by P. C. Cast
Sora was shaking. Between retches she said, “It felt awful. But then it was better. Then awful again.”
“Yeah, I know. I’ve been there,” Mari said.
Sora sat back, wiping her mouth on her sleeve and grimacing in disgust. “You got sick, too?”
“More times than I can count. I thought about making sure you didn’t eat until we were done, but it’s worse if there’s nothing in your stomach to vomit. Dry heaves are horrible, and they last longer.”
Sora shuddered. “Good to know. So, I didn’t do too badly?”
“Actually, you did really, really well. Better than I did the first time I tried.” Mari drew a deep breath and told Sora the truth. “You’re gifted. Someday you’re going to be a powerful Moon Woman. Mama was right to choose you as her apprentice.”
Sora’s gaze met Mari’s. “Truly?”
Mari nodded. “Truly.”
Sora’s smile was bright and filled with happiness. “That almost sounded friendly.”
“Hey, don’t make me sorry for being honest with you,” Mari said, getting up from where she was kneeling beside Sora, but the girl grabbed her hand.
“Wait. I didn’t mean anything bad by that. What I should have said is thank you.”
“Well, then, you are welcome,” Mari said, seeing the sincerity in Sora’s clear gaze. “Now plant your fern and then let’s go to bed. I’m not used to being up all night anymore.”
“Plant my fern? Where?”
“Wherever you want. You saved it. It’s yours,” Mari said.
Sora’s smile widened to a grin. “Is that the rule? If you save someone or something it’s yours?”
Mari opened her mouth to tell Sora not to get ahead of herself when a tidal wave of shrieks washed around them, filling the night with inhuman sounds of Night Fever–induced madness. Then, the terrifying howls and cries coalesced to form two words that the men began crying over and over, sending spider leg chills skittering across Mari’s skin.
“MOON WOMAN! MOON WOMAN! MOON WOMAN!”
“Oh, Goddess! Where are they? They seem so close!” Sora curled in on herself, pressing her knees to her chest and rocking back and forth.
Mari looked to Rigel. He’d stood and was cocking his head, as if he, too, was trying to decide how close the men were. But his scruff didn’t stand on end like it did when danger was near. He trotted to Mari and leaned against her side. Instantly she was filled with confidence—reassurance. She patted his head and bent to kiss him on his muzzle.
“What are we going to do?” Sora’s voice was filled with fear and tears.
“They aren’t a threat to us tonight. Or at least, not if we stay here, inside the bramble thicket. And I’m going to do what the Moon Women who have lived here for four generations have done. I’m going to channel power to the thicket to be sure we stay safe.”
“Do you need my help?” Sora asked shakily.
Mari glanced at Sora. She was pale and sweaty and looked exhausted. “No. You’re done for the night. I’ll take care of the brambles. You take care of the fern.”
Then, before Mari could think about the fact that she had never empowered the brambles by herself before, she walked quickly to the image of the Earth Mother. As she’d watched her mama do countless times, she stood before the idol and lifted her arms so that her palms were facing the sky, open to the silver light of the moon. She closed her eyes and checked her breathing—one, two, three, four, five, six, in. And then—one, two, three, four, five, six, out. She repeated the controlled breaths until her heart wasn’t hammering against her chest and the cries of the Night Fever–mad Clansmen were as indistinct as the sloughing of the breeze through the thicket.
Then Mari began speaking. Her words echoed Leda’s, but they were her own—unique and heartfelt. And as she spoke Mari sketched within her imagination a beautiful scene. In it the silver threads of power that cascaded from the moon and only answered a Moon Woman’s call rained long, thick ropes down upon her beloved bramble thicket until the branches thickened and grew, and the sword-edged thorns multiplied and spread creating an impenetrable barrier from all who would harm Rigel and her.
“As my mother before me
It’s your protection I seek.
Let the moon’s powerful light
Swell thorns and branches this night.
By right of blood and birth channel through me
That which the Earth Mother proclaims my destiny!”
Cold power flowed into her palms with such ferocity that Mari had to grit her teeth to keep from crying out. She almost lost her concentration then, but she clung to the image in her mind, thinking over and over, I am just a channel … I am just a channel. With a sweeping gesture, Mari threw her arms wide, ridding herself of the cold power by sending it—like wildfire—into the bramble thicket.
The strange familiarity hit her with a force that almost dropped her to her knees.
The moon’s power coursed through her and into the plants surrounding her like wildfire …
Like fire from the sun. The feeling was so similar! Except that moonlight was cold and it healed. Sunlight—the sunlight grief and despair had caused her to channel the day of Leda’s death—was hot and it destroyed.
How could I have not thought about what I did? I set the forest on fire. Me!
It was then that Mari began to wonder about not who she was, but what.
She heard Sora’s exclamation of surprise behind her, and Mari opened her eyes slowly, still managing to hold the image in her mind. All around her the brambles sparkled with glittering silver light. Each thorn glistened, firefly-like, as they swelled, lengthened, strengthened.
“Just like it used to do for Mama,” Mari whispered. “Even though I am definitely not my mama.”
Then, as quickly as it had begun it was over and the thicket settled back into the waiting darkness of a true protector.
Mari stared at the idol’s face. It was as serene as ever. Mari listened as hard as she could, and opened herself completely.
Nothing. She felt nothing. Not even one small, precious hint of the Goddess’s presence. With her mind in turmoil, Mari called Rigel to her, and while she waited for Sora to finish planting the fern, she took comfort in the unconditional love that came from her Companion.
25
Dead Eye was God. Of course the People called him Champion, or rather some of the people called him Champion. Some still respectfully acknowledged him as Harvester. Some avoided him completely, choosing to spread rumors and dissension. Dead Eye understood that the dissenters acted from confusion and anger. They were used to worshipping a dead god given false voice by selfish old women. Dead Eye knew what changes he must make so that he and those of the People worth saving could move into a new future.
His first step was to purge the Temple.
The Reaper’s Temple was in the center of the ruined City. It was an unusual building, as was proper for housing a god. The buildings all around it had crumbled under the weight of time, but the Temple stood straight and tall. There was even some glass left in the dark windows. The skin of the building was also unique, and unlike anything else in the City. Slick green tile gave way to long, vertical stripes of red metal interspersed with broken glass and the cream-colored stone of the rest of the Temple.
The statue the People called the Reaper God perched above the covered entrance to the building, guarding it and the City in all of her fifty feet of magnificence. Dead Eye stared up at the statue, his fingertips stroking the trident scar on his arm contemplatively. As he met the cool, unwavering gaze of the Reaper, he was surprised to find that part of him still wished She would speak to him, even if it were to strike him down for trying to usurp Her.
But she did nothing. She wasn’t a god. She was simply a magnificent, empty statue.
Yes, Dead Eye knew what he must do.
It was dirty, disgusting work. He’d killed several of the obsolete Watchers the night he’d announced to the People that he was the Reaper
’s chosen Champion, but within the Temple there was a nest of the vile old women that had been living there, sucking off the teats of the People for generation after generation.
Dead Eye entered the Temple, grimacing at the stale scent within. His eyes adjusted quickly to the murky daylight that filtered hesitantly in through the broken windows, and he headed to the stairway that led up to the God’s balcony and the chamber beyond that housed the Watchers.
Dead Eye remembered what the Watchers’ Chamber had look like when he’d been a boy and he’d been brought by the Caretakers to be presented to the God for the first time. It had been frightening and magnificent and mysterious.
Today the chamber he entered held almost no similarity to the one in his memory.
There were only two fires burning within the Watchers’ Chamber. The other metal pots were cold and filled with moldy ashes. The curtaining vines had grown untrimmed and untended so that they seemed to pour from the ceiling and form waves of green that threatened to drown the filthy pallets that held the sleeping bodies of Watchers. Bones were scattered in messy mounds all around the chamber. They hadn’t been cleaned. They hadn’t been arranged in patterns pleasing to the eye. Flies buzzed fretfully around the room, moving lazily from rotting pile to pile.
Dead Eye stared around him in disgust. He felt his anger begin to burn and build and build and build …
“You may not enter!” croaked an old woman as she dragged herself up from a dirty pallet and limped toward him. “This chamber is sacred to our Reaper!”
Dead Eye glared down at the old woman in disgust. “It is sacred, and that is why I am going to set it to right.” He lifted his triple-tipped dagger, and began the work he knew was best for the People. The Watchers tried to run from him, but they were weak and old and sick. Dead Eye took no pleasure in killing them. It was a simple culling. Best done quickly.
“Kill them all. Purge the Chamber of the God. It is the only way.”
He was throwing their bodies from the Reaper’s balcony when the voice came from behind him. It was so musical, so lovely, so strong, he thought it was the God, finally, finally speaking to him. Dead Eye spun around, dropping to his knees beside the mammoth statue and bowing his head in supplication.
“I will always do as you command, my Reaper,” he said.
“Then we will always be in accord.” Her voice did not come from the statue. It came from the Watchers’ Chamber.
Dead Eye’s head jerked up. A woman was standing in the middle of the bloody chamber. In an instant he was on his feet. His back to the metal statue, he faced the interloper, brandishing his trident. “Prepare to join the culling,” he said.
“I already have. I choose to join it on the side of the Reaper’s Champion.” The woman took one step forward so that the light from the flames in one of the fire pits illuminated her face.
He stared at her. She wasn’t actually a woman at all. She was a girl—a girl whose body was supple and pleasing—whose long, chestnut-colored hair fell loose and thick around the curve of her waist. She dressed like a Watcher, breasts and feet bared with a simple skirt decorated with a fringe made of the Others’ hair, but when Dead Eye’s gaze lifted from her body to her face, he felt a terrible shiver of shock.
Where her eyes should have been there were only dark, cavelike indention on her otherwise unlined, pleasing face. “Who are you?” he asked, though the question only bought him time to order his thoughts. He had never met her, but he knew her name. All of the People knew the sightless one’s name. She had been taken to the God to be sacrificed when she was born, but the Watchers had said she belonged to the God, and spared her. That had been about sixteen winters ago, and this was the first time Dead Eye had glimpsed her.
“I am Dove,” she said, cocking her head to the side. “But you already know that. Here is something you do not know, Champion. The God has called me to be your Oracle.”
Dead Eye stared at her a moment longer, and then could contain himself no more. He threw back his head and laughed heartily.
“You laugh at your Oracle?”
“No. I laugh at an eyeless girl who has wit enough to survive.”
“I am touched by our God, a divine Oracle.”
Dead Eye gave sound to one more bark of laughter. “There is no need to pretend with me.”
“I make no pretense.”
“So, you have spoken for the God?”
“I have. I do.”
“Tell me how that works,” he said.
“I cannot see, but the God grants me visions,” she said.
“Does everything the God show you come true?”
“Yes, but I do not always speak of everything I see. Sometimes the God wishes to teach a lesson, or to admonish or reward. Then I speak only of what the God allows.”
“That is very convenient. If your visions don’t come true, you can always say later that you saw something you left out—because the God asked you to, of course.”
“You doubt me.”
Though it wasn’t a question, Dead Eye answered her. “I doubt you. Do you know why?”
“You wish to usurp my place,” she said.
“No, not at all. I am already playing the part of Champion to a God I know is dead. Being Oracle to that same God does not interest me. Though you interest me. You interest me very much.”
Dove went very still. Then slowly, knowingly, she began to smile. “You know.”
“That the God is an empty statue and the Watchers have spent generations speaking for their own interests? Yes. I know.”
“Then what are you playing at, calling yourself Her Champion and saying that you are following Her voice?” Dove asked.
“I play at nothing. I am going to lead those of the People who are worthy out of this City of disease and death, and into a new life. If I have to pretend at first that I am following a dead God, then so be it. The end will justify that one small deception.”
“Because you deceive for the good of the People, and not simply the good of yourself.”
“Ah, now I hear the Oracle. Did the God show you that?” he said sarcastically.
“No. My wits showed me that,” she said. “There is no God. There are only petulant, self-absorbed old women and the People they have controlled for generations.”
“Actually, Oracle, there are now only the People, you, and me. I have sent the petulant, self-absorbed old women to be with their dead God.”
She smiled. “I hoped so. I smelled their blood and heard their cries. And now I would like to ask you a question.”
“Ask,” Dead Eye said, feeling uncommonly intrigued by this eyeless girl.
Dove walked toward him slowly. Instead of being hesitant or awkward, her steps were languid. Every motion she made was precise. Her body moved with a raw sensuality that had Dead Eye’s stomach tightening with desire. She stopped within reaching distance of him.
“Is it true you absorbed the essence of a stag and that your skin sheds new, like a youngling?”
Dead Eye shrugged out of his blood-spattered shirt. “May I take your hand?” he asked her.
With no hesitation Dove offered him both of her hands, palms open. He took them, guiding her fingers over his thickly muscled arms and chest, allowing her to pause as she found the newly healed wounds where the stag’s flesh and his had knitted to form one.
“Incredible,” she whispered. “It is true.”
“And it can be the truth for our People as well,” Dead Eye said. “But not here. Not in this ruined City that is home to a dead God. We must leave this place and make a new City that isn’t tainted by centuries of disease.”
Her hands cupped his shoulders. Her eyeless face tilted up and he wondered at how he could find that face so expressive and so lovely.
“If you take me with you I will continue to speak for the God. I will reassure the People that it is Her will that we follow you, Her Champion. And I will begin by saying that the Reaper sent a vision to me showing Her dissatisfaction for
what the Watchers had become, and calling for Her Champion to cull them from Her Temple.”
“The old women were cruel to you, weren’t they?” he asked softly.
Her head bowed and her long, dark hair swept forward, almost touching his naked chest.
“Until today, life has been cruel to me,” she said.
“Then from this day on, your Champion will protect you from the cruelties of life.”
It was as if his words had taken the breath from her. With a gasp, she went to her knees.
“Thank you, Champion,” she said reverently. “I am yours to command.”
“No,” he said, gently taking her hands again and guiding her up. “Between us there should be no artifices, no unneeded ceremony, no false worship. You will not bow to me. Ever.”
“But you are my Champion, and the Champion of the People. I wish only to show you the worship you deserve.”
“It is not your worship that I desire, my Dove,” he said.
Her sensual smile was back. “Tell me what it is you desire, Champion.”
“I would rather show you.”
Dead Eye took her into his arms and she did worship him, as fully and completely as his body worshipped hers.
* * *
Much, much later, after they had slaked the needs of their bodies, they worked together side by side, purging the Chamber. Dead Eye was amazed by Dove. Her skin was smooth and white—pure and rare as a snowfall. She had no eyes, but her steps never faltered. She moved around the Chamber, dragging the stinking pallets to the balcony so that he could throw them down into the courtyard below. She used a sacrificial trident to slice through the ropes of ivy that had not been tended in years, leaving mounds of green for him to scoop up and throw away.
Dead Eye found it difficult to keep his hands from touching Dove. She was so soft and warm and welcoming—more magnificent even than the ancient stories told of the God’s Watchers before they deteriorated into diseased old women and were instead the pulse of the People.
As he paused in carrying armloads of reeking bones to throw from the balcony, Dove turned her eyeless face up to him, smiling and lovely. He stroked one finger down her smooth cheek. Wondering aloud at the flawless beauty of her skin, he asked, “Dove, has your skin never cracked? Never shed?”
