by Jeff Altabef
The incense clouded P’mina’s thoughts, and her head spun in circles. “It’s all true. They’re coming. We must band together with the Butcher Tribe to defeat them. Please believe me!” P’mina’s eyes skittered amongst the Tribal Mother and the three Vestals. Her skin turned clammy and bile rose in her throat.
The incense made her thoughts foggy, hazy, jumbled.
“Join with the Butcher Tribe!” screeched V’ronica. “They’re barbarians who want to steal our lands. How can we join with them?”
A second vestal started to circle P’mina. “We should punish her! Tie her to the Holding Tree. Let her stay the night alone. In the morning she will tell us true.”
“No, you must believe me! It is all true.” P’mina’s face flushed with anger. She wished the others were here.
The Tribal Mother ignored the Vestals, leaned forward and beckoned for P’mina to approach with a wave of her hand. “Come here, child.”
P’mina took halting steps until she stood in front of the Tribal Mother, who cupped her face in her soft hands. “Is this story true? Nothing good will come from falsehoods.”
“I speak true.”
The Tribal Mother sighed. “I believe her. Every word she’s spoken is pure.”
“We can’t trust the Butchers,” V’ronica snorted. “They’re a warring people who’re looking for an excuse to attack us. We’d be better off on our own. I think—”
The Tribal Mother stopped her with a glance. “I remember Dermot. He made the peace with us and that peace has lasted. I could make a treaty with him.”
For the first time, P’mina wondered how many harvests the Tribal Mother had lived. The Red Death would overcome her soon, and that reminded her of the cure.
“There’s more!” she added hastily. “I almost forgot. The brother and sister have discovered a cure to the Red Death. I helped the boy make it—the one who had the vision of the invaders. There’s just enough for you and Dermot to take. I’ve brought it with me.” She removed a leather traveling skin from her satchel, her hand trembling.
“What type of evil witchcraft is this?” asked the last Vestal, who stood shoulder-to-shoulder with the other two Vestals. “There’s no cure for the Red Death! It’s always been and always will be. We can’t trust this daughter of the witch.”
“I bet Kalhona is with a witch right now. What healer did she see?” charged V’ronica.
The Vestals started circling P’mina again, coming closer with each revolution.
“Only a witch would make a potion like this. We should burn it,” cried V’ronica.
“We should cast her out!”
“She’s no good just like her mother!”
The accusations buffeted against P’mina like an incoming tide against a rock. Her head ached, and her body felt numb.
“My mother has nothing to do with this!” She stomped her foot.
The Tribal Mother took the skin from P’mina’s shaking hand. “Quiet!”
The Vestals obeyed, but they continued circling and looked like hungry wolves about to attack.
“You forget the stories of old, when hair turned gray. The time before tribes.” The Tribal Mother looked suspiciously at the skin. “Was dark magic used when you made the potion?”
“No, it’s simple enough. I would drink it if we had enough. Please, trust me! It will bind the two tribes together, so we can fight off the invaders.” The incense made P’mina’s legs weak, and she swayed backward.
The Vestals stared hard at her, six eyes unblinking, filled with hate and suspicion and malice.
The Tribal Mother tipped back the skin and swallowed the drink whole.
The world slowed. The leather pouch tumbled to the ground. The Tribal Mother’s face turned red, her eyes closed, and she collapsed backward, unconscious.
“It can’t be,” screamed P’mina.
The Vestals shrieked.
P’mina stomped her foot angrily. “It can’t be!”
“She’s a traitor!” Spit flew from V’ronica’s mouth. “Guards!”
P’mina saw red and ran at V’ronica. She wanted to strangle the nasty Vestal, but V’ronica darted behind one of the hammock chairs and P’mina ran past her. By the time she turned, the guards had bolted into the hut.
V’ronica pointed at her. “Grab her! She’s poisoned our Mother.”
“I did no such thing!” P’mina darted at V’ronica, hands outstretched.
The female guard moved quickly and swung her spear into P’mina’s legs.
P’mina crashed to the ground, but she never took her eyes away from V’ronica. She tried to lunge at her, but the male guard grabbed her arm. P’mina bit his hand and drew blood. He screeched and she spun out of his grasp.
She had a clear shot at V’ronica, and a smile crept across her face. Revenge would be hers. She reached for V’ronica’s neck, but before she could grab her, the female guard bashed the butt of her spear into P’mina’s forehead.
P’mina’s legs turned to water.
She thought she heard V’ronica call her a witch before blackness took her.
***
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Chapter 42 – Maeve
Maeve’s legs hurt from all the searching she did around the Stronghold for her sister. She had not seen Cattie for two days now. No one had seen her at the Feasting Hall, the Naming Tree, the Courtyard, or anywhere else she might have gone. The Master of the Nursery said she had gone to the Outpost, yet none of her stuff was missing. Why would she go to the Outpost of all places, and why leave all her possessions behind? It made no sense.
After two days of searching, Maeve had the dark feeling that something bad had happened to her sister.
She enlisted help from her friend Eric, but he also failed to uncover any trace of Cattie. None of the horses at the Stables were unaccounted for. She could have gotten a ride with one of the traders headed in a wagon to the Outpost, but that sounded farfetched. It was as if she had vanished.
Maeve and Eric sat on Maeve’s bed in the room she shared with her sister in the female residence hall.
Eric leaned his broad shoulders against the wooden headboard, concern scribbled on his handsome face. He served as a member of the King’s Guard, had thick arms and a broad chest. He wore a leather shirt and pants and a full-length leather cloak that swept over the longsword sheathed at his hip.
Maeve felt safe when she was with him. Soon they would be coupled—once she saved enough for a dress, made a bracelet, and summoned the courage to tell Cattie that her younger sister would be coupled before her.
“Maybe she did head north to the Outpost,” he said. “She’s certainly not in the Stronghold. We’d have found her.”
“Cattie in the Outpost?” Maeve shook her head. “I can’t imagine it, and how would she get there? She has no money saved for passage.”
“She could have borrowed the money from you. She’s done it before.”
Cattie had never shown any interest in the Outpost, but Maeve couldn’t absolutely dismiss the idea as impossible. Besides, the alternative frightened her—Cattie had messed with Fintan, and it had turned out poorly.
She grabbed onto the last shred of hope. “Okay, turn around. I don’t want you to see my hiding spot.”
“Seriously? We’ll be coupled soon.”
“A woman is entitled to her secrets.”
Eric grinned and turned.
Maeve found the small mouse hole in the plaster in the corner of the room that operated s her hiding place, squeezed her hand in and took out her leather pouch. When she lifted it, she knew something was wrong. It weighed far too little.
She brought the pouch to the bed and opened the drawstring. Instead of the few coins she had saved, she found a folded piece of paper. Hand trembling, she removed it and read it out loud, her voice shaky.
Dear Sister,
I’m meeting prince Fintan by the Stables, and borrowed your money so I could buy a new dress. If you’re reading
this note, then something must have gone wrong.
I overheard Fintan and Cormac planning to poison the King. They sent someone named Scotty to fetch the red berries. That’s all I know.
I’m sorry I wasn’t a better sister. I liked to make you cry, but I was jealous because you’re special and I’m not.
Love,
Cattie
When she finished reading the note, Eric crossed his arms against his chest. “What haven’t you been telling me?”
Maeve explained all she knew about Cattie’s plans, which wasn’t much more than her sister had written in the note. Her voice broke when she finished. “Fintan must have k-killed her after they met by the Stables. We have to find Dermot and demand justice.”
She shifted her weight to stand, and Eric grabbed her arm. “Hold on a moment. We have no proof against the prince except this note. That won’t be good enough. The Circle of Destiny has been drawn. Eamon’s not here to oppose Fintan, and even if he does, Fintan is likely to be our next king. We can’t just bring this note to Dermot and accuse the prince without more.”
Maeve shook off Eric’s hand. She would not let Fintan get away with this, and Dermot was the only one who could bring him to justice. Still, she couldn’t deny the truth of his words either.
Then an idea formed in the back of her mind. “What about this Scotty? Do you know him?”
Eric nodded. “Scotty the Snake. He’s a real nasty one. Cormac sent him north. He’s supposed to return today.”
“That’s our proof. Fintan must have sent him to fetch the red berries. If we catch him when he comes back—”
“We can grab him! He’ll have the berries in his saddlebag. That plus Cattie’s disappearance might be enough.”
Maeve folded the note and put it back into her pouch. “It will be enough. It has to be.”
***
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Chapter 43 – Eamon
The hard ride from the Witch’s cabin to the Stronghold left Eamon’s back and legs stiff, but the adrenaline pulsing through his body chased away those aches. Each passing mile brought him closer to giving Dermot the cure, closer to saving his brother’s life. He entered the Stronghold at a gallop and barely slowed his spent horse as he whipped through the winding streets. When he reached the Residence Hall, he jumped from the horse and sped up the staircase, taking two steps at a time.
He banged against Dermot’s door with three heavy blows.
“Enter,” Dermot called from within.
He stormed into the room.
Dermot, who stood by the windows gazing at the Stronghold, turned and grinned at him. “I was worried I would never see you again. I’m happy you’ve returned before I move on. I see you’ve made new friends.” He nodded toward Aaliss and Wilky, who’d just entered the room. “I imagine they’re Fintan’s prisoners you freed from the Basement? I should be angry with you, but I see things differently now.” He pointed to his red-specked eyes.
Eamon’s heart plummeted. He knew what he would find when he saw Dermot, but knowing something and facing it were two different things. He threw his arms around his brother, slapping him hard on the back. “All is not lost. This is Aaliss and Wilky. I’ve fought alongside them. We’ve saved each other’s lives.”
Dermot faced the siblings. “Then I’m in your debt. I pardon you from any crimes my brother, Fintan, may have levied against you, but you would be wise not to remain when he becomes king. He’s unlikely to be as forgiving as I am.”
“You don’t have to die! Wilky has discovered the cure to the Red Death and we’ve made a potion for you.” Eamon spit on the ground and removed the small leather skin from the folds of his cloak, holding it steady in his hand.
Dermot looked at the leather pouch as if it were filled with rotten meat. “What type of foolishness is this?”
“No foolishness, Brother. We’ve made the cure. All you have to do is drink it.” The strength in his words faded as he recognized the hard expression in his brother’s eyes.
Dermot placed his hand on Eamon’s shoulder and softened his tone. “I know you wish it to be so, but this is not the way of things. My life has come to an end. It’s Fintan’s time to rule, and your place is to serve him. Let’s not talk about cures or dark magic. We’re about to go to war with the Painted Ones. Fintan is convinced it’s the right thing to do. We could use your wise counsel.”
Eamon’s eyes grew wide. “No, we can’t! We’re facing northern invaders. We need to band together with the Painted Ones before it’s too late.”
“Northern invaders?” Dermot squinted. “Tell me about these invaders.”
“Wilky saw a vision. They’re coming from the Freeroad. They number many, but if we combine to stop them, we might have a chance. Wilky created two cures, one for you and the other one for the Tribal Mother. They will bind us together to fight our common enemy. This is our way forward.” Eamon pushed the cure closer to his brother.
Dermot glanced out the windows, and after a short pause he said, “So you haven’t seen this war band with your own eyes? You take the word of this boy who saw a vision.”
“We fought six of them along the ancient road. They carry the flag of a bloody wolf. They were real enough, Brother. I killed one myself.”
When Dermot turned, he looked sad, long lines dripping from the corners of his mouth. “I believe you, but there’s nothing I can do now. We must hope this vision doesn’t come to pass. Fintan will not change his mind. We are strong. Our swords and shields will hold against these invaders.”
Wilky spoke softly, but everyone heard him. “No. It will be too late.”
Dermot regarded him sourly. “How could you know? I don’t believe in visions.” The veins in Dermot’s neck pulsed. “I thank you for helping Eamon, but you should be leaving now.”
Aaliss stepped between Dermot and Wilky. “My brother never lies. He has a way of knowing things. The cure is true. You don’t have to die. You can lead your people through this. They need you.”
Dermot snorted. “No one but witches survive the Red Death. And to what end? I would grow old while I watch those I love perish around me. No! My place is in the stars with the rest of our ancestors, where I can look down on the tribe. I’ll guide them from above. I want no more talk of this foolishness.” He turned back to the windows.
Eamon grabbed his arm, but Dermot yanked free with a violent twist. Eamon searched for the right words, but he could think of none that might change his stubborn brother’s mind. Despair had crept into his body, and his spirit was almost broken when a series of loud raps pounded against the door.
The door opened before they could answer. Maeve and Eric stood in the doorway. Dark circles ringed Maeve’s eyes. “I’m sorry, my King, for interrupting, but I have urgent business.”
Dermot answered tersely. “What’s so urgent that you barge into my private residence?”
“We’ve found treachery and murder. Prince Fintan and Cormac murdered my sister. They planned on poisoning you. When she discovered their plan, they murdered her to keep her quiet.”
Dermot’s eyes narrowed as he rose up taller, straightened his back and lifted his head high. “These are very serious allegations. Do you have proof?”
Eric stepped forward. “Yes, my King. We have this note from Maeve’s sister.”
Dermot took the paper from him and read it. “This isn’t enough. I need more than some poorly scribbled note.”
“Cattie has been missing for over two days, and we grabbed Scotty the Snake as he rode into the Stronghold,” said Maeve. “He had the red berries in his saddlebag.”
Dermot spoke but there was no strength or conviction in his voice. “He could have acted on his own.”
“The Snake confessed and told us that Fintan and Cormac ordered him to bring back the berries for you.” Maeve fought back tears, but her eyes burned hot. “I urge justice before the Circle of Destiny closes!”
Dermot ran his hands through his ha
ir and retrieved the Sword of Power from his bed. He moved slowly and looked old. “Dermot the Just they call me.” He sighed. “Sometimes I believe it was a curse to become king. I hope it never becomes your burden, Brother. Gather the Masters. I will deliver justice one last time. We’ll hear all the evidence and decide the truth of the matter in one hour by the Naming Tree.”
Eamon felt the wind knocked out of him. Had Fintan conspired to murder Dermot? It was possible. Fintan wanted to rule, but did he want it so much that he’d kill Dermot?
Eamon wished it was not so, but Maeve and Eric looked certain. And he did see Fintan and Cormac conspiring together when he helped Aaliss and Wilky escape.
Why else would they be out so late?
***
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Chapter 44 – Aaliss
Aaliss stood close behind Eamon under the protection of the Naming Tree’s wide branches.
Wilky stood beside her.
She studied the Courtyard, where the Circle of Masters was formed. Twelve made the Circle, eleven men and one woman. Armed members of the King’s Guard ringed the Masters.
Eamon whispered, “Dermot’s picked the members of the Guard himself. They’re the older ones, who are less likely to favor Fintan or Cormac.”
He must suspect that Fintan is guilty.
Fintan and Cormac sat cross-legged in the center of the Circle as the accused. Fintan twisted a long strand of grass in his hand and looked nonplussed.
Maeve and Eric joined them only a few feet to their left.
Aaliss pointed to a flickering torch and a long wooden spear that were planted in the grass next to Dermot. “What are those?”
