Blood Seed: Coin of Rulve Book One

by Dale, Veronica

  A groan, and Sheft moving beside her, brought her awake. Was he in pain? She lifted her head. A sudden banging on the door stopped her heart, and then set it pounding. Oh God, the beetle-man!

  “Open!” a loud but human voice called out. “Tarn, open!”

  Fear washed over her momentary relief. What was happening? She jumped to her feet as Tarn stumbled past her in the dark. The panels thudded again, and Sheft, with a sharp in-breath of pain, reached for his boots.

  “What in Ele’s name is this?” Tarn shouted.

  “Council business. Unbar the door!”

  Mariat recognized Rom’s voice, but it was strained and hoarse.

  Sheft climbed to his feet and looked at her over his shoulder. “Get up in the loft! Quick!”

  But it was too late. Tarn was already lifting the bar as she darted into the shadows at the back of the house. A crowd of black-cloaked figures surged into the kitchen, bringing in a damp breeze and the glare of several torches. Parduka stood in their midst. Her gaze fastened on Sheft, and a triumphant gleam lit up her eyes. She flung aside her cloak, to reveal the ceremonial red robe.

  Sheft’s eyes must have been reflecting the light, because the crowd around her hesitated.

  “What’s the matter with all of you?” Parduka pushed forward, raised her torch to better illuminate him, then threw back her head and laughed. “Ele has delivered him up to us! See that bandage? See those feverish eyes? There’ll be no sorcery out of him tonight.”

  “What nonsense is this?” Tarn demanded. “Who’s in charge here?”

  “Never you mind,” a voice growled, and two men grabbed his arms.

  “A demon has clawed him!” The figure next to Parduka sounded close to hysteria. “The foreigner’s own demon turned on him, and now—now it’s loose.” He looked wildly around the room, which was alive with jumping shadows from the torches. “Loose in this house!”

  “Don’t be a fool.” the priestess said. “He had some kind of accident at the field-burn.”

  “Yes!” Mariat screamed. “He saved—” Her voice ended in a gurgle as someone from behind clapped a hand over her mouth.

  Amidst the clamor in the kitchen, the man dragged her backward, further into the shadows. She felt his lips moving close to her ear. “Be quiet! Don’t say another word.”

  She tried to pull away from him, but his strong fingers dug into her upper arm.

  Sheft had moved slightly to the side, and she knew he was trying to block the crowd’s view of her. Everyone else seemed too intent to notice her in the shadows. One of the figures pointed a quavering finger at Sheft’s toltyr. “Priestess! What’s that around his neck?”

  Parduka approached cautiously and peered at the pendant. “By all the gods,” she hissed. “It’s a sorcerer’s amulet.”

  “No,” Sheft cried. “It’s nothing like that!”

  She didn’t even look at him, but called to someone in the crowd behind her. “Cut it off him!”

  A man—Mariat recognized the burly form of the butcher Sokol—shouldered forward. He pulled out a large knife and held it in front of Sheft. With a sudden movement, he jabbed the blade toward his face. Sheft flinched and the butcher laughed. “Not so brave now, are you? Now that you’re dealing with men, and not my helpless daughter.”

  “What are you talking about? I didn’t do anything to your daughter.”

  Sokol grabbed the cord and pulled Sheft close to his face. “We don’t need to hear your lies,” he grated. In one rough move, he cut the braided leather and pushed Sheft away from him. The toltyr clattered to the floor and Sokol kicked it toward the hearth. Sheft’s head turned to follow it.

  “He’s powerless now,” the priestess pronounced. “Take him outside!”

  A chill raced down Mariat’s arms. Was that true? Did he have no way now to use ice in his defense? And even with it, what could he do against so many? There must be close to a dozen people in the room.

  “Stop!” Tarn shouted, struggling against the men that held him. “I demand you—”

  His words were drowned out as the others shoved the table and benches aside and rushed forward. They surged around Sheft, pale-haired and bandaged in the midst of the swirling black cloaks, and dragged him out the door.

  One arm was held behind her, but with the other she clawed at the hand clamped over her mouth. The man pulled her into the darkness of Tarn’s empty bedroom, where he jerked her around to face him.

  It was Gwin. “Why in Ele’s name are you here?” he asked.

  “I came to help Sheft,” she retorted, wiping her mouth on her sleeve. “He was wounded. He saved—”

  “Forget him! After tonight you’ll never see him again.” He threw back his hood and grasped her upper arms. “Our village needs you, Mariat. It needs the healer you are. I need you!”

  Her heart froze, for she heard only one thing. “What do mean I’ll never see him again?”

  “You weren’t supposed to be here. You were supposed to be safe at home. But after this is all over, I promise you—”

  “Where are they taking him? Gwin, what are they—?”

  “It’s for good of the village, Mariat. Please believe me.”

  She clutched the front of his black robe. “What do you mean? Stop them! Leave us alone!”

  In the kitchen behind her Tarn was shouting. “I demand to know who’s in charge! Where’s Dorik?” The sound of a scuffle broke out, interspersed with oaths and grunts.

  Gwin spoke over the noise. “Mariat, listen to me. I want you to be my wife. As Holdman, my father will appoint you our priestess, our healer. You will replace Parduka, and both the House of Ele and the Council House will be in our family’s control. I’ll build you a hospice for the sick. Together we’ll restore Ele’s full rule and return at last to our roots.”

  She barely heard him. “He’s hurt, Gwin! Please, I beg for your help.”

  “Mariat, I love you. I know this isn’t the right place or time to tell you that. God, I wanted this to be so different!”

  His grip on her weakened and she twisted away, but he caught her just outside the doorway. In the kitchen, Tarn was grabbing at the men clustered at the door. She ignored them, her eyes searching frantically for a glimpse of Sheft as she struggled with Gwin. One of the black-cloaks who had gone outside pushed his way back into the house.

  “Tarn!” the man called. “It’s Rom. Stop fighting this. We’ve got custody of the foreigner, and no one else will be hurt.”

  Panting, Tarn stilled and the men let go of him. “What in Ul’s name are you doing? Who are these people?” He looked at the hooded figures and the torches as if seeing them for the first time, then put his fist to his mouth. “Oh god Ul, it’s the Rites. The restored Rites. Oh god, Rom, how could you do this?”

  “We’ve all agreed.” Rom flung out an arm to include the entire group. “It was our decision, and according to the will of Ele. We tried to warn you, but you wouldn’t listen. Nothing can save your son now.”

  At these words, the fear that had been roiling in Mariat’s stomach turned into an icy lump.

  “But he’s not—” Tarn began.

  A cry came from outside. “A wagon’s coming!”

  Everyone in the kitchen rushed toward the door. One of the men shoved Tarn roughly out of his way. He stumbled and fell, hitting his head against the wooden bench. He sat there, dazed, as the others ran from the house. Gwin pulled Mariat into the kitchen and stopped in the shadow of the half-open front door.

  Held tightly against him, she could see part of the yard through the narrow crack between the door and the frame. Men with torches rushed about, but she hardly saw them, for she caught sight of Sheft.

  Delo’s son Gede and Asher, one of Greak’s neighbors, held him firmly between them. The night breeze ruffled his hair and stirred the ends of the bandage strips. He wore no shirt, and even though he stood erect, she could see he was shivering. Was it with fever, or with the cold, or with the same terror that squeezed her own heart
?

  Two empty wagons stood in the wet yard, and a third had just splashed through a puddle and came to a halt. Its oil lantern illuminated the grim faces of Dorik and Cloor. The crowd of black-cloaks, holding their torches high, confronted the new arrivals.

  The two elders in the wagon stood up, commanding figures in the midst of chaos, and then, as a further reinforcement, the great hulk of Surilla pulled in beside them. Her father had come to help.

  Three big men, atop a wagon and a great horse, towered over the crowd. Mariat slumped in relief. Surely they would stop this madness!

  Chapter 30. Evidence of Evil

  “None of you have any business here,” Dorik shouted. “In the name of the Council of At-Wysher, I order you back to your homes!”

  “We take no orders from you!” Sokol bellowed, and he pulled the long knife from his belt.

  Parduka clapped a restraining hand on his arm, and addressed the Holdman. “We are here at the command of Ele. We are vowed to her, and walk under her blessing, for on this night we restore her holy Rites.”

  “You have no authority to do that,” Dorik retorted.

  “Don’t preach to me about authority! The council has thrown its authority away. It has allowed the Groper to crawl into our streets. It has done nothing about a foreigner who commits one crime after another. These men here are the new council, and Rom is our Holdman. That criminal”—she pointed at Sheft—“is under our jurisdiction now, and you have nothing to say about it!”

  The crowd shouted agreement, but Dorik thundered over them. “By Ele’s eyes! We told you—Gwin, Blinor, we told all of you. Show us proof of these crimes, proof of what you claim he’s done, and then we’ll take action. There was no proof. There is no proof. Without it, you will all be subject to arrest!” He turned to Rom. “You’ve proven yourself a traitor and a liar. But you were once a man of integrity. Disperse this new council of yours before it breaks the law.”

  Rom placed his hands on his hips. “We make the laws now.”

  “You don’t. Get into that wagon and go home.” Dorik raised his eyes and glared at the crowd. “Every last one of you!”

  “No!” Sokol shouted. Raising his knife, he rushed forward, followed by several men.

  Through the uproar her father’s voice rang out. “Ista, Surilla!” The great horse plowed directly into the oncoming black-cloaks, sending them yelling and scrambling out of her way.

  Except Sokol. He dodged aside, grabbed Moro’s leg, and dragged him off the horse’s back. Mariat watched in horror as her father fell heavily to the muddy ground. He lay there, groaning and holding his arm.

  “Let me go to him!” She kicked at Gwin’s ankles, but his grip on her only tightened.

  “Stop it!” he ordered. “I’m trying to keep you from being hurt.”

  Outside, two of the black-cloaked figures restrained Dorik’s horse, others stood threateningly around his wagon, and two more tied Surilla to the hitching post.

  “For that attack, Moro,” Rom said, “I take possession of your horse. From now on, it will be used for council business.” He watched coldly while Mariat’s father, in obvious pain, made his way to the Holdman’s vehicle. Cloor helped him climb into the back.

  Pushing men aside, the priestess strode up to Dorik. “All this time you refused to listen to us. You refused to acknowledge the bribery, the assault, the public brawling. Even when his atrocities escalated, even when they involved women and children, you did not listen. So on this night we take matters into our own hands.” The men around her nodded, and some raised their fists. “On this night, we charge the foreigner with the ultimate crime.”

  “What ultimate crime?” Sheft cried out to her. “I didn’t do any of those things!”

  The priestess ignored him and continued to address Dorik. “Perhaps you think that even though his actions may be heinous, they affected only the man assaulted, the child molested, the woman raped.” She raised her voice. “But sacrilege against the goddess, against the Red Mother who protects us all—that is a crime that strikes at the very root of our community. It deserves death!”

  Stunned, Mariat stopped struggling against Gwin. Death? How could they— A sickening lump formed in her stomach as the crowd outside yelled its assent.

  With the two men holding him fast, Sheft strained toward the priestess. “But I’ve never even seen the goddess! How could I commit a sacrilege against her?”

  Parduka whirled to face him. “You admit your disdain of Ele! Not once have you entered her House. Not once bowed to her power. Out of your own mouth, you condemn yourself!”

  “Now wait a—” Dorik began, but angry voices rang out:

  “Because of what he did, we all have suffered!”

  “Unless he’s punished, Ele won’t protect us!”

  The crowd roiled around the Holdman’s wagon, rocking it back and forth, until he was forced to sit down.

  “The foreigner is guilty of sacrilege!” the priestess cried. “Sacrilege that arose from a lifetime of evil, of secret sins and corruption!”

  “Prove it!” Dorik shouted.

  “The proof stands in front of you! There, in the eyes of a foreigner you allowed to run amok. But you won’t accept it. You have never accepted it. Yet Ele is merciful even to the stubbornly ignorant. She will provide clear evidence that even you can’t refute.”

  “Then produce it,” Dorik stated. “Here and now.”

  Rom pushed his way through the crowd. Hands at his hips, he looked up at the Holdman. “We all want to see justice done. So let’s approach this logically. The priestess claims proof of sacrilege is present on this property. Half my men will search the house, with Tarn as witness. The other half will go to the barn with Cloor. You and I will stay here with the wagons to make sure all is done properly. If my men don’t find anything that incriminates the foreigner, we’ll leave.”

  Dorik glared down at the blacksmith, then at the figures that surrounded his horse and wagon. Clearly reluctant, he nodded.

  Rom formed the men into two groups, and they rushed off in opposite directions. “Don’t overlook the root cellar!” Parduka called after the ones heading toward the house.

  Gwin pulled Mariat back into the shadows behind the door as black-cloaks clambered past them. One man banged cupboards open in the kitchen, another pounded up the ladder into the loft, and a third kicked the rug aside and hauled open the trap-door to the root cellar. Tarn, an ugly bruise on his forehead, sank into his nodding chair. He watched numbly while men he had grown up with ransacked his house.

  Voy rushed in and spied them behind the door. “Ele’s eyes!” he cried to Gwin. “What’s she doing here?”

  A plate shattered. Gwin turned, his grip loosened for an instant, and Mariat broke away. He snatched at her arm, but she twisted out of his reach, fled into the yard, and ran to Sheft. With Gede and Asher holding his upper arms, he stood with both hands clenched, and to her horror she saw that red had seeped through the bandage over his left shoulder. From the tautness in his body, she knew he was struggling to keep the stain from spreading. She grabbed his fist, which was ice-cold and trembling. “Oh, Sheft! They’ve hurt you! Oh God Rulve—”

  Gwin wrenched her around to face him. Fury took hold of her. “Don’t touch me, you filthy hypocrite!” She clawed at him, kicked and punched. “You make me sick! You filthy bastard! You come to my house with Oris while—”

  “Stop!” Sheft cried. “Mariat, stop.” The men were gripping his arms and he couldn’t reach out to her, but she could see how much he wanted to. “Go to your father. Please. Go home with him right now.”

  “I won’t!” She took a sobbing breath. “I won’t leave you.”

  “You’ll get hurt,” he said in a voice ragged with strain. “I can’t let that happen.”

  “I’m staying,” she choked out.

  His silver eyes gazed into hers. Liquid with anguish, they reflected a long and painful foreknowledge of their parting. “If you care for me,” he pleaded, “if
you care for me as I do for you, go now. It will be”—he swallowed—“easier for me, Mariat.”

  She heard what his whole body expressed: I have to leave you, but will always love you. She wanted to throw her arms around him, kiss the tender indentation at the base of his throat, but the tick in his jaw told her that would only make it worse for him.

  Sheft tore his look away from her and transferred it to Gwin. Her own eyes were blurred with tears so she couldn’t see what Gwin saw, but the man sucked in a breath and dug his fingers into her shoulders.

  “Get her out of here,” Sheft said. “Make sure she’s safe. Then do what you came to do.”

  Possessively, Gwin pulled her against himself. “Her presence here was never part of my plan.”

  “I know.”

  His face flushed, Gwin addressed the two men holding Sheft. “She’s under his influence right now and doesn’t know what she’s saying. But, thanks be to Ele, what we do here tonight will break that spell.”

  “There’s no spell!” she screamed. “Gede, this is wrong. Asher, please listen—”

  Gwin shoved her toward Gede, who dragged her away. She caught sight of Rom, standing with arms folded next to the priestess. “Rom! Listen to me! Sheft saved Oris. At the field-burn. Sheft is wounded because he saved your son.”

  The blacksmith’s face turned red with anger. “How dare you bring an innocent child into this! How dare you bring my son into this!”

  Gede pulled her through a world that had gone insane. She screamed out the truth, and no one heard it. Men with sense were shouted down by those who had lost every vestige of it. They were trying to make a criminal out of a man who’d risked his life to save a little boy.

  Her guard thrust her onto the wagon seat beside tight-lipped Dorik just as a whoop of triumph came from the doorstep of the house. “A book of magery! A book of obscene magery!” Blinor threw the Tajemnika onto the ground in front of Dorik’s wagon.