None of them had a knife, and the braided leather cord was too strong to break. Skirting the flames, Moro ran to the other side of the cart and bent to look under it. His body appeared to waver in the rising heat as he shielded his face with his arm. “I can’t get any closer!”
“Tarn!” Etane cried. “Use that spade. Throw dirt on the flames here!”
Tarn snatched up the spade and began heaving soil. Coughing from the smoke, Moro crawled under the cart. On the second try he managed to push the medallion through the crack, and Etane pulled it free. “Get his legs!”
The three of them maneuvered Sheft off the cart and onto the wagon. Etane knelt beside him as it lurched quickly off. His friend lay on his stomach, his red-streaked hands tightly clenched beside his head. “Yell if you want to, Sheft. There’s no shame in it.”
“Blood,” Sheft groaned. “On the boards.”
“God, Sheft! Don’t worry about the damn wagon. You’ve stopped bleeding and there’s nothing on the boards here.”
But there had been plenty on the cart, even dripping through the cracks. Etane’s stomach was knotted with worry. The ride seemed to take forever and consisted of hard bumps that he’d never paid any attention to before, but which now made him wince in sympathy for what his friend must be feeling. Finally they got to Tarn’s house. Sheft was shaking with pain as they pulled him off the wagon and carried him through the door.
Etane ran up to the loft, dragged Sheft’s mattress down the ladder, and placed it near the hearth. The men laid him on it, face down, with his feet toward the fire.
“Go back to your wedding, Etane,” Tarn said. “I’ll take care of him.”
“We need water! Get that bloody shirt off him.” Etane turned toward the house crock.
Tarn pulled him back. “Listen to me! I know what to do. You have guests from two villages and a bride waiting for you. Get back to them. He’ll be fine.”
He looked down at Sheft, who did not look fine at all, then back up at Tarn.
Tarn squeezed his arm. “Your father has spent much of what he has on this wedding.”
“That’s not important!” Moro protested, but Tarn ignored him.
“You can’t leave Leeza waiting there, in front of her whole family. You can’t leave Dorik wondering what’s happened. Go! I’m an elder of the council. I’ll take care of this. Moro, tie Padiky in the yard and get your wagon back to your house. Stand witness to your son’s wedding.”
“I can’t leave him like this!” Etane cried. “He would’ve been my firstman.”
“Then he of all people would urge you to go.”
Etane winced; Tarn was right. “I’ll check up on him later, right after the wedding.” With a worried backward glance, he and his father hurried out.
# # #
Tarn looked down at the rigid, blood-soaked figure on the mattress and thought about the impenetrable will of Ul.
He had hoped for a boy who would help him fight the dark, but Ul had sent one who was enmeshed in it. The god in his wisdom had seen fit that Sheft should not only live and bring ostracism upon the house of Tarn, but also ruin the very mission against Parduka that Ul should have blessed.
Why? He was a religious man. Why didn’t Ul support his servant’s tireless efforts to bring the light of law into this far corner of his realm?
Tarn bent over Sheft. He had lost a lot of blood, and his wounds—now that he had a chance to consider them—were beyond his repair. Beyond anyone’s repair, by the look of it.
Troubled, Tarn sat down at the kitchen table. It would be mercy to let him die. His death would clear the way for justice to rule at last. With Sheft no longer a factor, Parduka’s fight against the council would be cut off at the knees. Even the devout in the village would be satisfied. He would point out that Ele, no longer angered by foreigners in her sight, would now resume protecting them from the Groper. He could say the goddess had taken care of matters herself, and there was no need for the council to act.
He drummed his fingers thoughtfully on the table. Objections to foreign marriages—Dorik’s, Etane’s, or even, one day, his own—would be forgotten. The Rites would remain unchanged and not revert to the monstrous rituals they once were.
The sweet smell of a spring afternoon wafted in, causing Tarn to notice that the door was still open. A breeze, thankfully, was blowing the smoke of the burn away from his house.
The thought gave him pause. Perhaps Ul had a hand in these events after all. Perhaps the great god’s power was indeed blowing the winds of suspicion away from his house. It could even be argued that it was Ul, not Ele at all, who had acted. With growing wonder, Tarn saw that whatever had happened to Sheft could be the god’s way of redeeming the entire village.
The revelation stunned him with its intelligence, its logic. He felt as if he stood upon a mountain and saw from on high a great pattern, one not visible from lower elevations. As an elder, as Ul’s faithful servant who worked so tirelessly for the light, he had a sacred duty to make this pattern plain to all.
The village would recognize him as Ul’s humble prophet, for he alone had discerned how the deities contended with each other, and which one got the upper hand. Under Ul’s blazing light, the power of Ele would fade away. Even the ridiculous belief in Rulve—which could potentially spread—would be nipped in the bud, because this he-she abomination seemed to have no interest at all in its followers. The council would reign supreme, and in due course he would take his rightful place as Holdman.
Tarn smiled grimly. What at first appeared to be Ele’s revenge would be her own undoing—and at the hands of Ul himself.
The god was even merciful to Sheft, sparing him the hard journey to the north, with its likely fatal outcome. The lad had no future, and his death would be for the greater good.
Tarn got up from the chair and stood over Sheft once more. It would be wrong for him to interfere with the will of Ul. Puny human beings had no business meddling in weighty matters of life and death, for in these things the gods of heaven ruled.
A glance out the door told him the afternoon was waning. He felt a sudden strong aversion to being alone in the house when Sheft passed on, and night fell. It would be best to leave immediately. Going back to the wedding would arouse too many questions, so he’d pay a visit to the widow in Ferce.
Tarn pulled his cloak off the peg, but stopped. He found a blanket and threw it over Sheft’s mangled back, then scooped the last of the water from the crock into a cup and placed it on the floor beside Sheft’s head. Ul might will his death, but neither the god nor he himself was devoid of compassion.
On his way out, it occurred to him that the cart would have to be replaced. He would see about purchasing another, perhaps used, in Ferce. When he came back, he would tell Moro the truth: no one could be found to help Sheft in time, and he had died in the night.
Parduka would insist on displaying the body in the village and then on disposing of it in her own way. In the meanwhile, however, since his vehicle was being used at Moro’s house, he would have to ride Padiky all the way to Ferce, and the wagon-horse did not particularly like being ridden.
Chapter 24. The Forge
Heat beat against his skin. He was going to burn, needed to burn. Sheft stiffened, steeled himself to endure it. But someone shouted and hands pulled at him. Leave me, he cried, but all that came out was a groan. He was lifted and carried off the cart, the cracked rib jolted, wounds tore open. He fought to close them, shaking with the effort, until the constant jarring stopped and the voices around him faded into echoes, then silence. He lay face down on a sticky mattress. Level with his eyes, flames flickered over an expanse of floorboards. They drifted sideways in a haze of ice reaction.
The fire must have followed him out of the field-burn, and now it squirmed in long lines down his back. Why was it taking so long to kill him? He willed the flames higher, willed a cremation that would roar through him and destroy everything.
Instead, the flames licked at the tolty
r pressed against his chest. The medallion grew warm, then hot. It melted under him, spread to the edge of his outstretched arms, then hardened. He was sprawled face down on its iron circle.
Miramakamen, the old man from the green and white tent, leaned over him, but he was wearing the face of Rom the smith. “Do you trust me, niyal’arist? Will you let me answer your deepest prayer?”
Oh God, do what you must.
Pain hammered down, melded him into metal. He burned on the toltyr’s hard surface and its strength was pounded into his bones. Writhing in anguish, he yet opened his back to it, for he could no longer stay the way he was. Something new had to be forged.
In the midst of the inferno great hands upheld him, staying firm while charred chunks of himself fell away. What remained he had once feared the most.
He was summoned. He was niyalahn-rista. He would be wounded: by a child, by his brother, and by the dark.
The first had already happened, and two more awaited him.
# # #
A thick snake swirled through the underground passage, his pale green eyes glowing in the dark. He made his way through tunnels beneath the ancient forest, a living root sliding through the earth. Time and distance meant nothing to him, for he was Rûk the shadow-king, Rûk the devisor, and under his rule the Riftwood lay. He emerged from the passage into the cold night. Somewhere beneath the rim of the world, the moon was slowly draining into its full dark circle.
Wask awaited him. Its face was as rough and deeply lined as tree bark, and it wore a thin cloak made of old veined leaves. Bowing low, it spoke in the mind-speech. “Greetings, great thakur.”
“Why have you called me?”
“Long ago I savored sweet blood. I searched for years, but found no more. Until lately: in the wheat field and then in the wool. Now I sense it again, very strong. It is the blood that makes the earth dance.”
Rûk’s head darted down to Wask’s level. The green eyes glittered. “You have seen this?”
“Yes, thakur. Two times.”
“Describe to me exactly what you saw.”
“Root-hairs ground under, seedlings trampled. A strong memory in the earth, of itself teeming with life.”
Rûk’s body rose up and he hissed. “Why have you not reported this sooner?”
“There was only a little blood. I was not certain. Now there is much more.”
Rûk flicked out his tongue and turned to taste the air. Suddenly he thrust his flat head forward and focused on a certain direction. “Go. Find the human vessel that contains this blood, and bring it to me.”
“I want to drink my fill of it.”
“No. I have long sought this blood. It has an important purpose.”
“You have decreed me Meerghast. Everything that comes to me, you have allowed me to keep.”
Rûk swayed his head from side to side in warning. “In the past and in the future, but not this time.”
Craftiness crept over the tree-bark face. “Perhaps I will do what I like, in a place where you cannot go.”
As if to strike, Rûk pulled back his head. The reptilian eyes hardened. “Of your own you have nothing. Even your shapes are but shadowy imitations of mine. Disobey me, displease me, and I will ban you forever from my Riftwood. You will diminish, and the sun will burn away your power like a lingering mist. Is that worth one drink, no matter how sweet?”
Wask hesitated. “It is not.”
“Then bring this vessel to me.”
Wask glanced toward the east. “Dawn is not far off. As soon as the day is over, I will do as you command.”
“Listen now to what you must say to him.”
“Yes, thakur.”
Chapter 25. Mariat’s Nightmare
The accident clouded his wedding ceremony, but out of love for Leeza, Etane tried not to ruin it for her as well. Tarn would look after Sheft, and he’d get back to his friend as soon as he could.
It wasn’t until the next morning, after the wedding night was over and he had found delight with his new wife, that he saw he wouldn’t be able to get away. Cloor wanted his empty casks back at his ale-house, and the trestle tables had to be returned, or Vehoke the grocer would charge another day’s rent. He intended to ask Mariat to go help Tarn in his place, but between the coming and going he couldn’t speak to his sister until well after the noon meal. She was washing yet another big stack of plates.
“I didn’t have a chance to tell you yesterday,” he said in a low voice, “but Sheft got hurt at the field-burn. I think Tarn could use some help with him.”
“Am I to run over there every time someone stubs a toe?” Mariat asked irritably. “Let his father take care of it. Good-bye was good-bye.”
Etane saw Leeza’s mother bearing down on him. “Oh god. What does she want now? But listen, Mariat. Go over there if you can. Sheft told me Tarn isn’t really his father, and maybe that’s what he was trying to protect you from.”
Startled, she turned to him. “What?”
Before he could say another word, his new mother-in-law snatched him away.
# # #
Mariat returned to the pan of soapy water and plunged a pile of plates into it. Sheft was trying to protect her? Where had her brother gotten that idea? Sheft was gone from her life. He’d said he loved her, then got rid of her, and that was that.
But if he was hurt… Mother always liked Sheft. For her sake, at least, she should go and see what was wrong. She finished her task, sourly gathered up her basket of herbs and salves, and took the familiar—and now quite desolate—path over the fields. The smell of smoke still lingered in the afternoon air. This visit was an act of charity, nothing more.
But her heart leaned toward where Sheft was, and her feet hurried after. When she got to the house, the place looked deserted. There was no sign of Padiky, which was odd, because Tarn’s wagon was still at their house.
“Is anybody here?” She knocked. No one answered, so she opened the door. The fire had gone out, leaving a chill inside.
Sheft was sleeping on a mattress on the floor, covered with a brown blanket. A bright shaft of sunlight coming from the window illuminated his pale hair. At the sight of him, once so dear, a pang went through her heart. But why was he sleeping down here? And where was Tarn?
Placing the basket on the table, she noticed a cup at Sheft’s head had been knocked over and water spilled. She leaned over him. “Sheft?”
He wasn’t asleep. His eyes were squeezed shut, and his forehead was creased in pain. Fear jumped into her. “Sheft!”
He seemed unaware of her. The blanket covering his back was dark with a large stain. She bent closer and detected the unmistakable smell of blood. She sank to her knees beside him, but when she tried to pull back a corner of the blanket, he gasped. The blanket had been soaked with blood, which had dried and stuck to his back.
Oh God Rulve. Mariat flung off her cloak and ran to get water, but the house crock was empty. The fire was out. Where were the kitchen cloths? Where had Tarn gone? He just threw a blanket over his son and left him? But then he wasn’t his son, was he? Thoughts tumbled, and for a moment she panicked, then forced herself to be calm. With deliberate motions she got the fire going, drew water from the well and set it over the flames, found a mug in the cupboard. She knelt next to Sheft and carefully poured water on the blanket to loosen it.
The creaking of the door broke into her absorption. Oris stood tentatively in the opening. “I came for my toy,” he said. “The foreigner said I could.”
“Toy?” She sat back on her heels. “What are you talking about?”
Oris indicated Sheft with his chin. “The ones he makes.” He stepped in and peered at the mattress. “Is he dead?”
The word was like a cold hand wrapping itself around her heart. “No,” she answered firmly. She would not allow the question, not even the possibility, to shake her. She returned to her work, dreading what she would find under the blanket. “Go home, Oris. I’ll bring you a toy later.”
“
He promised me the same thing, and never did it. Instead he broke my leg.”
Startled, she looked up. “Broke your leg! When?”
“Yesterday. At the field-burn. See, I can hardly walk on it.” He took a few steps with an exaggerated limp.
“You got hurt at the field-burn?”
“All the rakes and things were spilling out of the cart. So he fell over me, and then all the tools fell on him. That’s when my leg got broken.”
For a moment she could not speak. “Why did the tools spill?”
“A greensnake scared the horse, and the shaft broke. It wasn’t my fault.” He glanced around curiously. “Where are the toys?”
She looked down at Sheft, who was quivering in pain, and a lump formed in her throat. She swallowed it. “Did you ever say thank you?”
He looked at her, surprised. “I didn’t get my toy yet.”
She wanted to shake him. She wanted to scream at all the gossips and rumor-mongers and hate-filled people who had made this boy the way he was. “He saved your life, Oris! This”—she indicated Sheft’s rigid body on the mattress—“could’ve been you, only you’d be dead.”
Oris shrugged. “I don’t think so. My dad says I’m strong. Are the toys in here someplace?”
They stared at each other, and she recognized in his matter-of-fact gaze an innocence already corrupted. Sheft was right to leave this accursed place, for they had accused him of doing to their children what they themselves had already done. “I don’t know where the toys are. Go back to my father and tell him—” He still had a house full of wedding guests, and there was nothing he could do here. “Tell him I’ll be staying here tonight. Tell him I said you could have one of those leftover raspberry jam tarts.”
Blood Seed: Coin of Rulve Book One Page 21
