Red Death

by Jeff Altabef

  “This is crazy! I’m not a witch or a traitor. You know me! I just gave the Mother a cure to the Red Death. It was to protect her, to bind the two tribes together.” P’mina slumped back against the Holding Tree. “Does the Mother stir?”

  “No. I knew you were up to no good when you went into the forest alone. You told me you needed dyes for Kalhona.” Merina glared at her. “Why did you lie?”

  P’mina groaned. “I didn’t want to be swapped with the Orion girls. It’s not fair, and you were so happy with the idea. I just wanted to run away and—”

  “And you couldn’t trust me. I thought we were friends. I would’ve helped, if you had trusted me.” Merina frowned and puffed her lower lip out sadly.

  “I’m sorry, truly.” P’mina realized Merina was a true friend. “I should’ve trusted you, but I have nothing to do with witches or the Dark One or anything bad. I was just trying to help.”

  “So, are we still best friends. You won’t lie to me again?”

  “No more lies. We’re best of friends.” P’mina rattled her chains. “But not for long.”

  Merina lifted a shiny metal key.

  “Where’d you get that?”

  “One of the guards favors my sister. He left it behind in our hut.”

  “Left it behind or you stole it?”

  “It might have fallen from his pocket.” Merina smiled and tossed the key over the fence.

  P’mina caught it but hesitated before she put it into the lock. “If I use this key, you could get in real trouble.”

  Merina shrugged. “I’ll say you cast a spell on me. They might get mad, but they won’t burn me.”

  P’mina twirled the key in her fingers, uncertain what she should do. A few days ago she would have used it without thinking, but much had happened since. She’d seen bravery and real sacrifice.

  Then she heard it—a low rumble that grew increasingly louder.

  “Burn the Witch! Burn the Witch!” they chanted.

  “Hurry!” shouted Merina.

  If she hurried she might have time to escape, but they sounded so angry she thought they’d burn Merina instead.

  She dropped the key and kicked it away. “Make sure they don’t bring Tania. She can’t see me burn.”

  Merina nodded and raced away.

  V’ronica held a lit torch and led a long column of Painted Ones.

  “Burn the Witch! Burn the Witch!” V’ronica’s onyx eyes shined brightly, her face animated by the flickering torchlight. A wicked smile creased her lips.

  “Burn the Witch!”

  ***

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  Chapter 47 – P’mina

  The Vestals all wore green wraps the color of summer grass, as if it were a sign of unity. Led by Veronica, they triumphantly marched P’mina to the Witch’s Pyre, a ten-foot tall, cone-shaped stack of split wood. They had built a wooden cross in the center. Dry kindling surrounded the bottom of the Pyre to form the base of the cone.

  P’mina moved stiffly and absently. The fight had left her.

  She didn’t even protest when V’ronica tied her to the wooden cross with a thick cord—first her arms and then her legs. She stood three feet above the ground, her arms stretched wide to the sides, her feet resting on a small wooden step. Although still dressed, she felt naked before the tribe.

  “Burn Her! Burn Her!”

  The mob chanted as men hammered out a steady beat on massive leather-skinned ceremonial drums. The chant and the drumbeat filled the ceremonial space, building upon itself, shaking the ground, rising in volume and fervor like a tide before a storm.

  P’mina didn’t struggle. She had spent her whole life fighting those who saw her as a witchborn and nothing more. She was surprised they had waited this long.

  They will not see me cry. I’m stronger than tears. They did not burn my mother, so now they will burn me.

  She scanned the angry crowd and studied the people.

  She found Storum, who had such bad teeth she’d brought him a special mint plant to blunt the pain; and Lulia, who needed the purple berries to help her fickle stomach; and Kokopia, who needed the Mother’s Assistance plant to have children. Kokopia stood next to her sister, who so desperately did not want to have any children that P’mina had given her the Sour Plant to prevent conception.

  She barely recognized the faces—foreign, twisted by anger and hate and fear. The number of people she had helped stretched on, but they all chanted just the same.

  Jacarto, a Protector who had always been sweet on her, waved the Painted Ones flag by the drummers and shouted, “Burn her!”

  “Burn her!” they all shouted.

  How can they hate me so much?

  V’ronica stood tall, her head held high and her shoulders back while the other Vestals milled around her. When she stepped forward, the drumming and chanting stopped.

  Her wrap fluttered around her as she spit out her venom. “We know P’mina was witchborn, and now we know she’s in league with the Dark One. The evidence is unquestionable. We must burn her to cleanse our tribe!” She paused for a moment to let her words sink in. “She has poisoned our Mother, and concocted stories of northern invaders just to let the Butchers attack us from the south....”

  The words blended together in one long stream of hatred and lies, but P’mina stopped paying attention. Fall was her favorite time of year, and the leaves on the trees had just started to turn. The maples in the distance blazed a fiery red.

  Is that a bad sign?

  A cool breeze ruffled her hair. She let go of her rage and felt oddly calm.

  V’ronica stepped toward her, lit torch held high.

  Its heat pressed against P’mina’s face like a passionate embrace.

  V’ronica yelled at her. “Do you have anything to say, witch?”

  P’mina barely heard the question. She wondered who would paint this scene on the Banner—the day they burned an innocent girl.

  Will they ask Kalhona to paint it, or will they burn her also?

  A hushed quiet settled over the crowd as they waited to hear her last words. They wanted her to say something incriminating.

  In truth, she knew it would matter not what she said. Whatever her words, they would gather around afterward, and find a way to twist it into proof she was a witch, proof they had done the right thing. For a fleeting moment, she thought to curse them and admit to the folly. That would give them something to talk about, but that was what V’ronica wanted, and she would not give that beast what she wanted.

  V’ronica’s eyes shined with hatred in the flickering torchlight, her hand moments away from tossing the torch onto the pyre.

  She’s waiting for the perfect moment to light the pyre. I wonder if she believes I am truly a witch, or if this is just a way to get the tribe to rally around her, so she can replace her sister as the next Tribal Mother. She’s probably already counting the votes.

  Through the eerie quiet came a horn blast carried low in the wind. Those in the back turned.

  The horn grew louder as horses galloped toward them. The crowd parted and six horsemen raced toward the Witch’s Pyre—four armed Protectors and two members of the Orion tribe. One Orion held their banner high above his head, depicting an archer drawing his bow. A strong-looking Orion, thick of arms and chest and chiseled jaw, rode beside the bannerman, his expression hard as he spurred his horse.

  The group reined their horses within a few feet of V’ronica at the base of the Witch’s Pyre.

  The other Vestals parted and stepped away from their leader.

  Snakes! They cower at the first sign of trouble.

  V’ronica stood her ground, her thin face pinched together. “What’s your business here, Orions?”

  The well-muscled Orion pulled hard on the reins of his horse, which danced in a tight circle. “I bring news. A war band approaches from the north.”

  Someone in the crowd shouted, “P’mina speaks the truth!”

  Another p
erson called out, “She tried to warn us!”

  After that, the voices blurred together as a loud, unsettled murmur built among the tribe.

  “It makes no difference!” V’ronica held her torch dangerously close to the Pyre, which quieted the crowd. “She gave our Tribal Mother a witch’s brew, and now we cannot wake her. We must burn her to save our Mother! She will be a sacrifice for the Earth Mother. Only they can defeat the Dark One and save our Mother from damnation. A life for a life!”

  A rustling sound started from the rear of the crowd, and it parted like a rolling wave as Merina raced forward. “Wait! Our Mother wakes! She’s coming. Wait!”

  P’mina saw the outline of the Tribal Mother in Merina’s wake, striding with long, angry strides, her braid bouncing behind her, her face skewed into an angry scowl.

  “Put that torch out!” she commanded.

  V’ronica looked at the torch, and back at P’mina, as if she considered tossing it on the pyre.

  The Tribal Mother bellowed, “Put it out, or we’ll burn you!”

  V’roncia snuffed out the flames on the ground and began pleading. “But we thought she was a witch. We thought if we burned her, then the Dark One would release you.”

  The other Vestals melted away from V’ronica to make a clear path for the Tribal Mother.

  V’ronica stood alone.

  The Tribal Mother barely slowed as she approached and slapped V’ronica hard across the face, sending her skidding to the ground. “What type of craziness is this? Have you lost your mind? No one is going to be burned while I am your Mother!”

  The crowd gasped.

  As far as P’mina knew, no one had ever seen her strike another person.

  The Tribal Mother faced the crowd, her voice loud. “P’mina has spoken true. We must prepare for war!” She hesitated for a moment. “We will teach these northern invaders what it means to face our fury!”

  The crowd cheered and started chanting, “Mother! Mother!”

  The drums started again, this time in a steady war beat.

  The Tribal Mother turned toward P’mina and whispered, “I’m sorry, child. They didn’t understand.” She cut P’mina loose and held her in a tight embrace.

  P’mina closed her eyes and smelled wildflowers.

  For the first time since her mother left, she felt whole.

  ***

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  Chapter 48 – Aaliss

  Aaliss studied Eamon and tried to suppress a chuckle, with little luck. They had left the Stronghold to practice at a deserted clearing along the banks of Whitewater River.

  “Why are you laughing?” Eamon asked, red-faced.

  “What are you wearing?”

  He had donned a fine metal mail tunic. The small rings covered his arms, torso, and flowed down to his knees. He held a round shield in one hand and his longsword in the other. The shield was made from dark wood covered with boiled leather and had a metal spike jutting from the center. A jeweled sword was painted on it with blood dripping from its tip.

  Eamon glanced at his shirt. “The rings protect us. We use these shirts for battle.”

  Aaliss stifled another chuckle. “Okay, let’s see what you’ve got. Don’t go easy on me.” She playfully waved her sword.

  Eamon lumbered toward her, swinging his longsword wildly: sideswipes followed chops, which followed more sideswipes, and a couple half-hearted thrusts.

  Aaliss parried each without difficulty.

  After a few minutes Eamon stopped, breathing heavily, sweat raining down his face.

  “That was good, really,” encouraged Aaliss.

  It wasn’t a complete lie. He had talent, and with some training would make a reasonably good swordsman. He needed to harness his skills, but that ringed shirt had to go.

  “Are you required to wear that ridiculous metal shirt?”

  “No requirement. It’s traditional. I’m sure Fintan will wear one.”

  That’s the best news I’ve heard so far.

  “You’ve got to dump it. It makes sense in a battle where blows could come from anywhere, but in single combat it will only slow you down. You’ll have the advantage just by shedding it.”

  Eamon reluctantly removed the ring shirt, and it made a loud thump as it hit the ground.

  “Okay, we’re making progress. Now toss me your sword.”

  Aaliss snatched the longsword by the hilt and swiped a few strokes with it. “It’s not bad, but mine is much better. It’s lighter, more aerodynamic, and the steel is stronger and sharper. It’ll cut those metal rings into shreds. It’s shorter, but you’ll be quicker and more effective with it.”

  She tossed her short sword to Eamon.

  He sliced it through the air with a flurry. “It’s so light. I can’t imagine it’s stronger than mine.”

  Aaliss grinned. “Give it try.”

  Eamon sliced the air with the sword using quick, sharp strokes.

  Aaliss worked hard to parry them with the heavier weapon; the sound of metal clanging against metal rang out in the small forest clearing.

  After a few minutes, Eamon stopped with a wide grin on his face. “It sings through the air, but I can’t borrow it. You should take it back.”

  “Why? You’ll get used to it quick enough.”

  Eamon looked toward his feet and spoke into his chest. “You should leave before the Circle closes. If Dermot isn’t cured by then, it’ll be up to a battle between Fintan and me. If I lose, Fintan becomes king at that moment. He could order you arrested or worse. You took no oath. You don’t need to stay.”

  The big oaf doesn’t get it! I can’t let anything happen to him.

  “You don’t decide what I do. Only I decide my own actions. You can’t make me leave, and I’m not going anywhere.”

  “You and Wilky fulfilled our bargain. We made the cure. You’re free to go. Nothing is binding you here.” He kicked the dirt.

  Aaliss struggled for words, unsure what she wanted to say or what exactly she felt. “Don’t be an idiot. I... need to see this through. Besides, I want to watch while you best your pompous brother.”

  He glanced up at her, his eyes moist and wide, and let the silence build for a moment. Finally, he bared the truth behind his worry. “It’s too dangerous for you to stay. Fintan’s the best swordsman in the tribe. Everyone knows it.” He shrugged one shoulder. “I’ve spent much of my time with books. He’s always beaten me in the past. If I lose....”

  “After I’m done with you, you’ll have an easy time with him. He’s a bully. When you cut him, he’ll panic. Keep that sword and let’s get back to work. We’ve got a lot to do. You can give it back to me after you best Fintan and you’re king.”

  He cast a somber look, his eyes twinkling sadly.

  She knew he wanted her to leave.

  “You could go to the Witch’s cabin. I’ll meet you there after.”

  “You talk too much! That’s your problem. Always talking! Come on, we don’t have all night.” She waved the longsword at him, her mind made up.

  She didn’t know when it happened, but she’d chosen Eamon. Even if he loved Jillian, it didn’t matter. For the first time in her life she needed someone else. She wasn’t going anywhere until he was safe. She couldn’t go even if she wanted to.

  From now on, my life will be complicated.

  Eamon flipped the short sword in the air and caught the hilt when it fell back into his hand. “Okay, if you’re certain. What’s next?”

  Aaliss shoved him with two hands and spun him in a circle. It gave her just enough time to wipe away a tear that had formed unbidden without him noticing.

  “No more talk about losing! We’ve got to work on your footwork and leverage.” She glanced at the darkening sky, hoping that the moon would help her and shine brightly.

  ***

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  Chapter 49 – Piers

  The hot tea sloshed inside the white porcelain cup, threaten
ing to escape over the lip and spill onto the wooden tray. Piers tried hard to make sure that none of the tea toppled over the sides. The High Priest would be angry if the outside of the cup became wet.

  The Priests ate their dinner in a private dining room in the Parsonage, a simple room with long wooden tables, tall ceilings, and long benches upholstered with red velvet cushions.

  Most nights, like this one, the High Priest preferred to eat alone in his office.

  Piers carried the dessert tray and the tea. A thick slab of apple pie and a bowl of apple ice cream competed for space on the tray with the tea.

  The Pantry, where the Priests prepared their food, connected to the High Priest’s office by a heavy swinging door. A small copper bell hung above the door, which the High Priest rang with one tug of white twine. The unwritten rule: five seconds—if he waited more than five seconds, he became surly, and that always spelled bad news for the tardy novice. A different novice manned the small kitchen each night, all night, just in case the High Priest wanted something to eat, which he commonly did when he had trouble sleeping.

  Tonight, Piers had drawn Pantry duty.

  He backed through the swinging door and into the High Priest’s office carrying the tray and limping slightly.

  The High Priest sat behind Jacob’s Desk with his back to him, gazing out the windows. His computer was on, but the screen showed only wavy lines.

  Piers breathed easily as he successfully placed the tray on the desk without spilling a drop of tea.

  Still facing the window, the High Priest said, “We’re a lot alike, you and me.” He turned. “We’re both true believers. Jacob’s blood flows through my veins and not yours, but you have a real devotion. Very admirable.”

  I’m nothing like you.

  “Yes, your Grace. I wish to follow your example, although I could never reach your level of knowledge or your communion with Jacob.” He spoke hollow words that almost choked him as he uttered them. He had to say them; the High Priest expected to hear them.

  The High Priest smiled thinly. “True, Piers. I’m happy you understand. Not everyone does. Eden Day this year will be very special. Jacob has sent me visions, but they are not complete.” A touch of melancholy drifted in the High Priest’s voice as if doubt troubled him. “Sometimes Jacob’s will is hard to discern. It takes patience.”