A narrow passage at the top of the stairs cut behind one of the walls in the dining hall. As Jon walked down it, he heard Ivar and Andor discussing him. The Guardians had their secrets; perhaps this family did as well. Curious, Jon paused and listened.
“Jonathan has to do something besides learn with you,” Andor said. “People will start to wonder what he does here. There’s already been talk. Maeve started most of it, as if she hasn’t caused enough trouble for the boy already.”
“Jon told me that he didn’t summon the wolves. He said they were following him. Their leader was huge and black.”
“Wasn’t the mother’s life enough for that cursed woman?” Andor commented bitterly.
“Leith chose her course freely. No one forced her.”
“Does Jon know what happened to her?”
“He thinks she died giving birth. It’s better that way.”
What could they mean? Could his mother have been killed? The men had mentioned Maeve, and Jon recalled the fact that she had been banned from The Nocturne. His mind swiftly linked his mother and Maeve and, as swiftly, dismissed the thought. That wouldn’t have made the Guardians lie.
A second, somehow more troubling, possibility came to mind. Perhaps his mother was still alive. If she were, why hadn’t she come for him? Jon stood in the darkness, not daring to breathe lest Ivar discover him standing in the dark passage, tears running down his face. He waited until they had moved to the kitchen, then, composing himself, went to meet them.
“Now that the wine has been bottled we’ve been wondering what sort of work you would like to do in Linde,” Andor said.
Jon feigned surprise. “Hunting,” he finally decided. “I’ve little skill in dealing with people.”
Andor smiled, thinking of the village girls who had suddenly begun frequenting the dining hall at odd hours, hoping to glimpse Jonathan or hear him pluck the lute and sing. He thought more grimly of the young men who had begun expressing their dislike of their unassuming rival, especially Mishya, who was furious that Sondra no longer encouraged his company. “You’re not unskilled, you’re ignorant,” he said. “That will pass. Meanwhile, I think one of the hunting parties might be willing to take you on.”
Might be willing! Jon had seen how they hunted. They were all fools. The boy’s eyes became icy slivers, his mouth a thin white line. “I hunt alone. I always have,” he said.
“Not in Tepest. Too many men have been lost in the thick woods.”
“Quail, squirrels, rabbits. I could hunt those with a sling in the pastures and still remain close to town.”
He fixed his attention on Andor, mentally ordering him to agree, and wasn’t entirely surprised when the man did. This persuasive talent, like his charm, was innate. People usually did what he asked, here as in the fortress. He listened restlessly to the warnings Andor gave about hunting alone, but nothing could dissuade him. There were questions that needed answers and he could only find those on his own.
“I’ll start tomorrow, in the fields about town,” he said when Andor finished.
Ivar shook his head. “You’ll begin down there,” he said, pointing down to the cavern. “Among my scrolls are two tied with black ribbons. Before you wander these hills alone, read them both.”
Jon hardly slept that night and rose well before dawn. As he descended the stairs, a rat skittered away, disappearing into the darkness of one of the unused tunnels. He often marveled that the vermin didn’t ruin Ivar’s scrolls or devour the food left on the table. Rats had plagued Leo’s small library terribly, but lvar apparently had means of controlling their simple minds. lvar had set the scrolls out for him, and, after rubbing the sleep from his eyes and lighting the candles on the table, Jon began to read.
The first account regarded the three hags said to live in Tepest. Leo had told him part of the story, but this account was far more detailed. Powerful sorcerers in their own right, the three took on seductive forms of strangers or loved ones, luring unsuspecting wanderers into a deadly trap. The tale only made Jon more resolute, more eager to acquire the power to make himself invincible to their spells.
The second scroll contained information far more interesting. Ivar had already told him about Andor’s curse. Now he learned that Andor wasn’t the only were-creature in this town. Another, the woman named Maeve, was believed to be in league with the hags, supplying them with victims from among her many willing lovers. Ivar had perhaps suggested this scroll so Jon would know to stay well away from her. But one fact particularly amazed Jon; in wolf form, the woman was huge and powerful, with thick black fur. He had met the woman already—leader of the pack that had followed him. He intended to meet her again, soon.
There is life of a kind in the days between the full moons. I sense the passing of the seasons, the sunshine and the storms in the minds of the people around me. The boy’s dreams are dark and troubled, and that is good. Darkness will bring him to me. Soon he will be mine.
Jon’s hunting skills easily surpassed those of any other youth in Linde. He had a gift for sitting so still his prey didn’t see him until the stone flew, for setting snares so perfect that even the most wary animal didn’t notice them. As a result, he didn’t have to work very hard to gain Andor’s praise. The inn’s food became plentiful and cheap and its smokehouse well-stocked for winter.
It was time to harvest the autumn grain. Jon joined the harvesters for a while, but couldn’t find the right rhythm for the scythe or the strength to wield it for long. Though the village hunters commented derisively on his weakness, Jon welcomed the banter: the jeers held some friendliness he hadn’t detected before.
Linde townsfolk had never harvested so many bushels of grain and hay. Neither had they ever seen such ideal weather for the work, weather that held for the autumn goblin hunt and the harvest festival after.
Tents were erected outside the inn. Like the houses, they were white, bearing intricately-painted flowers and vines on the walls and rain flaps. Brightly colored banners waved from the top of the center poles. Every family brought vases of flowers for the dining tables, their best casseroles and bakery to share, their crafts and weaving to sell. One of the inn’s hogs was butchered and roasted whole over a trench of smoking coals and damp herbs. Dirca basted it with onion butter and cloudberry jam until the hide was dark and crackling. Jon, raised by the ascetic Guardians, had never shared in such a bountiful feast.
After the village had eaten, the leftovers were piled on a single table to provide sustenance for the night’s revels. The dining tables were cleared from the town square to make room for musicians and dancing.
Jonathan had never danced before, but he couldn’t resist joining the others. The magnificent songs, the whirling revelers, and the touch of Sondra’s hands were more intoxicating than the Linde wine and cloudberry pies. As the night deepened, the harvest moon rose in the sky, its light competing with the mounted torches, throwing brilliant silver streaks around the golden puddles in the center of the town.
In the middle of the evening, Maeve made her first appearance. Jon had glimpsed her a few times and been startled by her beauty, but never as much as now. The silver streak in her hair was braided through a thin golden chain. The rest fell loose over her shoulders. Her multi-colored skirts were long and gossamer, her blouse tight over her breasts. She had tiny cymbals attached to her fingers and bells on her ankles. As she walked barefooted through the crowd, everyone, women as well as men, paused to look at her. A sudden hush fell over the crowd. Smiling oddly, she motioned them to form a circle in the center of the tent.
“She’s going to dance as well! Oh, it’s been so long!” one of the girls said to Jon. She didn’t look at him. Her gaze, still fixed on Maeve, was adoring.
“Her usual entrance,” Sondra said softly, moving forward so she and Jon reached the clearing’s edge.
Maeve stamped her foot three times in the dust. She raised her arms above her, the loose folds of her sleeves falling to cover her chest. The cymbals rang g
ently and, with her face raised to the moon, she began to sing. It was a tune hunters often sang, subtly altered from a hunting song to a wolf’s lament for a winter mate, one who would share the cold, dark hours and warm the den until spring.
As she sang, her hands began to twist about, her feet to pad the beat. She circled the clearing, whirling toward the fire pit at its center. Her arms and voice wove patterns in the firelight, patterns Jon felt rather than saw. Sondra moved closer to him, her hand reaching for his. Caught up in the emotion, he didn’t hear the singing stop. He raised Sondra’s hand to his lips and kissed it, then looked at her. “You look so beautiful,” he whispered.
Her lips were open, ready to reply, when he was pulled away from her and into the ring. “Look at you,” Maeve said, painfully gripping his arm. “So fair. So perfectly Kartakan. I hear that you can even sing.”
He felt numb, speechless, embarrassed.
“Of course you can,” she purred. “Come. Give us a song and we’ll let you go.” Maeve looked from him to Sondra. “A love song perhaps? A betrothal song?”
Mishya took advantage of his rival’s absence to move to Sondra’s side and whisper in her ear. She pulled away, her eyes fixed on Jon’s.
The sight of his rival gave him courage. “Yes!” Jon declared and took a lute from one of the musicians. He began to sing, a simple courting tune that Sondra recently taught him. He played well and his singing—clear as the frigid waters of Lake Kronov—rivaled Maeve’s. His voice, compelling and impassioned, brought to each listener longing for his or her heart’s desire. The longing brought tears to their eyes and emptiness to their hearts.
Near the end of the song, Mishya moved behind Sondra, pressing his body against hers. “They say that evil’s spawn has a pleasing voice,” he whispered, his hands moving from her shoulders to her breasts. Pulled from her reverie, she twisted out of his grasp, turned, and, without thinking, slapped him.
Though it was hardly more than she had done before when he had become too forward, Mishya returned the slap, hitting her harder than he expected. She fell backward into the dusty ring. Jon had been singing to Sondra, watching her reaction to the words. As she fell, he threw aside the lute and lunged for his rival.
Since Jon had arrived, he had witnessed a number of tavern fights. He had expected he might one day find himself caught up in one, but he hadn’t anticipated how much rage he would feel. When Mishya struck Sondra, something exploded in him, some evil he’d never suspected lurked there. Mishya was a tall, stocky youth, but Jon was quicker, and his years of wrestling Hektor had prepared him well. Mishya’s first swing swiped through air, and he lost his balance. Before he could regain it, Jon attacked. He threw all his weight against the tall youth. Mishya fell backward as the silver-haired boy’s fists pounded his head. By the time villagers pulled the two apart, Mishya’s face was covered with blood from slashes Jon’s nails had made.
“Go and wash,” one of the elders said to Mishya without sympathy, then turned his attention to Jon. “As for you, cool that fire in your blood, or you’ll not be welcome in this town.”
Jon, fighting to control his rage, looked for Sondra and saw her running toward the inn. He thought of following her, but the elder announced, “Maeve, it’s time for the hunt song and our sacrifice.”
The mood of the evening shifted as dramatically as it had when Jon threw aside the lute to attack his rival. Hushed, expectant, the village formed a new circle around the dying embers of the night’s feast. The musicians laid aside their lutes and recorders, replacing them with huge standing drums.
Maeve, positioned beside the fire pit, began a rhythmic dance in time to the drumbeats. The slow tempo gradually quickened, the sound increasing until it beat against the chests of the assembly. The drumbeats stopped abruptly. The crowd hardly seemed to breathe as Maeve chanted, “The rye-wolf! The corn-wolf! The wheat-wolf! The barley-wolf! Come!”
Four men stepped forward. Each had cut the last stalks of grain in the fields. Now they wore them bound to their arms and legs. Their hands joined and the drums resumed their heavy beat. The four danced around the edge of the circle, weaving through one another’s upraised arms in an accelerating rhythm. As they danced, sweat began to stream down their arms and legs, and their quickening steps grew weary. When exhaustion finally claimed them, they threw their sheaves on the fire, making it flare once more.
“The sacrifice!” Maeve cried, her hands outstretched, beckoning them forward. “Which of you shall be our sacrifice?”
“We all willingly give our lives for the good of the land, but ask that another stand in our place,” the four men responded.
The four men went into the nearest game hut, bringing out an iron cage with open bars on all sides. Inside was the red-skinned goblin trapped during the harvest hunt. In the days since its capture, the children of the village had avenged the deaths of their companions by poking sticks at the creature, allowing it little rest. Even so, the creature had enough strength left to tear at the carrying poles, to reach through the bars, trying to grip its foes in powerful hands.
As the creature was carried into the circle, the village elders laid dried sticks on the fire, building the embers to a bright blaze. The elders chanted, “To the spirit of the land, we give this sacrifice. May its pain and its blood make the earth fertile, make the spring seed sprout, make the waters flow.”
The villagers repeated the chant. The men held the cage high as they walked on either side of the pit. The fire licked at the soles of the goblin’s feet and singed the fur on its legs. The creature shrieked and pounded against the sides of the cage, but the men held it firmly, slowly lowering the cage as the fire died.
“Would they sacrifice one of the cattle if no goblin could be found?” Jon whispered to Andor.
“Cattle aren’t acceptable. If there were no beasties, the village would use a criminal under sentence of death. Without either, the men would draw lots,” Andor replied. “The solstice festivals are celebrations of sacrifice, the only times of the year the village is thankful for the beasties that overrun our land.”
Jon hardly heard his last words, concentrating instead on the high-pitched, goblinoid screams that echoed across the empty hills. “Accept the death of our enemy!” the elders chanted, and again the villagers repeated the words.
Maeve led Arlette’s mother forward, tears streaming down the woman’s face. Her body shook with grief for her child, killed by the goblins during the cloudberry harvest. With Maeve beside her to support her, she circled the pit, pouring fat on the fire. Together, they watched the goblin writhe in the center of the rising, hungry light.
“May our winter hunts be fruitful. May the land grant our needs,” the elders cried, and the village repeated the words.
Jon noted Andor’s savage expression as he stared at the creature, his fingers idly moving over the wolf pendant he wore. Jon returned his gaze to the goblin. Some dark pleasure was churning in him as well, the savagery of the sacrifice arousing a hunger he could scarcely understand. His eyes burned from the flames as he watched Maeve kick the cage to the edge of the fire pit. She raised her knife.
“May the flesh of our enemy make us strong,” she called out as she sliced a strip of meat from the goblin’s charred carcass. Though the inside was nearly raw, she didn’t seem to notice as, caught up in the rapture of the ceremony, she put part of it in her mouth and handed the rest to Arlette’s mother, who did the same.
The village pressed forward while Maeve sliced the body, filling eager, outstretched hands with meat. Jon joined them and the taste, as foul as he expected, held all the satisfaction of victory after a long, bloody war.
The feast had ended. The villagers began returning to their homes. Maeve moved close to Jon and took his hand, pulling him into a copse of trees between the road and the river. “You are welcome to come and see me any time you wish,” she whispered and kissed him. He tried to pull away, but her grip was too strong and the emotions she touched in him were as pot
ent as his rage had been. “There are things you ought to know, child,” she said and laughed as, freed of her grasp, he headed quickly toward the road and the welcome light streaming from the inn. Inside, men were singing festival songs in voices far less harmonious than before.
Mishya, along with his friends Alden and Josef, waited for Jon just outside the inn’s doorway. The trio blocked his way inside, challenging him to cry out for help. Jon didn’t. Instead, he let himself be pushed away from the square of light, into the trees around the village square. His hands were clenched into tight fists, holding back the power he felt rising in them. A word, a gesture, and these men would trouble him no more.
“I saw you watching the moon tonight,” Mishya whispered. “Was our festival as wild as the ones of your past?”
Jon didn’t understand the taunt.
“Were the beast-women as passionate as the girl you stole from me?”
This time there was no mistaking the intent of the insult. Jon had been held back once tonight. Now no one could stop the fight. He sprang at Mishya, but the youth’s companions caught his arms and dragged him farther into the woods as Mishya rolled back his sleeves. It was a coward’s act and a coward’s fight. In the beginning, Mishya’s fists fell in places where the bruises wouldn’t show. Later, after Jon’s well-aimed kick caught him in the midsection, the brute was less particular.
“Take him to the river,” Mishya told the others. “Tie him there and let the beasties gnaw his flesh.”
“You’re not coming?” Alden asked.
“I’ll be missed,” Mishya whispered. “Remember who rid you of Vladish when he came collecting.”
Barely conscious, Jon didn’t call out as he was dragged farther into the woods. He had the means to save his life. He needed no other assistance.
“After the festival tonight, the beasties will be thick here, ready for revenge,” Josef said, scanning the brush anxiously.
Tapestry of Dark Souls Page 15