Zerill shook her head. No, she has every right to question me. She met Azra’s gaze silently for a moment, seeking the words to explain herself; a dozen different approaches flitted through her mind, but they all felt like empty argument, justification without weight. Finally, she just shrugged. Perhaps everyone is right. Perhaps peace is impossible. But without it, the day will come when nothing remains of the Abandoned but tales of vanquished foes for highlanders to tell one another. I would rather try and fail than watch the people I love fall one by one. I don’t think that is insane. Do you?
I don’t know. Azra looked down at her feet. They killed her. I don’t know how to make myself forget that. I don’t know how you can.
Azra… Zerill reached out, but the girl pulled back, took a step away.
Azra swallowed, and there were tears in her eyes. I’m sorry, she signed. She turned away and shouldered through the circle of spectators watching the fight. Zerill started to follow, but Korv grabbed her arm and held her fast.
Let her go, Korv signed when Zerill looked back at him. She’s confused. Best give her time to think.
It was hard advice to take, but she’d been made to sit through enough of Azlin’s well-meaning lectures when she was Azra’s age to know that forcing the girl to talk wouldn’t help. She’d just resent it, in the same way Zerill had resented Azlin so often. Youth could be a strong shield against reason. She relaxed against Korv’s grip and turned to face him.
You’re right, she signed. I just… She used to be so glad to see me when I came back. Always wanted to hear tales of her mother leading hunts in the west. I thought she might want to talk like we used to. She shook her head. Stupid of me. Of course she’d have heard about the highlander.
Korv released her arm. I should have warned you. I knew the rumors were troubling her. Again, that creased brow, the same look of concern he’d shown earlier. And me, if not for the same reasons. That is why I hoped to see you.
If you have something to tell me, Korv, just tell me. His face told her that she wouldn’t like what he had to say, but there was no purpose in hiding from it. I’m becoming used to bad tidings. I can take it.
Not here. Korv gestured at a Heartspear warrior at the circle’s edge and flashed him a quick sign—directing him to take over. Then, gesturing for Zerill to follow, he strode away from the sparring circle, and the ring of watchers parted to let him pass.
He led her through the Kinhome, past tents and lean-tos, through a group of children playing, around the suffering circle where dozens of Makers mingled blood and shared their burden in silent meditation. It was not hard to find privacy, even with the Kinhome so full; loudspeech could be overheard, but not signspeech, not as long as the hands were hidden. Korv finally stopped between a pair of empty tents, secluded enough that no one would bother them, and turned to face her.
You need to give up the highlander, Zerill, he signed.
The abruptness of the demand caught her off guard. What? I thought… You helped me.
I tried to, Korv signed. I understand what your intention was. I hoped that you might convince me. But it’s over. Jeva is going to be grandmother, and the highlander will be killed. The only question is whether you will resist or not. Give him over freely, and the Kinmeet may show mercy. I will argue against banishment. So will my father, if you withdraw as grandmother and admit your mistake.
How do you know this? Rumor? No decision was made in Kinmeet. Jeva hasn’t won yet. While I still have the words to argue, they must listen! The laws of Kinmeet were as near to sacred as anything was among her people, and paramount among those laws was that all voices had a right to speak—those accused of a crime could not be judged without first being allowed to defend themselves. She didn’t intend to let that right be taken from her.
You will be allowed to speak, of course. Korv knit his brow, a pained look in his eyes. But it will make no difference. They have heard enough. This isn’t just rumor, Zerill. It is real fear. Nevris wants the highlander taken from you, put under a more trusted guard. And my father… he has always liked you, but he hates highlanders more. I am to see it done before the Kinmeet reconvenes tonight.
And if I don’t surrender the prince willingly, that will be the excuse they need to cast me out, and Verik with me. Anger weighed down Zerill’s heart, heavy and bitter. Haven’t I earned some amount of trust? I have bled for my kin as much as anyone.
No one questions your spear, Korv signed. Any of the Lighteyes would stand beside you in battle. But that doesn’t mean they will follow you. Azlin was chosen to take your father’s place because Aldis groomed her to. As young as she was, she still respected tradition, acted as a grandmother should. The same reasons Jeva will be chosen. You… are different. Your disdain for tradition is no secret. You have walked among the highlanders without your grandmother’s permission more than once. You have borne no children for your kin—
I broke no birth-pact, Zerill signed. Verik was cursed. Makers cannot father children.
You broke no pact, but you made no effort to enter another. That has not gone unnoticed. Nor has your closeness with Verik, as much as you try to hide it. That is just as forbidden as bearing his child. And now you have revealed the Kinhome to a highlander. It is too much. You must see that.
And you, Korv? Zerill stood straight, met his gaze with a challenge in hers. Do you feel this way?
It doesn’t matter. I am a Heartspear, not a Lighteye. It is not my decision.
It matters to me, signed Zerill.
Korv sighed and shook his head. I don’t know. Traditions have value, and I cannot say that distrusting highlanders has ever led us wrong. But I… I have watched too many die in these purges, and now my daughter has lost her mother. I wanted to believe you when you said we could end it. And I have always been grateful to you for standing by Verik all these years. Maker or no, my cousin would not have done well alone. Which is why I am begging you to let this go. I do not want to see you banished, Zerill.
Let it go? How can I? We are going to lose this fight, Korv. That has become all too clear to me. I don’t trust the prince any more than you do, but the alternative is extinction. It may take time, but the highlanders will see all of us dead.
But it will take time, Korv signed. Time you can use. Even if you are right about everything, you cannot win this battle. You ask too much too quickly. It is better to retreat and find another way than to die and accomplish nothing.
That was the way the Abandoned had always fought—picking the battles they could win, retreating into the shadows against a greater force. It was the only thing that made sense, against overwhelming numbers and superior armaments. This was not a fight that Zerill was willing to flee from, but there was something to Korv’s plea. Something she could use.
Maybe you’re right, she signed, and let her shoulders fall. When… when will you come for the highlander?
I will leave it as long as possible, Korv signed. It would be better still if you were to bring him to me, though. It should appear to be your own decision if it is to mean anything.
Then I will bring him. She spread her hands helplessly. What choice do I have? But he is still weak. Give me some time to get him on his feet. And to ready myself, if I am to do this and make it seem willing.
Of course. But if you are swift, you can still lend your spear to the sacrifice tonight. I know you like to watch over Verik. Korv clasped her shoulder. I am glad you can see the reason in this, Zerill. The Abandoned are stronger with you than without you.
Thank you, Korv. She tried to keep her signs fluid, her face still; tried to appear calm as she turned away. But as she strode across the Kinhome toward the tent where Prince Josen waited, her mind worked frantically to put the pieces of a plan into place.
She didn’t like lying to Korv when he was trying to help, but if he was right, there was no other way. She’d already made a promise, to herself and to Azlin, whether or not her sister could hear. Whatever it takes to end this. She couldn’t
turn back now. But Korv had been right about one thing: she needed time, and retreat was the best way to buy it.
The Kinmeet couldn’t banish her if they couldn’t find her.
22. Sacrifice
Josen
“Wake up.”
Josen opened his eyes to utter darkness. The witchmoss that had illuminated the tent was gone—or perhaps its light had simply died. He had no idea how long the moss glowed after it was plucked, or how long he’d been asleep. I might have been here for days.
He tried to prop himself into a sitting position, but his left arm buckled, too weak to support his weight. Pain tore through his side, forcing a wordless cry between his gritted teeth. With his other hand, he reached across to probe the source of the agony; his fingertips brushed over hard lumps and rough recesses in his own flesh. Nausea blurred his vision, and he couldn’t stop himself from gagging. That part wasn’t a dream, then. Lovely.
“Quiet,” whispered the voice that had woken him. He thought it belonged to Zerill, though he couldn’t see her face in the darkness. “Put this on.” She dropped something beside him—it sounded like a bundle of cloth, or hide.
Dressing me for execution, or bringing me to this “Kinmeet”? He didn’t know, but his hopes weren’t particularly high. Either way, I’m probably going to die down here before long.
Zerill prodded him with her foot. “Quickly.”
Josen didn’t want to test her patience, but he could barely move. “I can’t even sit up, and it’s darker than the Deep in here.” Speaking didn’t hurt as much when he whispered, but the dull ache never left his lungs. “I’d need all day to get one arm into a sleeve. If you want me dressed, you’ll have to dress me.”
He didn’t hear her move, but a pair of hands wrapped under his arms and pulled him roughly into a sitting position. He bit his lip to muffle another grunt of pain.
“Gentler than that, or I’m not going to be very quiet.”
She didn’t answer, just reached down and drew his blankets aside. Beneath, he wore only his linen breeches. The cold air raised bird-flesh across his exposed skin, but he didn’t bother to protest. It wouldn’t have stopped her, and she had to have seen him already when she’d first undressed him. Still, he didn’t like to imagine how he must have looked to her. Just the memory of his mottled grey flesh made his gorge rise.
“You know, I usually have more fun when a woman gets me in my underclothes.” A weak jest, but he needed to distract himself. And it worked—but only until he thought about it for a moment. I don’t suppose many women would want to see me like this, would they?
It was too dark in the tent for him to tell if Zerill had reacted at all to his attempt at humor. He opened his mouth to speak again—anything to drown out his thoughts—but before he could, something slid down over his face. His heart pounded painfully against his misshapen chest, and he raised his good hand to resist before he realized she wasn’t drawing a sack over his head, but dressing him in some garment of hide and fur.
True to his word, he couldn’t raise his left arm high enough to get it through the sleeve; all the strength he had left lifted it just a few inches, and it hurt too much to try again. Zerill had to maneuver the deadened limb for him, and even that was painful, but he managed to stay silent. The garment was long and loose—it bunched around his waist—and he could feel the weight of a fur-lined hood dragging at his neck. A robe of some kind, he guessed. When it was in place, she shoved a pair of boots onto his feet that felt like his own, or at least they fit as well.
“Stand,” she whispered. “Put your weight on me.” She guided his right arm over her neck and supported him at the waist; he held on as tightly as his weakened body allowed.
As he rose, the bottom of the robe fell until it brushed against the tops of his feet. His legs shook beneath him, but he could hold himself upright—barely—as long as he leaned on Zerill. Once he was reasonably steady against her, she tugged the robe’s hood up over his head, and pulled it forward past his eyes. It was lined with fur from some animal, stiff and itchy against his cheeks, but blessedly warm.
Is she trying to hide my face? He couldn’t think why she’d do that if he was just going to be killed, but for all he knew it might have been swampling custom. “What are you doing? If I’m about to be executed, just tell me. Please. I—I’d rather know.” His voice trembled slightly, but he pushed past it, tried to preserve some dignity. With two fingers, he pinched the rough fabric near his waist. “I always imagined myself dying in something a bit more flattering.”
Zerill didn’t answer right away; she busied herself fastening something around his waist, a waterskin or something like it on a hide strap. Only after he’d given up on a response did she finally say, “We are leaving.”
That was all, but Josen knew by the way she said it that she meant something more final than just leaving the tent. God Above, she’s really going to kill me.
Before he could question her further, he heard the entry flap move. For a moment, he could see a figure ducking into the tent, silhouetted against the ever-so-slightly less dark darkness outside. Then the flap fell shut, and Josen was blind once more.
He felt Zerill’s arm move as she and the newcomer exchanged swampling hand signs, but he had no way to know what they were saying. “Who is that? What are you talking about?”
Zerill answered by covering his mouth with one hand and continuing to sign with the other.
A surge of indignation cut through his fear for just an instant. If you want my face hidden and my mouth shut, you’re going to tell me why. Whatever her plan was, she obviously wanted to avoid attention, and that gave him some leverage. He jerked his head away from her hand and leaned in close to whisper, “Tell me what you mean to do with me, or I’m going to start shouting.”
“Try it, if you are so eager to die,” she hissed back. He didn’t need to see her face; the disgust in her voice was enough. All his fear came rushing back. I’m an idiot. Why couldn’t I just stay quiet?
After a moment’s silence, though, Zerill whispered, “I am taking you away from here. If you want to avoid execution, keep your face hidden and your tongue still. Anyone watching must think you are Verik—he was seen entering, and he wears the same robes.”
“Why would he play decoy for my sake? Someone’s going to come looking eventually, and they’re not going to laugh it away as a prank. I get the impression that helping a… a highlander escape is the sort of thing your people would frown upon.” This was the kind of sacrifice people made for a king—for his father. Not for him. Whatever deepcraft Verik had worked on his body, Josen didn’t want that kind of repayment. But he couldn’t quite bring himself to protest, either. He didn’t much want to die here.
To his relief, Zerill removed the need. “He will not be here by then. Alone, it is easy to sneak away unseen. Getting you out is harder.”
“But you mean to try anyway, I take it?” It can’t be this easy. This has to be a trick. She had no reason to save him after what he’d done, certainly no reason to risk herself to do it. So why do I trust her? And he did, though he had no particular reason to beyond a vague instinct. Whatever she plans to do with me, I don’t think she’d lie about it. Or maybe that’s just what I want to believe.
Zerill made no effort to ease his mind. “No more questions.” Her hand moved briefly, and Verik responded by peeking out of the tent. He signed something at Zerill, then released the flap and stepped back into the dark. Zerill nodded. “We must go now, or we miss our chance. Come.” She tightened her grip around Josen’s waist and led him outside.
The tent had been black as pitch, but outside was scarcely better. The mist reached nearly to the ground here, a dark ceiling only a few body-lengths above his head, and the luminescent plants and creatures of the Swamp that Josen knew were all but absent. What patches of green witchlight he could see were few, so faint and distant that they might have been imagined—manifestations of his own wish for light, and nothing more. But there
was something for his eyes to grasp at, like a hint of moonlight through heavy clouds on a winter night; just enough to discern movement. A general bustle of activity suggested hundreds of swamplings, perhaps thousands, though they blended together into one teeming black mass.
He couldn’t tell if they were looking, but he cast his eyes down and ducked his head deeper into his hood, just to be safe. Even a glimpse of his brown skin would betray his identity, and he really did want to live to see the sky again, if he could. Didn’t expect to, but wanted to.
Zerill released her grip on his waist, but kept a hand on his back to steady him. He could stand on his own, he found, though his legs shook; could even take a few shuffling paces before he had to lean on Zerill again. I must look ridiculous, staggering around like this. Every swampling within a hundred yards had to be watching him, he was certain, though he couldn’t actually see their faces.
Someone will notice. We’ll never get out of here. They could see through this perpetual night where he could not; they might be closing in around him already, and he wouldn’t know until it was too late. He kept expecting a finger to point, a voice to cry out—but that was foolish. There would be no voice to warn him, not here. The silence was so complete that it seemed to thicken the air; every sound he made hung there, loud as a scream, for what felt like an eternity. He’d never been so aware of the thud of his feet, the rustle of his clothes, the wheeze of his damaged lungs. Have I always been this loud?
And yet, somehow, no one stopped them.
Josen kept his head down and his clenched fists hidden in the long sleeves of his robe as Zerill led him through the Kinhome. He brushed past other men and women, was occasionally aware of the rapid motion of hand-signs being exchanged close by. It was strange to think that what seemed so terribly silent to him was normal for them. Perhaps even something like loud, with so many gathered together, so many gestured conversations taking place at once.
The Swampling King (The Windwalker Legacy Book 1) Page 34
