by Kaelyn Ross
That’s where they’ll be waiting. That’s where they’ll be watching. That’s where I’ll have to—
The need to spew her last meal struck again, but this time the sensation made Kestrel angry. Stop this! she chided herself. You are Red Hand, and the first enemy a Red Hand slays is fear. Go to the Bone Tree. Go now, and let all know that you do not fear!
Kestrel obeyed her silent command, and quickly strode along the wide dirt tracks winding through the village. Dogs nosing about for scraps of anything to eat looked up at her passing, wagged their tails, barked happy greetings, then went back to their eternal searches. Ever watchful cats were more elusive, keeping to the shadows between stone and timber buildings, or lurking under two-wheeled carts loaded with everything from firewood to metal scrap bound for Fat Will’s forge to wooden buckets loaded with the first berries of summer. She knew the hour was growing late, as red and gold now smudged the evening sky.
Every time her stride slowed, she told herself: Go!
Before long she was running, her legs carrying her through a row of timber granaries standing on wooden posts along one side of the village green, across this large open space reserved for festivals and marriage ceremonies, and then through a row of cabins.
Soon after, she passed from the village through the Bald Hill Gate, and sprinted up a forest trail thick with the sweet smell of evergreens, her feet drumming lightly over a carpet of pine straw.
It struck her that she was racing to outpace her fears, while at the same time running straight toward the very thing she feared most. Even as she considered this, she burst into the open field below the Bone Tree and skidded to a halt, panting, nervous eyes darting.
People milled about everywhere. She had known them all her life, but they all looked like strangers.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
A few villagers might have noticed her abrupt arrival, but most were busy eating, laughing, or trying in vain to wrangle unruly children who were chasing each other about. Again, if she had been thinking straight, she would have remembered this was how it always was … at least until the actual ceremony began.
Kestrel’s gaze climbed briefly above the villagers to the Bone Tree, standing alone atop a large grassy knoll. Knowing what would happen when she stood beneath it, she dropped her gaze, and found her mother talking to Mary, a short plump woman who worked the fields with her. Aiden stood on the opposite side of the clearing, speaking with his band of Red Hands. The other four bands were clustered nearby.
“I was beginning to think you’d changed your mind,” said her father, coming closer with a warrior’s easy, yet somewhat dangerous gait. His clothing, a black leather vest over a gray roughspun shirt, leather trousers, and soft-soled boots, was similar to what most men wore in the village. His long hair, iron gray at the temples, swept back from his brow, and was held in place at the back with a leather thong. Nothing in his appearance marked him as an Elder—pretension of any sort was frowned upon in the village. Nevertheless, a quiet air of authority surrounded him, and a touch of stateliness.
Kestrel sought an answer, but could not find the words. With no better choice, she showed Matthias her teeth in what she hoped resembled a confident grin, and not a terrified grimace.
“I’d tell you not to be nervous,” Matthias said, proving that her expression was less than she had hoped for, “but that’s impossible, isn’t it?”
“Were you nervous?” Kestrel blurted.
Matthias laughed. “Nervous then, and nervous now. I feel as if I’m about to go through the ceremony myself, instead of you. But you will do fine.” His features grew sober. “Have you asked the Ancestors to bless you?”
“Every day for as long as I can remember.”
“Do you think they have?”
Kestrel remembered cutting her palm on the mountain, and giving her blood in return for their aid. “Yes. But no one can know the ultimate will of the Ancestors,” she said by rote, “until they have returned us safe to hearth and home.”
He glanced skyward, and she followed his gaze. The first stars of the evening twinkled in the far east. To the west, the sky glowed with the last dying fires of sunlight.
“I don’t pretend to know the will of the Ancestors,” Matthias said, dropping a comforting hand on her shoulder and turning her toward the Bone Tree, “but in you, I have been blessed.”
Again, Kestrel could find no words. She wondered what her father would think if he knew Aiden had helped her after the Kill? Disappointment, to be sure, and if not for that, she would have told him right then. Part of her wanted to tell him as much as she had wanted to tell One-Ear Tom, but she simply could not tell the truth. She had worked her entire life to become a Red Hand, and it was not fair that Aiden had intervened for the sole purpose of destroying her dream.
Damn him, she thought, and decided that even if her silence displeased the Ancestors, she would take the secret to her grave. She had fought the lion and defeated it. And after, she had nearly gotten away from the Stone Dogs. Aiden’s showing up had denied her the chance to defend herself or escape, and she refused to take the blame for that. If either of them were guilty of defying tradition, it was Aiden—he who never went against custom…. Unless he has something to gain, she silently amended.
Her father, looking at the Bone Tree, did not seem to notice Kestrel’s scowl of concentration. “The time has come. Go now, daughter, to your purpose.”
Kestrel squared her shoulders and stepped away from him. As soon as his hand vanished, a tremendous weight fell upon her, as if he had actually been holding her up.
The villagers saw her marching up the knoll and fell silent. Even the rowdy children went still, much as she had done on many occasions when growing up.
Her heart pounded harder the closer she came to the Bone Tree. One-Ear Tom claimed the great oak, with its thick, serpentine limbs hung with tufts of moss and clacking bones, had stood old and tall when their people first arrived here.
Kestrel could believe it, for the tree’s girth was more than a dozen men clasped hand-in-hand could reach around, and its hoary bark was gray and gnarled by countless years. No other tree like it existed in these parts, which gave credence to the idea that it might be a wonder given life by the Ancestors themselves.
At the top of the knoll, the grass gave way to a wide, circular path of quartz gravel, meticulously cleaned of fallen leaves and twigs, and then smoothed with rakes. At the center of the path, just beyond the outer reach of the tree’s great limbs, stood a bench carved from black stone and swirled throughout with veins of rich cream. As far as anyone knew, it had been there as long as the Bone Tree, a forgotten monument given new life by her people.
Feeling as if something were pushing and pulling her at the same time, Kestrel crunched over the gravel and halted before the bench.
No one moved at the edges of her sight, but she felt the weight of their stares—a far heavier burden than she had previously imagined. Sweat beaded on her brow, coursed down her spine. Her pulse jumped in her throat.
Her eyes took in the sprawling lower branches above her, then rose higher. Everywhere she looked, bones hung from slender wires. The lowest still looked somewhat fresh. Those a bit higher had been bleached white by the sun. The highest bones were the oldest, and were gray, cracked, and spotted with lichen.
Hundreds of bones, perhaps thousands. The legacy of all the Red Hands who had come before her.
One-Ear Tom told that a group of wretched survivors during the Great Sorrow had gathered on this knoll, below this ancient tree, and had forged an alliance in order that a few might stand together as one against the hardships of the world.
And so had been born the House of the Red Hand. As a warning to all those who thought to attack them, they hung the bones of their vanquished enemies upon the tree. Over time, rival tribes had learned to fear the Red Hands, and their attacks diminished. In turn, the rite of the Kill gradually replaced human bones with the bones of fearsome beasts.
All that changed when, two years before, Aiden had added the skull of a Black Ear. It swung on its wire, the gaping, sightless eyes seeming to stare down at Kestrel. Some counted Aiden’s deed as an honor to the original Red Hands. Others, like Kestrel’s mother, feared it was an omen of coming trouble. All Kestrel could think was that the bones of her Kill would soon be added to these—
But not soon enough! Kestrel thought in alarm. Her insides cramped, and she feared she was about to make a fool of herself. She swallowed the flood of spit in her mouth, forced herself to breathe slowly and deeply, until the queasiness passed. It was not so easy to hide the heat filling her cheeks. Even from afar, she guessed her face must be glowing red.
It is time, a small voice whispered in the back of her mind.
Kestrel turned to face the villagers, and froze.
The faces were blurred smears all around her. She blinked several times, but they never grew any clearer.
If they are blurry to me, then I must be blurry to them.
It was a thin, unrealistic wish.
She had stood where they did often enough to know anyone in her place stood out with an otherworldly clarity, as if the Ancestors themselves intervened in this act to ensure that only the bravest in all things became a Red Hand.
It is time, the voice said again.
I cannot!
You must.
I … I … I must.
Kestrel stared straight ahead, her face rigid as stone. Hands shaking, she bent, caught the bottom of her dress, and carefully pulled it up and over her head. As the dress fell from her fingers, the cooling evening air pebbled her bare skin.
No one laughed or snickered, which had been her greatest fear, but neither did they look away. She stood before them, as naked and defenseless as a newborn, save for the bandages at her neck and hip and belly. According to this part of the ceremony, if there was any fault hidden within her, the Ancestors would make it known to all.
Half sure the Ancestors would strike her dead for keeping Aiden’s secrets, Kestrel waited, staring straight ahead, arms spread wide. No boils erupted over her skin, nor did lightning fall from the cloudless twilight sky, nor any of the other gruesome things One-Ear Tom often spoke of during the Reaptime celebration.
In the gathering darkness, the villagers looked on, giving her their silent support. A day might come when they were as exposed as she was now, and on that day, in her capacity as a Red Hand, they would expect her to repay their support with her skill and courage as a warrior.
Only when the low thrumming of drums sounded, and torches were lit, one by one around the crescent-shaped perimeter formed by the villagers, did Kestrel lower her arms. Letting out a breath that rattled in her throat, she walked around the bench and knelt, facing her people.
The Bone Tree ceremony had begun.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
One-Ear Tom walked up to Kestrel after she knelt, his tread falling in time with the beat of the drums. He offered Kes a gap-toothed smile. “You did well.”
She smiled nervously in return, but said nothing.
He had changed into a long robe the color of fresh blood, and was carrying a wooden tray loaded with stoneware cups. Red smears covered the wide mouths of some. A few of the others held arrays of wooden tool handles of all different lengths.
Kestrel fixated on those handles, all spotted with red fingerprints. “Will it hurt?”
The old warrior set his tray down on the end of the bench, and then picked up the smallest, cleanest looking cup. “After a few sips of seeker’s tea, you’ll not feel any pain.” He held it out to her, his movements precise, solemn. “Drink, young Kes, and learn the will of the Ancestors.”
When Kestrel took the cup, she realized that her embarrassment had faded. That was not to say she was comfortable being undressed in front of so many, let alone One-Ear Tom, but her bare skin seemed less important than it had before. The ceremony had nothing to do with desires of the flesh. In place of the discomfort, she had gained a growing sense of confidence and purpose amongst her tribe.
“What will I see?” She had asked the same of her brother and father once, but they had refused to tell. The secret of the seeker’s tea was reserved for Red Hands alone.
Instead of answering, One-Ear Tom motioned for her to drink, and she did. The thick liquid was warm and bitter, and she almost gagged. Instead, she managed to drink it all down without so much as a grimace.
After draining the cup, she handed it back with the same reverence in which he had presented it to her.
He took it in his gnarled hands, looked inside, nodded approvingly. “Your brother spewed the first sip back into the cup.” One-Ear Tom grinned. “Of course, that meant he had to drink that, too.”
While Kestrel found that slightly amusing, she was interested in other matters. “What will I see?” she insisted, alarmed by the sudden, heavy gurgling in her belly.
One-Ear Tom placed the cup back with the others. “Can you keep a secret?” he asked in a conspiratorial hush.
You have no idea, Kestrel thought, even as she nodded.
“I saw nothing when I drank the tea,” he admitted. “Oh, I felt strange, but I gained no secret knowledge from the Ancestors. I tell you, as I was told on the day I became a Red Hand, and as I’ve told all who have received the cup from my hand, there is no shame in not hearing from the Ancestors. They are fickle, our guardians, and one should always remember that they dole out blessings and curses according to their will, not ours. I’ve often suspected that those who claim to have seen some sign, actually saw only what their secret hearts showed them.” He shrugged. “But I could be wrong. Either way, if you see something, Kes, you must speak of it at the appointed time.”
That was not exactly what Kestrel wanted to hear, but she bowed her head in acceptance.
One-Ear Tom caught her eye. “Can you promise me something?”
“Of course.”
“When you wake in the morning, do not hold how you feel against me.”
“I won’t,” she promised, not sure what he was getting at.
“Then let us begin.”
Kestrel nodded again, and he took his tray and its burden of cups and tools around behind her, and knelt in the gravel, which had taken on a wintry radiance, like fresh snow reflecting the light of a full moon. But the moon had not yet risen, so there was only faint starlight, and what little was thrown by the distant torches. Is this the strangeness he mentioned? If so, it was not so bad.
“Are you ready?” One-Ear Tom asked, his voice deeper than usual, each word dragging.
“Yes,” she answered, her own voice booming in her ears.
She glanced up sharply, taking in the faces of the villagers. None seemed startled by her outburst, which made her wonder if she had called out loudly at all.
Her mind shifted.
Where they had looked blurry before, now she could make out their features with freakish clarity, even those standing beyond the flickering torchlight. Not only that, it seemed as if she could hear their breathing, a collective, whispering rush of sound, like a fitful wind pushing through a grove of aspens. She could also hear their heartbeats pounding in tandem with the rhythmic thudding of the drums. It was impossible, but she thought if she listened hard enough, she would actually hear their thoughts.
The seeker’s tea is doing this, Kestrel considered uneasily, wanting it to stop, but knowing there was no escape until it had run its course. She fought against the desire to leap to her feet and run away.
I am a Red Hand, and fear is the first enemy I must slay.
She flinched at the feel of small, cold teeth biting into the skin of her shoulder, and they went away.
“Are you sure you are ready?” One-Ear Tom asked.
Kestrel’s gaze swept around.
The gravel was not just glowing anymore. Tongues of pale flame were leaping off the path’s surface, and within those snowy flames she saw long, distorted faces.
Beyond the band of gravel, the swayi
ng grass, such a vibrant green that it hurt her eyes, whispered secrets in a delicate language she could not understand. Over it all, yet perfectly distinct, she heard the rushing gale heaving in and out of the villagers’ chests, the thunder of their hearts. The torches dotting the crowd flared with the intensity of small suns, and their heat reached across the field, climbed the flanks of the knoll, and fell on her bare skin, making it tingle.
“Begin,” she said, her tone calm, assured.
The teeth returned to nibble her skin, but the pain was less than before. With it came the muffled sound of wood striking wood—tap-tap-tap-tap—a sound picked up and intensified by the rattling bones swinging from the ancient oak’s boughs.
Kestrel kept her back straight as One-Ear Tom worked, her slitted eyes taking in her surroundings. A flood of images surged over her. She saw herself fighting the lion again, then running from the Stone Dogs. She saw the old city, then the firelance in Aiden’s hand devastating the metal statue.
Say nothing about any of this. His voice was thick with menace.
You do not frighten me. I am a Red Hand.
The defiant thought flew from her mind in this vision, just as the shimmering pulse of air had flown from the firelance pistol. Instead of striking a metal man, it struck Aiden in the chest. He exploded into a cloud of glittering dust. Harmless now. Harmless forever.
The tapping ended, the nibbling ceased, and One-Ear Tom said something behind her. His words were garbled. The beating of the drums roared and raged, the wind howled and screamed, bones clacked and rattled, but Kestrel felt only peace within the surreal storm.
Movement caught her eye, and she watched one band of Red Hands separate from the others. Each band had between twenty-five and thirty warriors, few of them women, and they had all donned red robes matching One-Ear Tom’s.
The band marched in a line toward the top of the knoll. Her brother was not among them. Because they were siblings, a rarity amongst the Red Hands, he would come last.
