Season of Sacrifice

by Mindy Klasky

  So far, Alana had not deciphered anything useful. There were meticulous accounts of the Tree, of course, of its growth from year to year. Her sisters recorded the springtime ritual of bringing water from the Sacred Grove to fortify the Tree’s roots against the corrosive ocean air. Alana read how she could harvest the Tree’s acorns to make a sustaining bread that would take months to go stale. She could weave the Tree’s autumn leaves into thatched roofs to keep water out. So many pages, so many secrets, yet nothing to instruct her further about stretching the bavins’ power over land.

  Alana’s tightly wrapped tension had sprung loose only the night before, when Goody Glenna stopped by to check on her progress. “There’s so much here!” the woodsinger had exclaimed. “How am I supposed to learn it all?”

  “By doing what you’re doing. By reading and studying.”

  “It’s not fair! Woodsingers are supposed to be trained by the women they replace.”

  “Who ever said that the Guardians are fair?” Goody Glenna’s face drew into a scowl as she wiped thick dust off one of the journals. “We all encouraged Sarira Woodsinger to take an apprentice, but she refused. She died before we had a chance to change her mind. But you know all that—that’s why you were chosen. The Women’s Council, the Men’s Council, and the Spirit Council all agreed that you had the urge to learn, that you could regain the wisdom we lost with Sarira.”

  “But—” Alana began, but Glenna shook her head.

  “Back to work, woodsinger.” When Goody Glenna had left, Alana forced her way through another three years of journals, reading, hoping, and all the time rubbing her tired eyes.

  She was still angry with Goody Glenna when she awoke the following morning. Nevertheless, the day began like every other since the children had been taken. She awakened just before sunrise. She grabbed a handful of dried apples, remnants from the winter stores. She made her way to the Tree, losing her thoughts in the crunch of frosted grass beneath her feet.

  When she arrived at the Headland, she found everything as she had left it the day before. The oak had completely healed from giving its bavins, but Alana could sense the power of the lacy wooden knots, power that grew stronger as she settled her hand over the gnarled bark. She had scarcely leaned against the great oaken trunk when Teresa appeared on the path, floating toward the Tree like a ghost.

  “Woodsinger!” the mother called, her voice as harsh and urgent as a gull’s.

  “Teresa.”

  “How are the children? What is Reade thinking today?”

  “I don’t know yet, Teresa. I need to check on Maddock.”

  “Maddock! He doesn’t need you! You have to help Reade—he’s just a child!”

  “Teresa, I know that.” Alana tried to keep her voice even, tried to forget that they had engaged in the same debate every morning for the past two weeks. “Teresa, today I have to check on Maddock. That was the whole reason I sang the second bavin. Let’s see how close he is to the children.”

  “You can’t! Check on Reade first! Tell me about Reade and Maida! Don’t abandon my babies!”

  “Teresa—” Alana began, but the young mother threw herself at the woodsinger, clutching at the hem of Alana’s patched cloak.

  “You promised! You have to! Please, watch my babies!”

  “Teresa, no!” Alana loaded her exclamation with anger, fighting to pull her cloak from the woman’s claws.

  Teresa’s sobs crested into a high-pitched wail. Without warning, the woman convulsed and arched her back, her arms stiffening into boards. Her teeth locked around the guttural howl that knifed from her belly, and her legs began to thrash. White foam blossomed at the corner of her mouth.

  Alana stared in horror. “Teresa!” she managed after a moment. “Teresa, stop it! Teresa, it’s all right! I’ll look to Reade! Stop it, Teresa!”

  But the young mother was beyond hearing. Her eyes stared into the Tree’s branches, and her limbs continued to twitch. Alana ran for the village.

  Goody Glenna stood on the edge of the green, as if she had expected Alana to return from the Headland so early. The old woman listened to the woodsinger’s horrified gasps and then nodded her head slowly. She raised a commanding claw to summon two brawny fishermen. “Carry Teresa to my cottage.”

  “That’s all?” Alana asked, shocked into calmness.

  “What else would you have me do? I’ll brew her some lionsmane tea. Get back to your work, woodsinger”

  “But Goody—”

  “Go and do your job, woodsinger. I’ll do mine.”

  And so Alana climbed back to her Tree, barely acknowledging the two fishermen that she met on the path, Teresa’s now-limp body strung between them. For just an instant, she thought that she should check on Reade. She should be ready to report on the boy when Teresa came to. After all, the sun was already high in the sky. She’d lost the entire morning, the long hours that she had intended to use, checking on Maddock’s progress.

  The very lateness of the hour, though, made Alana realize that she must exploit the small reprieve she had been given. She must check on Maddock’s progress, as she had not been allowed to do for the past several days.

  Besides, whatever Alana learned from Maddock’s bavin, it couldn’t be worse than watching Reade’s confusion, watching the child bounce back and forth between terror and bravery, between calling for his mum and challenging Duke Coren.

  Alana did not want to linger in the boy’s thoughts. She did not want to lose herself in the mind of a child who had lost all the things he held dear.

  She especially did not want to think about how desperately Reade sought a man to be his father. The boy’s sorrow on that count was too close to Alana’s own. The five-year-old might be more vocal about his loss, but he could not miss his father more than Alana did hers. She knew Reade’s ache; she knew his rage. She knew how it felt to mourn a father who had been safety and security, gentleness and wisdom, all spun into one good man.

  Setting aside her sorrow, Alana took a deep breath. The spring days were still short; darkness fell early, especially on the inland roads, where no ocean reflected the sun’s dying glints. She had wasted far too much time, dealing with Teresa, worrying about which bavin she should watch.

  Alana exhaled slowly and drew on the tricky powers of the Guardians of Earth and Air, reaching for Maddock’s bavin across the landlocked leagues.

  “Bogs and breakers!” Maddock swore loudly as his horse stumbled in the dim twilight. Fourteen days since they’d ridden from home. Fourteen cursed days of rising before dawn and riding hard until dusk, but still the kidnappers were well ahead of them. Maddock had more ability in his left thumb than that damned tracker Glenna had chosen to accompany him.

  Of course, Maddock would have been forced to admit in a moment of sane contemplation, Landon wasn’t a bad man, and his skills had been useful until their prey had reached the cursed hard-packed earth of the Great Road. It was just that the tracker was so blasted negative. Every decision Maddock made was questioned minutely, held up to scrutiny as if Landon were the Men’s Council, Women’s Council, and Spirit Council all rolled into one.

  Bracing himself for the challenge he was certain to receive, Maddock reined in his horse and waited for Jobina and Landon to come up on either side. “I think we’d better leave the road for tonight.” He gestured toward the carefully laid out fields to either side. “We’re obviously getting near a village, and I’d rather not have some farmer armed with an overactive imagination and a pitchfork decide that we look like highwaymen.”

  Jobina nodded, arching her back as she stretched for a more comfortable position in her saddle. The movement strained the fabric across the front of her riding dress, and Maddock let himself be distracted for a moment. Landon, of course, did not spare the healer a glance as he busily scanned the horizon. “Over there.” The tracker gestured toward a smudge in the distance. “It’s a line of trees. There must be a stream running through there.”

  “What I wouldn’t give fo
r fresh water to wash in.” Jobina made the wish sound like a promise. Rather than trust himself to answer steadily, Maddock dug his heels into his gelding’s flanks. The horse took off like an arrow, hurtling across the unplowed field.

  They reached the line of trees as the last bruise of sunlight faded behind them. As always, the cursed tracker was right—there was a stream, and a convenient clearing between the trees and the riverbank. The rivulet, though, proved too shallow for bathing, and Maddock smothered his disappointment by ordering Landon to build a small fire. When the tracker started to protest, Maddock cut him off, acerbically noting that they had not seen anyone for the entire day, and they had purposely ridden this far from the road to enjoy some privacy.

  Landon finally had the fire crackling when a lamb wandered into the clearing.

  The animal was little more than a newborn—some shepherd and his dogs had been lax in their duties. The pitiful creature was mewling when it reached them, long ears bobbling about its face as it stumbled from one person to the next, trying futilely to suck on their fingers.

  Jobina was the first to suggest that they dine on meat that night. The thought of fresh food was as tempting as the Guardians’ gold, and Maddock had his dagger unsheathed before Landon could frown. The blade was level against the creature’s throat by the time the tracker made himself heard. “Maddock, you’d better not do that.”

  The warrior felt the tight woolen curls shudder beneath his left hand. “And why not?”

  “We’re guests in this land. That lamb belongs to someone, and they’re certain to realize it’s missing.”

  “We’re travelers who are dying of hunger on the road. What sort of people would forbid us hospitality?”

  “Shepherds who rely on lambs for their livelihood! Maddock, these people live by their animals. Besides, we’re not starving.”

  “Then we’ll buy the cursed thing, if anyone asks.”

  “Maddock, we’re likely trespassing on someone’s land right now, someone who could summon the sheriff and enforce the law.”

  “If you’re afraid, Landon, just say so.”

  “Dammit, I’m not afraid!” The men stared at each other across the flames of the fire. Without a word, Jobina drew her dagger, sitting back on her heels to strip green bark from three long sticks. Maddock could imagine the aroma of fat sizzling into the open flames.

  “If you’re not afraid, then act like a man.” Maddock gathered up the squealing lamb, avoiding the hard little hooves as he passed his wriggling victim to the tracker. “Be quick about it.”

  Landon stared at him with a look close to hatred. It had been like this for all of Maddock’s life. Ever since he was a child, since he was first called to be the huer on the cliff face, he had been the fastest, the strongest. The village boys had always hated him, and most were afraid of him. He had learned to take a firm hand with his playmates, never hesitating to enforce a little respect, even from older boys. His strategy had paid off—all the village youth, boys and girls, had known who was the leader.

  In fact, Maddock mused, that might be why Landon was making every step of this cursed journey so difficult. Maddock remembered the look in Alana Woodsinger’s eyes as she put the bavin in his care. Surely, no one could have blamed him for casting a triumphant glare toward the rival tracker.

  After all, everyone knew that Landon had brought the woodsinger mistletoe berries as a pledge at winter solstice, and she had declined to accept his gift of intention. It wasn’t surprising—Landon should have made his move before Alana was called to be woodsinger, before she was sworn to the Tree. Even if he’d spoken up early enough, there was no guarantee that Alana would have accepted the tracker. Alana as comely as she was, and Landon with his awkward lope, his balding pate…Maybe if the man stood to his full height he wouldn’t make the girls run in fright. But instead, he stooped over, unsuccessfully masking his size and looking like one of the walking undead.

  Now, though, Landon’s eyes looked nothing like the undead. Maddock watched bitter emotion flash across the other man’s face, but the tracker silently gathered up the lamb. One quick slash of his blade, and the animal was reduced to hot meat. The tracker’s steady hands held the little corpse upside down for a moment as blood pumped out of its severed arteries, and then he set to the messy job of skinning the beast.

  Jobina’s face was impassive as she skewered the proffered meat and placed it over the flames. Landon rolled up the sodden pelt and strode into the woods, heading toward the shallow stream.

  “You’re hard on him,” Jobina said.

  “Don’t you start in, too, Jobina.”

  “Start in?” She feigned innocence as he caught her green eyes, but two spots of color highlighted her pale cheeks, reflecting the glow of her flame-red hair.

  “Aye. Sartain Fisherman made me the leader of this mission.”

  “And who would challenge you, brave soldier? With your strong muscles and your voice of command?” She batted her long eyelashes, and he took an unplanned step closer to her.

  He growled, “You mock me, Jobina, but can you sit there and say that your belly doesn’t want the lamb?” The aroma of the cooking meat was already heavy on the air, and juices flowed into his mouth as he spoke.

  “I won’t tell you that, honored leader. I won’t lie to you.” She turned the roasting meat on the green sticks, but one of the pieces overbalanced and fell into the flames. Maddock reached for it without thinking and saved his dinner at the cost of singeing the hair on the back of his hand. He caught a flicker of a grin on Jobina’s lips before the woman managed to swallow her amusement. “Here, worthy soldier, you keep an eye on supper, while I get some salve from my bags.”

  His hand didn’t hurt very much, but he let her go, following her swaying hips with his eyes. When she returned, she brandished a wooden box of green-tinged cream. She didn’t need to tuck his arm by her side as she massaged in the soothing ointment, and she certainly didn’t need to linger over the task for quite so long. Still, Maddock did not pull away until Landon crashed back from the stream, making an uncharacteristic amount of noise.

  The three ate in silence, and rolled up in their blankets when they had finished. Maddock was closest to the fire, then Jobina, then the tracker. Maddock could hear the healer breathing beside him, and the sound might have been arousing, if not for Landon’s unnerving stillness at Jobina’s other side. Maddock’s last thought as he fell asleep was that the dispute with Landon had been worthwhile. For the first time in days, his belly felt full.

  Perhaps that fullness kept him from moving quickly when they were discovered. A dog came crashing through the underbrush with a snarl on its black lips, foam flecking its bared teeth. The beast was as fierce as the gigantic hounds that Coren had summoned to the beach, and it commanded all of the mystical power that the People feared.

  Reflexively, Maddock grabbed for his sword. For the first time in his life, he was using the weapon for something beyond the elaborate training rituals he had set for himself. His fingers closed on the hilt with grim determination, his muscles flowing into the fighting patterns with well-practiced ease.

  The dog was attracted to Maddock’s sudden movement, or maybe to the smell of the lamb’s blood still soggy in the earth. The powerful muscles in the animal’s haunches bunched together, and Maddock saw the fur ruffle down its back. His own adrenaline surged in response. Then the mad creature was in the air, slathering jaws flinging foam into the fire.

  Maddock forbade himself to imagine the damage those jagged teeth could inflict. He ordered himself not to picture the ravaged corpses of men, women, and children that had once littered the Headland of Slaughter. Instead, he instructed his body to stand firm, to transfer his energy through his shoulders, down his arms, into his locked wrists.

  The sword connected with a sickening crunch. The animal’s trajectory was cut short, and the blade passed through the thickest part of its body. Blood sprayed from severed vessels. The canine corpse seemed to hang in the
air for a moment, as if Maddock had cast a spell on it. Then, the body fell squarely in the fire, scattering half-burned logs and immediately yielding up the smell of scorched hair.

  It took Maddock a long minute to realize that the roar in his ears was his own pounding heart. Somehow, he remembered to suck air into his aching lungs, and then he managed to kneel, to poke at the dog’s gruesome head until he was certain that no life remained in the bloody thing. He reached down and wiped his sword in the spring grass, stripping off the shimmering, magical blood.

  Only then did he become aware of Landon, the tracker glaring at him accusingly from the edge of the clearing. “You bloody fool!” Landon hissed, and Maddock could only squawk his outrage at the unwarranted attack. “You stupid, bloody fool! Don’t you know some shepherd sent that dog? Some villager is waiting for him to come back, leading a new lamb home. You might as well have rung a cowbell to let them know we’re coming.”

  “Sharks and fins, man! What was I supposed to do, let him eat me alive?”

  “You might have thought with your brain instead of that cursed sword! He wasn’t going to attack you, not until he saw you move like that.” Landon swore. “Come on, let’s get back to the road before his owner comes and finds him.”

  “Is that an order?” Maddock’s voice shook with fury.

  “It’s a statement. I’m telling you that we should get back to the road. We’re going to have a cursed hard time explaining how we mean nothing but good if anyone finds us here—lamb bones in the fire and a sheepdog killed.”

  “That dog was a threat to all three of us! I won’t go slinking about in the dark like a common thief.”

  Landon’s voice was bitter as he surveyed the chaos of the clearing. “You were more than willing to act like one when your belly was empty. Let’s go.”