Season of Sacrifice

by Mindy Klasky

  Duke Coren must be telling a scary story, like the Men’s Council did on the longest night of every year. Grown-ups told stories all the time, and most of them were confusing. Confusing, or outright lies. Da had lied, when he’d said that he’d take Reade fishing.

  Besides, Reade was having an adventure that would make all the boys jealous back home. Even Winder, who always made Reade wait on the edge of the green while the big boys chose their teams. Reade would lead those games when he and Maida returned to Land’s End, after they journeyed to Smithcourt. After the Service, whatever that was.

  Every day for a week, Duke Coren pushed them hard. He knew all the best taverns along the way, and he always arranged for rooms upstairs. Maida was taken away whenever she cried too much or got too mouthy. Reade, though, remembered to hold his tongue, and he got to sit at the duke’s right hand. He was proud, even if he was still a little scared.

  After a week of listening to Duke Coren talk to people in common rooms, the line between truth and story was completely blurred in Reade’s mind. Over and over, he heard stories about the People. He learned that Sartain Fisherman had been training men for months, teaching them to steal inland children. Duke Coren explained that the People had always hated the inlanders. The People were jealous. They wanted fine fields and rich harvests. They wanted iron. They would kill for gold.

  Reade was glad that he wore his bright robes, glad that the inlanders could see that he and Maida were different from the People. After all, the twins had left their home. They hadn’t done the horrible things that Duke Coren talked about! They had never hurt anyone, for harvests or iron or gold or anything at all!

  Sitting in the taverns, listening to the duke’s stories, Reade pulled his golden robes closer about his shoulders and reminded himself of all the lessons he had already learned. He remembered to sit quietly. He remembered to eat his supper. He remembered not to confuse anyone with his own stories about life on the Headland.

  At night, Reade dreamed of the ghosts who walked the beaches of Land’s End. He dreamed of inland traders who were killed for their goods, and children who were drowned so that their parents did not go hungry. He dreamed of the branches of the Tree, spreading out across the sky like a spiderweb, waiting to catch bad boys, waiting to punish them.

  When he woke, he almost believed that Sartain Fisherman had meant to slaughter him over the Tree’s roots. After all, Reade had been chosen as the huer, hadn’t he? He’d been recognized as the smartest boy in the village, the fastest and the loudest and the best at spying out schools of fish. What would keep Sartain Fisherman from offering up Reade, Reade and Maida both, as sacrifices to the Guardians? Surely the Guardians only wanted the best.

  Reade also kept remembering Alana Woodsinger’s face. She was always yelling at him to stop some harmless fun. She was very strict, and she had that funny knife that she carried with her everywhere. Maybe that was the knife she would have used to sacrifice Reade. Maybe that was the knife she would have used to slit Maida’s throat while Reade watched, helpless.

  One night, thinking about Alana Woodsinger’s sharp, iron knife, Reade stepped closer to Duke Coren. He raised a hand to the woodstar that swung from his neck. Certainly, the duke had given him the bavin, but the thing had been sung by the woodsinger. It was part of the Tree, the same Tree that wanted to drink his blood. Maybe he should throw away the woodstar. Maybe he should take it from his neck and walk over to the hearth. He could throw it into the flames right then and there.

  Before Reade could act, though, Duke Coren settled a reassuring hand on his shoulder. Then, for no reason at all, the duke gave him a bite of meat from beneath the steaming crust of his pie. The duke shared his ale as well, pouring from his pewter tankard into a small pottery cup. Reade’s eyes grew heavy as his stomach grew full. He was almost asleep when Duke Coren stood and picked him up, moving toward the stairs.

  “Allow me, Your Grace.” Donal pushed back from the table and reached out for Reade. He was still chewing; he had taken Maida upstairs earlier in the evening, when she had refused to touch the kidney pie. Maida said the pie smelled funny.

  “Stay, man,” Duke Coren said easily. “Finish your meal.”

  Donal bowed and returned to the table. Reade put his head on Duke Coren’s shoulder as the tall man carried him up the stairs. He could feel the duke breathing, feel warm hands across his back. The nobleman needed to stoop low to enter the room at the top of the stairs. Da had needed to duck to pass through the door of their cottage.

  A serving girl sat beside the bed. She bit off a small shriek as Reade and the duke entered the chamber. “Begging your pardon, Your Grace,” she said, and she dropped a curtsey. “I was just watching the little girl, as your man ordered.”

  “Very good,” Duke Coren said. “You may go now.”

  “Aye, Your Grace.” She bobbed up and down again. “Is there anything I can be getting you?”

  “Nothing. I’m just putting the boy to bed.”

  “I’d be happy to do that, Your Grace. You can return downstairs. Have another mug of ale.”

  “I’ll attend him myself.” The girl ducked out the door without another word.

  Duke Coren helped Reade out of the cloth-of-gold. Every night, Reade was stripped to his smallclothes. It was hard to fold the golden fabric. It kept slipping on itself, and it was hard to make it stay in a neat pile.

  Maida’s golden robe, though, already rested at the foot of her pallet, and Reade could just make out her white linen shift, poking out at the top of her coverlet. She was breathing deeply. Maybe Donal had given her some of the sweet water to drink. Thinking of the golden cup, Reade remembered a question he wanted to ask Duke Coren.

  “How much longer until we get to Smithcourt, Your Grace?”

  “Still many days, Sun-lord.”

  “When will we stay at another inn that has venison?”

  “I don’t know, Sun-lord.”

  “Didn’t you like the venison stew we had last night?”

  “It was good, Sun-lord.”

  “Why do you send Maida upstairs each night?”

  “Because she asks too many questions, Sun-lord.”

  Reade heard the warning, and he fell silent while the duke folded up the last of his golden cloth. Without planning to, Reade opened his mouth and yawned so broadly that he heard his jaw pop. “I’m not ready to go to sleep yet,” he protested, as Duke Coren pulled a linen shift over his head.

  “You’re barely standing on your feet,” the duke said, laughing.

  “Tell me a story!” Reade begged. Da used to tell stories every night. Reade and Maida would huddle on the pallet they shared by the hearth, and Da would sit close to the fire, his hands working his nets as he spoke. Da would tell of wondrous things—about the Guardians of Water and their towns beneath the sea, about the age before this one, when there were no people, but only talking animals. “Tell me a story,” Reade repeated, whining a little as Duke Coren forced his head back onto the heavy bolster.

  “Very well,” Duke Coren said, and he smiled as he pulled up the coverlet. Reade smiled, too. “Lie back. And close your eyes. And no talking while I speak.”

  Reade opened his mouth to agree, but the duke shook his head. “No talking,” he repeated. “None at all.”

  Reade settled his head on the bolster and closed his eyes, stretching his arms and legs out straight. There was a pause, and he heard Duke Coren swallow. Then, the story began. “Years ago, before the boyhood of your father’s father’s father, there was great unrest in all the land. Brother raised arms against brother, father against son, and crop after crop failed because the fields were watered with too much blood.”

  What type of story was this? Da never told a story with blood! Da never told any stories about people fighting. Reade started to ask a question, but he stopped himself just in time.

  “In the midst of that chaos, there was a great woman, the Queen of the Cave, who wed a great man, the Smith of the Skies. The Smith led f
oray after foray against his enemies, always emerging the victor. When the Queen was heavy with child, she pleaded with her husband to stop his battles, for she feared that she would die in childbed, and she did not want her child to be an orphan. The Smith, though, was scornful of the Queen’s fears, and he was far afield when his wife collapsed in labor.

  “For two full days, the Queen cried out in childbed, and only when a soldier brought her news that the Smith had indeed been slain in battle did the Queen bring forth not one child, but two, a boy and a girl. The Queen looked upon them and blessed them with their names—Lord of the Sun and Lady of the Sun. Then, she foretold their terrible future.

  “Their lives would be hard and dangerous, and their own children would rise up in arms against them. Even as the Queen spoke those words, she knew that her death was upon her, and she ordered her trusted maidservant to take the two perfect children and slay them, lest they suffer the dolorous fate that she foresaw.”

  Reade thought of those two little babies, with their mum and their da both dead. His throat tightened. He was about to open his eyes, about to tell Duke Coren that he didn’t want to hear this kind of story, a scary story. Before he could speak, though, Duke Coren settled a hand on his belly. Heat flowed through the coverlet, heat and weight, like a magic blanket, protecting Reade.

  The duke continued: “The maidservant grieved so at the passing of her lady that she could not do as the Queen commanded. Instead of slaughtering the innocent babes, she took them to the woods and left them on a bed of softest moss beneath a tree.

  “Before night fell, the twins were found by a doe. The deer raised the two children as if they were her own fawns, and the twins learned grace and beauty and how to flee the hunter. And when they were of the proper age, the old doe took the Lord of the Sun and escorted him to the far northern edge of her forest, and she took the Lady of the Sun to the far southern edge of her forest, setting them on the road to make their way in the world.

  “The Sun-lord traveled and his adventures were many. He married and had a dozen children, strong men and women all, who became great warriors and led scores of heroes into battle. The Sun-lady traveled as well, and had adventures as well. She, too, had a dozen children, and they, too, were great warriors, who led scores of warriors into battle.

  “But the day came when a son of the Sun-lady all unknowing lay with a daughter of the Sun-lord, and she grew heavy with child. She became ashamed that she could no longer lead her warriors, and she told her family that she had been taken by force.

  “The children of the Sun-lord grew hot in fury and rode against the children of the Sun-lady, all the while not knowing that they fought their own kin. Village after village was burned to the ground, and field after field was sown with salt.

  “Only when the Sun-lord and the Sun-lady faced each other across a field of blood-red mud did they learn that they had fulfilled their mother’s bitter prophecy. The twins fled their embattled children, riding until they reached the end of the earth, where the sun last touches the land before dying every night.”

  Reade’s mind whirled. The Sun-lord and the Sun-lady had ridden to Land’s End! They had come to the People! Reade could not help but slit open his eyes, looking up at the duke. The nobleman smiled and nodded.

  “Aye,” Duke Coren continued, and his eyes were for Reade alone. “The Sun-lord and the Sun-lady settled among the People on the Headland of Slaughter, intending to live out their lives in hardship to atone for the bloodshed they had brought to the inlanders.

  “Every month, though, as the moon reached its fullness in the sky, people came to Land’s End to call back the Lord and Lady. All of their children had died on the bloody battlefield, and the kingdom had no one left to guide it. Nevertheless, the twins remembered how fate had driven them to destroy what they loved best, and always they refused.

  “Finally, after five years, a pair of children arrived at the distant point of land. They were clothed in robes of gold, and they walked hand in hand. They were of an age, and the Sun-lord and the Sun-lady knew that these children were twins like themselves. When questioned, the children said that their father had died on a great battlefield, and that his body had never been recovered from the bloody mud. Their mother had died at their birthing, cursing the day that she had started the great war that had destroyed her land. As soon as the twins could walk, they had been driven forth from the sorrowful castle of their childhood, accompanied only by a single guard, the faithful Culain.

  “Then the Sun-lord and Sun-lady knew that the twins were their own grandchildren, and they welcomed the boy and girl with open arms. The old twins knew that they had wasted valuable years trying to flee their own destiny, and they left Land’s End. They traveled back to Smithcourt, the old twins and the young, along with soldiers gathered from the countryside to accompany them, all led by the honorable Culain. Upon their return, there were more sorrows and more prophecies, but in the end Culain himself took the throne, one thousand years ago, and the days of chaos were finally ended.”

  Reade struggled to sit up, but Duke Coren shook his head. The duke’s hand was still heavy across his belly, and Reade settled for whispering, “Why did Culain become king? Why didn’t the Sun-lord and the Sun-lady rule the People?”

  “Those are other stories, Sun-lord, for other times.”

  The duke had so many wonderful stories to tell. Reade was missing so much as he slept through day after day. He flushed and gripped Duke Coren’s arm. “Please, Your Grace. Tomorrow, I don’t want to drink from the golden cup.”

  “The ride is long yet. We have to cover more ground every day, until we reach Smithcourt.”

  “I don’t care.” Reade smiled his best smile. “The ride was long for the Sun-lord, too, and Culain would never have made him drink.”

  Duke Coren stared at the boy. All of a sudden his eyes were dark, sharp. “Ah, Sun-lord, you’re probably right at that. Once you set aside the golden cup, though, I’ll not let you change your mind.”

  “I won’t. I swear it.”

  “The Sun-lord’s oaths are not casual things,” the duke warned.

  “I’m not a baby!”

  “No, Sun-lord. You most certainly are not a baby.”

  “Then you won’t make me drink tomorrow?”

  “I won’t, Sun-lord. Just remember that you are the one who asked for the privilege.”

  A shiver crept down Reade’s spine. He remembered how much his legs had hurt on that first day, when he rode without drinking the sweet water. He remembered crying, even when he was trying to be brave. His nose had run, no matter how much he wiped it on his arm.

  For just a moment, he thought that he would tell Duke Coren that he had made a mistake. Maybe he wasn’t big enough to ride without the golden cup. Maybe he needed to break his oath.

  Then, Reade remembered the Sun-lord in the duke’s story. He would have been brave enough. He would have been strong enough. Even if it hurt like a stinging eel, the Sun-lord would keep his promise.

  Reade would be brave and strong, too. Sitting on the stallion in front of Duke Coren, Reade would act just like the Sun-lord.

  5

  Irritation pricked Alana’s eyes as she stepped into her empty cottage. Of course, not a single villager had thought to set a fire on her hearth. Not one person had brought her supper, despite the fact that she’d spent the entire day at the Tree, stretching her powers landward, struggling to commune with the oak’s earth-power, harnessing the air-power that hovered between the Tree and its woodstars. She sighed in exhaustion, even as a swirl of thoughts drifted into her consciousness from other woodsingers, from the women who had gone before her.

  “The People never realize the sacrifices I make,” whispered one old crone, her tremulous voice captured forever in the woodsingers’ communion with the Tree.

  “Would it be so hard for them to lay a fire?” asked another of Alana’s predecessors.

  “Couldn’t they set out some food? I don’t need fresh-baked
bread—anything, really, after a long day tending the Tree….”

  Alana took some grudging comfort in the fact that she was not the first woodsinger to be slighted by the People. In fact, she managed to think in a moment of lucidity, the People were not mean, or even lazy. It most likely never occurred to them that the woodsinger would want her privacy invaded. Nevertheless, the cottage was chilly and dark, and Alana had to comfort herself with a tough heel from yesterday’s loaf of bread.

  She sighed as she collapsed onto the low stool by her hearth. This landward business was draining. In the past fortnight, Alana had taught herself to extend her powers into the Tree’s roots, to feel the rich earth beneath her. She had felt the Tree gather up the land’s rich, dark energy, the nutrients that stretched across the earth from the western edge of the Headland of Slaughter to Smithcourt. The Tree’s earth aspect, though, was bound tighter than its familiar, watery soul, and Alana’s jaw ached with the power of concentrating on her new skills. She had ratcheted up her concentration until she felt like a child’s top. By the end of each day, she ached to spin free.

  And reaching through the air was no easier. Alana felt the breezes ruffling the Tree’s leaves, she absorbed the free and lithesome energy of the Guardians of Air. It was hard to focus that force, though, hard to keep a single gust blowing all the way across the Headland, over the land to swirl around Reade’s bavin. Over and over, Alana caught her own breath, starving her lungs until she gasped with the effort to guide the wind.

  Even when she was away from the Tree, even when she had set aside her efforts to harness earth and air, she did not find much relief. Each night, when she managed to stagger back from the Headland, she was confronted by the dusty shelves of journals in her cottage. The moldering leather volumes were filled with the cramped notes of all her predecessors. The journals captured words that had never been spoken to the Tree, information that she could not glean by focusing on the swirl of voices inside her mind. It took concentration to read, though, concentration in the stillest part of the night, when her eyes were grainy from lack of sleep. A few of the accounts were written in a strong hand, the words easily made out, but most sprawled like spider webs, spun out across the page with gossamer strands lost to aging parchment and fading ink.