They had fully entered The Gray, the dominion of Barthos, god of the soil.
Several of the horses nickered and lashed their tails. The prisoner’s keening grew louder. Foxaro lifted his head, ears stiff, eyes wide and white. He shuffled his feet and tried to turn back.
“Whoa, boy. It’s all right.” Wilek held the horse firm and tried to calm down. His fear was making things worse. He breathed deeply and slowly, trying to steady his heartbeat. He leaned forward and petted Foxaro’s neck, which, after a few strokes, steadied his own shaking hands.
“We’ll get through this, Fox,” he whispered. “We always do.” He scratched Foxaro’s withers. The horse nickered, the sudden darkness forgotten.
It was easier to be brave when someone needed you to.
Wilek glanced back at the cart carrying tonight’s caged offering. Inside the iron bars sat a middle-aged man. The convict. Had killed another in a tavern brawl. Wilek had failed to negotiate a lighter sentence. The man would die tonight, just as the others had.
Just as Chadek had. Small hands holding tight—
“Halt!” a voice cried up ahead.
Wilek shook off the memory of his brother Chadek as the procession slowed to a stop. He glanced at Kal, who met his gaze with a somber expression. Kalenek Veroth, Wilek’s shield, sat his horse like a demigod, his warrior hair twists loose around his scarred face. Like all King’s Guards, he wore a deep blue tabard over his blacks. But rather than King Echad’s red Barthos insignia, he bore Wilek’s five gods emblazoned in white on his breast. Kal also wore the gold belt of a shield. He hated these offerings almost as much as Wilek, but for another reason entirely.
Ahead, shadowed men holding torches dismounted and moved forward on foot. They slid their torches into brackets on the shrine and dim light flashed off the bronze. Once all were in place, the men returned to their horses, the shrine now fully visible.
It had been built on the edge of a cliff that overlooked a deep canyon. Ten paces from the shrine, a half-circle of melon-sized rocks separated the holy ground from that of the desert wilderness.
The shrine itself was like any other in Armania: a five-sided bronze platform with five pillars that held up a pointed roof. In the center of the clearing between the altar and rock barrier stood a bronze pole of the god the shrine represented. This shrine honored Barthos, and it was Barthos’s likeness that stared down at Wilek now. The god of soil had a man’s body and a canine’s head with long pointed ears, a shaggy mane, and three eyes. Wilek looked up into those eyes and shuddered.
Inside the shrine, a chest-high box had been built over a trapdoor. That door opened to a chute that carried the offering down a steep slope into the sulfurous canyon of Barthos’s realm. The sight of the box brought a memory of small eyes peering over the top, small hands gripping the ledge, the Pontiff prying those hands loose so his brother would fall.
Movement shook Wilek away from the haunting past. Pontiff Rogedoth and Wilek’s father exited the carriage and walked forward. The king, hugely overweight, was in his late sixties, ill, and rarely walked anymore, preferring his rollchair. Rogedoth was a decade younger, though his hardened expression made him look as old as the king. The men stepped over the rock barrier and approached the pole. They knelt before it and muttered a prayer. When they finished, four guards were called forth to help the king stand. Then he and the Pontiff walked around the pole five times before ascending the shrine. In the center of the platform, they turned and looked out at the men.
“Bring the offering,” Father yelled, his voice as large as his ego.
Two guards went to the back of the cart and set about removing the convict from the cage. This was no simple task, as the “offerings” nearly always fought back.
“No!” The convict backed into the corner of his cage, as far from the guards as possible. Torchlight glistened in eyes wild with fear.
The guards called forth two more, who jabbed pikes between the iron bars at the man’s back until he had no choice but to move toward the opening.
The first guards caught his arms and pulled him from the cage, dragged him toward the shrine. The others followed.
“No! Please!” The man dug his bare feet into the chalky gray dirt. “Don’t put me in there. I’ll serve you. I’ll do anything!”
Wilek closed his eyes and reminded himself that Athos, god of justice, had answered his prayers that Father would only sacrifice criminals deserving of death. This man was guilty. Still, Wilek wanted to be far away from this place, in his bed, tangled in Lebetta’s comforting arms.
“Assume the formation,” the king yelled.
Wilek looked up. The guards had the convict inside the barrier now, on his knees before the Barthos pole. Wilek nudged Foxaro toward the line of rocks. Father demanded his son occupy the very center of the arc. This was considered the best position one could have short of the honor bestowed on the Pontiff and king in conducting the ceremony. One more small sign Wilek hoped meant he’d be declared Heir.
King Echad didn’t believe in the right of first blood. He would choose his Heir when he was ready and not a moment sooner. With two sons of age and a third nearly so, the longer he tarried in making a decision, the more divided the realm of Armania became. Hopefully Father would declare Wilek his Heir soon and end the matter.
Kal rode up on Wilek’s right. Agmado Harton, Wilek’s new backman, appeared on his left and, thankfully, remained silent. The muscular nineteen-year-old had only been serving Wilek these past two weeks since Wilek’s previous backman had moved to Grayswood to marry. This was Harton’s first time attending the offering, and Wilek had warned the chatty young backman to be silent until it was over.
The other King’s Guards moved their horses until, side by side, they formed a wide arc along the rock barrier.
“Prepare the offering,” the king yelled.
The pikemen prodded the convict in the back, and he cried out as the sharp weapons forced him to his feet. He began walking around the pole with the guards, five times as was customary before approaching the shrine.
As the convict walked, the Pontiff spoke. “We, the children of man, sit in the shadow of Barthos’s glory. Our sins bind us in misery and we deserve his wrath. Barthos shakes the foundations of the earth again and again to warn us of his displeasure. He casts the shadow of death over his children to remind us to revere him.”
Wilek held in his contempt. No god forced the king to make these offerings. They were fueled by superstition. Something Wilek was powerless to fight.
“Barthos alone can lift this shadow,” Rogedoth continued. “Only he can still the ground, can save us from our afflictions, can deliver us from the grave. We thank Barthos for his kindness. We proclaim his wonders to all who have ears.”
Rosâr Echad looked down to the guards. “Bring forth the offering.”
The guards and the convict had finished circling the pole and approached the platform. When they reached the steps, the convict shied back. Another jab of a pike sent him scrambling up the steps until he stood between Father and the Pontiff.
The convict fell to his knees and clutched the hem of Father’s velvet robes. “Rosâr, have mercy! I beg you. Don’t send me to Barthos.” He fell forward and hugged the king’s ankles.
Father lost his balance and grabbed hold of one of the bronze pillars to keep from falling. “Get him off me!” he yelled.
The guards pried away the convict. It took some doing, but they finally managed to drive the man to the other side of the platform and into the chute box. The convict gingerly touched the shards of broken glass that had been set along the top edge of the chute box a few years back.
No place to hold on anymore. Wilek pushed away the unwelcome thought and tried to think again about Lebetta.
“You have been convicted of wrongdoing and sentenced to die,” Father said. “Tonight you will atone for yourself and all Armania.”
“Not The Gray. Please! Anywhere but The Gray. I beg you, Holy Rosâr, have me
rcy!”
Rogedoth lifted his gaze to the Barthos pole. “Here is our exchange, Barthos! Here is our substitute. Here is our atonement. This man will go to death so that we might earn your favor and proceed to peace and long life.” The Pontiff yanked down the lever that opened the trapdoor. The convict dropped, yelped, reached for the jagged top of the chute box.
He did not hold on long.
As he slid down the chute, his scream stabbed through Wilek, who swallowed and eased Foxaro back a step. The man’s cries and pleas continued as he slid toward the bottom of the canyon, but the clarity of his words was drowned by the growing distance.
Now they waited.
Gâzar, god of the Lowerworld, take him swiftly.
Time passed and the men grew restless. They ignored the convict’s distant imploring and began to talk and joke with one another.
“Is it over?” Harton whispered.
“No,” Wilek said. “We must wait for Barthos to accept the offering.”
“What if he doesn’t?” Harton asked.
“He always does.” Wilek had witnessed over two hundred sacrifices.
“Gods,” Harton said. “They don’t do anything like this in Highcliff.”
“Welcome to the court of Rosâr Echad,” Kal said, his tone tinged in disgust that only Wilek would recognize from having known him so long.
Something rattled in the distance.
“Is that a snake?” Hart asked, eyes wide.
“Silence!” Rogedoth yelled, then lowered his voice. “He comes.”
The men fell mute. The only sounds were the nickers and slapping tails of the horses, the steady hiss of the mist against the torches’ flames, the convict’s distant pleas, and the rattling.
The rattling rose in pitch until it became the familiar, maniacal screeching cackle that frequented Wilek’s nightmares. The sound intensified. Foxaro’s ears twitched.
The screeching stopped.
A breath of silence.
A shriek pierced the night, horrible and lingering: the cry of a man being eaten alive.
Wilek gritted his teeth and scratched Foxaro’s withers, pretending he was back in Everton outside the stables, getting ready for a ride to the beach. Foxaro loved to run on the wet sand where the air was cool.
“Your Highness.” Kal nudged his arm. “It’s over.”
Wilek jumped, exhaled a shaky breath, sickened by the eerie silence. He glanced at Harton. His backman clutched the pommel of his saddle, face pale, eyes haunted and staring past the shrine.
King Echad might force his son to attend the monthly offerings, but once they were over, Wilek was always the first to leave.
“Let’s go.” Wilek backed up Foxaro from the stone barrier until he had room to turn. The King’s Guards urged their mounts to part, and Wilek kicked his heels into Foxaro’s flanks. The animal took off through the throng of blue, red, and black uniforms, as eager as Wilek to leave.
As Foxaro carried him away, the mist dampened his face, and soon his hair clung to his cheeks. He did not slow until Foxaro carried him out of The Gray and into the moonlight.
He found the road and waited for Kal and Harton to catch up. He did not wait long. Hooves pounded the dry desert. Kal appeared and reined his horse in front of Wilek’s.
“Are you well?” Kal asked.
“Same as always,” Wilek said.
They let their horses walk along the road toward the lights of Canden. In the distant blackness, rivers of orange fire snaked down the foothills of Mount Radu. The last earthquake had destroyed two dozen homes in the mountain village outside of Dacre. Hearths had caught fire, and then, due to the dryness of the area, the hills had too.
Harton shot out of The Gray and circled Kal and Wilek’s horses, coming alongside Wilek’s left. “That was harrowing. You do that every month?”
“So long as the earthquakes continue,” Wilek said. “My father fears that Barthos is angry he stopped human sacrifices at the end of the Centenary War.”
“Did the king really kill his own sons?” Hart asked. “Because that’s what I’ve heard, and I—”
“Harton,” Kal snapped.
The young man leaned forward in his saddle to see around Wilek to Kal. “What?”
“I don’t mind questions, Kal,” Wilek said. “It’s good to question. It’s something I intend to do more of if I ever become king.” Something his father should do more of. He accepted every word his corrupt advisors uttered—never bothered to confirm a single fact for himself.
“You mean when you become king,” Harton said.
“No, Hart, I mean if. Don’t mistake me. The chance I’ll someday rule is greater than ever before. But my father remains an impulsive, superstitious man, and I often fail to please him. To answer your question, yes. Years ago the king did indeed sacrifice three of his sons to win Barthos’s favor. We were at war then, and the Pontiff convinced my father that only the most precious offerings would appease the god of the very soil we were fighting over. Father rose to the occasion and encouraged many of his most trusted men to do the same. Fifty were fed to Barthos that day.” Wilek paused to let that sink in. “These earthquakes have my father worried. If they should continue . . . who knows? He may decide to make another precious offering to his favorite god.”
“His?” Harton asked. “You don’t serve Barthos?”
“I have chosen my five,” Wilek said. “Barthos is not one of them.” He would never worship the god who took his brother.
Mielle
The carriage jerked forward, making Mielle’s stomach flutter. She watched the dilapidated buildings of the Sink as they rolled past, the worn faces of the people going about their lives.
For decades the war had devastated their realm. It had orphaned Mielle and her sisters, and later taken her eldest sister’s and nephew’s lives. Now the Woes were doing the same. Too many children were orphaned each time an earthquake shook the Lowerworld. Too many were left homeless when their homes turned to rubble. The only person Mielle knew of who cared was the king’s first wife, Queen Brelenah. She’d overheard Prince Wilek speak often of his mother’s worries to Kal. If Mielle could earn a position with Lady Zeroah, once the young woman married Prince Wilek, Mielle might get a chance to speak with his mother about other ways to help the orphans in the Sink.
It was her only hope.
There was far too much riding on this interview. If she were not chosen for the position, what then? A position with the launderer or tanner or tailors would never pay enough, let alone get her any nearer to Queen Brelenah. She clasped her hands and tried to squeeze out her jitters.
The carriage jolted and the road became smooth. Mielle grasped the window’s ledge, keenly aware that the bump they’d just experienced had been where the dirt road of the Sink became the cobblestone of Procession Way.
They were getting closer.
She glanced at Kal, the man who had practically raised her. She loved seeing him in his uniform. Unlike most soldiers, Kal wore his hair coils loose around his face, probably to further hide his scars. His eyes were closed as they always were when he was worrying. Poor man. He worked hard to provide for Mielle and her sister Amala. Getting this position would lift a great burden from Kal’s shoulders and likely open doors for Amala to find a place in the future. No more daydreaming. Mielle must focus.
“Kal,” she said, “why isn’t Lady Zeroah called princess like her mother?”
Kal opened his eyes and glanced at Mielle. “In Sarikar, only children of the king and of the heir apparent are titled prince or princess. So Princess Nabelle is a princess because she is the daughter of King Jorger. But as she is not his heir, her daughter is not a princess.”
“But once Lady Zeroah marries Prince Wilek, she’ll become a princess, right?”
“Yes, she’ll be Zeroah, Princess of Armania.”
And someday, perhaps, Queen of Armania.
Kal looked her over, his scars keeping his smile flat. “Wouldn’t Livy like to see yo
u looking so fine?”
Mielle’s heart pinched at the mention of her older sister. “Do I look like her?”
Kal’s eyes flickered as they studied her face. “A little. You have her nose.”
A big nose.
“But her hair was naturally curly, like Amala’s. You look more like your mother.”
Mielle couldn’t remember her mother to know whether or not that was a good thing. She leaned forward so she could see the houses outside. They had turned off Procession Way and were passing down High Street, the richest part of the city outside the palace walls. “Why doesn’t Princess Nabelle live at Castle Everton with the other royals?”
“Don’t know. My guess is she doesn’t appreciate the corruption at court.”
The word corruption made Mielle shiver. “Nurse Darlow said court can be dangerous, and I should be careful who I trust.”
“She’s right. Trust no one. Not even your mistress or her mother, should you be accepted to the position. Just because one is quiet does not mean one is not scheming.”
“Why do so many want to go to court, then?”
“Because there’s wealth and power to be had when one is near royalty. There are also men looking to catch wives.” Kal waggled his eyebrows.
Mielle did not find such a comment funny. “I don’t want wealth or power.” Well, maybe a little, to help the orphans. “And if I wanted a husband, I would catch my own.”
Kal laughed. “I don’t doubt that. Simply show Princess Nabelle that you’re obedient and hardworking and you’ll do fine.”
He made it sound so easy, but obedience never came easily to Mielle. “What if the princess doesn’t like me?”
“She doesn’t want to like you. She wants to know you’ll be a help to her daughter.” The carriage slowed to a stop. “We’re here.”
The driver came around and opened the door. Kal climbed out first, then helped Mielle down. Kal offered his arm, and Mielle grabbed it the way he’d taught her. It felt strange. Like they were playing a game. She suddenly felt like an impostor. She was no lady! She climbed cliffs and swam in the Eversea and—
King's Folly Page 2