The Bones of the Earth

by Rachel Dunne

  When a group of two dozen broke away from the snake, Keiro smiled. There was the elation soaring in him, but it fought with a grim, heavy dread that had settled in his belly.

  Sixteen wearing black robes approached his hill, though only one of them had Sororra’s Eyes sewn above his heart. There were others with them—a few extra mercenaries, and three in dark blue robes with the look of the Highlands about them, with the same mad eyes as Nerrin.

  The mercenaries formed a line between Keiro and the preachers, a shield of their bodies, as though one man could do so much harm. Still, the preacher with the red-Eyed mark of the Ventallo stepped in front of their protection, and they let him. “You asked for the Ventallo,” the man called out. He was old, white-haired, and eyeless. “I am Valrik, and I speak for the Fallen.”

  “I am Keiro Godson,” he said. “I speak for these hills and all that lies in them. I speak for the Twins.”

  Valrik laughed. Keiro could respect that, a man who could laugh in such a situation—he could respect it, but he would not stand for it. “I know you, Keiro,” Valrik said. “You are apostate. You are banished.”

  “These are not your lands. You hold no power over me here. And if I am apostate, you hold no power over me anywhere.”

  Keiro could see the tightness in Valrik’s jaw, could see the anger boiling behind the empty pits of his eyes. “Stand aside, apostate. We have traveled long to reach this place. I will not have you corrupting it.”

  Keiro laughed now, though it sounded strange to his own ears, nothing like his usual laugh. “You traveled here, Valrik, because I asked it. I speak for the Twins, and by their command, I have brought you here.”

  A silence stretched out, and Keiro could see Valrik weighing his words—deciding whether they were madness or truth, deciding whether Keiro should be trusted or killed. Finally Valrik asked, “You claim to have seen the Twins?”

  “I do not claim,” Keiro said. “I state.”

  “You—”

  “If you don’t believe me,” Keiro interrupted, “then come. I will take you to them.” He turned, and walked down the far side of the hill, out of their sight. It took some time, and he could hear their murmuring if not the words, but finally they crested the hill, each of them, the mercenaries hale, the eldest among the preachers straggling. They all followed, and blind as most of them were, their steps were sure upon the ground. Keiro considered leading them to the nearest entrance, the most direct route to the Twins; but he decided a little waiting, a little anticipation, would not do them too much harm. He walked farther down the hill, gripped the low branches of a scrubby bush, and pulled them aside to reveal the mravigi-sized hole. “Hold this, will you?” he said to the nearest of the mercenaries, and after a moment of hesitation the man gripped the branches with one of his big hands. Keiro bowed to the Ventallo, and then disappeared as he stepped into the hole.

  Again, he could hear them debating. A mercenary dropped down, bruised his shins, and then squinted suspiciously up and down the tunnel, his fingers wrapped around the hilt of his sword. Keiro smiled guilelessly when the mercenary’s roving eyes passed his. “All clear,” the mercenary called up the hole, and then he joined Keiro kneeling out of the way as the others dropped down, one by one.

  Keiro began crawling after a few had entered the tunnels; he trusted they’d keep up with him well enough. The first mercenary followed immediately after him, and Keiro was again impressed to see Valrik right behind the mercenary. He seemed to be a leader who was not afraid to lead. Saval had been the same . . . Do not think of it.

  Every so often, one of them would call ahead, “Where are we going?” or “How much farther is it?” Keiro answered them only with silence. Truly, it didn’t take long to reach the cavern—the great, empty cavern. Keiro had never before seen it so, with all the mravigi gone away somewhere, likely hiding in their dens and burrows. It made the place dark without the false starlight, only a faint red glow from Straz’s open eyes to guide his steps.

  The first of the mravigi remained, of course, always lying faithful before his creator. Keiro couldn’t claim to know what the preachers saw—his own missing eye showed him naught but all the drowned infant twins—but they must have seen Straz, somehow. They exclaimed over him, his great white form bathed in the light from his eyes—and then four more eyes opened, glowing brighter. Then they gasped out prayers, each of the sightless black-robed, as they saw their gods.

  “Welcome, leaders of the Fallen,” Sororra said, and ice touched the edges of her voice.

  “Blessed gods,” Valrik babbled from his knees, “mighty Twins, it is an honor . . .”

  “Valrik,” she said. “Valrik . . . Uniro, I believe. Are you not so called?”

  Keiro, who was watching each of them carefully, but their apparent leader most of all, saw Valrik’s cheeks go pale. “I was so called,” he said carefully. “No longer.”

  “No?” Sororra asked, and the arch of one brow was an elegant thing. “And why is that, Valrik Uniro?”

  The man pressed his brow to the floor, and with his lips near brushing the ground, he said, “I am first among none. I am a faithful servant only, a guide . . . a shepherd tending to his flock. But I am no better than any one of my sheep.”

  Sororra’s head tilted, her eyes blinking slowly as she regarded the prostrate man. “You truly do believe that, don’t you?” she finally murmured, and then she smiled. “Good! Then rise, Valrik-first-among-none. I would see your face.” He stood, though his old legs shook as he stood before the Twins. Sororra held him pinned beneath her gaze—even without eyes, Keiro imagined Valrik could feel the weight of her regard. “Tell me, Valrik, what of these others here? Your fellow shepherds, and your scythes, and these bright-burning candles?”

  Valrik bowed his head, as though he couldn’t bear to meet Sororra’s eyes, though his voice was stronger, more sure. “Each of them I have chosen, O just Sororra. They are all faithful and true, and strong beyond measure.”

  “You chose,” Fratarro said mildly, the first he had yet spoken.

  Valrik’s spine went stiff, and it took him a very long time to answer. “I chose,” he finally repeated. “Sheep, sometimes, need a strong hand to guide them, else they will wander aimlessly.” He looked up then, with the unseeing pits of his eyes. “All these years, I have shaped the Fallen into an arrow, strong and firm and true. But an arrow alone is nothing. An arrow must be aimed and shot. I am the hand that draws back the arrow.”

  “You claim to be many things, Valrik Uniro,” Sororra said. “Shepherd, archer . . . and yet you do not lay claim to the one thing you seem most clearly to be. Keiro,” she called out, pitching her voice slightly higher, though Keiro stood nearer to her than Valrik. “What would you name this man?”

  He knew the answer Sororra wished to hear. “When I asked for the Ventallo,” Keiro supplied, “he came forward first. He has spoken loudest, and most. He alone wears your Eyes upon his breast. I would name him the leader of the Fallen.”

  “As would I,” Sororra agreed amiably, as though they discussed simple matters. “Let us see, Valrik, how well you learned your histories. Tell me, who was the first Uniro?”

  “Abren Uniro,” Valrik said, each syllable dragging past his reluctant lips.

  “And tell me, Valrik—you must forgive me, I’ve been so long away from the world—how long after the Fallen were formed did Abren become Uniro?”

  Valrik’s swallow was audible in the quiet place. “Five hundred and twenty-five years, my lady.”

  “Five hundred and twenty-five years,” Sororra repeated, and somehow a low whistle made it through her charred lips. “Tell me, Valrik, how do you think they managed without a leader for so long?”

  In his long wandering life, there were many memories that stuck in Keiro’s mind. In one forest, vast and damp so that the air beaded on his skin, he had sat in a tree and watched two strange creatures play below him. They had been almost like small furry humans, though with longer limbs and tails that
curved behind them. Still, there had been something unsettlingly human about their faces, about the way their long fingers gripped. He had smiled to watch the mother-creature showing her child how to lift rocks and pick bugs from beneath them, and he had felt content.

  He hadn’t seen the greatcat until it had already wrapped its jaws around the mother’s neck. She had enough time for a single, piercing screech. Keiro had covered his mouth and stayed very still in the shelter of his tree, and watched, paralyzed, as the greatcat had its feast. It hadn’t noticed the baby until after it had eaten its fill, but the greatcat’s long tail had lashed, and it had pounced—not on the baby, but right in front of it, close enough to make the small creature skitter away with a high, human scream. The greatcat had pounced after it, blocked its escape, sent it wheeling in one direction and then another—toying with it. Surely it was too full to be hungry, and it could have killed the baby creature easily.

  Keiro had watched helplessly, until the small creature had been unable to run any more, collapsing, shaking with terror and exhaustion. It had seemed to Keiro that the baby creature’s eyes found his, somehow, through the shielding branches—begging, pleading. The greatcat had nudged at its body a few times, prowled around its still form, picked it up and gave it a quick shake, sending its body flying two lengths away. The greatcat had tried a few more times to get its toy moving, but the creature had lain still as death save for the heaving of its tiny chest, and the greatcat tired of its game. It prowled away, swallowed by the forest.

  Keiro had fled down his tree as soon as he deemed it safe, sooner than he probably should have, and he’d run to the little creature’s side. He’d scooped the baby up, cradled its panting body in his arms. Red blood, human blood, trickled down his arms from the small wounds where the greatcat’s teeth and swiping claws had pierced skin, and the baby had looked up at him with so much sadness and confusion in its huge eyes. Its hand had wrapped tightly around one of Keiro’s fingers, holding tight as the sun fell beyond the tops of the trees. Keiro had whispered prayers and songs, the creature’s fur growing damp with his tears as its breathing grew more labored. The light fled from its eyes along with the sun, and its fingers had slipped gently from Keiro’s.

  Keiro wondered how long Sororra, catlike, would toy with Valrik.

  To his surprise, though, Valrik did not fold in on himself as the baby had, didn’t give in. His back straightened, and his chin jutted out, and the empty sockets of his eyes pointed directly at Sororra. “I have learned my history well, my lady, O wise Sororra. Edello Blackfist was the first to name himself Fallen, and it was he who gathered together all those brave enough to say they followed you still. It was Edello who led the Fallen in their first years, Edello’s hands that shaped the small group into something good and strong. It was Edello who, dying, begged his most trusted advisor to guide the Fallen as he had done. As they did even until Abren named himself Uniro.” The smile that stretched across Valrik’s face was a surprising thing, toothy and proud. “The Fallen have always been led, my lady, even if the leader was not named so.”

  Silence followed his words, a brooding, burning thing, Sororra’s bright eyes fixed on Valrik’s sightless ones. Perhaps Valrik wasn’t a small, helpless creature, but Sororra held no less resemblance to the greatcat.

  A low chuckle broke the silence—Fratarro, who chose his words so carefully, content to let his sister play leader. A smile further creased his burned cheeks as he looked down at Valrik. “This one has fire, sister.”

  “He does,” Sororra agreed, though she made it sound less a compliment. Fire was, after all, the tool of the Father. “Embrace who you are, Valrik Uniro. We see the things that lie in your heart and your mind—what use, then, in hiding them from us? You lead the Fallen.”

  Valrik’s jaw worked, and then his chin tipped just a little higher. “I lead the Fallen,” he said, his voice strong and steady.

  “Good, then!” A great boom echoed through the cavern as Sororra’s palms smacked together, and Keiro was not the only one to startle. Her remaining chains rattled louder than the clap. “The Fallen will need guidance as we begin this new and exciting chapter. But you are only one man, Valrik Uniro. You cannot do everything. Keiro.” Obedient, Keiro turned to face her, bowed low. “Keiro Godson. You found us here, the first of the Fallen to come searching. We will never forget that. There is so much potential in you. You will be great, Keiro Godson, and you will grow mighty at our sides. Do you stand with us still?”

  Keiro bowed again, even lower. Facing the floor, gazing down at the dark-stained patch where Saval’s blood had pooled, those words felt very much like what Sororra had said to Nerrin. Do not think of it. “I stand with you always, my lady, my lord.”

  “My brother’s creatures named you well, Godson. You will be our voice, and our eye, and our hands. Your word is as our word, and silence shall fall at your speaking. Your actions are as our actions, and none shall doubt you. You are our feet upon the earth, and the world shall bend before you.” Her eyes bored into him, merciless. “Do you stand with us still?”

  “I stand with you always,” he said again, for there was naught else he could say.

  “Hear this, Valrik Uniro. You will lead the Fallen, but you will heed the voice and the hands and the eye of Keiro Godson. Will you abide by this?”

  Valrik pressed his fist against his brow in salute. “Of course, my lady. If it be your will, it shall be so.”

  “Good,” Sororra said, and her grin was broad. She turned her gaze to Fratarro. “What say you, brother? Have you seen all that you need?”

  Fratarro nodded once, slowly.

  Sororra looked back to Keiro and raised one hand, chains jangling, to point unerringly at one of the black-clothed mercenaries. “Take up his sword, Keiro.” Keiro’s hands shook as he accepted the blade from the reluctant man—he noted idly, distantly, that it was the same mercenary who had been the first to follow him into the tunnels. He forced his hands to still, wrapping them both around the hilt, though it was meant to be held with one hand. He did not want to look to Sororra, did not want to learn what she would have him do with it.

  But he was loyal, the most faithful of the Fallen. Godson.

  He lifted his eyes, and she smiled at him almost gently. “All who stand before the Twins shall be judged. So it has been said since the time we first walked the earth. You are our hands, Keiro Godson. Pass our judgment.”

  With his heart heavy in his throat, Keiro turned from the Twins to face the two dozen who stood arrayed before him. He held the sword before him, its tip wavering before his eyes. Slowly he stepped forward, and stood before the mercenary who had given up his blade.

  Blades for the darkness, they were called. When the sun fell, when all the world changed, their blades would be useful. The whispering certainty was there once more: they will have a place in the new world.

  He turned from the mercenary, and in the tally of judgment that swam behind his missing eye, he marked the rest of the black-armored men as worthy also. The first Ventallo he stood before was an old man, shaking under the weight of his years, but he stood as straight as he could when Keiro stopped before him. Weak, but he will serve. The next was a woman, old but motionless, elegant, and she lifted her chin high, baring her neck to him, and it felt as though a hand squeezed around Keiro’s own neck. She is brave. The man next to her stood tall, the sockets of his eyes staring ahead, fearless. He, too, lifted his chin, the thick expanse of his neck bared. This one is false. This one lies in his heart.

  Keiro’s hands shook again as he slowly lifted the sword, turning its blade sideways, shook so badly its tip nearly pierced the man’s neck. Keiro tried to breathe around the tightness in his throat, to breathe around the sickness boiling in his stomach. I am the hands of the Twins, he told himself, but it was not the whispering certainty, and it felt weak and ineffectual. I am not my own hands. Softly he pressed the blade against the man’s throat, feeling how his skin would give way with so little pressure
. . .

  He is false. He has been judged. Gritting his teeth, biting back bile, Keiro pressed the blade forward, and the judgment of the Twins washed over him.

  I am not my own hands. The next two were judged as well, their souls cast to the skies, their bodies to the cold ground. Others were spared, found worthy, deemed useful. Keiro’s hands grew steadier as the judgments went on, though his arms turned to lead with the weight of the sword. I am not my own hands. A young man, barely more than a boy, and he shook as Keiro pressed the blade to his neck. I am not my own hands. Keiro could not close his eye, could not hide from it, but he could stare beyond—look through his other eye instead, the missing eye, where all the wide and innocent babes stared back, never accusing, never angry. Only sad, so, so sad.

  Valrik was the last. He met Keiro’s eye in that empty place, calm and sure as Keiro pressed the blade against his old neck. He stood still for a long while, the blade leveled between them, waiting for Valrik to breathe.

  He will serve.

  The sword fell from Keiro’s heavy hand, from his wet red fingers, to clatter against the stone floor. I am not my own hands.

  You did well.

  “Leave us,” Sororra said in her booming voice, sleep touching its edges. They could wake for longer now, but still they were pulled to the hard embrace of sleep. “Choose your faithful well, Valrik Uniro, and listen wisely. Go.”

  Keiro staggered forward, exhaustion falling upon him like the weight of all the dirt above his head. He hadn’t noticed the pressure until it was gone, as though an enormous hand clasped around his chest had finally released him. Air burned in his throat, and the sight of his good eye blurred and flickered as he swayed. He felt, unexpectedly, empty. Fratarro’s eyes closed, and then Sororra’s, and the cavern was left in near darkness. I am not my own.

  Keiro followed the others from the cavern, those who remained—Valrik and the mages and the mercenaries and the few preachers left. He stumbled in their wake like a drunkard, one red-coated arm wrapped around his stomach, one sticky-red palm pressed to his forehead.