He turned his back to the crowd and prostrated himself before the altar now surrounded by offerings. Then he stood and turned again to face them. “Who among you remembers the meaning of true sacrifice?” The initially tepid response from those assembled was growing more enthusiastic with every word he spoke. “Who is willing to suffer for our people?”
A shrill scream pierced the air. Quint searched, unable to locate its source. The people were parting again as a man he recognized from the fields made his way to the stage. What is he carrying? Oh! Oh, no!
The man set the lifeless body of a young girl, her head at an unnatural angle, at the Bone Reader’s feet. There were calls of condemnation, but Quint was horrified by how many watched in muted approval. The Bone Reader knelt over the body of the child as he had the lamb a turn before, split her from neck to pelvis, and dug into her guts.
Bile rose in Quint’s throat. He wanted to turn away—to leave. But he was transfixed, eyes unblinking. A single wail of anguish carried over the commotion as the girl’s mother fell to her knees. The Bone Reader stood and raised his bloody hands. “The gods have spoken. It’s too late to turn away the invaders, but we must mount a defense to protect our retreat.” Quint could feel his own anger build, as if the anger in the white-powdered man’s voice were contagious.
But there was no collective gasp from the Dragonborn, no calls of approval or opprobrium. The Bone Reader had merely told them what they already knew to be true. They received the words with a silence drowned out by the insatiable sucking of the fire.
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Quint navigated the empty streets and walkways of Welloch still in shock from what he’d witnessed. How could a father, no matter his faith, murder his child? How could he let a madman plunge his greedy hands into her still-warm corpse?
When he reached the simple wooden door—a door that matched the abode but seemed too plain for the home of the second ranking figure in the tribe—he hesitated before knocking. Should I have known what was planned? Were there clues I missed? Could I have prevented this?
He knocked, three quick raps, unsure what he planned to say.
“Come in. Hurry!” The Bone Reader stood in front of him. His arms and hands were cleansed of the blood, but his body was still white with powder. Quint entered. The man closed and locked the door behind him. “This is not the night to be seen with you.”
“Our conversations,” Quint began, trepidation in his voice, “they weren’t the cause, right?”
The man’s face contorted, his black lips curling in a snarl of disgust. “You think I’m an ox to be led by a ring through my nose? Don’t overestimate your importance, boy.”
“But the child—the girl? I’ve heard you say many times what you said on the stage. There was no need for her!” He was on the verge of tears—of anger and impotence, not sadness—but fought to dam his eyes. The man would pounce on such weakness.
“How can you still understand so little?” The Bone Reader dismissed Quint’s words with a flick of his hand. “That was no sacrifice. That peasant had gambled away everything he owned. He and his family would have been named Forsaken. He rid himself of a useless mouth to feed and, in return, will receive offering grain to repay his debts. You may not have the stomach for such trades, but grown men make them all the time. It’s no different from sending a son to war.”
“You arranged this in advance?” Quint pointed accusingly. “She died so you could pretend the message was from the gods?”
The Bone Reader grabbed Quint’s finger and twisted, sending him to his knees. “Don’t ever point at me, boy.” He sprayed the words on Quint’s face. “We cower in the Fringe because we lost a war, not our wits. We don’t need a wide-eyed child to advise us.” He released the finger. “What we need is to rid ourselves of this woman—this leech—who sucks away our dignity. The Reaping is so the gods may harvest their people. Tonight, boy, was nothing about you.” He stood over Quint, dominating with his stance.
“Let me be frank with you, since you’re slower than I anticipated. The Mother and Daughter will not survive the first attack by the Council’s forces.” He turned and slid open the shelving behind him to reveal a hidden passage, then pointed for Quint to go. “If you’re clever, you’ll see this as an opportunity. Your tutor—no family, no status, young, impressionable—would make a far more suitable Mother. Or she could share their fate. You hold her future in your hands.”
Quint had clenched his fists, but the threat to Nikla subdued him. He stepped, as directed, into the hidden passage lit only by the light from the room. “No key is needed to leave, only to enter,” the Bone Reader said. “Go. Don’t be seen. You already know where you stand. You have but to accept it.”
When Quint took another step into the passage, the hidden entrance thunked shut, plunging him into darkness. He worked his way deeper into the void, his fingers pressed against the rough passage wall to serve as his eyes. When his hand found a corner marking the end, he started to panic. Could the Bone Reader have trapped me here? Is there no way out? Frantic, his fingers swept the stone but found nothing. He was about to return and pound on the wall, when one finger brushed against something protruding from the stone. He grabbed it, pulled left, then right, then down. Nothing happened. Then he lifted and heard a click. He pushed against the wall and it cracked open, just enough for him to squeeze through.
He stepped outside into an unlit alley he didn’t recognize, then closed the wall behind him. Where am I? He looked around for clues as he followed the alley to a larger street. In the distance, the glow of the dying bonfire revealed his location.
He trudged toward his tent, eyes on the ground. I came here to help. I came to build fortifications, to prepare troops, to coordinate the retreat with the Shades. I didn’t come to be ensnared in tribal politics. He had no doubt the Bone Reader would act on his threats. The man would find a way to dispose of the Daughter and Mother in the confusion of battle. If their deaths are a foregone conclusion, why endanger Nikla? Anyway, he’s right. She would make a better Mother. The decision ate at him, though he knew he’d already made his choice. Knowing didn’t make accepting it any easier.
Quint was bone-weary by the time he reached his tent. Still, he couldn’t sleep. Even with his eyes closed, he stared into the unblinking face of the dead girl, and at a future he dreaded but knew would come to pass.
The Forgotten Forest, Chapter 42
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The Chattertail
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Chip-chip-chipperee
The chattertail perched
high above in a tree
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Chip-chip-chipperee
The bird called out
its warning of me
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Whether friend or foe
Either could I be
But not of the forest
Thus chip-chip-chipperee.
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—Amin Strell
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The Forgotten Forest
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“Does that dang bird ever shut up?” Kutan growled as the chip-chip-chipperee of a red-tufted chattertail pursued them through the towering cedar forest.
“If an annoying bird’s our chief concern, we should be thankful,” Whym reproved him. He’d hoped leaving Colodor would better Kutan’s mood, but he’d seen little improvement in his friend. He’d resumed grousing as soon as he’d caught up with them, and hadn’t stopped since. If not for Whym’s enjoyment of the grandeur of the virgin forest, he might have already lost his temper. He tightened his jaw and concentrated on the beauty of the ancient trees of the Forgotten Forest, their breadth and height making him feel as if he were walking between columns supporting the sky.
Tedel smacked at
the tickle of spiderweb on his face—the drawback of walking first. “You should be glad to hear it. If the chattertail stops, that would be a bad omen.”
Kutan rolled his eyes. “Let me guess, more about how the Faerie can speak with mice and see through the eyes of eagles?”
“Believe what you will—” Tedel shrugged—“but before the Exodus, my people lived in this forest. We didn’t build cities and towns like the other Faerie families. We lived among the trees. The chattertails were trained as sentries, to warn of strangers. They follow anyone unfamiliar, calling out their warning until the intruders leave the forest.”
“Your people lived like monkeys. Explains a lot.” Kutan stroked the shaft of an arrow he’d pulled from his quiver. “If it gets close enough, I’m going to roast it on a stick. I’d rather not broadcast my arrival.”
“Afraid the squirrels will set a trap?” Whym tried to lighten the mood. “It’s not like anyone’s looking for us here. It’s not like anyone else is here at all.”
“I’m not inclined to take any more chances,” Kutan retorted, and they marched on for a while without speaking. They spent most of each day that way—not speaking—because Kutan used whatever was said as an excuse to provoke Tedel.
Chip-chip-chipperee.
“Tell me, little forest wizard—” Kutan had discovered the moniker annoyed Tedel, so he employed it liberally—“how much longer before we reach the forest’s edge?”
Oh, here we go again.
Tedel glanced at the shiny green beetle he kept cradled in his hand. “I’ve told you before, I don’t know this forest. Willowwisps always point north when they feel the warmth of a hand. That’s the way we’re heading.”
“I’m not sure which is worse—that you get your bearings from a bug, or that I’ve been forced to follow you.” Kutan shot a hateful glance toward Whym. He’d not forgiven him for siding with Tedel when planning the route north.
Whym looked away to prevent from glaring back. He was so tired of their verbal sparring, he’d reached the point where he felt a few thrown punches might improve the situation. “I know you wanted to take a different route, but I’m happy to be far away from roads and towns…and slavers.” Kutan flinched at the mere mention of slavers, and gave Whym another withering look.
Chip-chip-chipperee.
Although their time away from Colodor hadn’t improved Kutan’s mood, the forest seemed to take the edge off Tedel. He was doing an admirable job of ignoring Kutan’s barbs. “How about you guys tell me about the Mysts? The details I know are from long ago.”
Before Kutan could comment—it was too easy a setup—Whym jumped in. “It’s a real pleasant place—poisonous spiders and snakes, swarming stinger ants, the two-step tree frog,” he repeated what he remembered of the brief account Stern had provided.
“A killer frog?” Tedel seemed amused.
“Touch its back and you’ve got two steps before you stop breathing.” Whym realized he enjoyed being the instructor for a change. “People used to catch them, then rub their blades and arrow tips along the frogs’ backs before battle.”
“Don’t forget the monster in the Mysts,” Kutan added. “That’s probably the origin of those ridiculous rumors we’re following—some evil creature trapped in the Mysts that lures travelers into the fog and eats them. Heck, maybe we can go dragon hunting after.”
If you knew Lily had magic, I bet you’d change your tune. The discovery had opened Whym’s mind to all types of possibilities. He’d been tempted to tell Kutan, but doubted he’d be believed without proof. Whym also didn’t want to say anything before admitting to Tedel he’d overheard. He’d not had a chance, because he knew that if Kutan caught the two of them speaking in private, he’d assume they were speaking ill of him.
Chip-chip-chipperee.
“There’s also a town there, or was,” Kutan added, with a more serious tone. “My father told me about it once. It’s on the edge of the Mysts. I can’t remember much of what he said about it, though. We never went to this area together.”
“Sounds like a good place to see if there’s any truth to the rumors,” Whym suggested. “Should we go there?”
Kutan shrugged. “You two are leading. You don’t listen to me.”
Chip-chip-chipperee.
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It had taken another five days, but they finally reached the land beyond the Forgotten Forest. The peacefulness of the area had even begun to rub off on Kutan during those final days, leaving Whym almost sad to reach the edge. He saw glimpses—more every day—that the old Kutan was returning.
Whym surveyed the view from the cliff’s edge. A grey-white shawl wrapped around the land below them and stretched into the distance, gradually merging with the clouds in the horizon. As he stared longer, he realized the Mysts didn’t, in fact, settle like a blanket over the land. Rather they flowed and swirled, sometimes dipping low enough to allow green turtlehead hills to poke through the cover before again being swallowed by the vapor. “You have to see this!” he called.
“The songs don’t do it justice,” Kutan gasped. “This view’s almost worth going the wrong way.” He winked at Whym, as close to an apology as he’d managed.
“Over there.” Tedel pointed far in the distance. “See it?”
“See what?” Whym saw nothing but the swirling fog of the Mysts.
“Near the edge. Smoke.” He pointed again. Nuzzled into the eastern edge of the Mysts, black tendrils of smoke rose through the fog before melting into the sky.
“Must be a pretty small place,” Whym remarked. “Maybe just a camp?”
“It could be the town—the one Kutan’s father mentioned.” Tedel looked so excited, Whym half expected him to start bouncing like a young child receiving a present.
“Maybe.” Kutan shrugged and started to look for a way down the steep cliff. The drop didn’t compare to Dozers Down, but it wouldn’t be an easy descent.
“Should we camp here tonight and climb down in the morning?” Whym called after Kutan, hoping for one last night in the forest.
“Let me see what I find. I won’t be gone long.” Kutan strode away, following the cliff edge.
Finally, I can speak with Tedel in private. Whym rested his back against a tree, near the edge and wide enough for two, and slid down to the forest floor. “Hey Tedel, join me awhile to enjoy the view.” As Tedel approached, Whym thought again about how he would broach the topic of his eavesdropping.
His Faerie friend set his pack against a nearby tree and joined Whym. “He’s right. That’s some view.”
“So, I’ve been meaning to ask you,” Whym started casually, “about the maker’s marks on the weapons Seph gave us. They sure made quite an impression on you?”
The question appeared to take Tedel off guard. “It wouldn’t mean anything to you,” he finally volunteered. “I just recognized his family name.”
“Amborn?” Whym asked, recalling Seph’s surname.
Tedel looked to make sure Kutan wasn’t returning before answering. “Whym, that’s not his real name. Seph’s Faerie. He comes from a very, very powerful family—families, actually.”
Whym had guessed as much after hearing Tedel’s conversation with Lily. This is my opening. I might not even have to mention the eavesdropping. “Does he have magic, or is he like you?”
Tedel’s face dropped. His shoulders sagged. Oh, I didn’t mean that like it sounded. Whym recognized his mistake. “What’s double-bonded?” he asked, believing there was no chance now to learn without admitting to hearing the conversation.
“Where did you—” Tedel stiffened. “You spied on me?”
“Overheard.” Whym put his hands up to protest his innocence. “I was coming back to ask you about the maker’s mark, but you were talking with Lily. I didn’t want to interrupt.” A little lie will be easier for both of us.
The lie served its purpose. Tedel relaxed and leaned against the tree. “Remember, I told you the Unum can only be used to bond if one has the blood of its creators—the original Fei and Steward couples? Some Faerie—many Faerie—have the blood of more than one house.”
“They bond twice? Does that make them stronger or something?” Whym asked.
Tedel shook his head. “I don’t know. Back home it’s forbidden—by penalty of death.”
“Why?”
“Since I couldn’t bond, before it didn’t matter to me. But I think I’ve figured it out.” Whym leaned in when Tedel paused. “I think the children of those double-bonded are born with magic. They don’t need to bond. I believe the leading families prohibited it so they could monopolize magic.”
“Is that why Seph crossed the Blight? Because they’d have killed him?” Whym asked, deflated that this was the important secret Tedel had been keeping.
Kutan emerged from the trees, and Tedel looked at Whym. “I don’t know. Just don’t say anything, okay?”
“Promise.” I’ll have to tell Kutan eventually, but I won’t mention double-bonding.
“Good news,” Kutan announced. “I’ve found a way down.”
“Not the dozers’ way, right?” Whym joked.
Kutan grinned, catching the reference. “Pretty close, but we’ll use a rope. Glad I salvaged it now, aren’t you?”
Chip-chip-chipperee.
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It was dusk before they reached the bottom of the cliff and the fast-flowing river that separated the Mysts from the Forgotten Forest. The Mysts had looked beautiful from the top, but as the three descended, their perspectives changed. The swamp smelled of death—like an animal forgotten in a trap. But it was not the smell alone that put them on edge. The grey-white fog crouched against the opposite bank like a stalking predator, while at the same time, beckoning them to come closer. Even a quick glance sent shivers down Whym’s spine.
Birthrights_Revisions to the Truth Page 26
