“Enough.” Anado shook his head bitterly. “I had forgotten how… gifted You were, Xorden.”
The voice laughed. “You will do it, then.”
Anado and Nekraba exchanged heavy glances.
“I suppose,” He went on, “You could wait, ask B’radik…”
“Selectively,” answered Nekraba at last. “He will have only what he needs to understand.”
Outside the brightest part of the light stood their families, proud families who were deeply honored to have had their firstborn sons chosen to become katsa.
No, that was not quite right. Chul frowned, and as questions formed in his mind, they were answered. Yes, it was an honor to have a son chosen for the katsara, and for the first time, Chul’s mind could contain and understand the reason. Even while these new katsa were still in training, before they held any voting privileges, the families’ requests and wishes would enjoy a louder voice in the katsara, and any accusations or testimony coming from them would be accepted without scrutiny in the courts. The honored families stood to gain political power and influence in the city for themselves. Politics. The word was new and alien to him, but somehow, he understood it fully. Indeed, a son in the katsara was a highly coveted honor, so a new question was born: how were the ten chosen?
In each pair, the katsa held a small cup out, and the one in the knotted silks was to take it and drink from it, but one of them, a boy of about Chul’s age, knocked the cup out of the katsa’s hand and ran from the circle crying. His father cuffed him viciously, dragged him back to the circle with a groveling smile.
As the man turned away to resume his place, the smile became cold, determined—the same smile his own father had worn when he attacked Chief Bakti. Looking into his eyes, Chul’s mind burned with a stream of angry questions, and then, horribly, he understood.
“Such honors,” spoke the strange, soft voice in his mind, “have a price.”
He shut his eyes, refusing to accept what he saw. The boys in the knotted silks were not the new katsa, as he’d assumed—the katsa had already been initiated in a public ceremony in the town center; they were the ones standing between the torches. These boys were their younger brothers.
“That price,” remarked the voice wryly, “can be rather high.”
One by one—
“The knotted silks were once formal, ceremonial armor,” Nekraba’s voice whispered in Chul’s mind, “but by this time, they weren’t worn—”
—the boys crumpled and fell to the ground at the katsas’ feet, choking and gagging on their own blood and vomit—
“—but for graveclothes.”
—until at last they lay still. All but one. The same boy who had managed to slip free of his brother’s grasp once before pulled free again and ran screaming through the trees to escape.
Chul watched the terrified boy disappear into the clutching trees, watched him run blindly from his family, from his city, from everything he had ever known, and he felt his own chest grow tight. He could feel the unfriendly ground pounding against his own feet again, the face of his father in the shadows of the trees and the terror that had chased him through the trees himself not so long ago. But this boy was no hunter, and he had no Gikka waiting to take him in; without help, he would die in the forest before morning.
“Tedrivora!” The word formed in his mind as if he’d spoken in the Old Voice all his life, and he spat it in the father’s face. “Betrayer of blood!”
The man did not see him, did not hear him.
“Chul, these things you see happened thousands of years ago,” Nekraba’s voice soothed. “You cannot change them, but take heart. The boy survives, and he proves to be very important—”
“He betrayed Us to the Invaders!” snapped the other voice.
“ —in ending the Gods’ Rebellion.”
“Bah!”
The escaped boy’s newly ascended brother lowered his head in defeat, but he said nothing while the older katsa at the center lifted a knife from the altar and raised it above his head. The father’s dark eyes were wide with fear, and he fell to his knees, pleading with them to wait, that he would chase the boy down and bring him back, he would kill the boy himself if they would only wait.
But they could not wait. The knife flashed in the torchlight, and the young katsa fell dead without a sound.
“Disgrace,” the voice chuckled, “also has its price.”
And then he felt his mind released from the god’s grasp.
The faint echo of Renda’s words still hung between the trees. “I must find a way into that dome.” Then, when he looked up at her, she touched his shoulder and moved off through the trees. She did not notice the panicked, disoriented look in his eyes, or if she did, she was not surprised.
Renda. He breathed in deeply, surprised and angry at the sob that hung in his chest. The city, the wicked ritual in the glade. It had not been real, any of it. What was real was the sheriff, lying here against the tree, and Lady Renda, and the cardinal inside the dome who was making ready to do something terrible.
Let him see what his people had, what they were before the Invaders came.
But he could not forget the strange, fantastic city he’d seen—it was nothing like Farras, nothing like Gikka’s stories of the Brannford docks. Dhanani women perfumed and wrapped in silk, impossibly long ships pushed over the sea by wind, great stone temples reaching up to the sky—he’d seen only a glimpse, but what he’d seen had been fascinating.
What they lost.
He rubbed his shoulders to warm them. Then he spread more of the gooey salve over the sheriff’s burns and settled the heavy mantle over him again. If they’d lost all that, it was because they’d grown soft and fat like Invaders. Where were their warriors? Where were the hunters? He did not care what they’d lost, not here and not now. The gods, he thought wearily, would have to see to Their own problems.
More images flowed through his mind, insistent images, serene, beautiful images of peace and prosperity, the city, the merchants, the benevolent katsara. Farms of patchwork golds and greens at the outskirts of the towns, the caravans of traders that moved between them, and all this, all the subcontinent, belonging to the Dhanani.
But then he was left looking into the eyes of the boy, the one who had escaped so long ago. Tedrivora, Xorden’s soft voice whispered in his mind. Betrayer of blood.
Now he saw the Dhanani people running in panic from their cities, cities aroar with flames and chaos. Most carried their children and precious little else. The robed katsa ran screaming from armies of horsed Invaders who smashed their skulls and cut them down. Invaders, he saw to his horror, who wore mantles of brilliant blue.
Let him imagine what they might have become if We had won instead of the harridan goddess and Her pet, Damerien…
Bright light blazed through the cracks in the dome, a glaring flash that made Renda fall back against the trees and turn away to shield her eyes. When she looked back, even more of the wall had burned away, enough that she could probably slip through, and she crouched, ready to spring the instant the cardinal’s back was turned. But she drew up short; at last she could see who was inside the dome with Valmerous.
The little girl stood as she had in the duke’s audience chamber, serene and confident, with her wooden sword outstretched. Her form, still gowned in the lovely white of her First Rite, radiated a brilliant blaze of light, B’radik’s light, against which the cardinal had already protected his altar. But far from surprised by her presence, he turned and grinned at her.
“Ah,” he said, raising his hands toward her. “I had begun to wonder if you might not come.”
Twenty-Seven
“Lord Daerwin?” Nestor paused in the library doorway and tied the sash on his dressing gown. “Have you been up all night, lad?”
“Aye.” The young sheriff rubbed his eyes and looked up at the old man. “Studying. Searching.” He chuckled wearily. “For a new way to weaken Kadak’s armies, one everyone else has somehow
overlooked for the last five hundred years.”
Nestor’s look of concern changed to mild amusement. “I couldn’t sleep, either. Not with Brada’s ascension tomorrow. So much to plan, so much to do.” He looked over the stack of books and scrolls on the table, scanned the titles. “But you’ve brought down half the library, I see. Have you found anything interesting?”
Lord Daerwin studied the old retainer’s face for a moment, considering. “Nestor,” he began, moving aside scrolls and books until he found the one he wanted. “Do you remember Melchiorus?”
“The play, my lord?”
“Aye, the very one, required reading at the academy. You know it, aye?”
“Not well.” Nestor settled in a chair across from him. “I recall little more of it,” he said with a yawn, “than a lot of tedious fretting and strutting about, I’m afraid.”
“Act three, scene four.” Daerwin flipped through the quarto until he found the passage. “Here it is. At the hospice. Lady Betancourt asks the priestess of Ka’ar about her invalid son Godward’s condition, and the priestess tells her that only the gods can help him. But Lady Betancourt presses her; she would know if the boy would survive. Do you remember the priestess’s reply?”
“Not precisely,” Nestor chuckled self-consciously. “It was one of those fretting scenes stuck in betwixt the strutting-about scenes, not very memorable.”
Daerwin grinned at him. “This is what she said: ‘Thei stirre the bludds en heis staide da battaille.’” He settled back thoughtfully. “Now what do you suppose that means?”
Nestor closed his eyes. “They stir the bloods, obviously the four sacred bloods of man. The pith, the blood, the heart, the glow, symbolic of your four knightly virtues Courage, Diligence, Empathy and Honor. In the play, the gods bring the bloods, hence the virtues, hence the knights themselves, to battle in Godward’s stead.” When Lord Daerwin only templed his fingers and frowned, Nestor shifted uncomfortably. “In the final battle, I seem to recall four knights in four colors, each to symbolize—”
“Aye, and Godward symbolized the weakness in all mankind,” murmured the sheriff, “so we were taught at the academy. And Godward the Innocent, being a bleeder, naturally They should be clever and bring blood to battle in his stead. But these are schoolboy metaphors.” Lord Daerwin snorted impatiently. “This play is almost four thousand years old, Nestor. Blood for virtue, that’s our symbolism. It’s arrogance to paint so ancient a work with our meanings.”
“The ancients were men like us, my lord.” Nestor shrugged. “Certain themes are timeless, aye? And certain symbols, as well.”
“That,” the sheriff sighed, rubbing his eyes with weariness, “that, I must grant you. But now, for argument’s sake, suppose, as I did just now, that the priestess meant exactly what she said.”
The retainer squinted his eyes in thought then shook his head. “I’m not sure I understand.”
“Let’s say the gods were stirring, literally stirring, real bloods and saps and such to enhance Their powers. Or the powers of Their priests.”
“Real—!” A strange look came over Nestor’s face. “But why?”
“Aye, real bloods of men, of animals, even of trees. The pith, the blood, the heart, the glow, ingredients to gather for potions, salves. Perhaps they used different piths, different bloods for different things, but…”
“I should think it horrific! What you’re describing is…”
“Not so different from the legends of the Witcher Mages.”
Daerwin watched Nestor fight to regain composure. “Melchiorus is a classic ancient play, not a cookbook for witchery. My lord.” Nestor’s color returned to his face, and he smiled diplomatically. “It’s late. If I may say so, a few hours’ sleep might—”
“What, is it so unreasonable?” he interrupted. “The Keepers’ power, your own power, comes from the duke’s life force.”
“But not from his blood, my lord. We are not vampires.” Nestor’s eyes flashed darkly. “Nor Witcher Mages.”
“No, of course not. But our priests use oils and unguents to enhance their powers, powers given them by the gods.”
“Aye, so they do.” Nestor’s brow twitched. “But not blood.”
“What if those oils and such are but a tiny scrap of what men knew before, not to mention what the gods Themselves might know?” Excited, he picked up another ancient book. “Look here. This is Vorn’s En Magickes and Strategia, from a thousand years later, just before the Gods’ Rebellion. The pages are stained, quite a few are missing, but now and again Vorn mentions power in tree saps—hemlock, for example…”
“Priest’s blood…” Daerwin murmured. “And hemlock sap...” His voice was breathy, vague, and no one was near enough to hear him.
He’d slept or lain unconscious against this tree trunk for some time—not long, he thought; the sun still had not risen above the trees. His wounded arm was a searing iron weight attached at his shoulder, immovable, but the pain had dulled enough to let reason return to him. With his good hand, he picked up the discarded leaves that Chul had used to spread the salve into his wounds. Chul, the Dhanani boy, who had somehow found them here.
The boy sat not far from him, lost in thought or perhaps asleep himself. Matow and Barlow he’d seen ripped away by Valmerous’s blast of heat. That left only Renda, and at some point while he’d been asleep, she must have gone off to fight the cardinal herself.
He had to tell her.
With great effort, the sheriff turned himself over onto his knees and crawled toward the dome like a wounded animal, binding and cradling his burnt arm against his chest. But when the blood settled into his arm, his vision blurred with the splintering pain, and before he had gone twenty feet, he crumpled forward in an agonized, exhausted heap. He squinted up at the sky. The sun would touch the glade in minutes, and by then, the thing would be decided. He had to reach Renda before that, even if he died at her feet.
He grabbed the lowest branch of a tree with his good hand and dragged himself to his knees again. Then, branch by branch, he pulled himself along toward the dome.
Pegrine. Renda’s heart seized in her chest, and she lowered herself behind a clump of brush only a few feet from the rift in the dome. No wonder the cardinal had spent so little of his energy against them; he was saving it to use against Pegrine. Her eyes narrowed. She had already lost three of her knights and she might well lose her father for no more than to bait the cardinal’s trap. But it made no sense. If he could attack Pegrine’s place of death and destroy her, as Dilkon had said, why did he need her here? To gloat?
Her eyes turned to the alderwood stump. The altar. She cursed her own stupidity. This ground was sacred, possibly Xorden’s only sacred place on all of Syon, and Valmerous would not dare desecrate it, not even to do Xorden’s bidding. So while Nara guarded Pegrine’s place of life and the Brannagh dead guarded her place of rest, because of Bishop Cilder’s bungling, Xorden Himself guarded her place of death from His own cardinal. If Renda had known this, if she had had the least bit of understanding, they could have defeated him by simply ignoring him and staying at Brannagh. Her throat tightened. By staying and saving Brannagh.
Valmerous might have known already when he left Brannagh, or he might have discovered it upon entering the glade and changed his plans accordingly, but either way, just the threat had been enough to lure the knights and ultimately Pegrine herself to this place, away from the castle, away—
To free Her hand and guard the throne.
—from Damerien.
Renda kept her head low and crept in closer, keeping her mind clear and calm, ready for any opening, any possibility. Because just now, she saw none.
Inside the dome, Pegrine extended her small hemlock sword still wet with blood toward the cardinal. “Your arrogance is profound, Valmerous,” she said, “to think that you could do battle with my mistress.”
“Arrogance, profound? Bold words in the mouth of a child, B’radik; You betray Yourself.” Valmerous laughed
. “And my arrogance is more profound than You can imagine, for I intend to win.”
Renda gripped her sword and coiled her muscles to spring through the breach in the wall. If she missed, if she so much as touched the sides, she could likely die, but she would not let Valmerous win while she lived.
“Renda.” Behind her, Lord Daerwin clawed his way over the ground toward her. “Renda, stay.” His lips were pasty and dry, and he was gasping for breath.
“Father,” she cried, “what are you doing?” She looked back to the spot where she had left him, where Chul sat angrily cutting into the ground with his knife, oblivious. “Why did you follow me?”
“You can’t go, Renda.” He grasped her arm with his good hand. “The pith, the blood, the heart, the glow. Don’t you see? You can’t go!”
“You must be delirious.” She pulled herself away from him angrily. Had he not been the one to press them forward? And now he spoke to her of, what, of Pegrine’s rhyme, of the four bloods, of the four knightly virtues? Nonsense. She was the last of the Knights of Brannagh, and the duty fell to her to protect B’radik. “Go back and wait.”
“Leave it.” He fell gracelessly beside her. “You do not understand.”
“If you cannot go back alone, then stay and wait for me here, but do not stay me from this.”
A flash of light burst from within the dome again, but the cardinal recovered himself right away. He twitched his fingers and gestured. All at once, the little girl’s body was engulfed in blue flames.
“I must go now, or all is lost!”
The flames disappeared almost instantly, swept away in another brilliant flash of power, but he had given himself time to take up the weapon he’d prepared against her, a sharpened staff no longer than a man’s thigh and carved from a single long bone.
“I…order you. Stay.”
Renda edged forward nervously. He was the sheriff, the Knight General of Brannagh, but he was also her father, the one who had taught her everything she knew about battle and honor. His sense of duty, his oath to B’radik, was as sacred as hers. But he was injured, and his judgment might not be his own. “Bone against undead.” Her protest was weak, almost the whine of an anxious hound on tether. “It’s as sure a weapon as any.”
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