by Gayle Greeno
Striped stole trailing behind her, Dwyna nudged her horse against Jenret’s. “Do we know where we’re going?”
“Yes, in a way. Hru‘rul and Rawn pinpointed F’een’s location, took different bearings on it, too, so they crossed. They’ve relayed the information to Parm and M’wa as well.” He smote his thigh, his voice anguished, “It’s almost mad, as if we’ve all been playing blindman’s bluff, never realizing others were near enough to touch. I should have known Doyce would find her way into the midst of trouble, Davvy as well. As for Bard and Harrap, trouble seems to have found them.”
“It happens,” Dwyna said gently.
“Oh, I’m often guilty of acting first, then thinking, but I swear it’s become contagious.” He rode in silence for a moment, then confessed, “I even ’spoke my unborn child, children, before I considered the consequences.”
“How far along is Doyce?” Dwyna asked, her professional interest piqued.
“She must be due very, very soon. The babies looked all crowded and tight, upside down.”
“You are a fool. I hope you haven’t upset them. This close to time you can induce labor if you excite them too much.” Dwyna gave him a disgusted look. “I’ve never yet met a man who understood what it’s like to give birth.”
The audience had grown increasingly restless, the spell dissipating as nothing happened. Coughs, murmurs, foot shufflings, the desire to be swept up in the glory again, to be made a part of the whole still existed, but for now they were slowly separating. A scuffle just at the top of the west wall was distracting attention, people milling, some striving to get clear, some wanting to be closer. Do something! Tadj told himself. Hylan had to seize control again. Worst of all, he couldn’t see where Baz was any longer.
He tugged at Hylan’s arm, whispered hoarsely in her ear. “Do something, Hylan! Make the king come to us, we can’t continue waiting like this. We’re losing the faithful, their minds are drifting! Don’t you understand? I don’t know who this woman is, but I don’t like it, she’s distracting them.” And distracting Hylan as well, throwing her off course, confusing her, making niggling doubts surface like slow bubbles rising in mud. Baz was still here, watching, waiting, wasn’t he? This was his chance to make an impression on Baz, and it could so easily fall to pieces in an instant.
“But ... ?” Hylan’s face puckered with thought. “The Lady will take the children to Her, won’t She? Not refuse an offering of this magnitude?”
“She’ll take them,” he promised. She’d take them if he had to Reap them himself! So proud, honored by the small-scale silver sickle Baz had made with his own hands, presented it to him just before he’d brought the children out. He’d secreted it behind the pillar, ready if he needed it. The children were the key to attracting the king. “Hylan,” his voice soothing, exhorting her, bolstering her determination. “The children are our staked lambs. Make them bleat, make them draw the king to us. Make the boy, especially, bleat his little heart out. Brand him,” he urged. That should do it, if not, killing him certainly would, his dying mindcries carrying to the king.
Arm wrapped around her lower abdomen, Doyce watched and waited, praying her head would stay clear, her body obey. There was no way she could rescue the children and run, not in the midst of two hundred people. “Just buy time. Every distraction buys more time.” Khar advised, then winced. “Cady just manhandled someone in her path a little too strenuously. His friends are objecting to his treatment. Oh, dear, she and F’een are in for it now.”
“Cady?” Grimacing, Doyce waited as another pain gathered itself, then halted. “She should be up there protecting Mother and Francie! Not down here!” Don’t think about it, don’t. Other things to think about. “Well, what I don’t have at the moment is time. ”She exhaled in relief as the pain momentarily ebbed. “Unless you think having the baby here and now ranks as a monumental distraction. The idea’s been suggesting itself with increasing regularity. Besides, who’ll rescue us—besides Cady?”
“Well, it’s not the cavalry, but it’s a start.” She nosed Doyce. “And F’een says a Guardian squad is on its way, should be here soon.”
She realized she heard the clop of hooves, the shuffle of bodies cautiously descending the sloped side of the brickyard cellar. A moan trickled through her lips—cavalry it was not. Bard—where had he come from, what was he doing here?—though she thrilled to see him and M’wa. Behind them, the white mules bore her mother and Francie, towering above—oh, dear Lady, was she hallucinating?—Darl Allgood and a man with a smashed-looking face she didn’t recognize, leading the mules. A terrier dashed ahead of them, then froze and let loose a howl of woe. Nothing to do but pinch herself, wake herself from one outrageous dream, and slip back into the nightmare she inhabited on the cellar floor.
M’wa sounded gruff. “Thought you might enjoy company. Is the little girl all right?”
Khar answered back, “If I’d known you were near, I’d certainly have invited you. The girl’s fine for the moment, how long, we’ll see. Same could be said for the rest of us.” The party had reached the floor by now and stood still, gauging the situation.
Hylan’s eyes darted, agitated, unable to determine what it all meant. And in desperation Tadj found inspiration. “The Lady’s Disciples, the Apostle moons are taking human form to judge if our plans are worthy, Hylan.” He pointed excitedly, “Look, five already! When all eight appear, She’ll accept our sacrifice, bring us the king so we can stop the Spacers.” He crooned now, intimate and low, “Brand the boy, Hylan, brand him so the Lady will know he comes!”
Tadj believed, he believed if no one else did! Not like that pregnant woman, questioning, questioning, making Hylan question herself, making Hylan lose her audience’s attention. It didn’t matter—one true believer like Tadj was enough. How could she have been so sinful, so prideful to want more? Bad Hylan, greedy Hylan, always wanting what others had, never satisfied. But Tadj was hers, deservedly so, earned through scourging and penance!
Eyes wide and blank with exaltation, Hylan pulled the poker from the fire, its tip glowing a dull red, and brandished it at the boy. “Now just a moment there,” a voice insisted, and Inez Marbon dismounted into the arms of the broken-faced man beside her mule. “I want to be crystal clear what’s going on. Lady knows, it’s best not to have mix-ups, misunderstandings. Wouldn’t begrudge someone that, would you?” She navigated the broken flooring, elbows sticking out from her sides as she trotted along. Gave Doyce a surreptitious pat in passing, whispering, “Grit your teeth and hold on, we’re trying.”
Awed by this manifestation of an Apostle, Hylan swept into a curtsey and Inez stopped, nonplussed. “We must mark the boy, show he’s a Resonant, so that Our Lady knows, doesn’t mistake our need. You’ll intercede for me, for us,” she indicated Tadj, “won’t you?”
“Our Blessed Lady never misunderstands.” Inez was beside Hylan now, staring at the poker. “Here, give me that thing,” and reached confidently for it. Tadj tried to grab it back, but Inez fended him off with the glowing end. Pulling it back, practically under her nose, she examined it. “So, being marked by this makes you a Resonant?” She slapped the heated point against the fleshy heel of her palm, held it there without flinching, lips clenched. “Oh, dear, must mean I’m one as well.” The poker swung outward, and Hylan raised her hands, but not quickly enough to ward it off. “Oh, my, must mean you’re one as well.”
Hylan whimpered, cradling the burn to her lips. The pregnant woman gave her a look of compassion. “You never had a medallion from Corneil, but now you have this to remember them by.” No, no medallion, no Terra. DA-de-Da DA-DE-DA.
Inez’s actions had been so surprising, beyond the pale, that no one had been able to move, stunned, unsure what would happen next. Too, moving would have broken the spell, the pattern that Inez had created. At last, legs cramping, body throbbing, Doyce started forward, as did Bard, Darl, and the rough-hewn stranger.
But before they could reach their goal, the pillar
with the chained children, Tadj pushed Hylan aside. High and shrill as a whistle, his voice stopped them cold, “Lady, Blessed Lady, I send to You these children,” and pulled Davvy’s head back, flourishing a small silver sickle at Davvy’s throat. The boy screamed then froze as the blade touched his flesh. Baz? Where was Baz? Would the Resonant King appear?
“No need of that, surely.” A cloaked and hooded man stood at the top of the cellar foundation, threw back his hood so the torchlight reflected on the narrow circlet of gold around his forehead. “Not when the Resonant King has come to offer himself in exchange.”
“Yes! Welcome!” Tadj exulted, shooting both arms high in the air, brandishing the sickle. It had worked, oh, it had worked! Yes, let all eyes see Eadwin in his Resonant splendor, fair yet foul, revel in the anticipation of his death! Baz would be so proud. Where was Baz, he hadn’t left, deserted Tadj in his moment of triumph? His euphoria dimmed. No, so hard to judge what was happening, the king arrived at last, yet some of the faithful fleeing, rushing to avoid trouble; others watching, avid and unmoving. And some, yes, some; rushing down the slopes to the floor, eager to help, eager to partake! Yes, there was Baz, striding toward him, gesturing to other Reapers to follow!
“Shall I come down to you? I’ll be pleased to—once the children are released.”
Tadj nodded magnanimously. After all, the children had been Hylan’s fetish, not his. Her with her mystical notions of outer space, danger from without. All he wished to do was cleanse the land of Resonants any way he was able. The children, especially the boy, could be dealt with later, when they swept up the remnants.
A noise intruded behind Tadj, an orderly “hut, hut, hut,” and he managed a glance back to catch a horrific vision of Guardians cresting the lip of the pit, struggling to maintain a wedge formation as they traversed the steep north slope, slowing and dividing the scrambling crowd. They were led by a tawny-haired lion of a young man in civilian dress and carrying a tricolored ghatt. The young lion put the ghatt down and raced toward the pillar, shouting as he came. Tadj had a horrible, sick feeling of certainty that there were other cries he wasn’t hearing as the craggy-faced man wheeled and started in his direction. He should never have relinquished his grip on the boy! A hand at his elbow brought him back to sanity. Baz! Baz had come, wouldn’t fail him, wouldn’t let them fail!
Bard, Faertom, and Darl struggled to release Davvy and Lindy, until at last Darl pushed the others aside to concentrate on the chains. Holding Lindy close, Bard heard her say, “Don’t let them hurt the king! Did you see, Bard, his crown’s lopsided.” Sobbing, she drew as far away from Hylan as the chain allowed. “Hylan lied—she wanted to hurt the king!” Faertom comforted Davvy, the boy whispering furiously in his ear, urgently pointing.
He was pointing, Tadj realized, not at Hylan or him, but at Baz. But now Baz slighted him, took note of nothing but the balding man working at the chains, deserting Tadj, walking forward as if in a trance.
“No!” Baz’s agonized cry split the air. “No, Darl, no! Don’t help them, stand by me, it’s not too late. Together we can conquer them all!” Bazelon Foy rushed across the floor to Darl Allgood’s side. “Don’t forsake me! Help me make the land safe from these wretched Resonants.”
Darl’s hands never stopped working, though he cast a regretful glance over his shoulder. “Baz, I’m sorry, but I’m one of Them, a Resonant. If you hate them, you hate me. Unless you can finally learn to stop hating.”
“You’re lying, Darl! Don’t toy with me, test me like this!” Baz pleaded.
Unregarded, ignored at the center of the activity as if she no longer had any relevance, Hylan plucked the divining rod from her belt, hugged it to her breast, stroked it for solace. It trembled like a live thing and she continued stroking, felt its abrupt tug and surge in the direction of the balding man, and she watched it as if the very hand and the rod belonged to someone else, a stranger.
Face contorted with the dawning surety of betrayal, the dark-haired man cried, “Darl, it is true! You are!” Strange, she’d not really seen the dark-haired man’s face in the gloom by the goat cart, but now, in the torchlight....
Hylan’s mind dashed from one confused image to another, past and present coalescing, shooting bright sparks, sparks that illuminated, sparks that burned. Sparks burned through the fabric of the past, and she stared through the charred holes.
That night, that happy, celebratory night, Terranova and Wim and Corneil and all the others. Then the terror, the grief, the sorrow, her mind locking down on it. The evil had been in the repression, not the remembering. Corneil had been wrong to try to help her that way. Nor was she bad, evil, just a confused child who’d never quite grown up.
Swaying, pressing the rod to her temples, she tried to separate it out, Then and Now, Now and Then. Sickles Then, sickles Now—where had Tadj gotten it, didn’t he know she hated them, even a child-sized silver replica like his?
“Darl, you deluded me, made me think I was less than you, less worthy, less good, when all the time you were the deceiver! Oh, how you must have laughed to think you had Hosea Bazelon’s grandson at your feet!” A knife in his hand now, raised high and menacing, torchlight bright on knife, on face.
The world slowed for Hylan, stretched before her. That face, that name! Hosea Bazelon! The man who’d tried to kiss her hand earlier in the evening, the one who’d talked with Tadj. How could she have not seen? Had sensed it in the recesses of her mind but refused to believe, to see. “HO-SE-A BAZ-e-Lon, HO-se-A BAZ-e-Lon!” No, No!
Oh, Blessed Lady, and that young man, the one who’d stopped at her house, whom she’d sensed was a Resonant, the one who looked so much like Terra. Here he was, or was it Terra come back to guide her? If not in this life, perhaps in another? Were they all coming back? The burly man with the ravaged face wrestled with Bazelon now and he had eyes so much like Wim’s. But he couldn’t protect Terra any better than he had the first time. She watched the knife take him under the breastbone as he raised his hands desperately toward Bazelon’s temples, saw his hands fall slack, his knees sag. No, she wouldn’t fail Terra and the rest this time. Why was Terra pushing toward Hosea Bazelon as he closed the space between himself and the balding man? Couldn’t Terra see Hosea had a knife, Hosea would hurt Terra! He’d already hurt Wim! It was all the same, it was all repeating itself, the night poised to turn blood-red again!
“Hosea Bazelon, you cannot!” she screamed and rushed toward him, jabbing the divining rod at his face, his eyes. Cursing, Bazelon grabbed at her wrist with his free hand and, straining with effort, flung her headlong at the pillar. Her feet stumbled, trying to catch up with her body, and she tripped on the pillar’s base, falling between the children’s upraised hands, the rusted iron ring bolt driving into her temple, into her brain. A dog howled in misery, rushed to her side, frantically licked at her face, her hands.
“Tadj! Help me! Get the other one—Darl is all mine!” Baz shouted as he tried to right himself after flinging Hylan away. Where had that damn ghatt come from, rolling and clawing at him, under his feet? He kicked, drove the point of his boot into the calico ghatt’s ribs, lofted him clear. But Faertom was practically on top of him now, hands reaching toward the knife, ready to rip it away from him to protect Darl. He backed slightly, trying to find an opening, feint around Faertom to reach his target, his goal. No longer could he be mocked, deluded! Yes, he’d go through the young man now, remove one more obstacle from his path, destroy it and everything, everyone else if necessary! “Tadj!” he screamed again. If he must do everything himself, he would, not brook defeat, have Darl snatched from his revenge, his sweet revenge for that betrayal. He brought the knife up hard, rammed it under the young man’s chin, watched him falter and fall, even as Baz pulled the knife free. Another step backward, just to get clear of the obstruction, give himself space to maneuver. No one between him and Darl now, no way to escape.
The kick took him behind the knee with no warning. Where? What? The boy? The boy chained to
the pillar had stretched clear as far as he could, had kicked him, his tear-streaked face a mask of concentration. Damnation! “You little wretch, little demon! Resonant spawn!” Knee buckling, off balance, he threw himself forward, uncaring. Darl, stupid Darl, holding out his arms to him as he stumbled, as if to catch him, embrace him. He drove the knife home in Darl’s heart with a deep, abiding satisfaction at its rightness, the justification of it all as Darl slumped against him. Falling now, falling if he weren’t careful, couldn’t get his balance, so unfair when the balance was finally tipping in his favor, showing he was right. Darl’s dead weight dragging him down, just as it had in the past, though he’d never realized it. Twist away, twist out from under that dead weight and he would rise, rise triumphant! And just as he rolled to the side to get clear of Darl’s encumbering body, Tadj desperately, awkwardly swept the sickle sideways toward where Darl had stood just moments before.
Screaming a warning, unable to stop the sweep of his arm, Tadj watched the silver sickle caress Baz’s beautiful throat, the throat like a smooth, olive-tinted column. Watched in fascinated horror, as if an alien hand wielded the blade. Oh, blood! Oh, Baz! his mind screamed silently as he fell to his knees, staring at his bloody hand, the dripping sickle. Beauty obliterated. Drop it! Let it go. Don’t touch! Who to blame, oh, who to blame? He hadn’t done this, not Tadj, no! Hylan dead, Darl dead, the one Hylan had called Terra dead as well. Blame? He looked up blankly, caught the boy’s burning eyes on him, his triumphant glare. Oh, Hylan had the right of it, the child was evil. Baz had been right calling him a demon, Resonant spawn! All his fault, all his. If the spawn hadn’t kicked Baz, none of this would have ever happened! Never!
