by Maya, Tara
Sacrifice
The Unfinished Song, Book Three
Tara Maya
copyright Misque Press, 2011
Table of Contents
1
Sacrifice 2
Table of Contents 3
Prologue 5
Banshee 5
Chapter One 7
Recrudescence 7
Chapter Two 19
Beast 19
Chapter Three 39
Trust 39
Chapter Four 55
Hunt 55
Chapter Five 69
Arrow 69
Chapter Six 93
Flood 93
Chapter Seven 116
Broken 116
Contact Me 136
Copyright © 2011 by Tara Maya
Cover Design by Tara Maya
Misque
Misque Press
First North American Edition: August 2011.
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real
persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Also by Tara Maya:
Conmergence
The Painted World Stories
Tomorrow We Dance
Burst
STRAT: The Black and White War
The Unfinished Song:
Initiate (January, 2011)
Taboo (April, 2011)
Sacrifice (August, 2011)
Roots (Coming Soon)
Wings (Coming Soon)
Blood (Coming Soon)
Prologue
Banshee
Kavio is going to die.
The last night of the rushed and desperate journey back to Yellow Bear, Dindi awakened abruptly, mouth dry, sweat on her neck. A murky shape loomed over her, hanging from a tree branch over her sleeping mat, like a bat sleeping upside down in a cave.
Don’t scream.
The black shape unfurled bat wings to reveal a fae, a female with a pallid face, stubby snout and fangs. Long purple hair streamed behind her, and her gauzy dress sparkled amethyst like a broken geode.
You’re the only one who can help him. The bat-winged woman’s mouth didn’t move, but Dindi felt the voice slither into her mind. You’re the last one standing between him and Death.
Dindi stood up, shaking. A quick glance confirmed that everyone in the camp was asleep. Brena and Gwenika slept in the lean-to nearest her mat. Gremo and Svego shared the furs on the far side of the fire. There were more lean-tos and straw mats arranged around two other fire pits, where the refugees from Blue Waters, those who had been Shunned, slept. Some of them moaned and tossed on their blankets, but none were awake.
It was close to dawn; Kavio was supposed to be on watch, yet he was nowhere to be seen.
“Where is he?” whispered Dindi to the purple faery.
The faery cocked her head. Don’t scream…
She opened her mouth wide…wider…the lips peeled back so far that her whole face became an open mouth, a gaping chasm of fang and throat. She unleashed a scream.
Banshee!
The inhuman roar shook the earth and washed the landscape in so weird and brilliant a light the trees and rocks and earth itself became transparent, like loosely woven wisps of cloth, and Dindi saw, silhouetted black against the lucent shapes, a man standing on a high cliff over the river. He stepped over the edge and fell into darkness…
The illumination flashed like lightning, then the banshee closed her wings, and snapped the world back to night. But Dindi remembered where he had stood, and tore through the brambles and trees, running uphill, until she reached the spot, sick with the fear she could not make it in time to stop him from falling.
When she arrived, Kavio stood on the edge of the cliff, but he had not yet stepped over the ledge. An old woman hovered in front of him, floating in the air on gossamer wings. It was a High Faery, almost too bright to look upon, as if a sliver of the full moon had slid too close to the earth and might consume everything in cold fire. Her face was veiled, but her voice cut through the air like sharp ice. Dindi stumbled, and no matter how much she screamed at her feet to move, she was unable to drag herself closer. Her body would no longer answer her commands.
“You don’t deserve to live, Kavio,” the High Faery said. A cold, hushed voice, like a winter river. “How many more people have to die because of you? Isn’t killing me, your own mother, enough for you?”
His own mother? The White Lady herself had come to berate her son?
Dindi was sure he could see and hear the faery, though he did not look at her. He stared down into the water, swirling in the palm of jagged rocks that thrust up from the river like grasping fingers.
“Wouldn’t it be better t o give up your life now, before you have to endure the humiliation of returning to your war chief stained with failure?” asked the veiled woman.
The bitch is egging him on. And of course the faery knew just where to dig. During the journey Kavio had said similar things. My life was forfeit from the time I failed in my quest for peace, he had told her bleakly. I have no right to return to Yellow Bear. I have an obligation to guide the rest of the peace party, and the Shunned we rescued, to safety. But once we are back in Yellow Bear territory…
“Won’t it be fun,” taunted the faery, “when your allies learn how you crawled like a pig on a leash before your cousin…how you howled like an infant when Rthan dangled you by your arms above the water…. You can still feel it, can’t you Kavio, how your arms burned and the water smothered you? You can still feel how cold it was, how very, very cold…”
Dindi wanted to slap the glow off her fae face.
She couldn’t walk in the presence of the faery, but, when she focused all her willpower, she forced her limbs to creep. The leaves rustled under her belly as she clawed closer to him.
“You should never have been born,” continued the faery, with icy loathing. “Your father knew as much. Why do you think he sought any road to be rid of you, for any cause he could claim, over the years? He would welcome the death of the spawn destined to kill its own mother. But you… are you such a monster that you want to kill me, Kavio? Why else would you fight to live, knowing it means I will die at your hand?”
“You aren’t my mother,” he said flatly. “Nice try, though.”
Infuriated, the faery flashed and shifted. Her veil turned into a hundred tiny snakes that reared up and hissed at him. Dindi glimpsed a terrible face. Blue skin.
“CURSE-BRINGER!” She hissed/roared at him with a hundred voices.
She disappeared in a burst of blue sparks that seared the air. Dindi had to duck her head against the light. Once the faery had vanished, however, Dindi found herself freed from paralysis.
“Kavio!” she shouted.
He did not move, except to clench his hands. She could see the tension ripple across the muscles in his broad back.
“Go back to camp, Dindi.” His words sounded flat, dark.
“No.” She scrambled out of the leaves, brushing off twigs as she went, took a huge step, tripped, and face-planted back into the leaves.
At the sound of her “oomph!” he did turn around, at last. He shook his head. She grinned sheepishly.
“You have a twig in your hair,” he said. He knelt down to pluck a stick o
ut of her tangles. She was just glad to see him step away from the ledge. She grinned and grinned. He tried and failed to suppress his return smile.
“What are you doing here?”
“I heard you talking to someone,” she said. Her grin faded.
“It was nothing,” he said. “Just the Blue Lady toying with me.”
“That’s not nothing.”
“She’s no danger to me,” he said.
“Are you sure?”
Nameless emotions chased over his face. He cupped her cheek with his hand, briefly, a soft caress. Something cleared; his tension eased. He said firmly, “I’m sure. Let’s go back to camp.”
Chapter One
Recrudescence
Kavio
The dawn of their last day on the journey home, they left their large canoe moored in the lake at the Dam upriver from the tribehold. The rest of the day, the party treaded the path beside the river. Kavio counted his people, repeatedly, head by head, as if re-counting could change who was missing, who was present.
Missing: Rthan, who had stayed in his homeland, to add his strength to the enemy when the war came.
Present: Brena, still brooding over her lost slave. They had shared a tent, Kavio suspected, though they had been so discreet he could not be certain.
Missing: Vultho, traitor and scoundrel and kin to Hertio. He had violated the truce by attacking an enemy clanhold, birth clan of Gremo’s father.
Present: Gremo, who had spent most of the journey in the shape of a giant sea bird, speeding them home far more swiftly than nature would have normally allowed. Gremo had shifted back to human form again for the trek overland.
Present: Svego, an Olani from Blue Waters, and, it turned out, one of the Shunned.
Present: Thirty more men, women and children who had been Shunned by the Blue Waters tribe, healed by Gwenika and Gremo, and now followed Kavio in the hopes of securing refuge in Yellow Bear.
Missing: the Peace between Yellow Bear and Blue Waters that Kavio had promised to bring back.
Present: the threat of War.
The strumming river, the drum of frog throats and flute warble of songbirds, the grass crunching under feet, he heard none of it. Words, like a roaring waterfall, tumbled through his mind, a rehearsal of the speech he would give to Hertio, War Chief of Yellow Bear. No matter how many times Kavio shaped the phrases, he couldn’t make them come out right.
A softer step, hurrying to catch up. He turned around and saw rounded shoulders, hair swept back from a piquant face. She smelled like wildflowers and willowbark tea.
Present: Her.
Dindi glanced up at him from under her lashes and smiled. He wanted to shake her. How can you be so happy? Don’t you understand what’s going to happen? But he smiled back. His practice speech for Hertio popped like a bubble, clean out of his head.
Fa! He needed to remember what he planned to say. He glared at Dindi and deliberately quickened his pace. First, accept responsibility, welcome punishment. But demand, at the same time, the punishment of Vultho, whose violation had been treasonous as well as dishonorable. Even Hertio must see that, for all he would not want to be harsh with his kinsman.
Winter in Yellow Bear was a brown thing, not white. The autumn leaves that had fallen earlier in the year remained like crumbs on the ground with no snow to cover them. The grasses often caught fire. From his vantage, the elevated stretch of a hillock, Kavio noticed movement on the path further down the brown slope. A sept of men advanced toward them. They wore undyed buckskin legwals and there was no war paint on their chests, clad for the hunt, not for battle. Yet they jogged single file up the path, with no attempt to soften the loud thumps of their bare feet on the dirt. They carried spears, not bows. Thrano led them.
Kavio stopped, forcing those behind him to stop as well. He waited.
“Ho, Kavio,” Thrano called out once the two groups came within sight. He and the six men with him trotted until they were less than a stone’s throw from Kavio.
Kavio lifted his hand. “Thrano. What buck or boar has led you so far from the tribehold?”
“It’s not so far for swift feet or swifter tongues.” Thrano’s grin held no mirth.
So those at the Tors of Yellow Bear had already heard the rumors of the failed peace journey. Had Hertio sent Thrano ahead to tell Kavio not to bother to return? No. Thrano had not come with enough men to enforce such a message, and Kavio didn’t think Hertio would have sent it. Hertio had never believed peace would be possible to begin with. He would snicker, slap Kavio on the back, lean close, and, with breath that stank of beer and garlic, tell him he’d told him so.
“We are men out on a hunt,” Thrano said. He emphasized each word. “We did not expect to meet you, and we must be on our way.” He began to jog away, off the path, his men after him. Then he turned, as if in afterthought, to add, “If we are not back by nightfall, you can tell War Chief Vultho we were hunting near the Dam and may make camp there this night, but we will surely be back by tomorrow with meat for his Honoring Feast.”
Thrano and the hunters disappeared into the woods.
Dead leaves gusted across the path. Kavio listened to the rattle of the wind in the dry brambles, absorbing Thrano’s message, rearranging futures like dancers in the kiva of his mind. Behind him, the others waited.
Gremo cleared his throat. “Was that a joke?”
“No. A warning.”
“Vultho can’t possibly be War Chief.” Gremo’s forehead knotted. “Can he?”
“Apparently, he can.”
“What will we do now?” asked Gremo.
“Hunt.” Kavio flexed his hands. “If there is to be a feast held to honor the investiture of Vultho as War Chief, we ought to bring gifts of meat. We don’t want to arrive unprepared.”
Many of the stragglers in his party hadn’t caught up yet, so Kavio instructed Gremo and Svego to find a rest spot and gather them all while he “hunted.” He did indeed need to hunt, although what he wanted was information, not game.
He tracked Thrano’s footprints, heavy and deliberate wedges in the dirt, and wasn’t surprised to find the warrior waiting patiently for him on a boulder.
“So,” said Kavio.
“So,” said Thrano. He idly scrapped pale green lichen off the rock face with the stone blade of his spear. He didn’t look at Kavio. But he began to talk.
What had happened was this, according to Thrano.
Vultho had returned early from the peace journey. (Right after we chased him out of Gremo’s father’s clanhold, thought Kavio.) He blamed one of the Blue Waters clans for breaking the peace, and complained that Kavio had been naïve and unprepared for the attack—only he, Vultho, had resisted the backstabbers, and held them off long enough for Kavio and the others to continue their peace journey. (At that point, Vultho still thought I might negotiate peace with Nargano, thought Kavio.) Once word reached the Tors that Nargano had rejected the peace, Vultho crowed that he had warned Hertio all along of Kavio’s childishness and incompetence. (How delighted that vulture must have been to hear of my failure, thought Kavio.) Vultho went a step further, however, and claimed that Hertio himself was ultimately to blame for the coming war, for trusting an outtribber boy in the first place. Vultho convinced the elders to convene the Council of Matriarchs and the Council of Patriarchs to name a new War Chief. He also announced his betrothal to Lulla, Hertio’s daughter. (Kavio snorted.)
Vultho’s father was the brother of the matriarch of the Sun Clan, the chief-maker clan of Yellow Bear. His mother belonged to the Ladder Clan, the second most powerful clan in the tribe. His betrothal to Lulla brought him directly back into the Sun Clan as a husband. His social connections were unassailable. He did not need to tell the Councils who he had in mind to replace Hertio. They dropped rocks in jars, but since no other warrior had stepped forward to offer his jar to compete, at the end of the choosing, Vultho’s jar was too heavy to lift.
“He’s more clever than I thought,” Kavio said.
“His aunt hates Hertio,” Thrano said. “She was Hertio’s first wife, before he discarded her for her younger cousin. You’re a latecomer to this bitterness. The bones of this fight are old.”
“Aren’t they always?”
Thrano scrapped the stone blade of his spear against the boulder, scritch, scritch, scritch. Green dust floated to the litter of dead leaves on the ground. Over the treetops, a raven attacked a young eagle. The eagle shrieked.
“Vultho thought Nargano would kill you,” said Thrano. “He won’t be pleased you live.”
“Will he order my death?”
“If he can find a strong enough pretext, you know he will try, but it won’t be easy for him. Hertio is no longer War Chief, but he is still favored by many of the elders. Even those who thought a young man should lead the warriors in battle respect the wisdom of white hair in other matters. All know Hertio elevated you, and an attack against you now means an attack against him.”
“Poor Hertio. I’m a rock that ties him down.”
Scritch, scritch. “A strong rock could knock Vultho off his perch,”
“After the tribe elders gave him their jar of acclaim? No. If I wanted to take a tribe at the point of a spear, I’d have started with my birth tribe.”
Thrano was silent. Scritch, scritch, scritch.
“Thank you for your timely hunt,” Kavio said softly.
“What do we do now?” Thrano asked, much as Gremo had.
Nargano behind them, Vultho before them. Kavio pictured the river, like a liquid rope with two impossible knots, one at Sharkshead of Blue Waters, one at the Tors of Yellow Bear. He had imagined that they would only have to paddle upstream until they reached the Dam, and could follow the other branch of the river after that, downstream, downhill. Now he felt as if some malicious fae had reversed the flow of the river, and he had to paddle upstream all over again.