Within loomed five time-weathered statues. They glowered down at Yarrow.
“Not a lover of crowds?” a deep musical voice asked from the shadows.
A shape stepped forward; an old Adourran man. He had skin like the bark of a tree, dark and deeply grooved. His mustache, braided hair, and unruly eyebrows shone snow white in the limited light of dusk.
“I like them fine…for a little bit,” Yarrow said.
“A lad after my own heart, then.”
Yarrow’s gaze returned to the statues.
“Do you know the four sacrifices?” the Adourran asked. He crossed the pavilion to stand by Yarrow and laughed, a rough, pleasant barking sound. “Of course you do not—not one so young.”
“Yes I do. The four sacrifices are Propagation, Contact, Identity, and Mind,” Yarrow recited.
“Ah, lad—to name a thing isn’t to know it. If it were, we would all have gifts coming out our parennas, wouldn’t we?” the man said.
Yarrow’s eyes traced the first statue. He saw now that it depicted a mother, father, and infant, though they seemed to be heads and arms all extending from the same base; not three separate entities, but one with three faces. Yarrow walked along the hall, examining each in turn. The next, Yarrow was embarrassed to see, portrayed a man and woman kissing, holding each other tightly. The last two Yarrow didn’t understand—the third was a monstrous head of a man, but within were carved various scenes—another kissing couple, three laughing figures, a man with a sword, and several more. The fourth depicted the face of a woman split in two. One half of her mouth smiled, one eye looked directly at Yarrow with intelligence. The other half of her mouth hung slack and open, and the other eye was wide, wild, and unfocused.
“I don’t really understand them,” Yarrow said at last.
The Adourran man smiled. “Good lad. It’s always better to acknowledge incomprehension than feign expertise. What is your name?”
“Yarrow Lamhart.”
“I am Dedrre Alvez,” the man said, and the two of them clasped forearms.
“Let us start at the beginning,” he said, and they walked back to the rendering of the first sacrifice. “As you correctly asserted, the first sacrifice is propagation—the ability to have a child. Most Chisanta don’t marry and never have children, so some might think this would be an easy thing to willingly forgo, but it is not. You know what it takes to make a sacrifice?”
Yarrow thought back to Arlow’s book on the carriage ride. It had certainly said something about this.
“Understanding?” Yarrow said, pulling the word from his memory without confidence.
“Very good,” Dedrre said. “To make a sacrifice you need to understand its full and complete worth. A man or woman who has never had a child is unlikely to ever truly grasp just what a child can mean—the joy, the pride, the investment. It’s nearly an impossible thing to comprehend.”
“You’ve made the first sacrifice?” Yarrow asked.
Dedrre laughed wheezily. “Certainly not.” He pulled a locket from beneath his robes and opened it to show Yarrow. “That there was my son, may his spirit find joy, and that,” he pointed at a pretty, high-cheek boned girl several years older than Yarrow, “is my granddaughter—the day she was marked was the proudest of my life.”
“Is that common?” Yarrow asked. “The children of the Chisanta being marked?”
“About as common as anybody else being marked,” Dedrre said, his dark eyes flashing.
“I meant no offense,” Yarrow said hastily, raising his hands.
Dedrre smiled. “Ah, of course you didn’t. A man can be defensive about his offspring. But that’s just the point, isn’t it? I understand the worth of having children—and even if I could go back to being freshly marked like yourself, I wouldn’t make a different decision. There is no gift the Spirits could possibly give me that would have been more meaningful than my son was. You see the Nee Lim-Po quote engraved on the wall?” Dedrre pointed.
Yarrow looked up and saw the now-familiar markings of the Chaskuan language. Thanks to Ko-Jin’s lessons he could sound the words out, though he would not know their meaning.
“It says, ‘When the thing you must lose is too great to bear, when the thought of it makes you weep like a child, beat your breast like a madman, and rip your hair like a widow, only then may it be sacrificed.’”
“So in order to give it up, you need to not want to give it up?” Yarrow asked.
Dedrre nodded. “Exactly. Very good. There is only one living Chisanta with a second gift, and he is as old as I. In the past, when the three nations were at war, there were circumstances that drove us to reach for the higher gifts. But Trinitas has been at peace for more than two hundred years. We already receive our first gift, as well as innate fighting abilities. Most of us lead the comfortable, well-provided lives of scholars.”
“So the other three?” Yarrow prompted.
“Ah, yes. Next comes human contact. It means that a Chisanta could never touch another person without both causing and feeling immense pain. No kiss from a loved one, no ungloved handshake from a friend. Third,” they strode to the first statue Yarrow didn’t fully understand, “is identity—or rather, memory. In the past, people who gave this up knew general knowledge still, but would not recognize their own mother. And lastly, and most greatly, is the mind. A person who makes the fourth sacrifice becomes insane.”
“What gift could possibly help a person if it costs them their mind?” Yarrow asked, staring with horror at the wild eye of the statue.
“Only three Chisanta in all of our thousands of years of written history have ever made the fourth sacrifice. In all three cases, the Fifths became empty, mindless vessels that babble truths.”
“When would that be useful?”
Dedrre stroked his mustache. “Only in times when information is desperately required.”
A gust of wind blew through the pavilion, causing Dedrre to shiver.
“Thank you for taking the time to explain this,” Yarrow said.
“Not at all, my boy. I remember well how overwhelming it was, being freshly marked.” He let out a raspy chuckle. “If you have any questions or problems here, you come to me. In fact, I’d be glad if you’d come for tea and keep an old man company.”
“I’d be honored.”
Dedrre patted him on the shoulder with a firm, gnarled hand and set off across the grounds. Yarrow watched him go. He had never seen a man of such advanced age move so well. Yarrow rather liked Dedrre Alvez, he decided, as the man’s form receded into the darkness.
Yarrow gave the alarming face of the fourth sacrifice one last look. He wondered what kind of ‘truths’ these Fifths had spoken that would make the sacrifice worthwhile. Perhaps he could find a book in the library on the topic…tomorrow. He was too exhausted to do anything other than head towards his own, yet unslept-in, bed. As he wandered through the grounds, between the magnificent buildings, passing several chatting groups of Cosanta, he thought that though it was entirely foreign, he might well feel at home here.
For company, he allowed Bray’s feelings to fill his mind. She clanked with frustration—he could well imagine her blazing look, her flashing eyes. He sighed. They were so very far apart.
The Isle of Chiona offered a strangely cheerful backdrop for a wake, Bray thought—with the twittering, exotic birds peering down on the congregation from palm trees and the sun shining relentlessly in its bright, cloudless sky. At her father’s wake it had rained, and with the cemetery firmly in the somber shadows of the ill-named Verdant Peaks, the day had felt suitably grim.
“May the Spirits above accept him into their company…” a solemn, elderly Chiona man pronounced. He stood before an elaborately designed coffin. Bray wondered if Ambrone Chassel’s eyes were still open or if someone had shut them. If she could see through the glossy wood, would he be staring at her still?
The assembly had grown positively massive. Every Chiona, from those like herself, freshly arrived, to t
he decrepitly old, had gathered for the ceremony. Bray even spotted several Cosanta who had traveled south for the occasion. They all looked to be of an age with Ambrone. They were the object of many glowers, but appeared not to notice.
All wore yellow, the traditional funeral color of the Chisanta. Bray, herself, had been given a plain yellow dress for the occasion. After so many weeks of wearing pants, it felt strangely loose and structureless against her waist and legs. The yellow might be traditional, but it too seemed inappropriately bright for such an occasion. The black of her own custom, she thought, was much preferable.
An old Adourran man recounted the story of how he had met Ambrone on their carriage ride to the Temple. “When we stopped at the inn, Ambrone claimed he was in love with the serving girl who brought us our soup,” the man said with animation. “I’ll admit, at the time I thought him a bit of a cad.” The congregation laughed appreciatively, and the Adourran man flashed a bright white smile. “But as many of you know, Ambrone never did forget that serving girl. The moment he came of age and was free to leave, he went back to that inn, and he married that girl.”
Bray fidgeted in her chair. It was odd to hear about the life of a man whom she had only known dead. Irrational though it was, she felt as though she were somehow culpable. When people looked at her—and they did often, as she had been pointed out by several as the girl who had discovered his body—she sensed in their gaze a kind of accusation. As if, had she not found him, he would not be dead.
Peer patted her hand and she clasped his fingers in her own, grateful for the support of a friend.
Mrs. Chassel stood to speak last. The woman’s face showed its age, her hair streaked liberally with gray. Bray thought, though, that she could see in her the girl Ambrone first saw—a sweet, pretty-faced serving girl. She wondered if they had snuck out at night together, as she and Yarrow had done.
Mrs. Chassel told the story of how Ambrone had come to her at the age of eighteen, how she had remembered him immediately. Bray could picture this scene as well; she gave Ambrone dark brown hair and gray eyes.
“I loved you since I was a girl,” Mrs. Chassel said, addressing the coffin. Her voice trembled and tears spilled down her chin, onto her pale yellow dress. “And I will love you always.”
Mrs. Chassel returned to her seat and a pulley system began to lower Ambrone Chassel into the ground.
Bray felt tears on her own face and brushed them away quickly. She had no right to mourn. She had not known him.
After the first few handfuls of dirt were thrown into the hole, the hole that would be Ambrone Chassel’s final resting place, the congregation rose and processed back to the dining hall, where lunch awaited.
Bray marched with the rest, her gaze training on the strange, bright vegetation of the Isle. As if the colors had been amplified, the hues increased in saturation, every plant and bird assaulted her eyes with their vibrancy. Even the buildings, though simply constructed, with smooth archways and round windows, were painted in a wide variety of vivid colors—blues, yellows, oranges, and reds. The beaches, wide plains of white sand, extended to a clear turquoise sea. The air itself tasted foreign, like hot red pepper and cinnamon.
It was stunning, but Bray found the heat oppressive. She was accustomed to a cool, rainy climate. The sun, here, seemed determined to scorch her skin, especially her so recently exposed scalp.
The dining hall, usually full of low tables and silken cushions, had been cleared for the funeral, the food set up in a buffet style. Several serving men and women circulated with trays bearing small crystal glasses of an amber-colored liquid. A young Adourran girl handed her and Peer each a glass. There were rather too many people for Bray’s liking, and more and more streamed in through the door. Peer and Bray kept moving from one place to another in the hopes of finding a location out of the way.
“There’s Adearre,” Peer whispered, then took hold of her hand and guided her through the masses until they reached their friend.
“Some shindig, aye?” Peer said, smiling.
Bray elbowed him in the gut. “It’s a funeral. Show some respect.”
The corner of Adearre’s mouth twitched. “The food is excellent, though. And the fashion!” He put a hand to his heart and fluttered his lashes.
Bray speared him with a look. “I liked you better when you didn’t make jokes.”
He winked and smiled, then turned to listen to Peer.
A drum sounded a resonating tattoo and the crowd fell silent. The same Adourran man who had spoken at the funeral stood on a platform at the head of the room. He held up his own small glass, and the crowd did the same.
“To Ambrone Chassel, may his spirit fly fast and find joy,” he said in a carrying voice.
“May his spirit find joy,” the assembly murmured, and as one the company downed their glasses.
Bray attempted to knock back the entire contents in one mouthful, as she saw others do, but she had not expected the drink to burn so badly. She sputtered and coughed, eyes streaming. Next to her, Peer had the same difficulty. A few heads turned to chastise them—perhaps coughing at the toast of the dead was some sort of insult or omen of bad luck.
When an older Dalishman bearing a tray full of wine glasses passed, Bray grabbed one to help diminish the burning in her throat. It was a deep, blood red and wonderfully dry and flavorful. Bray gulped gratefully.
“This is quite good, Peer,” she said, then turned to discover that her companion was no longer by her side. Neither was Adearre. She searched the crowd and could not locate them. She could not see a single face she recognized.
The room began to spin before her eyes—due to the combination of alcohol, heat, and lack of food, no doubt. She longed to be away from this wretched, stinking heat, from these strangers and their accusatory stares. She weaved her way through the crowd, bumping into people here and there, not stopping to apologize.
She forced her way back out into the afternoon sun. Still much too warm, but blissfully free of people. Bray stumbled around the side of the building, towards the sea. Perhaps the water, at least, would be cool. Last time she had felt this way she had had Yarrow to lean on. Yarrow, she thought, why must he be so very far away?
She did not realize there were two people sitting close on a bench until she had tromped noisily into their presence.
Bray stopped short, swaying slightly on the spot, and the two people turned to face her. One, Bray was horrified to see, was Mrs. Chassel, the other a Chiona man she did not know.
“I’m sorry,” Bray mumbled, her already flushed face growing redder. She attempted to retrace her steps but Mrs. Chassel called out to her, “Wait.”
She rose and turned to face Bray, her lined face red and streaked with tears. “You are the girl who…who…”
Bray nodded, so Mrs. Chassel could leave her painful sentence unfinished.
“I’ve wanted to speak with you—could you come and sit?” She gestured to the bench, and the man beside her stood to make room.
Bray would much rather not come and sit; her vision still swam and she could not bear the thought of explaining to this woman how she had found her husband, how the sword had been stained with blood, how his body looked broken and sprawled, how gray and lifeless his face had been. But she could not think of how to refuse politely, so she shuffled forward and took the offered seat.
“What is your name, child?” she asked. Bray did not much like being called a child—she was fourteen years old, thank you very much—but she answered nonetheless. “Bray Marron.”
“Very pleased to meet you, Bray Marron. I am Vindella Chassel,” the woman said. “And this,” she gestured to the man who had given up his seat, “is Quade Asher.” Quade Asher inclined his head. He was much younger than Mrs. Chassel, perhaps in his mid-thirties. He had fair skin, dark glittering eyes, and a prominent, slender nose.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Bray said.
Mrs. Chassel extracted a handkerchief and dabbed at her face. “Thank
you dear, but I think we both know it wasn’t a loss. Ambrone was stolen from me. That is why I wanted to speak to you. I had hoped you could tell me everything you saw in that chamber. Perhaps there was some clue?”
Her eyes filled with such hope, it made Bray’s heart ache. She frowned and tried to summon the scene back to her mind. “There was the sword,” she said, “and the…I mean, him—” Bray narrowly avoided using the word ‘body,’ which she thought might be insensitive “—and there were crates and a lot of broken glass on the floor…”
“Broken glass?” Quade asked, speaking for the first time. His voice took Bray by surprise, his accent quite like her own; rough and musical and decidedly working-class. “Was there a broken window to account for it?”
“There were no windows,” Bray said. “So it was quite dark.” She added this to excuse her unhelpfully minimalistic description.
Mrs. Chassel clasped her eyes on Quade. “Do you have a theory?”
“Well…the glass could have already been there…” he mused.
“Don’t you two keep your artifacts in glass containers?” Mrs. Chassel asked.
“Aye,” Quade said, “but I can’t think how that would relate. We’ve never found anything worth stealing, let alone killing for.”
He turned back to Bray and she felt her head spin more intensely. He was a pleasant man to look at. “I apologize, but I need to ask you a grim question.” His eyes flickered to Mrs. Chassel sympathetically. “Was there blood on the ground beneath his body?”
Bray felt sick, but she tried to summon that dark room to her mind once again. There was blood on his clothes, she remembered that well, but she did not recall any blood on the ground. “No, I don’t think so.”
“What does that mean, Quade?” Mrs. Chassel asked.
“I imagine it means that he was not killed in that room—that his body was merely hidden there. It also likely means that the glass and anything else in that chamber were unrelated.”
The Complete Marked Series Box Set Page 12
