Whitney shook his head. “I was just there. Couldn’t have been thirty armored men posted. Didn’t you just pass through?”
Rand swore. “Yeah, but we stayed in the carriage, dirtied up. Grint thought I might be too recognizable, and his old mercenary company passed through there plenty, so he did all of the talking. They’re probably light with the war going on in the South. Others must be searching for these raiders.”
Whitney gestured to the cage. “Some job they’re doing. Didn’t they think to post a few in Fettingborough?”
“They’re probably dead,” Rand said. “The White Bridge isn’t a posting any good soldier wants.”
“You Shieldsmen really do hate protecting your people, don’t you?”
“We’re stretched thin thanks to men like you.”
“Like me?” Whitney said, aghast. “That bastard you’re protecting… he and his father helped cause this war!”
“Please,” Barty scoffed. “Liam, his impetuous wife, and son caused the war. We’re trying to end it, whatever side may win. Isn’t that right?” Barty extended his arm to the side and shook the bony shoulder of the only gray-skinned man in the cage.
At first, Whitney thought it was the Shesaitju warrior who ran with Grint, but as he peered through the frightened people of Fettingborough, he realized it wasn’t. The man didn’t reply or say anything. But Whitney turned his stare upon him. The man’s eyes appeared like saucers against his taught, emaciated skin, but they seemed somber.
“By Iam, I was right?” Whitney said to Rand.
“What are you talking about?” Rand said.
“You really did it? You helped take the Caleef, didn’t you?”
Murmurs from all the people stuffed into the cage broke out.
“Don’t be a fool. He’s just a prisoner of war with critical information,” Rand said. “We need to get him to the Wearer as quickly as we can.”
While Rand continued his lie, Whitney kept staring. The ex-Shieldsman could spew zhulong shog all he wanted, but Whitney was the king of spewing shog. He saw right through him. Whitney had missed a lot while in Elsewhere, but he’d pieced together plenty from stories heard while traveling. He knew that the Darkings traitors had freed the Caleef and that the Shesaitju god-king had then vanished.
Whitney had never seen the Caleef—they didn’t let just anybody into the Boiling Keep, where he and his tongueless guards lived—but Whitney’d heard about him, how his skin was always painted black, how he always wore gold. This loin-clothe-wearing man looked like a starving slave if anything, but the way the upper half of his face twitched when Whitney said, “Caleef.” There was no mistaking it.
XXX
THE MYSTIC
Freydis returned a few hours later, escorted by dire wolves. Her hair was braided, intertwined with vines laden with small silver discs that resembled those hanging from the temple. Her face was no longer streaked with the blood of the Glassman from Gold Grin’s ship, but now it was fully red with two dots of black on each cheek and one on her forehead. She wore a thin, hooded robe, gray with no fur. It dipped low in the front, revealing her cleavage and even her navel.
Sora watched from within her own body near the edge of the Earthmoot pit. A body which was now bound at the wrists and ankles, and chained to a tree. Sora knew because Nesilia knew, that the enslaving ties couldn’t actually hold her. The tree itself would bend to the Buried Goddess’ will if need be. Even the hemp of which the ropes were hewn—though dead—would return to life with only a whisper.
“My Lady,” someone whispered from just behind Sora as Freydis approached. Nesilia turned to see a Drav Cra man, naked and covered in flaking white paint. He was younger, no older than sixteen. He was indwelling for the first time, one who might rise as a warlock, or die attempting.
“It truly is you, isn’t it?” he said. “I can see it in your eyes. I felt it… from the first moment, I felt it.”
“What is your name?” Nesilia asked.
“I… I do not feel worthy to speak my name in your presen—”
“Wvenweigard,” she said. Sora knew the man’s name as well.
A grin didn’t just spread across Wvenweigard’s face, it overwhelmed it. “You know me?”
“I know all my children,” Nesilia said.
“Why do you not just tell them all? You’ve barely spoken since your arrival. I’m sure just a word and they’d all bow. Prove it to them.”
“Wvenweigard, do you truly believe I am she—the Lady Nesilia, the Buried Goddess?”
“I do,” he said. “With all my heart, I feel it.”
“Should an immortal goddess need to prove anything to mere mortals? I could snap my fingers,” which she did, “and all of you would open your eyes in Elsewhere.”
Very real terror cast itself over Wvenweigard’s face, and Sora knew Nesilia spoke the truth. The thought of her hands being responsible for sending anyone else to that awful place was too much for Sora to bear—even if they were Drav Cra savages.
“I can see the Earthmoot isn’t all that you expected it to be,” Wvenweigard said. “I am sorry for your bindings.”
“Do not be fooled, child,” Nesilia replied. “I have been present at every Earthmoot. Since Rathgorah indwelled my first Arch Warlock.”
Nesilia turned back to the pit and the prepping warlocks. “That one,” Nesilia said, ignoring the question. She nodded toward Tihabat of the Dagson clan, one of the listeners, children who put their ear to the earth to listen for the warlocks buried beneath while they were indwelled. She was Kotlkel’s own niece, which Sora now knew. The girl was finishing painting his entire body red.
“She will lead you all astray,” Nesilia said.
“Lady?” Wvenweigard said.
“Something dark stirs within her. It should be cut out.”
“That is Tihabat Dagson—” Wvenweigard started.
“I know who she is!” Nesilia snapped. She turned back to Wvenweigard and was about to speak when Freydis arrived and demanded, “Leave us.”
Knowing her reputation, Wvenweigard wisely did as she asked. “I’m still not sure this is worth the risk, My Lady.”
“You must learn to trust me, daughter,” Nesilia responded.
“I do. Always.”
Sora struggled, every bit of her willing herself to move, her heart to stop beating. Anything to prevent this from continuing. It was no use. Even Nesilia seemed to tire of the constant opposition. She forced Sora’s neck to crane and sighed.
“Is everything all right, my Lady?” Freydis asked.
“This vessel’s resistance grows tiresome,” Nesilia said.
A hopeful gleam caught Freydis’ eye. “Take me then,” she said. “Forget all of this nonsense. Why would we ask the earth to choose, when its master is here among us?”
“You would die, Daughter. You are strong, but not nearly strong enough.”
Freydis’ chin sank.
“But don’t worry,” Nesilia continued. “You have your place. You will lead your people into a new era. The Second God Feud is coming, and there will be a great shifting.”
Freydis continued to appear deflated, but there wasn’t enough time for her to process the thoughts before Tihabat crossed the clearing to meet her.
“Are you ready?” she asked Freydis. Even her small face was stained by animal blood.
Freydis reached out and brushed the side of the girl’s face with the back of her hands. Sora felt more unnerved than ever watching Freydis act so tender. “As I’ve ever been, young one,” she said. “May you indwell many times in your future.”
“I hope you never rise,” Tihabat said softly.
Tihabat led a stunned Freydis to the edge of the pit then continued on to meet with another warlock prepared to indwell.
While she did, Oracle Rathgorah approached the pit, covered in more tokens and bones than before. “It is time,” he said, to the hundreds of warlocks gathered around the pit, all of those from around the tundra. It was their call
ing as warlocks to indwell at the time when Nesilia was cast underground to end the God Feud, not a choice.
On the opposite side of the pit, the dozens of listening children sat in a straight line. Sora heard Nesilia’s thoughts and realized they were being trained to be Drav Cra warlocks. Only a year before, Wvenweigard had been among them. Each one had a single bar of paint across their foreheads.
Seated on the benches surrounding Sora, still drinking, joking, and carousing were men and women—Drav Cra from every clan throughout the tundra who had traveled here for this sacred ceremony. It wasn’t only to find an Arch Warlock, but those former Listeners now old enough to indwell would have a chance to become warlocks themselves… or suffocate trying.
Amid those waiting to be indwelled, Kotlkel Dagson stood. The scowl on his face made Sora want to smile. Or were those Nesilia’s feelings? Things were growing fuzzier now, the lines between their thoughts blurred.
His robe, like Freydis’, was unadorned, but his face was painted elaborately. Behind him, Sora recognized none of those present, but Nesilia knew them all. A flood of names poured into Sora’s mind, and she fought to breathe.
Freydis stepped to the edge of the pit. Kotlkel’s glower threatened to draw blood.
Oracle Rathgorah made his way around the pit and took a seat amongst the people. He nodded his head.
Kotlkel let his robe fall around his feet. The child, Tihabat, scampered over and tied a rope which dangled from the branches above around one of Kotlkel’s ankle. He stood naked, exposed like all those Sora had seen carousing in the woods and still, Nesilia didn’t look away.
One by one, the warlocks followed, nude but for their paint, until finally, Freydis let the robe she wore fall from her shoulders. She stood staring at the pit of shallow blood and dirt, pale skin rising with goose pimples. Tihabat took no care when tying the rope around her ankles, the frayed ends scratching her skin.
Nesilia eyed Freydis with something… approval? Love? No, it wasn’t love. Yet, part of Sora yearned for what they shared in that moment. Although Nesilia was bound along with Sora, together, she and Freydis stepped before the pit in faith.
Sora noticed the woman who’d kissed Freydis earlier, Sahades, not far from her. Her eyes gleamed. She ignored everyone but Freydis.
Above the warlocks, human bodies, Glassman all, were strung up and dripping blood. When Sora had first arrived, she was surprised at the lack of death and darkness—but now she knew the savages were reserving it for this abomination.
“Again, with that term,” Nesilia said, reading her thoughts. “Of all people, I thought you’d be more accepting.”
“Even I have limits,” Sora replied.
It stank. Death surrounded them, but the warlocks acted as if they were enjoying a picnic in a meadow.
Oracle Rathgorah’s voice stole everyone’s attention. He stood and declared, “People of the North, today, long ago, our Lady was buried but not forgotten. This ceremony, so old there only I live with any recollection of its origin, is sacred. From above, the blood pours, and below, our Lady stirs.”
“This is barbaric,” Sora thought.
“This is beauty,” Nesilia responded.
“Before you stands one who will rise in glory, many who will rise to continue serving our Lady, and others who will never breath again,” Rathgorah went on. “Bare as the day they were born. From the womb into our Lady’s awaiting arms.”
In unison, the people surrounding the pit stood. They were warriors and hunters, men and women, dradinengors of their clans and children—all equal today. All present to bear witness to the glory of their goddess. Sora felt again like she was in the church of Troborough watching the Dawning ceremony led by Father Hullquist, the town’s priest of Iam, but understanding none it.
But this was a church out of a nightmare.
“As has been done for generations, our Lady’s servants will lower themselves into her presence, surrounded by her dirt and the blood of life,” Rathgorah said. “Each will call upon their strength and faith to rise before the dirt fills their bellies and lungs. The Lady will choose warlocks to survive, and one to rise last and lead her people.”
The gathered crowd cheered. Sora unintentionally recognized a few of them as dradinengors, hollering for warlocks of their own clans to earn Nesilia’s highest blessing. Haral of the Dagson clan, however, Sora couldn’t find amidst the faces. She hadn’t shown herself since arguing with Kotlkel and storming off.
Sora had to give the Drav Cra credit for something: in other places, those warriors would simply murder one another to determine who would be Arch Warlock. It reminded her of what history taught about how the Caleef of the Black Sands was selected. When people would volunteer to throw themselves into the Boiling Waters until the God of Sea and Sand granted one the lungs to survive and serve as his voice on Pantego. Though, at least they got to choose the risk of death.
“My brother never was very original,” Nesilia remarked, responding to Sora’s thoughts. “Stole that from me. Just look at how Caliphar’s people refer to him. So literal.”
“Brother?” Sora asked, hating herself for being intrigued by anything Nesilia had to say. Putting together the pieces of Nesilia’s extensive history was difficult, but when she heard the name, she saw the truth.
“Not if I had a choice. But he so hated Iam for stealing my attention. Never could take his eyes off me. So, I drowned him when Iam wasn’t looking.”
“I will not fail you, my Lady!” Kotlkel shouted. “The traitors shall reveal themselves.” His glare toward Freydis didn’t leave any question to whom he was referring.
“The traitors are in the south, not here,” Sahades replied.
“Freydis, how are you alive?” a common woman behind Oracle Rathgorah hollered.
“We left you rotting in a Yarrington dungeon!” called out another.
More angry chatter broke out, mixing with the rattling of tree boughs until Sora could understand none of it.
“Brothers and sisters!” Rathgorah announced. “We mustn’t fight amongst ourselves. The earth is the realm of our Lady, and so it shall reveal all.”
“So, it shall,” Kotlkel said, smirking.
“It will, when you never breathe again,” Freydis hissed. “All you deserve for abandoning your Arch Warlock.”
“There will be plenty of time for answers if our Freydis rises,” Rathgorah interrupted. “Until then, we might as well count her amongst the dead. That goes for all of you.”
The din of the crowd rose again.
Rathgorah struck the ground with his staff until the people quieted down. “Now, Nesilia’s chosen hands, will you bless this pool?”
The warlocks around the pit spoke no words, but each extended a palm. The Listeners pulled knives from their belts and slashed each of the warlocks’ palms. Tihabat cut Freydis’ so deep that the warlock bent over and gasped in pain. By instinct, she raised her hand to slap the girl, then noticed the judging eyes all around and lowered it.
The sight made Sora want to wince, remembering all the times she’d done the same to herself, drawing on Elsewhere’s power before the mystics taught her otherwise.
“Buried but not dead,” the warlocks and the Listeners all chanted in unison as they extended their hands over the pit and squeezed, so their blood trickled in. Wolves howled in the distance.
“May the earth encase your lungs and filter the air,” Rathgorah said. “May you be remembered if you never rise.”
“Freydis,” Nesilia whispered to her chosen servant. There was great distance between them, but Sora was sure Freydis heard. “Redstar proved unworthy of my favor. You can’t.”
Sora watched Freydis draw a deep breath. If she was afraid, she hid it well.
“I feel her presence in the air,” Sahades said to Freydis. “Be with her now.”
Then they all stepped forward and into the pit. The ropes around their ankles went taut. No sooner had the warlocks’ feet hit the blood-stained soil than Rathgorah
raised his staff. Fresh blood dripped down from his freshly cut forearm and onto the gnarled wood. From all around the pit, particles of dirt swirled into the air. They mixed with the blood of the bodies strung up above, twisting about until they filled the pit over the warlocks, burying them alive.
When finally, the last of their heads disappeared, the Listeners all spread equally across the pit and fell to their knees.
“Children, listen for the breath of life,” Rathgorah said, wheezing. That last act of blood magic appeared to have exhausted him, barely able to keep his eyes open. Two men helped him to his seat. “Remember, you are one with the Lady.”
“Yes, Oracle Rathgorah,” they all said. Then they dropped prostrate to the ground and pressed their ears to the hard, packed dirt. Tihabat was in the area where Freydis, Kotlkel, Sahades, and at least a dozen others had gone under.
Whatever magic and power the buried warlocks could draw on, they were on their own to survive. That was when Sora realized it wasn’t like the Black Sands’ Caleef at all. There was no blessing of survival. Only the most powerful lasted longest.
“What if it isn’t Freydis?” Sora asked Nesilia, remembering now that if that were the case, she was meant to be crucified and hung to bleed like the desiccated corpses hanging above.
“Then, we test all of their faith,” Nesilia replied. “The world is chaos, my dear. Unstructured, ebbing and shifting like the very earth. I wonder, who among those out there would forsake tradition for faith?”
“You’d kill so many of your own people?”
“The weak must be purged, like an injured fawn caught by wolves. This is nature.”
“I won’t let you,” Sora thought, and Nesilia heard.
“How could you deny it? Of all the hosts to appear in Skorravik—my realm of Elsewhere, it was you. A girl capable of slaying that insufferable witch Bliss. A girl capable of burning an entire city to ashes, and of banishing an immortal upyr from the mortal realm. Strength begets strength; the chaos of nature gave me you.”
“I don’t care who they are. They don’t all deserve to die!” Sora argued.
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