnel and was gone from sight. Nerrin dropped down after him without a glance at Keiro, leaving him alone among the hills. He stood, his arms wrapped around himself, shivering, though the air was not cold. He could go still, run into the grass, disappear forever, and leave this all behind . . . Keiro sat on the ground, legs dangling into the open hole, and dropped.

  He could hear the pulse of the earth as they crawled. Farther ahead, he knew, in the great cavern beneath the ground, the mravigi would be gathered, all of them, breathing and speaking and rustling; their very presence felt like the heavy beating of a heart against his palms. They would be waiting to bear witness to what was to come . . .

  “Nerrin?” Saval said over his shoulder, his high whisper harsh in the tight tunnel. “Nerrin, what’s happening?”

  “You will see,” Nerrin said firmly, pressing him forward, ever forward, deeper into the earth.

  “I want to go back.” He sounded almost a child, frightened and alone.

  “There is no going back.”

  The dull glow of the chamber reached down the tunnel toward them, red eyes and mravigi starlight mixed. It reached to surround them, to draw them into the mighty cavern where they waited, all the Starborn and mighty Straz, Sororra and Fratarro. So many red eyes fixed to Saval as he crawled free of the tunnel and stood with shaking hands. Unnoticed, ignored, Keiro stood some ways away, in the faint shadow of a protruding rock, bound by his own vow to see but hoping not to be seen.

  Fratarro’s face was unwontedly solemn, and Sororra grinned broadly, white teeth shining through her burned face. “Welcome again!” she called. “Faithful Saval. Saval Tredeiro, Thirteenth among the Fallen. Did you know, Saval, that the first of the Fallen had no leaders? They knew our teachings well, knew that no men should be placed above another, that all were meant to be made equal. They wanted none to lead them—they only required faith and loyalty beyond reproach. Are you loyal, Saval?”

  “Yes,” Saval breathed, dropped to his knees, one fist pressed to his forehead. “Yes.”

  “That is good. Good! But how deep does your loyalty extend? How far can your faith stretch?”

  From where he stood, Keiro could see the lump in Saval’s throat bob rapidly. “As far as they need to, my lady.”

  Sororra turned her grin to Fratarro. “I like this one, brother.”

  The god inclined his head, but his eyes stayed tight on Saval’s face. “When we rise,” he said softly, “all will be judged. We will see each man and each woman, and we will look into their hearts, and we will know them. Fears and dreams, loves and hates, every fiber that weaves the tapestry of their being. We know you, Saval. We have seen you. We have judged you. And now we must test you.”

  “I—yes, anything,” Saval stammered. “My lord, my lady, revered Twins, I am your loyal servant. I will—”

  “Bring him,” Sororra said softly, but the deep thrum of command in her voice silenced all else. Nerrin stepped forward as though the order had been spoken to her, and she wrapped both hands around one of Saval’s arms and pulled him to his feet, pulled him forward, closer to the Twins. He stumbled along at her side, looking torn between walking with her and running far, far away.

  “Children,” Fratarro said, and the word was hardly more than a whisper. His face was as hard as his sister’s, but there was the deep sadness in his eyes where Sororra’s were unflinching. The mravigi surged forward at his call, four of them, huge beasts, and they swarmed around Saval. Nerrin stepped away and the mravigi took her place, their clawed feet reaching, pulling.

  The whites shone huge around Saval’s eyes as he cried out, struggling finally, fighting to break free, but there was no fighting against the Starborn. They were too strong and Saval disappeared from sight, the bodies of the mravigi writhing atop him as he screamed and begged. When they settled Saval lay on his back, a mravigi pinning each limb, holding firmly as he thrashed. It was too late, now, for him to fight. There was no going back.

  Sororra, her low voice almost a purr, turned to Nerrin and said, “You have done well, mage. You are not one of ours . . . but there is so much potential in you. You could be great, grow mighty at our sides.” Her eyes were full of dancing flames, of passion and power. Keiro could hardly breathe looking at them, and they weren’t even fixed to his face. Yet Nerrin stood before the full intensity of the goddess’s gaze, stood with her back rigid and her jaw tight. “Will you stand with us, Nerrin?” Sororra crooned.

  Nerrin opened her mouth, worked her jaw as though the words would not come. The tightness in her back loosened, her shoulders curving forward, her eyes tilting down, fingers curling and uncurling. Keiro saw a slight narrowing of Sororra’s eyes and then Nerrin’s back snapped straight, a gasp bursting out of her before the single word, “Yes.”

  “Good.” Sororra grinned again. “Good! You are wise, little mage. Isn’t she, brother?”

  Fratarro’s eyes were beginning to droop. There woul
dn’t be much time left before sleep would drag them down once more . . . little enough time, perhaps, that this nightmare would finish before its end. “We should begin, sister. There is much yet to do.”

  “You worry too much, brother! We have our mage, we have our loyal Saval. There is naught to stop this.” And then, unexpectedly, Sororra’s eyes swung to meet Keiro’s, and he quailed before their intensity. “Come, Keiro Godson. You need not hide in the shadows.” A low laugh rolled through her body, charred flesh rippling, chains rattling. “Step forward, loyal Keiro, and bear witness to history.”

  He walked forward, for there was nothing else he could do. Keiro stood before the gaze of his gods, half a dozen paces from where Nerrin stood rigid, from where Saval lay pinned and thrashing and pleading. He stood before them, and there was no thought in him of running, or of speaking against this. There was only the certainty that this was right, and necessary.

  “Wise little Nerrin,” Sororra said, turning her gaze once more to the mage, “listen to me now. Let your hands be my hands . . .”

  Keiro stood wordless, watching, numb, as Nerrin stepped forward and, with Sororra’s low voice whispering guidance, took the knife from Saval’s belt. Took it, and cut open his robe and the shirt beneath, baring his pale chest. Took the knife, and began to slice into his skin, into muscle, into bone. The knife was not sharp enough, not by far, but Nerrin did not stop. Through it all the cavern was full of the murmuring mravigi, of Saval’s screams, of Sororra’s intonement. When finally Nerrin cracked back his ribs like an opening door, Saval’s screaming had stopped. Keiro could not see, where he stood, if the man still breathed, if the blood that stained his body and the floor and Nerrin’s arms still flowed from his chest. Nerrin made a few slices more with the knife, her face tight, and then her fingers opened around the hilt. The knife clattered to the floor, loud, jarring, but it did not break the copper-scented spell that had wrapped around the cavern. Nerrin reached both hands into the opening of Saval’s chest, and when she pulled them free, they were filled with the red lump of his heart.

  Keiro remembered how Nerrin had stood in a field of butterflies, their glowing shapes moving over her cupped hands, and how there had been such wonder and joy in her eyes.

  “Quickly, now,” Sororra crooned. “Let your voice be my voice, your power my power. Speak with me . . .” She chanted, low and hypnotic, the words not any language Keiro had ever heard, and Nerrin repeated the sounds a moment behind her, sweet and discordant and eerie. In her cupped palms, Saval’s heart began to beat once more, slow, erratic, beating in time with the chanting that wove through the cavern, and from the heart’s tubes began to flow a black smoke, heavy and acrid. The smoke collected above the pulsing heart, swirling, writhing. Sororra’s voice rose, louder, faster, and the fires burned in her eyes once more. Her last word came as a shout, and Nerrin’s as a scream—the mage threw back her head, the shape of the word dissolving into a long cry of pain as more of the black smoke boiled from her throat, coalescing with the smoke surrounding the heart. The smoke surged forward in a cloud and flooded into the red opening of Fratarro’s mouth. Nerrin’s scream cut off and her body collapsed, limp and heavy, beside Saval. Fratarro closed his mouth, and Sororra grinned, and for three heartbeats, the very ground beneath Keiro’s feet shook.

  Fratarro raised his one arm, and where the rent flesh had dripped ichor, as though it had known of the destruction of his hand, now the flesh there was smooth and clean and new, and there was no blood. It looked an old amputation, that had had years and years to heal, that had had years and years to forget its pain.

  Sororra lifted her own arm, reached until the chain between her wrist and the ground was stretched tight. The muscles beneath her charred skin bulged and flexed, and the strain showed clearly in her face, and for long minutes the only sounds were her sharp breaths and the low groan of metal. When she finally twisted her arm to the side, the chain’s links shattered, and the manacle cracked from around her wrist like an egg, and Sororra laughed long and loud.

  Keiro stood, his hands shaking, the taste of bile at the back of his mouth. He wanted to weep or to run, but the certainty had crept its way back into him, holding him: This is right. This is necessary.

  Fratarro smiled, too, beneath the eternal sadness in his eyes. Beneath his sister’s laughter he said, “We judge thee worthy, Saval. We judge thee worthy, Nerrin. Rest well among the stars.”

  “And now,” Sororra said, “we may begin.”

  PART THREE

  The Plains are long, but there is an ending to all things.

  —A saying of the plainswalkers

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  It sat upon the snow like a fallen star. Soft and bright. A small thing, and fragile.

  Scal bent his knees to touch his fingers gently to the scrap of fabric. Pale yellow, the color at the very edge of a flame. The color priestesses wore, to mark them as flame-sworn. In this part of the world, there would be few priestesses. There could, maybe, be just the one.

  He had followed the boot prints, tracked them through the snow and the trees, followed the ever-walking tale they told until their steps joined with countless others. The snow churned to mud by so many feet. The trail of the great passage like a giant’s body had been dragged across the earth.

  He had to believe the dozen large boots, and Vatri’s, had joined all the others. There was no other choice. No other hope.

  He followed their path. His own steps small among so many, a single drop of water in a rushing river. He trailed the great moving beast through the day, and slept little that night, lying upon the bare snow. His blood was warm. He did not feel the cold, not even a part of it. Slept in the dark, with only the stars piercing fire-bright through the trees that reached above. He dreamed of the fire. The heat of it racing across his skin, the burning of it in his chest, the power of it. His cheek burned, not the scar-cross but his clean cheek, where Vatri’s fingers had pressed ash hard into his skin.

  It was still dark when he woke. His feet went once more to the path that wound careful through the trees but always, always skewed south. Like a pull, like a magic stone he had seen once that could call iron coins through the air and hold them fast. Straight as a summons. The burning in his cheek lingered from the dream, but it faded. Most things do.

  He had seen no sign of Vatri. But neither had he seen anything to tell him she was not in the same group that had carved their path south. He could only follow.

  And now he had found a piece of yellow. A piece of her robes, at the edge of the path. Damp and stepped-on, half-hidden, but the yellow color of hope.

  Scal knotted the piece of fabric near his pendants. He had worked careful to fix the torn cord. It had felt wrong, to carry the pendants in his hand. They belonged on his chest, against his heart, warmer than flesh. He tied the scrap next to them—fire and ice and hope—and he walked once more on the trail. Pulled arrow-straight, pulled like a command.

  After the second time he slept, after the second fire-dreams, he finally saw their backs. They paced like a line of shadows beneath the trees, but as he drew closer he saw they were not shadows, not at all. Some wore black, the color of dark and danger, but some wore plainclothes, no different than his own. Scal tucked his pendants beneath his shirt, the fire and the ice and the hope. He reached their backs, the end of the mighty churning press, and they did not remark as he passed into their ranks. Some nodded, murmured, “Brother.” Scal kept his eyes ahead. Searching the ranks of dark and pale clothes for yellow. Searching, searching for a spot of light like a fallen star.

  The night fell and still they pressed on. No torches, no lights. Just the dark and the bright-burning stars. For all that there were bodies beyond counting, it was quiet beneath the trees. The crunch of snow, the suck of ground churned to mud by so many feet, the snap of branch. But no voices, no speaking.

  This was how they would shape the world, the followers of the Twins. Dark and quiet and even. In the dark, each dim shape could
be a beggar or a king. In the dark, there were no better men, no worse men. No leaders, all following a single call. Moving together, working as one. A flock of birds, spinning through the night, one voice guiding them. There was a peace to it.

  A few hours into the night, they stopped. It came like a silent command, rolling down the lines from the distant front. As with Berno and Zenora and Herrit, it seemed they were not willing or not able to only travel in the night, only sleep during the sunlight hours. There was relief at the call to stop. Some sat where they stood and slept as soon as they touched the ground. Others set to work. Here, at the back, were the bakers and cooks, the hunters and farmers, all those wearing the plainclothes, those who would support the ones wearing the black. They would not rest, not yet. Though the Fallen preached perfect equality, they seemed to have a harder time practicing it. Scal moved through the commoners, through the smells of bread baking in clever-made ovens hauled on carts, through the smells of roasting meat, the air full of smoke, of heat. He passed through the bustling, his steps careful and sure, his eyes searching, always searching. Moved forward, slowly, through the body of the great snake. Through the commoners, to the point where the plainclothes turned to black robes, the bustle and work changing to rest, to sleep. He did not stop, moving with assurance deeper into the nest of preachers.

  He thought he saw, once, a fat man and an old woman and a young man sitting together. He walked wide around them, and did not look their way. Another time, he thought he heard a gentle voice telling the tale of wandering Birro, and he moved so the words no longer touched his ears. He heard murmurs, so many of them, that the ancient Twins would be freed, but he did not stop to listen. There was not room in him for anything else.

  A man, black-robed, stood looking around, searching like Scal. He touched the man’s arm, asked, “Have you seen a priestess?”