“And I respect that.”
“I am glad to hear it. Well then, how can I help you, C’aislingaer?” he asked.
“Before we leave tomorrow, would you please take me to see the Blood Altar?”
The oracle stared at her silently for a moment. “Why would you want to see that?”
“The queen has requested that I see it,” Abby explained, holding his gaze. “She thought it would help me learn more about Tierney’s nature and how he thinks.”
The oracle narrowed his eyes. “I am sure you would receive quite an education. More than you may desire. The Blood Altar is an evil place. My people are forbidden from going there.”
“But you could take me.”
“I am loath to do that,” he said, studying her face.
Still looking into his eyes, she stood up straight and planted her feet. She had traveled this far, and there was no way she was leaving until she saw the Blood Altar. If she had to stand in the Southern Oracle’s doorway all night to convince him, so be it.
The oracle seemed to understand she would not be deterred. He sighed heavily. “All right. I will take you. Meet me at sunrise in the plaza.”
“Thank you, Southern Oracle,” Abby said, and turned to leave.
“Do not thank me yet,” he called after her.
The Southern Oracle was true to his word, and as the sun rose over the emerald horizon of the colossal trees, he was standing in the plaza waiting for Abby.
She came alone, even though David had wanted to come too. Now that he knew where the oracle stood on becoming an ally, their once-promising relationship was strained. David felt he could no longer trust the oracle, but she had persuaded him not to join them.
“I’ll be okay,” Abby had insisted. “My gut tells me he will be more open without you there. You are the Solas Beir, after all. I’m far less intimidating. And don’t worry about what he said about the place being evil. He’ll keep me safe.”
David wasn’t so sure. “What if he can’t? Or won’t?” he had asked. Finally, reluctantly, David had let her go, and Abby had rushed out to meet the oracle.
“Good morning, Cai Aislingstraid,” the Southern Oracle said. “Did you sleep well?”
“I did, after our late-night chat,” Abby replied.
“Good. I did as well. You do realize, however, that with this side trip, you will not be able to leave today, as your Solas Beir wished to do?”
“Yes—we talked about that, and he understood. He felt it was worth the time for me to see the altar,” she said.
“Well then, let us proceed. The first part of our journey will be much too difficult for you to attempt on your own. We must climb to the top of the waterfall. You will be safer and we will go faster with you on my back. Is that agreeable to you?” the Southern Oracle asked.
Abby nodded. “Sounds fine.”
“Excellent. Climb on up.” The oracle slipped into his jaguar form, and Abby settled onto his back.
His fur was surprisingly silky. She plunged her fingers into his thick pelt, trying not to pull out the hairs, and pressed her thighs against his sides as she would on a horse. He was almost as big as one, and the experience was much like riding bareback, except that he was faster than a horse and much more agile. He scaled the rocks on the side of the waterfall as if they were nothing more than stairs, finding paths where she could see none and avoiding the slippery moss with ease.
Once at the top, the Southern Oracle paused and turned so Abby could see the village below. She felt a dizzying sense of vertigo, but it was thrilling to be so high above the canopy. From their perch, the tops of the trees were a patchwork of varying shades of green. Then the oracle turned and rushed off into the trees, twisting through them as if he were following a path. Perhaps there had been one once, but the jungle had long since overtaken it.
From time to time, Abby could hear the roar of the river as they neared the water, and then the oracle would turn away, making his way around large boulders and fallen trees. Under the canopy, it was difficult to tell how much time had passed. He was running fast—the trees became a blur.
Finally he broke out into an open place and stopped. Abby could see that the sun was high in the sky. They were next to the river again.
Before them was a second towering waterfall. Behind the spray, Abby could see the blackness of a cave. It looked like the gaping jaws of a monster, lying in wait to gobble her up. She felt the hair on the back of her neck rise.
Abby jumped down from the jaguar’s back, and the Southern Oracle resumed his human form. He pointed to the cave. “The passage there is very low and narrow,” he explained, “so it is best if we both travel on foot.”
Nodding, Abby followed him to the cave’s yawning black mouth. She stopped short of entering, suddenly gripped by a wave of fear. There was a heaviness to this place—she felt as if the air itself were pressing on her shoulders, threatening to push her to the ground.
The oracle turned back to her, sensing her hesitation. “Are you all right, my dear? We need not proceed if you have changed your mind.”
“No,” she said. “I have to see this. It’s just that all of a sudden, I felt so much fear.”
“You are right to be frightened,” he murmured.
Abby shook her head. “No, it wasn’t just my fear. It was like I was feeling what others had felt as they passed through here.”
“You are an empath, then,” the Southern Oracle realized.
Abby nodded. She had the ability to pick up on what others were feeling and was sensitive to places with a high emotional charge.
The oracle studied Abby and pondered this. “The queen had the same feeling when she came here.”
“Eulalia came here?” Abby asked.
“Yes,” the Southern Oracle replied. “And your perception of the place is correct. It is haunted by the fear of those who were murdered here. This is not a place that is kind to those like you and the queen. You must not let the fear overtake you. Take my hand. What you felt will get worse the further in we go.”
Abby grasped his outstretched hand. “Thank you.” She could feel his strength, and a sense of peace replaced the fear. “That helps a lot, actually.”
The Southern Oracle nodded and led her through the passage. It was pitch-black, but he seemed to find his way easily.
Abby guessed having jaguar eyes was an advantage in dark places. It was an exercise in trust. She had to rely on him completely for navigation. She tightened her grip on him when she stumbled over a crack in the floor of the passage.
He was right about the fear thing. Abby could feel it pressing on her, encircling her, stealing her breath as she climbed the passage’s steep incline. It didn’t help that she could hear things in the dark—scurrying things, crawling things.
She felt something pass just in front of her eyes as it flew by. Squeezing her eyes shut, Abby tried to think happy thoughts. She found herself thinking about David’s eyes, and focused on remembering exactly what they looked like. It helped block out the fear that threatened to crawl down her throat and choke her.
They must have turned a corner, because suddenly Abby could see light through the lids of her closed eyes. She opened them cautiously and found the Southern Oracle leading her out of the darkness and onto some kind of raised platform. She could see the blue sky and green trees around them again.
They were up high—higher than before, and the sun was directly above them now. She could see the waterfall below, and far off in the distance, an edge where the water dropped again, likely the waterfall near the village. They were on top of a ziggurat, which more closely resembled the stepped pyramids of the Mayans than it did the tomb of an Egyptian pharaoh.
Facing east, centered at the front of the platform, was a long stone table that could be nothing other than the Blood Altar. There was no mistaking the meaning behind the monstrous faces carved into the altar’s sides or the shallow trough leading from the table all the way to the bottom of the pyramid and do
wn to the river below.
The ziggurat straddled the river. The passage they’d used must have crossed underneath the river from the entrance on the north side of the waterfall to where they’d exited on the southeast corner of the platform. There was a terrible beauty about this place—the care that had been taken in creating the many carvings, and the purpose for them.
“How many people died here?” Abby asked.
“Thousands upon thousands,” the Southern Oracle replied. “Tierney turned the river red with his lust for blood—with his greed for power.”
“Tierney?” she gasped.
The oracle nodded. “Yes. Long ago, he was the Southern Oracle. There were portals in this place, leading to many kingdoms in your world. He presented himself to kings there, claiming to be a god. He had many names and took many forms, proving his claim as a deity through demonstrations of his power. He promised them prosperity for a price, and they were willing to pay it. But not with their own blood. They raided villages in neighboring kingdoms and brought their victims here. The tunnel we passed through was the last walk the blood slaves took before they met their end—before Tierney consumed their life force to become even more powerful.”
Abby stared at the altar, then walked over to it. She hesitated, then placed her hands in the trough. The oracle cried out, but she couldn’t hear him.
The world around Abby faded. Everything was red. She was caught in a dizzying whirl of countless faces, faces that had experienced unspeakable fear and sadness. But what she felt most was hunger, greed —and anger. How could humans do this to their own people? She looked down at her hands, covered in the blood that flowed freely from the trough. It was as the oracle had warned. She could see the blood coursing down the steps of the pyramid and into the red, red river. No wonder the forest was cursed. The land could never be clean.
Her vision cleared, and she turned to the Southern Oracle, her eyes blazing. “You were there.”
He looked into her eyes, shrinking at her gaze. “Yes,” he said quietly.
“You helped him. You know what we stand to lose.”
“Yes,” he whispered.
“And yet you will not help us defeat him,” Abby said incredulously.
The Southern Oracle slumped to the floor of the stone platform, sitting on its edge. He stared at the river as if he could see that rushing line of red in his mind as well. He probably could. Abby did not think you could forget something like that.
“You do not know what you ask of me,” he murmured, avoiding her eyes.
“Help me to understand.”
“He is my brother.”
Abby was stunned, but held her tongue.
The oracle continued. “It started with one kingdom. A handful of victims, a few sacrifices a year in exchange for the prosperity of the ruler and his subjects. Tierney was true to his promises—he ended a terrible drought, made crops flourish—it seemed a fair exchange.”
“Was it fair to those who were sacrificed?” Abby asked.
“No. It was not. But Tierney never lied about what he wanted—the king understood his price. Then there were several kings, and soon there was a never-ending line of humans walking up that passage to their deaths. I was not innocent in the bloodshed—I cannot pretend I was. But I tried to stop it. I went to the Solas Beir. He removed Tierney from his position and closed the portals here. The sacrifices stopped. He appointed me Southern Oracle, and my brother never forgave me for my betrayal.”
“You did what you had to do. It was genocide,” Abby replied.
“I know what it was. But you cannot ask me to side against my brother again.”
“He did this as the Southern Oracle. What do you think will happen if we lose and he rules Cai Terenmare?” she asked.
The Southern Oracle hunched forward, covering his face with his hands. He was silent for a long time, and Abby sat down beside him. Finally, he raised his head and looked at her, taking her hand. “All right,” he said, sighing heavily.
“All right?” She searched his eyes.
“You win, C’aislingaer. I will align with the Solas Beir. What happened here must never happen again.”
Abby smiled and kissed his cheek. “Thank you, King of Jaguars.”
He smiled back and squeezed her hand. “You are a formidable opponent, Abby. I do believe my brother has greatly underestimated you.”
“And I agree with the former Solas Beir’s decision to make you Southern Oracle. You are a man of honor,” she replied.
The oracle sighed and shook his head. “No. I am a man who has made many mistakes.”
“But you learned from them. The old Solas Beir knew that. That’s why he chose you to replace Tierney. He knew you would understand what was at stake better than anyone.” Abby stood up and held out her hand. “Come on—let’s go back to the village. But can we climb down the pyramid this time? I can’t handle going through that passage again.”
The Southern Oracle took her hand and got to his feet. “Neither can I.”
Chapter Nine
THE SIXTH COURTESAN
The courtesan stood looking out into the vast nothingness of the Barren. To the west was home. Due east was the city from which he had scarcely escaped. He considered himself lucky. Of the six of them, three had been used until their last breath had been taken from them. The fourth had put up a fight and had died for it, but her sacrifice had created the diversion that made his flight from the city’s dungeon possible. The fifth—well, the fifth had been the hardest to leave behind.
He could do nothing for the others, but the fifth still lived, or at least he hoped she did. He had wanted to free her as well, but with the guards close at his heels, it simply wasn’t possible. She was young, much too young to be left alone in that den of vipers, but there was nothing he could do until he found someone with the power to intervene. If he failed, the Shadows would feed on her, draining her completely. It was her face that drove him to press on. But even if he did fail and she was lost, many others like her lived in his village, young ones who could just as easily be taken. He could not let that happen. If he could not save her, he must honor her by crossing the Barren to warn the others.
He stopped to rest at the rock spire that marked the desert’s border. The Eye of the Needle it was called, and around the steep rock wall of its base was a smattering of large boulders. He chose one and set down his satchel, opening it to check his supplies. Before the palace guards had given chase, he had managed to steal the bag and some food from the bazaar flanking the city’s gates. He had stolen a leather cask as well. It had been half full, but now, after a good day’s run to this place, it was almost empty. Ahead, the hot, dusty dunes of the Barren mocked him, asking him if he truly dared to venture forward with nothing but a few sips left.
He did not have a choice. He could not return to the city. He had heard there was a village on the southern coast, but getting there would still require travel through part of this desert. Even if he managed the journey, the place was rumored to be a vile rat’s nest of bandits and cutthroats—not much different from the gang of slave traders he’d just left, really. Supposing he made it to Southport alive, he had nothing to trade for a voyage home except himself, so in all likelihood, the bandits would simply ship him north to the city of the Eastern Oracle again.
He thought of his sister back home in their village on the plains, and of an old saying she favored: “The Light will provide.” The saying had carried them through to harvest during many years of hardship. He had to hope provisions would come this time too.
He slipped the strap of the satchel over his head and onto one shoulder, slinging the bag to rest on his hip, so the weight of it was distributed across his body. He adjusted the richly embroidered silk tunic that had been given to him upon his arrival in the city. The tunic was deep purple in color, the mark of the royal courtesans. One of his hands had been branded with a golden tattoo. It was a shape he knew well, one that served as the sigil of the Solas Beir, that of
the Sign of the Throne. He traced the spiral of the nautilus shell and stepped away from the rock spire onto the hot sand. The Light would provide. It would have to, for there was nothing else.
The courtesan followed the sun as it journeyed west. He was unsure how many hours passed in the dizzying heat. He only knew that he had to keep to his path, west, always west, one foot, then the other, step after step.
Ahead, something shiny twinkled, glinting in the sunlight. As the courtesan approached, he was able to discern the stone basin of a well. Surely, he thought, it would be dry—he dared not hope otherwise. To his delight, the well was full and running over into the shallow trough that encircled it. He dipped a finger into the cool liquid and tasted it. The water was sweet. How can this be? There was an insignia carved into the white marbled wall of the fount, a woman with wings outstretched like a bird. The symbol was bounded by a simple carved circle.
The courtesan hesitated, remembering the creatures who had taken him, their harsh, bird-of-prey screams piercing the stillness of the night.
Above the image was a jewel, also enclosed in a circle. This jewel was the source of the twinkling light he had seen from afar. It was an amethyst, deep violet like his tunic, a stone of protection and healing. In spite of the resemblance of the carving to the winged creatures who had been his captors, surely this fount was his salvation, a sign the Light had indeed provided. His parched throat felt as though it were full of splinters, and the water was so very sweet.
He filled his cask and drank, then refilled it and drank again. A third time he filled it and then capped it tight for the journey to come. He wished he had more containers to hold water, but at least now he was refreshed. He ducked his head into the well. It felt so lovely to feel the cool water on his skin.
He still did not know how he would make it across the Barren without losing his way or his mind, but this gift of water had certainly improved his odds. He ducked his head again for good measure, to enjoy the coolness of the fount once more.
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