Season of Sacrifice

by Mindy Klasky

  Jobina caught her lower lip beneath her teeth, and her hands clenched and unclenched around the stiff knife embroidered on her gown. “The Sun-lord and the Sun-Lady, joined together as lawful rulers of all the land. And so they might have been.”

  “Might have been? Jobina! What has Coren planned?”

  “In—in the story, Duke Culain brought the Sun-lord and the Sun-lady to Smithcourt. He took them before all the people, so that they could ascend to their rightful place on the Iron Throne. Before the children could be presented, though, a terrible thing happened.”

  Even as the healer spoke, Alana remembered the cramped tavern room where Coren had told Reade the story of the Sun-lord and the Sun-lady. That tale had ended with a surprise, with the honored Culain taking the throne. Reade had asked, Alana remembered. Reade had asked why Culain ruled, but Coren had refused to say.

  Jobina would not meet Alana’s eyes. “In the story, the Sun-lord and the Sun-lady received gifts, wondrous treasures, from other kingdoms. Over the past fortnight, Coren and Bringham and all the other nobles have made similar presentations. They’ve put forward their offerings so that the Service can work. They want the Service to cure the ancient wrong.” Jobina raised her chin, firming her resolve. “In the old story, one of the gifts was a giant glass cage. It held the Mothersnake, a beast as thick around as a man’s thigh. It was supposed to be a symbol of power, a sign that Smithcourt could conquer the world.”

  Maddock made a strangled noise from where he stood across the room. Alana shot him a quick glance, afraid that his hard-won distaste would silence Jobina Healer just when they most needed the other woman’s knowledge. Jobina, though, had fallen into the rhythm of her tale.

  “A sign,” the healer repeated, and her restless fingers crept across her belly, writhing over the silk as if they were maggots. “It was terrible, the thing that happened on that dais. The Mothersnake escaped. She attacked the Sun-lord and the Sun-lady. Poor children…To die from the Mothersnake, after surviving so much. They fell on the dais, before they ever had a chance to lead their people to peace. But Duke Culain avenged them—he fought the Mothersnake. He was bitten, but he withstood the poison, and he killed the beast. He survived to lead his people in righteousness and the ways of all the Seven Gods.”

  “Jobina, we can’t let Coren do this!” Alana was desperate to break the healer’s enraptured recitation. “We’ll kill the Mothersnake before she strikes Reade and Maida!”

  Jobina scarcely registered the interruption. “The snake cannot be stopped. She is hungry. She’s been without man-blood for all the months since Duke Coren first rode off for the twins.”

  “But what about the people of the city?” Alana asked. “Surely all of Smithcourt will not stand by and sanction children being murdered?”

  “They don’t know what will happen. They think they come to watch a true resolution, a fair conclusion to the struggle for power in Smithcourt. They’ve come to watch history change before their eyes. They’ve come to watch the Sun-lord and the Sun-lady take the thrones they should have taken at the beginning of this age. They think they watch a pageant, complete with a plaything, a snake without true fangs.”

  “And when the Mothersnake is real?”

  Jobina’s voice swelled with pride, as if she were speaking about her own children. “The Sun-lord and the Sun-lady will long be remembered for their sacrifice. A traitor—Bringham himself—will be found to have introduced a real Mothersnake into the cage, a real serpent where a toy was expected. Coren will be forced to follow in Culain’s footsteps. It will be too late for the Sun-lord and the Sun-lady, and Duke Coren himself will be bitten. But the poison will not kill him, and he will take the Iron Throne.”

  “How can he survive the bite?” Alana demanded.

  “My lord has trained himself. He has taught his body to accept the Mothersnake’s poison. Drop by drop, he has inured himself to the venom.”

  “How?” Maddock cried, and his voice shook as if he stared at a nightmare. “No man could survive that thing!”

  “High Priest Zeketh has brought him the poison, one precious cup at a time.”

  One precious cup. The crystal goblet that Maddock had filled, milking the Avenber in the smoky dungeon room.

  As if she were reciting a dream, Jobina continued. “My lord has mixed the venom in his wine—first only one drop in an entire cask. Then one drop in a flagon, a drop in a cup. It made him ill, made a fire burn inside his veins. He had visions, and his belly twisted inside him. He cried out to the Seven Gods to free him from the venom’s power. But he was not alone.” The healer pulled herself to her full height, letting her robe fall straight. “I stood by my lord. I mixed the poison for him, and I held him as he drank. I gave him the strength to conquer the poison. The strength of Culain.”

  “You traitorous whore!” Maddock’s snarl was only half swallowed, and his hand shook on his short sword.

  Jobina whirled on the tracker. “Traitorous, Maddock? And who betrayed the People first? Who ran from the inn?”

  “I made a mistake, woman! But I never agreed to help that bastard! You sold your calling, Jobina! You’ve given a vicious man the tool to kill children.”

  “I acted as I could, to save myself, to aid the People. Think, Maddock! If Bringham takes the throne, what bite will our People feel? Coren’s supporters will never rest easy under Bringham’s heel; they’re too strong for that. Bringham will need an army to control his rival, and he’ll need to pay those soldiers. Can you see our fishermen impressed to fight these inland wars? Can you see us paying inland taxes for mercenaries? Our lives, the People’s lives would be forever changed!”

  Maddock swore. “You can’t believe that!”

  Jobina stood tall. “Scoff all you want, Maddock. I know I’ve saved the People. Duke Coren has come to love me, I who served him during this darkest of times. He will make me his queen and spare our people. And our children, the duke’s and mine, will extend that protection through the ages.” The healer settled her fingers against her belly again, curving in the suggestion of new life.

  “You?” Alana asked, before Maddock could splutter a new protest.

  Jobina nodded. “I carry my lord’s child. His son and heir, if my herbcraft has any power here.”

  “It’s too soon,” Alana protested. “How can you know?”

  “I’m a healer. I’m trained to know.”

  Alana fought against the revulsion that choked her, clammy as a kelp-weighted wave.

  Landon called out, his voice strangely piercing across the too-quiet room. “Is that the way the old tales go, Jobina? Did Culain take an outland bride?”

  The healer’s eyes blazed with spite, and more than a little fear. “This is different.”

  “How, Jobina? Coren has recreated the past. He has journeyed to the Headland. He has stolen our children. He has prepared for a fatal confrontation. He has staged a religious ceremony for his Seven Gods. What bride did Culain take, Jobina? Who bore his children?” Landon was relentless.

  “You’re jealous! You’re angry that the soldiers treated you so harshly on the road! Landon, you’re tired and you’re sick, and you don’t realize what you say!”

  “I’ve said nothing, Jobina. I’ve only asked you questions. You have told all the answers.”

  “My lord brought me to Smithcourt to be his helpmeet!” The healer looked at all three of them, her eyes wild behind their dark paint. “Together, Duke Coren and I will found a new house, forge a new dynasty to ring in the next age!”

  “Then come with us now, Jobina,” Alana challenged. “The four of us will go to the cathedral. You can stand before Coren and tell him your dreams—before all the people of Smithcourt, before the Sun-lord and Sun-lady.”

  “You think I won’t?” Jobina’s voice trembled with scarce-bitten fear or anger.

  “Oh, no, Healer. I know you will,” Alana confirmed. She swallowed hard as she settled her hand over her bavin, as if she were swearing an oath to the Tree and
the Guardians. To the People. “I know you will.”

  Alana stood in the cathedral transept, resisting the urge to raise her fingers to her bare, vulnerable neck. The cathedral was larger than the chapel she had glimpsed through Reade’s bavin weeks before—larger and noisier and far, far more crowded. It seemed as if the entire population of Smithcourt had squeezed into the stone building. The throng shifted from foot to foot, lowing like cattle as they waited for the pageant to begin. The sour smell of sweat reeked beneath the pungent bite of old incense.

  The outlanders had had an easier time reaching the cathedral than Alana had dared to hope for. They had marched through the near-deserted Smithcourt streets without being challenged. Once, they came across a knot of Bringham’s men, swaggering soldiers with silver dragons embroidered on their cobalt sleeves. Alana and Maddock refused to rise to their supposed rivals’ taunts, merely chivvying their “prisoners” toward the cathedral.

  Both Coren’s men and Bringham’s ringed the house of worship. The guards were edgy, and many fingered their weapons, but none seemed surprised that two prisoners were being marched in to watch the Service—even if one looked bedraggled and half-dead from Coren’s dungeons and the other appeared to be a painted woman from Fishwife Row, however fine her gown. After all, the Service was important. No one wanted to miss the presentation of the Sun-lord and the Sun-lady.

  Safely inside the stone cathedral, Alana caught her breath as she maneuvered for a clear view of the altar. Reade and Maida already stood on the dais, swathed once again in their ceremonial robes of gold. Maida looked haunted, her hair pulled back from her too-pale face, her lower lip standing out like blood as she gnawed at it nervously.

  Reade, though, showed no fear. He gazed out at the congregation with a fierce look on his face, with the same intensity he had shown as the huer, a lifetime ago on the Headland of Slaughter. Occasionally, the boy broke his perusal of the crowd to glance over his shoulder at the crystal box that stood behind him on the dais.

  The massive, clear cage sat on an ornate iron stand. Alana heard Maddock swear softly beside her, and she did not need to reach through her bavin to know what he was thinking. The crystal cage was five times the size of the Avenger’s enclosure. The jet-black branch that leaned against the clear wall was a veritable tree trunk, its thorns as long as Alana’s forearm. The Mothersnake must be a nightmare, a beast so large that Maddock’s earlier encounter would seem like a child’s game.

  Before Alana could swallow her fear, Duke Coren snared her attention. He stood in the first row of worshipers, resplendent in crimson and cloth-of-gold. Jewels glinted from his tunic and his long, flowing cape. The bloody blade that gleamed across his chest was encrusted with dripping rubies, and the sun was embroidered gold. Within his finery, the duke held himself as straight as a sword. His hair caught the cathedral light, and his beard was combed and silky.

  He looked so noble that Alana might almost have forgotten the terror that he had wrought upon the People—might have forgotten, if she had not seen Donal standing by Coren’s side. The lieutenant looked about the cathedral alertly, constantly seeking out an ambush or attack. Alana could not gaze at the soldier without thinking of him stealing away Maida, bundling off a terrified child from her family, her home. She shivered as she realized that Donal’s sword swung easily at his side.

  Also in the front row, but far to Coren’s left, stood another man, another warrior, this one tall and proud in cobalt silk and velvet. Alana had never seen Bringham’s straight chestnut hair; she’d never looked upon his flat, dark eyes. Nevertheless, she could make out the argent dragon crawling across his chest, and she recognized the hard set to his jaw. This was the nobleman who challenged Duke Coren.

  Challenged Duke Coren, Alana reminded herself, but was willing to settle his claims in this farce of a religious spectacle. Bringham believed in peace in Smithcourt; he hoped for peace throughout the land. Whatever accusations Jobina had thrust at him, Bringham was willing to sacrifice his personal ambition for an end to the skirmishing in Smithcourt. Standing before the altar of his Seven Gods, he did not realize that he was forfeiting unjustly the crown that he desired, giving it to a liar and a kidnapper and a murderer.

  And up on the dais, High Priest Zeketh stood ready to begin the sham ceremony. The holiest man in Smithcourt was gowned in black, swathed in yards of rich samite. His close-set obsidian eyes glinted as he nodded toward both Coren and Bringham, and then the priest raised a commanding hand high above his head. His fingers were rigid as he directed seven priests to raise the giant censer that sat on the dais.

  The massive iron bowl had been pounded out of blackest metal, and it was bigger around than the largest of the People’s cooking pots. It was filled with incense, and a priest stepped forward to light the stinking mound. Alana could not keep from wrinkling her nose as the smoke billowed out of the swinging iron bowl. Great clouds wafted toward the ceiling, and tendrils reached down to the dais. As the woodsinger watched, Maida pulled her hand from her brother’s, reaching up to rub tears from her eyes. Reade clenched his jaw as if he stifled a cough, but then he sneezed.

  The explosive sound made High Priest Zeketh glare, but there was a murmur of good cheer from the assembled people. Reade apparently heard the sound, and he managed a timid smile as he looked out over the crowd.

  Clouds of incense began to fog the air, and High Priest Zeketh barked another harsh command. The seven burly priests hefted the massive bowl of incense by pulling on their thick ropes. Each man tied his hawser about his waist, leaning back against the censer’s enormous weight. Then, with a symmetry like the People’s sailors setting out to sea, the priests began to pull the ropes to and fro, making the censer sway above the transept.

  The men began to chant a prayer, and Alana’s breath came short with the power of their song. They called to each other across the cathedral, long, low cries that told when to lean back, when to pull forward. Each movement set the censer swaying, coughing out its incense smoke.

  The priests kept at their work like a well-trained crew, and Alana shook her head to break the spell of song and incense. She leaned forward to whisper to Maddock and saw that he was ignoring the priests, ignoring the giant censer. All his attention was snagged by the crystal cage, by the still-invisible threat of the Mothersnake. “Now, Maddock,” Alana hissed, even as she urged Jobina forward. “It’s time.”

  They pushed their way through the crowd, Maddock pretending to manhandle Landon while Alana kept her hand tight on Jobina’s arm. The throng of worshipers resisted at first, but they eventually gave way before Coren’s livery.

  As Alana drew near the altar, she wished that Reade still wore his bavin. The little boy was standing, awestruck by the finery around him. He was fascinated by the swinging censer, but he kept glancing toward Coren for approval. As High Priest Zeketh began to chant a benediction over the assembly, Coren looked up at his Sun-lord and smiled. Reade returned the attention with his own grin.

  If only Alana could snag Reade’s attention…. If only she could make the child turn toward her. Take a few steps away from the crystal cage, a few steps away from Zeketh, from danger.

  Her heart pounding, Alana saw a gap in the crowd and forced her way another step closer to the dais. The sudden movement finally made Reade look in her direction, and Alana found herself pinned by the child’s gaze.

  For just an instant, Reade stared at the woodsinger, his jaw slack with shock. Then, his fingers clutched at his golden robes, at the place where his bavin had hung. The boy’s throat started to work, and Alana tightened her grip on Jobina’s arm. That motion was enough to make Reade glance to either side. Alana saw the moment the child registered Jobina and Landon, the instant he recognized Maddock.

  Reade opened his mouth as he had so long ago, standing on the Headland, when he had been the huer. The sound rang out, high and pure, from the time before he was the Sun-lord, from the age when he had been an ordinary boy among the People. His song was unbearably
sweet in the suddenly still cathedral. “To me, guards! To the Sun-lord!”

  17

  Alana acted without thought, leaping onto the dais even as Reade drew breath for his cry. By the time his words soared across the cathedral, the woodsinger had grabbed Maida, closing her fingers around the little girl’s thin arm. Alana tugged hard, and Maida fell forward like a flopping doll, her head lolling back on her neck. Her golden headdress spilled across the dais, spread out like fishnets drying in the sun.

  Alana scarcely noticed the web of lace and precious metal; instead, she thrust Maida behind her, into Landon’s startled arms. “Hold her!” Alana commanded.

  For one heart-stopping instant, the woodsinger thought that Landon would not understand. The man stared at her dully, his eyes glazed with fever, and she could see him struggle to gather up the child. “Landon!” she barked. “Don’t you dare fail me now!”

  The grim hopelessness in the tracker’s eyes lanced Alana’s heart, but he responded to her hectoring, and he gathered up the little girl. Even as Maida woke to the horror of her new captivity and fought for release, the tracker pulled her close and hissed, “Be still, Maida!”

  Alana watched only long enough to see that Landon was stepping back, falling under the shadow of Maddock’s protective sword. Then, the woodsinger plunged back into the maelstrom on the dais.

  It was hard to believe that her heart had only beat a hundred times since Reade’s cry, that hours had not passed since she had realized the little boy was completely snared by Coren. A hundred heartbeats, though, and then a handful more, and the woodsinger clutched the supposed Sun-lord. Reade was frozen in his golden robes, clearly astonished by the results of his single shout. Soldiers throughout the cathedral were drawing their weapons. Coren’s men leaped toward the dais, followed closely by Bringham’s soldiers. The woodsinger closed her hands around Reade’s waist.