Season of Sacrifice

by Mindy Klasky

  “Come with me, Reade.” She tried to keep her voice level, reassuring.

  The boy screamed, “Guards! To me! To the Sun-lord!” As Alana grabbed him, he kicked her, but his golden robes tangled about his feet. He started to tumble down the dais steps, but Alana snatched him upright, jerking on the billowing cloth around his waist.

  The breath was knocked out of his small lungs as Alana scrambled at her own waist for her iron dagger, the precious blade that her father had given her. Her hand was firm as she yanked Reade against her chest, leveling her knife toward the nearest of Coren’s advancing men.

  The duke had recovered enough from his surprise that he bellowed for quiet, ordering his soldiers to stand down. Bringham called for order as well, causing the blue-clad Southglen soldiers to drop back from the raised dais. The rival dukes glared at each other for a quick instant, each thinking that the other had staged the disruption.

  Coren must have read the confusion in Bringham’s eyes, though, for he seemed to realize that Southglen did not know what was happening. Bringham clearly did not recognize Alana or Landon; he’d never seen Maddock or Jobina. Bringham did not know the outlanders who disrupted the holy Service. Coren nodded slowly as if making a truce with his rival, and then he turned to Alana.

  Taking a single step forward, his coal-black eyes measuring the woodsinger’s grip on Reade, Coren clearly calculated the tension in her knife-wielding hand. Smiling tightly through his curling chestnut beard, Coren held his hands out from his sides, auspiciously showing them empty of any weapon. “Alana Woodsinger. Well met.”

  Alana saw the dark eyes, watched the hands that had stirred her imagination back on the Headland of Slaughter. She spat at the duke’s feet and pulled Reade closer. “Well met for Smithcourt, perhaps.”

  Above her pounding heart, she could make out Zeketh’s scandalized exclamation, the high priest’s shock that someone would defile his altar. That outcry, though, was nothing compared to the noise of the panicked congregation. From shouts and cries, it was apparent that Bringham’s supporters did not trust Coren; they wanted their own lord to step forward. Swords clashed as the tensions on the dais boiled over to the congregation, and worshipers jostled each other to make room for tight knots of fighters. Coren spoke above the tumult, not sparing his rival a glance. “Lower your knife, Alana. You are not one to shed blood on a holy altar.”

  “Your altar isn’t holy to me! Not when you would sacrifice innocent children upon it!” A rumble went up from the crowd nearest the dais, from Bringham and his closest retainers. Zeketh roared, providing a credible facsimile of a man surprised. Alana raised her voice. “We know the truth, Coren. The real Mothersnake rests inside that cage, and she hungers for the blood of children.”

  The duke stared at the woodsinger in pretended shock before he turned toward his rival, shrugging a gold-clad shoulder in confusion. Play-acted confusion. He directed his words to Alana, forcing sorrow into his voice. “I would not expect an outlander to understand our ways. Not when you and your people shed children’s blood so easily, to feed your Tree. I promise you, woodsinger, there is no threat to the twins here. None at all. Duke Bringham and I, High Priest Zeketh and I, all of us are here to honor the Sun-lord and the Sun-lady, not to hurt them.”

  “I’m not a fool, Coren! You plan to slay the children and shift the blame to Bringham.”

  “That’s absurd!” Coren protested, even as the crowd surged forward. Alana saw from the corner of her eye that Bringham held out an arm, restraining his lieutenant, who would have run Coren through with a sword, holy altar or no. Coren must have caught the same action at the edge of his own vision, but he only raised his aggrieved voice. “Who could have told you such lies? What traitor made up such a tale?”

  Before Alana could answer, Jobina stepped forward. “It was I, my lord. I told her of your plan.”

  Coren gaped in mock amazement. “Jobina! What so-called plan could an herb-witch from the outlands have learned in Smithcourt? When you last walked through our city streets, you were chained as a traitor!” Coren spluttered for words as he darted a glance at Southglen. Slowly, he began to nod. “Ah…” he said slowly, and Alana could see that he now wove a new plan. “I begin to understand. You hope to cast your lot with Bringham. You support Southglen in his hopes for the Iron Throne.”

  Bringham needed to bark out an order to keep his dragon-clad men in line. Before the duke could step forward to answer the challenge himself, Jobina countered, “I’d not seen Bringham before this day, Your Grace. You are the only duke I’ve ever known. The only duke I’ve ever sworn fealty to.”

  “You’re mad, woman!”

  “Was I mad when you lay with me this morning? Was I mad when I conceived your son?” Jobina ignored the congregation’s shocked gasps.

  The duke merely gaped at the healer, not even bothering to justify his reaction for Bringham and the assembled worshipers. “My son?” he finally repeated. “Perhaps you bear some bastard, woman, but he surely isn’t mine.”

  Jobina’s wail was an animal sound. It rose from deep within her, wild and wordless. Alana tightened her hands on Reade’s shoulders, reflexively trying to shield the boy from the healer’s terrifying rage. “Liar!” Jobina shouted. “I believed you, my lord! I listened to your stories, and I agreed that it was necessary for the Sun-lord and the Sun-lady to die! I knew that you must do things, terrible things, to save your kingdom from Bringham. I accepted what you said—even the Mothersnake, I accepted. I loved you, my lord!”

  The healer ran at the duke with a dagger that she produced from somewhere inside her silken robes. The nobleman had no trouble sidestepping her, twisting her wrist sharply and pinning her arm behind her back. “Donal!” he cried as the congregation exploded. The lieutenant sprang to attention, stepping forward with a dozen of Coren’s red-clad men. His hands were brutal as he took Jobina from his lord. “Gag her!” Coren shouted to be heard above the tumult, and Donal complied viciously.

  As Jobina was wrestled off the dais, Coren inclined his head to Zeketh, then turned to Reade and bowed before he included Maida in a broad gesture. “Holy Father, you must forgive us. I’m sorry, Sun-lord. Sun-lady.” The duke spoke directly to the children, in a voice so low that the crowd had to quiet itself to hear. “Jobina Healer has imagined these terrible things. Now she’s ruined your presentation to your people.”

  Alana felt Reade relax in her arms as the duke spoke. “Don’t talk to them!” she snapped at Coren. “Not another word! You’ve tortured them so much they’ll believe anything you say!” There was an outraged murmur from the assemblage, and Bringham stepped forward, but Alana could not know if the man meant to threaten her or Coren. She snarled and took a step closer to the altar, pulling Reade with her.

  “Torture?” Coren laughed incredulously. “Look around you, woodsinger. Cloth-of-gold. Jewels. The holiest priest in Smithcourt. Do these children look abused?”

  Alana dared not give Coren the satisfaction of gazing at the children’s finery, and she knew she would not be able to restrain her anger if she focused on the duplicitous high priest. She could hear Maida’s breath coming fast, even across the dais, the little girl panting as if she were an injured animal. Alana barely let her eyes fall to Reade, to his thin neck, to the pulse that beat beneath her palms.

  “Tell me, Sun-lord,” Coren addressed his words directly to the little boy, “have I ever harmed you?”

  “No, Your Grace. You’ve always done what is best for me.” Reade’s response was immediate, solemn, and sincere. Alana’s heart sank at how readily Reade gave Coren his title, how easily he forgave all that he had suffered. But Reade was not through; he continued to recite his hard-learned lessons. “You’ve done what is best for me, and best for all the kingdom.”

  Coren smiled, and Alana’s belly tightened as she recognized the true affection between the man and the child. “That’s right, Sun-lord. The times are dark, and our people need us.”

  “There are riots in the s
treet,” Reade confirmed, as if he were reciting a poem. “There are bad people who do bad things.”

  “But you and the Sun-lady can make Smithcourt safe again. You can bring order to the kingdom. You can lead your people.”

  “The Sun-lady and I can save all the people,” Reade completed the catechism.

  Coren extended a hand to the boy. “Let us stop this nonsense then, shall we? Come to me, Reade. Let us finish the Service, son.”

  Alana felt Reade register Coren’s endearment. The little boy shifted beneath her hands, ready to move to the duke, to step into his destiny.

  Bringham had stiffened as he watched Coren bond with the Sun-lord. Alana saw the moment that Southglen recognized what he should have known all along, the instant when Bringham saw that his own cause was lost, betrayed. She watched the nobleman’s dragon-chased sword slither from its sheath. Coren registered the danger and leaped back out of harm’s way.

  Reflexively, Alana tugged Reade, dragging him toward the center of the dais, trying to move him beyond the reach of Bringham’s sword. The boy struggled, though, sinking his teeth into Alana’s hand, and he fought to flee toward Coren. Bringham leaped onto the platform, swinging his weapon. In the middle of the tumult, Alana heard High Priest Zeketh’s voice rise. “Now, men! To the left!”

  Bringham was so shocked to hear the priest intervene that he froze in his fighter’s crouch, sword at the ready. Southglen visibly realized that Coren was not acting alone, he saw that the high priest had also lied and cheated to create the Service, to create the facade that all the power in the land was being transferred to the Sun-lord and the Sun-lady.

  Even as Bringham’s world began to tumble around his shoulders, Alana heard the priests comply with their corrupt leader’s order. She heard the ropes rasp against the giant iron censer that hung overhead. She imagined that she could make out the shift of burning incense; she had time to see clouds of smoke billow from the iron bowl. Smoke first, and then the incense came tumbling out.

  The embers glowed red, and they fell slowly, as if the priests poured flaming honey. For a heartbeat, Bringham was frozen in front of Alana and Reade, frozen in a rain of fire amid the smoldering embers that sizzled on his fine cobalt robes. Even as the swordsman came to life, brushing away the coals, Zeketh swore, casting a horrible oath up to his Seven Gods. Clearly, he had expected more from the swinging censer; he had intended to annihilate Bringham. The high priest exhorted his followers again: “Swing hard, men! To the right!”

  Alana saw Bringham leap away, and she realized what the men were doing. She commanded herself to move, to drag Reade with her. Her scrambling brain issued the instructions, but her muscles refused to act. She was rooted in terror as she watched the giant iron censer tip above her head, watched the ropes slip along its sides. It was already too late to move, too late to act, too late to do anything but watch the censer fall and hold on to Reade and commend their souls to the Guardians.

  And then, she was knocked to the cathedral floor.

  Even as she rolled, trying to keep from crushing Reade, trying to keep her dagger from the child’s flesh, Alana looked over her shoulder. She forced a ragged breath past her bruised lungs as the censer slipped from its ropes and crashed to the dais where she had just stood. The clang of iron against stone was muffled, though, by a human body.

  By Landon’s body.

  “No!” Alana screamed as time was released, and she watched the censer roll to its side. For one desperate moment, she thought that the tracker had heard her, that he had shrugged off the bowl and was climbing to his feet. The motion, though, was only an illusion. There was too much blood, too much crimson soaking the smoldering, incense-singed carpet.

  Landon would not draw another tortured breath in Smithcourt. He would not look again at Alana, stare at her with tortured eyes that said he feared that he would fail her.

  Even as Alana registered that Maddock now held Maida, the censer completed its slow roll, clanging to rest against the Mothersnake’s giant cage. The iron bowl hit the glass with tremendous force, making the enclosure shudder and shift on its stand. The sand rolled against the glass wall as if it were a liquid wave. The black branch absorbed the blow and burrowed deeper beneath its grainy silver blanket.

  People cried out in the cathedral, for they had heard Jobina’s accusation, and now they feared the beast that lurked within the sand. Alana braced herself for the horror, for the serpent in the cage to writhe its way into the cathedral. The Guardians, though, must have heard her silent prayer, for the Mothersnake did not escape. The sand flowed back from the far wall, kissing the top of the crystal enclosure, but the cage held.

  Even as Alana realized that the Mothersnake was contained, chaos exploded around her. Women in the congregation screamed, and men bellowed. High Priest Zeketh shouted orders to his priests, exhorting them to seize the Sun-lord and the Sun-lady, whatever the cost. Bringham’s men fought to their lord’s side, brandishing swords against the treacherous priests. Coren hollered for his own men. Reade sobbed, calling for his da as if his heart would break, and Maida’s voice rose in a pitiful moan.

  “Hold!”

  The single word broke through the tempest like a ray of sunshine. Maddock moved to the foot of the dais, tall and fearless. Smoke from the incense-charred carpet rose around him, but he stood tall and true, with a naked sword glimmering in his hands. He thrust Maida toward Alana, and the woodsinger gathered the little girl against her hip, uncertain of Maddock’s intention.

  “Hold!” the warrior repeated, and an edgy silence fell over everyone in the cathedral. “Coren. Bringham. Fight your own battles, with your own men, but let these children and women return to our home. Let us go.”

  “My, my,” Coren said after a long moment. “If it isn’t the People’s coward, mewling on my steps.”

  “Call me names, if that makes you feel more a man.” Maddock turned his sword so that it caught a beam of shimmering sunlight. He looked from Coren to Bringham and back again. “Let us go,” he repeated.

  “And why should I do that, little man? One of you rebels already lies crushed upon the dais. Why should I just step aside and let you take our Sun-lord and Sun-lady?”

  “Everyone now knows what you planned to do, Coren. If Bringham doesn’t cut you down for double-crossing him, your own men will turn against a child-killer. End the charade and let us go.”

  “You believe that raving whore?” Coren gestured dismissively toward Jobina, who now stood gagged and broken at Donal’s side.

  “I believe that you intended Reade and Maida to die.” Maddock glanced at Bringham, but he threw his words toward Coren. “You intended to betray your rival, Southglen. You and Zeketh meant to sacrifice the children, so that you could take their place. You wanted to live the old legends, to be Culain.”

  “To be…You’re mad!” Coren cast his denial toward his rival. “We spent weeks working out this truce, Southglen. Why would I endanger that by harming the Sun-lord and the Sun-lady?”

  Maddock answered before Bringham could reply. “You wanted all of Smithcourt for yourself, Coren. You wanted to sit on the Iron Throne yourself, whatever the cost to Maida and Reade, to two helpless children.”

  “You lie!”

  “Do I? Then fight me, Coren. Fight to prove that you walk with your Seven Gods on paths of justice.”

  “Fight you?” Coren managed to coat the question in incredulity.

  “Aye. Here and now. Single combat, with sword alone. If I win, we outlanders get free passage through Smithcourt’s gates, horses for all of us, and we ride home unhindered.”

  “And when I win?”

  “If you do, you’ll have the children, free and clear.”

  Coren glared at Maddock for a long minute, as if he were trapped inside a cage. Before he answered, he turned to Bringham, measuring his rival’s hungry stare. “Southglen? What say you? If I rid us of this fool, will our own truce hold? Will you stand beside me as we present Smithcourt to the Sun-lord a
nd the Sun-lady in this house of the Seven Gods?”

  Bringham looked about the dais, staring first at Maddock, then at Alana. His intelligent eyes came to rest on the giant censer, on the bloody ruin that had been Landon. Slowly, he shook his head and turned his gaze on Zeketh before he said to Coren, “You work with the priest. I will not trust a man who just ordered my death. I will not trust a high priest who ordered his own men to slay me before his altar.”

  “I was fooled by him as well!” Coren protested. “I thought he would work with both of us, that he would help us to build peace.”

  “Words, Coren,” Bringham spat. “You think to seduce me with words.”

  “Donal!” Coren shouted without hesitation. Coren kept his eyes on Bringham’s, steady and unwavering. “Take High Priest Zeketh into custody. Now!”

  Donal did not hesitate. He barked orders to a dozen of his men, short sharp cries like a dog in the night. Moving with the same efficiency that he had harnessed against Jobina, against the People, against poor Maida back on the Headland of Slaughter, Donal ordered his men to surround High Priest Zeketh.

  Zeketh bolted for the front of the dais, but Donal anticipated the move, snagging the priest’s flowing black robes and tripping him. Zeketh fell hard, his teeth catching his tongue. Blood flecked the large man’s lips as he struggled for breath, fought to regain his feet. “The Seven Gods will smite you! All of you will burn in endless fire!”

  “In your company,” Donal growled. Two sharp jabs to Zeketh’s solar plexus cut off further imprecations.

  A few of the other priests made as if to escape from the dais, but they were rapidly restrained by Donal’s men. “Very good, Donal,” Coren said when Zeketh was forced to his knees. “Gag him.” Donal followed suit. “Now give him to our brother Southglen.”

  “My lord?”

  “Hand the priest to Bringham.”

  Donal complied without further protest, waiting until the somewhat-surprised Bringham had managed to pass the priest on to his own captain. Coren nodded when the transfer was complete. “Smithcourt has no room for those who would play traitor in the house of the Seven Gods.” Zeketh bellowed behind his gag, but he was restrained by the rough ministrations of Bringham’s men.