Season of Sacrifice

by Mindy Klasky

  I will not be afraid, he reminded himself. The Sun-lord is not afraid.

  It was also frightening, though, to hear the cheers change after Reade and the duke, after Maida and Donal rode by. The people started shouting at Landon and Jobina as they were dragged through the streets.

  The tracker and the healer were forced to walk beside their horses because Duke Coren had said that he could not trust them if they were mounted. Their hands were tied to the pommels on their saddles, making it awkward for them to walk. Sometimes, Jobina stumbled because her horse walked too fast, and she was dragged for a pace or two. The healer’s brown robes were stained and torn, almost as dirty as Landon’s clothes.

  Reade thought it was a little strange that a nobleman, a duke, would not stop to help a lady. He soon learned, though, that a little dirt was nothing. As the group rode through the streets, Reade smelled rotten vegetables. When he craned his neck to look behind Duke Coren, he saw that both Landon and Jobina were pelted with brown, slimy cabbages, spoiled from a winter of storage. The smell got worse as women leaned out of high windows above the street, emptying slop buckets that splashed on the cobblestones, on the horses, and on Landon and Jobina. Reade breathed a prayer to the Guardians, grateful that he did not need to walk through the stinking, rotten mess behind him. He tried to breathe through his mouth.

  By the time they arrived at Duke Coren’s palace, Reade’s eyes burned with the effort to open wide, to stare at all there was to see. The palace gates were of the blackest iron, thick as tree branches. Reade gaped as a soldier stepped forward, wearing red and gold. The man had Duke Coren’s sign on his chest, a giant knife that dripped blood on a golden sun. The guard lifted a tremendous sword, the largest weapon that Reade had ever seen. The man had to use both hands to hold it, and his arms trembled with the effort. Duke Coren accepted his soldier’s salute from horseback, clenching a fist across his own mailed chest.

  “Your Grace,” the guard said. “All Smithcourt rejoices at your safe return.” Then, the guard turned to Reade. “Sun-lord. Be most welcome in Smithcourt. Know that I and all my brethren will keep you safe from harm.”

  Reade could feel his cheeks burn bright red as everyone stared at him. Then, the man turned to Maida and repeated his greeting, honoring her as the Sun-lady. The soldier was so serious, he sounded like he was praying.

  When the man turned back to Duke Coren and bowed low, Reade swallowed hard. He wanted to show the duke that he understood how special it was to be the Sun-lord. He made his hand into a fist, like he’d seen Duke Coren do, and he put it on his chest, right above where his heart beat. He looked down as the soldier straightened up, and he said, “Thank you. The Sun-lady and I thank you for your welcome and…and your sword.”

  Duke Coren put his hand on Reade’s shoulder, squeezing gently. Reade thought his heart would burst, it pounded so hard. Duke Coren was proud of him! Reade had said the right thing!

  The duke nudged his heels against his stallion’s sides, and they rode through the gate, into the palace courtyard. White sand stretched out in a large square. There were soldiers standing everywhere, row after row. Everyone wore swords and armor. Coren’s dripping knife was painted on the men’s chests, and it was carved into one of the walls. A flag waved above the courtyard, the bright red knife snapping in the wind, along with a golden sun.

  Duke Coren dismounted, but he didn’t reach up to help Reade. Instead, Reade sat alone in the saddle. He felt like a baby on top of the giant horse, and he clutched the reins. He didn’t know what he would do if the stallion decided to run away, but his fingers wanted to do something, anything.

  “All hail the Sun-lord!” Duke Coren suddenly proclaimed in a deep voice, and Reade jumped. “All hail the Sun-lady!”

  “Hail the Sun-lord! Hail the Sun-lady!” The soldiers shouted all together, as if they had practiced for days. Reade’s ears rang with the sound of swords on shields, as the soldiers pounded their weapons in time with their shouts.

  What was Reade supposed to do? Was he supposed to just sit there? Or was he supposed to make the stallion walk around the courtyard? Should he lead the men back into the streets of Smithcourt? Were they all supposed to walk past the smelly mess from Landon and Jobina, back to the city gates with the silent, angry dragon guards?

  Before Reade could decide, Duke Coren stepped forward and reached up for Reade, helping him down from the horse. Donal helped Maida to the ground.

  Then, they walked through a cold, black arch, into a long hallway. Coren led the way, and Donal followed the children. Reade had never seen halls as long as this; he had never seen any building larger than a tavern.

  The palace was dark inside. There were only a few torches that smoked against the walls. Narrow windows lit the end of each hallway. The stone walls smelled like smoke and water, water that had been left standing for too long. As Reade turned one corner, he felt a small hand grasping for his own. Maida stepped up beside him, looking very pale.

  “Reade, where are they taking us?”

  “Wherever they want to,” he responded. Maida’s lips trembled as she squeezed out a pair of tears. Reade sighed at how frightened girls could be. He was glad that he wasn’t crying. Glad that he wasn’t that afraid. “It’s Duke Coren, Maida. Don’t worry. He’ll keep us safe.”

  “I’m scared,” she whispered.

  “You shouldn’t be. You must have the faith of the Sun-lady.”

  “But, Reade—”

  “The faith of the Sun-lady, Maida. I already have the power of the Sun-lord. And you know that Duke Coren has the strength of Culain.”

  Maida did not look like she believed him, but she stopped crying long enough for them to turn one more corner. Duke Coren stopped in front of a heavy wooden door. He bowed as he opened it and waved his hand so that the twins walked in. “Welcome, Sun-lord. Sun-lady. Welcome to Smithcourt. This will be your nursery. This will be your new home.”

  10

  Alana lifted her mug of steaming tea and gazed out the door of her cottage into the night, wondering why she bothered to watch after the children, why she bothered to fight any longer.

  She had not felt this hopeless since she’d been called upon to serve as woodsinger. Then she’d been reeling from worry and fear, knowing that Sarira Woodsinger had died, but not yet certain that her own father was lost. She’d been overwhelmed by the Spirit Council, the Men’s Council, and the Women’s Council, all making her come to the Tree, all pushing for her to become the next woodsinger. She had argued that she wasn’t ready, that she wasn’t qualified, that she wasn’t right for the post, but they had ignored her. They had told her that the Tree would choose her or reject her, and she would have no say.

  That was how she felt, watching Reade arrive in Smithcourt. She had no say. She could do nothing to stop the child, to make him step back from Coren, to make him remember the People who loved him, who missed him, who needed him here on the Headland.

  She raised the mug to her face and breathed in the steam from her tea, trying to take some comfort from its warmth. As seen through Reade’s eyes, Smithcourt was overwhelming. It was a sprawling city, so different from Land’s End that Alana could scarcely comprehend its existence. The streets, the buildings, the hundreds of people…. What could one woodsinger do against all of that? What could the Tree, the Guardians, even the Great Mother do against Coren’s might?

  Reade had fallen completely under Coren’s sway, dragged into the duke’s court by an unholy combination of lies and fear and awe. Maddock, who should have been the People’s greatest hope, had fled in terror. Both of them were lost, despite her attempts to work through their woodstars. Reade and Maddock gone, and Landon and Jobina as well, who had not carried bavins. She should be grateful that she could not experience directly the tracker and the healer’s decline.

  The woodsinger stretched her aching back and raised her mug to her lips. As the fragrant steam swirled across her skin, she could smell mint, a traditional soothing plant. There were oth
er things in the brew as well, things that she could not identify by scent. Shrugging, she swallowed Goody Glenna’s gift.

  Part of the mixture was expected: the tiny flowers of everwhite for clear sight and bitter acorn for strength. But there was a surprise as well—redshell for wakefulness. The tea contained so much of the ground nut that Alana knew that even now, even with her bone-deep weariness, she would not sleep for the rest of the night. And hidden beneath all those familiar flavors, lurking under the canopy of mint, there was a darker taste. Alana rolled it around on the back of her tongue and dipped her head to the mug twice more, yet still she could not identify it.

  “Heartswell,” whispered one of the woodsingers in her mind.

  “Aye, heartswell,” confirmed another. “Heartswell for passion.”

  “Heartswell for love!”

  “Heartswell for a long night on rumpled sheets!”

  The chorus of voices dissolved into laughter, and Alana felt a blush rise on her cheeks, hotter than the steam from her cup. These were woodsingers speaking to her. They were holy women. They weren’t supposed to know of such things; they weren’t supposed to joke.

  Besides, she thought, purposely turning away from the good-natured chortling inside her thoughts, why should Alana need passion? What could Goody Glenna have been thinking? It was the woodsinger’s fate to sacrifice passion, so that she could serve the People and the Tree with clear sight.

  Even as she asked herself the question, Alana thought of her current responsibilities, of Maddock and his bavin. She saw the man standing on the village green, swinging his sword with his well-muscled arms….

  “Aye, fairsister!” One of the woodsingers teased, twisting ancient Parina’s curious name for Alana until it sounded like a lewd promise. “Have another swallow! Drink down your tea and see what you can learn about the People you serve! Or people you would have serve you. Or should I say service you?”

  The musky heartswell coated Alana’s tongue, and her belly clenched in rebellion. How many times had Goody Glenna told the village girls that they must not pay attention to the boys, to Maddock in particular? How many times in the past year had Alana herself told giggling young women that they must concentrate on their stitchery, their gardens, their maidenly duties? Heartswell was the last herb she needed, the last distraction she should have as she tried to channel strength through the Tree. She turned to set the mug on the rough table by her hearth.

  “Now, now,” chided one of the woodsingers, a voice that Alana had always associated with motherly common sense. “You mustn’t set aside the tea. We all heard what Goody Glenna said. You must drink the entire draught. Even the dregs.”

  “But—”

  “We’ll brook no arguments, young one. Drink up!”

  “But I’m the woodsinger!”

  “Aye. And heartswell grows in the woods. It’s an herb like any other, and there’s no shame in brewing it for a tea. Besides, you made a promise to one of your people. Would you be forsworn to her? Are you so afraid that you’d back away from a pledge, all to avoid a few swallows?”

  Afraid? Alana? No—she was no coward. She was not like Maddock, who had fled at the sight of dogs. She was strong. She was brave. She was the woodsinger, not a mindless, giggling maid. She could swallow her medicine like a woman. That last thought made her think of Teresa, the young mother almost too weak to take any medicines at all.

  Alana muttered a prayer to the Great Mother to watch over Teresa, to bring her peace and comfort. With a renewed determination, she realized that she must use the gift that Glenna had given her. She must use the wakefulness from the redshell tea to track Maddock, to find him in the wilderness and feed him strength. She would just ignore the heartswell.

  She tilted her head back as she drained her stoneware mug, purposely not listening to the ribald chorus of woodsingers inside her head. The tea spread through her limbs like the warmth of a flesh-heated coverlet on a bitter winter night. Alana rolled the still-warm mug against her cheeks, held it against the pulse in her throat.

  Only when the stoneware was cooler than her burning flesh did she settle her patched cloak about her shoulders. She could not pass the night indoors. Not in her woodsinger’s hut, alone with a stack of dusty journals. She needed air. She needed to move her body. She needed to stretch and bend, to arch her back….

  By the time she reached the Tree, the tea’s throbbing warmth had uncurled inside her fingers, her arms, in the depths of her belly. She leaned against the oaken trunk and gasped at the roughness of the bark, at the pull of the oak’s woody fingers. She threw back her cloak, so that more of her body touched the Tree, pressed against its solid strength. She laughed out loud at one wry suggestion from a sister woodsinger—surely no self-respecting fisherman would ever let his nets be used for that, even if one of the men ventured to the Headland on this moonless night!

  Swallowing the musky aftertaste of heartswell and redshell, Alana fought to still her mind. She was certainly awake now, more awake than she had been in weeks. She could look across the land for days now; her body could not remember what it felt like to be lazy with sleepiness. She wanted to look across the land; she wanted to stretch for Maddock’s bavin.

  Maddock…. Alana caught her lower lip with her teeth, grateful that her thoughts could only be heard by her fellow woodsingers. Any other woman would cry out with shame, to hold such thoughts for a coward, for a man who had abandoned his fellows. Cry out…. Alana could hear her own voice, coaxed from her throat, seduced by a long, hot kiss….

  The woodsinger forced her thoughts to stillness, forced her mind to stretch for the white thread that bound her to Maddock’s distant woodstar. After all, she reminded herself, she had a mission here. She had business to complete. She needed to reach for Maddock’s bavin, to find how the warrior fared, now that he rode alone….

  She made herself ignore the remembered rhythm of riding on horseback, ignore the sea of thoughts that crested in her mind, ignore the fire that burned beneath her flesh.

  She must reach Maddock. She must check on the warrior, for the People. Not for herself. For the People.

  “So, what’ll it be, boy? Are you going to try your luck again?”

  Sharks and fins! Maddock gritted his teeth as he clutched at the cloak that slid from his shoulders. His fingers caught in the leather strand that held his bavin about his neck. Alana Woodsinger might be watching him even now. He had not sensed her energy through the woodstar for several days now, but he did not trust his own knowledge. Maybe she had watched him all night, seen him dice away the last of his money and the clasp for his cursed cloak. Maybe she had watched him flee from that Guardian-forsaken inn, running from the pack of hounds that Coren’s man had summoned.

  Flushing, Maddock could see hunger in the ring of men that surrounded him, read it in their lean faces as they waited for him to decide. A pile of coins glinted in front of Wilson, the cursed rogue who had just spoken, and Maddock could not keep his eyes from the brooch that the other man had already attached to his own garment. The piece was fashioned from a fist-sized shell, and it spoke to Maddock with the People’s loud condemnation, berating him for abandoning his fellows in the roadhouse, for skulking through the countryside, for squandering the coins that the People had entrusted to him on his mission.

  As if to underscore the message, Wilson caught the silver in one large fist, feeding it coin by coin to the low wooden table. Next to the glittering pile were two dice, carved cubes with malevolent eyes that mocked Maddock, tempting him, luring him, even now. He had watched men dice in the taverns on his inland trading trips, but he had never tried his own luck before. He’d been a fool to try now—a fool and a cursed coward.

  It was just that he was caught, stranded outside these Guardian-forsaken city walls. After fighting his way through the hostile countryside, dodging Coren’s hunting soldiers, skulking like…like a dog…Maddock had arrived after dark, too late to sneak inside Smithcourt, to rescue the children and Landon and Jo
bina.

  Mere luck had brought him to this particular campfire, to this huddle of soot-faced men who had offered him a friendly mug of ale and a spiced sausage. After an evening of their hospitality, Maddock began to understand how miserable old men could sit at tavern tables for hours, throwing pieces of bone as if the future of all the Guardians depended on the next cast. What did a little dicing matter, when Maddock had failed at everything else?

  Even now, ominously certain that he had no coins left for food or drink or bribes, Maddock itched to toss the bones just one more time. Once more, and his luck might turn. He could gain back all the wealth he had lost, and more. He could come back to the People with Reade and Maida, Landon and Jobina, and an unlooked-for bonus—more silver than the People had ever seen in one place.

  “I don’t have anything else to wager,” Maddock responded at last.

  “No more coins, perhaps.” Wilson smiled easily, picking up his cubes of bone. He rolled them around in one hand, caressing the smooth surfaces with a knowing thumb. Maddock had to force himself to look away from the creamy, compelling cubes, to gaze into the other man’s sharp eyes. “No more coins, but you surely have other things to offer in trade. That mangy beast you call your horse, for instance.”

  Maddock glanced at the bay gelding, which stood at the edge of the firelight. In the gloom, the horse’s singed mane looked even worse than in daylight, and the animal’s eyes gleamed red.

  Sharks and fins! Even the horse was gazing at him with condemnation. When the beast snorted, Maddock almost believed that he could hear Sartain Fisherman demanding to know why he had left his fellows behind in the roadhouse. Once again, Maddock was aware of the bavin weighing against his chest, and now he was certain that Alana Woodsinger was watching him.