Beasts of the Frozen Sun

by Jill Criswell

  What little I knew of Cullings came from the Immortal Scriptures. “Doyen will call upon the covenant between the True Gods and the sons of Glasnith. He’ll summon a god to judge who’s worthy of being chieftain. But which god comes and how the god is called, I don’t know.” This was dangerous knowledge only priests and priestesses were privy to. “I have to be there. If there’s any way I can help Father become chieftain, I need to try.”

  Ishleen’s cheeks blanched. “I thought we were only going to watch.”

  We passed Madoc’s home, where he lived with his wife, Brigid, and his daughter, Slaney. There were no offerings on the doorstep of their cottage, only a strange symbol drawn with ash across the door.

  “If Father is chosen, I won’t have to do anything. But if it seems like Madoc will be chosen …” I shook my head, unable to stomach the possibility. “I’m a Daughter of Aillira. Perhaps whichever god comes will listen to me.”

  I led the way, creeping along through the village, not sure what I was searching for until I found it. Tucked between the cells and the forest, on the eastern side of the village, was the barrow—the grassy hill that concealed an inner chamber where every chieftain of Stony Harbor had been entombed. The entrance to the barrow, normally sealed with stones, was open. The stones had been piled into a dais beside the barrow, and a body lay upon it.

  Lord Aengus, my dead grandfather.

  Ishleen and I ducked behind a tree, watching as Doyen bowed over Aengus’s corpse, chanting loudly. “Almighty Gwylor, we offer this flesh as your vessel.”

  Gwylor.

  My fingers dug into the bark of the tree. The priest was summoning the god of death—the most powerful, volatile god of them all.

  We both jumped as a voice spoke beside us.

  “Men are such fools.”

  The dark-haired woman standing next to me was radiant, but in a way that set my nerves on edge. She was dressed in a flowing, bloodred gown. Multicolored jewels seemed to be embedded in her exposed flesh—on her arms, her hands, her neck. As I looked closer, I realized they weren’t jewels at all, but eyes, blinking, watching me. Beneath her long lashes, where her real eyes should’ve been, there were empty sockets.

  “You’re the blind mystic,” I whispered.

  “And you are the mistress of souls.” Her sightless gaze fell upon Ishleen. “And the mistress of potions.”

  Ishleen squeezed my arm.

  “No one has summoned Gwylor since Lord Llewlin.” The mystic gestured disapprovingly at the scene before us. “Do you know the story?”

  Lord Llewlin. Warrior, explorer, leader. Father of doomed Aillira. My ancestor, the chieftain who founded our island-nation thousands of years ago. There were many stories of him, but I knew which one she meant.

  “When the Great Betrayer declared himself king of Glasnith,” I said, “Llewlin and his sons called upon the god of death to help them overthrow their enemy. Gwylor came to earth in a mortal body and fought together with the warriors of Glasnith. Gods and men battled side by side to defeat the Great Betrayer and his army. Gwylor restored peace to our world.”

  The mystic’s scowl deepened. “’Tis what your dubious scriptures and priests claim. Do you want to hear what the Forbidden Scriptures say?”

  I nodded slowly, not daring to speak.

  “It was Llewlin and his sons who fought over these lands. They summoned Gwylor to declare which of them deserved to be king. Whatever the death god did drove them all to madness. They murdered one another.”

  That couldn’t be right. “Lord Llewlin and his sons died with honor during the storming of the Great Betrayer’s palace.”

  Her laughter was high and tinkling, like shattering glass. “Gwylor used them as pawns in his war of jealousy and spite. Now your clan has awakened Gwylor from his long slumber and invited him back into our world, risking his violent whims over sibling rivalry. Piteous fools.”

  Something was happening. It was midday, but the sun dimmed to a feeble glow. Clouds rolled in from all directions, squatting on top of our village, bathing it in indigo light.

  Billows of steam drifted from the stone dais. The suit of armor Aengus had been buried in bulged. Lumps squirmed beneath his skin as if insects crawled inside his flesh. A low thrum reverberated deep in his throat. He sat up slowly, swung his legs off the dais, and stood.

  It was Aengus’s body, but the god of death had made it his own, stretching the skin and muscles so he seemed four hands taller and two stone heavier. My grandfather had eyes like murky pond water, but these eyes were solid drops of ink. The crack in his skull gaped open, the gray mass inside shrunken and ripe with rot.

  “Gwylor.” His name dropped off my tongue, crackling in the air. Too late, I realized I’d moved out into the open. The ink-hued holes in his face regarded me with mild interest, like watching an ant crawl across the floor before stomping on it.

  “Almighty Gwylor.” Doyen bowed. “Thank you for answering our summons. Our humble village is honored to receive you.”

  “Is the girl a gift?” Gwylor’s voice was a sibilant rasp. “One of your own must return with me to my palace tonight. That is my price for answering your call.”

  “All we have is yours.” Doyen swept his arm to include the harbor, the homes, and me.

  I couldn’t peel my eyes from the god’s terrible gaze. Gwylor’s tongue flicked out to wet his lips. “I see you, Daughter of Aillira. I know what you are. The sacrifice that lived.”

  I remembered what Doyen said to me last night in the sanctuary. “Does my life offend you?” I asked.

  When Gwylor answered, there was no sound. His lips didn’t move. I heard the god’s voice inside my head, clanging like a bell: to be offended, i would have to care. your life means nothing to me.

  The god and the priest shifted their attention to the otherworldly woman who came to stand beside me. “Mystic,” Doyen snarled. “Worshippers of the Great Betrayer aren’t welcome here. Your presence befouls this holy ceremony.”

  The mystic peered down her nose at Doyen. “I am the eyes of the Fallen Ones. According to the covenant, they too have a right to attend this Culling.”

  Gwylor waved a hand dismissively. “What do I care if my disgraced kin know the outcome of the ceremony? Let them see.”

  There was a sudden clamor in the distance: the Sons of Stone, heading for the great hall.

  The mystic looked at me. Her long fingers went to my rope necklace, sliding the medallion from my bodice. “No mere trinket, this. A powerful talisman. ’Twas your mother’s. This is what saved you from the Brine Beast. And this is how you saved another, without even meaning to.” She smiled knowingly. “It was always meant to be yours. Do not take it off.”

  She dropped the medallion and headed toward the hall, beckoning me to follow.

  Ishleen and I snuck through the back entrance of the great hall, hiding in the balcony. When we were settled where no one could see us, I pulled out my medallion, examining it closely. Etched into the silver was a tree, its many limbs curling downward, long thorns sprouting from its branches instead of leaves—a southern thorntree. It was just like the one I had seen growing in the center of Aillira’s Temple when I’d journeyed there as a child. The back of the medallion was engraved with Aillira’s dying words: Burn brightly. Love fiercely. For all else is dust.

  Mother had believed it to be a protective talisman, just as the mystic said; she’d given it to me on my ninth birthday, not long before she’d died. I’d been wearing it that day the Brine Beast nearly took me. And Reyker was wearing it when I found him in the harbor. But why would the Beast spare us because of a necklace?

  Ishleen nudged me. We peered through the balusters as the god of death entered the hall wearing Lord Aengus’s skin. Gwylor didn’t walk like a man; his movements looked like someone shaking a sack full of bones. His presence saturated the room. We’d called the god
here, but it was clear we weren’t in control—Gwylor, scouring the rows of anxious faces, held the reins.

  Doyen’s voice rang through the hall. “All believers in the righteousness of our people and the honor of our clan must offer part of themselves.” He drew his ceremonial dagger, with its double-edged blade and jeweled hilt.

  The men took turns slashing their palms with the dagger, dripping their blood into a small cauldron. When all the blood was collected, Doyen stirred the cauldron and said, “Who dares think himself worthy of replacing Aengus, chieftain of Stony Harbor? Who submits himself to the god of death’s judgment? Those who have the strength to lead us, the wisdom to guide us, and the virtue to keep us faithful to the laws of gods and clan, step forward.”

  My father was the first to go to Doyen. Madoc was only a second behind him.

  That should’ve been the end of it, but another candidate stood and followed them. Murmurs rose from the men.

  “You’ve lost your bloody mind,” I whispered in disbelief. This could not be my brother, openly defying Torin and Madoc. Garreth was too young, too inexperienced—he had no chance of becoming our leader. He’d set himself up for humiliation and punishment.

  This was what he meant when he said I’d left him no choice, what he’d resorted to because I refused to leave Stony Harbor. In his own stupid, misguided way, Garreth was trying to protect me.

  Ishleen pulled me back down as I tried to rise. “You can’t go down there, Lira. That’s not just any god, it’s the god of death.”

  “I have to.” My brother stood before Gwylor, about to be judged. I was afraid what might happen to him if he was found wanting. I couldn’t let him face the god alone.

  Below us, the god of death came forward. He sliced his palm—Aengus’s palm—and drained a thick stream of black blood into the cauldron. Smoke rose in curling gray clouds. He dug his hand in, pulling something out: a grayish-pink hunk, like a rotting melon. “The heart of Llewlin, first chieftain of Glasnith,” Gwylor said.

  He squeezed the heart in his fist, forcing it to beat.

  The entire hall quaked. The vibrations roared through me. Gwylor pressed the heart again, and my bones seemed to rattle beneath my skin. I pulled away from Ishleen and descended the balcony stairs, my steps accompanied by the throb of the screaming heart.

  “There is another.” Gwylor’s words were razors dancing in my ears.

  Every head in the hall turned toward me. My every impulse commanded me to stop, hide, run. But I wouldn’t abandon Garreth.

  The screech of the organ in Gwylor’s hand beckoned me closer. Was it Gwylor who’d done this, or was it my ancestry as a Daughter of Aillira that made Llewlin’s heart call me forth? Whatever the cause, my feet marched me to the front of the hall. Doyen, Father, Madoc, and Garreth were all fixated on the beating heart in the god’s hand, as if they couldn’t look away.

  From a corner of the room, the blind mystic’s gemstone eyes watched me. Her lips curled into a smile.

  “Four Stones stand before me,” Gwylor said, “but only one can lead.” He blew on the heart and flames erupted from it, white and shimmering like liquid silver—it should have blackened and turned to ash, but the organ remained whole, unburnt. “Whoever withstands the flames of the otherworlds long enough to declare himself chieftain shall reign.”

  The god handed the heart to Madoc. The moment my uncle touched it, he screamed. His clothes caught fire. He tried to toss the heart away, but it seemed glued to his hands.

  “Confess or burn,” Gwylor said.

  Madoc chewed his tongue, but the pain won out, ripping the truth from him. “I am chaos. I am destruction. I … am … no … chieftain!” The heart dropped from Madoc’s fingers. He beat at the flames on his tunic, shuttering his features.

  Gwylor presented the heart to Father. Jaw clenched, my father took the heart and held it to his chest. Flames skipped across his knuckles, up his arms. His face reddened. Sweat dripped down his brow, but he didn’t flinch or cry out.

  His eyes pooled with the same blackness that rippled in Gwylor’s. His lips parted, and he roared, “I am Torin, son of Aengus, and I am chieftain of Stony Harbor!”

  The hall filled with shouts and whistles.

  It was over. Father had passed the trial.

  Even so, Father offered the heart to Garreth, taunting him. Garreth accepted the challenge, reaching for the heart. He held it, embracing the fire. It tested him, and Garreth bit down, grinding his teeth as the inferno threatened to tear him apart. “I am Garreth, son of Torin, grandson of Aengus. I am ch—”

  His neck snapped back, an agonized groan rising from his throat. The fire was too much for him. I wanted to run to my brother, to pry the heart from his fingers and end his misery, but I was restrained by unseen forces. “Confess or burn,” Gwylor repeated.

  “Torin will die by my hand! If I’m not chosen, this village will fall to ruin and you’ll all meet the edge of a sword!”

  The hall went deathly silent.

  The heart fell. Gwylor caught it, smiling.

  The shock on Garreth’s face was mirrored by the Sons of Stone. He’d just threatened the life of their newly appointed chieftain and our entire village. This was high treason.

  Gwylor moved toward me. I tried to explain that I didn’t belong here, that I’d only come for my brother, but my mouth was nailed shut.

  “Wait!” Garreth said. “She’s not a Son of Stone. Don’t make her do this.”

  The god of death ignored him.

  “There’s no point in her going through the trial. Torin’s been culled.” Garreth appealed to our new leader. “Stop this. She’s your daughter.”

  “Yes,” Father said. “She’s my daughter. And you are my son. Yet you both stood against me. Betrayed me. You’ve felt the consequences of your disloyalty, Garreth. It’s your sister’s turn.” His eyes shifted to me. “Lira, pick up the heart.”

  My hands were already open, waiting, though I didn’t remember lifting them. Garreth yelled at me not to touch it, his shouts fading as Gwylor set the heart on my palms.

  The world exploded.

  The pain was instant, all-consuming. Suffering swallowed me. Flames stampeded down my arms and legs, blossomed up my shoulders and neck, whipped my hair into a blinding halo. Engulfed me. The fire was no longer silvery white, but deep violet.

  My bones ignited. My nerves were kindling. My skin was fuel.

  There was something beneath the flames, brushing against me, pressing into me. Hundreds of things—shuddering, tangible pools of darkness. Pounding at my mind, shrieking to be let in. Livid that I refused.

  The floor dropped out beneath me. I raised the heart above my head, begging Gwylor to take it, except I couldn’t speak. I was in the air, floating, my skirt fluttering like incandescent wings. I glowed. Boiled. Screamed.

  Gwylor’s voice drifted up to me. “Confess or burn.”

  The admission spilled out of me, an unstoppable flood. “These are not my lands! This is not my clan! You are all my enemies!”

  The heart disappeared from my hands. My toes touched ground. The fire dissipated, relief and horror washing over me. The words I’d spoken—they weren’t true, so why had I said them? What did it mean?

  The Sons of Stone gaped at me.

  I wrapped my arms around myself, hissing at the pain of my own touch. My skin was scalded and blistered.

  Garreth stared at me for a beat before lunging at Father.

  “You did this!” he said, the two of them crashing to the floor. “You let your wife drown. You sent Rhys to his death. You forced Lira to burn. What kind of man are you?” He threw punches, bloodying Father’s face. “I’ll never serve you. I’m taking Lira away from here. We’re leaving you.”

  For a moment, Father didn’t fight back. He stared at his son, accepting the blows. Then his eyes seemed to pulsate, and wispy
black vines coiled around his pupils.

  Something was inside him. A piece of Gwylor’s essence? A splinter of the otherworlds?

  Father punched Garreth’s temple, knocking him sideways. While Garreth was dazed, Father pinned him, ripping off his sword belt, tossing the weapon aside. Madoc sidled up to my father, mumbling things I couldn’t hear.

  Father nodded, pulling out his dirk with a ferocity that proved he meant to use it.

  I didn’t stop to think. I rushed at them, jumping on Father’s back, reaching for the dirk, but he slung me off. As I clamored to my feet to attack Father again, other warriors came forward, grabbing me, holding me in place.

  Madoc restrained Garreth—my uncle’s first act as the new chieftain’s sycophant. Father spread Garreth’s right hand, exposing the tattooed swords marking him as a Son of Stone. He edged the blade into Garreth’s skin, below his knuckles, and sliced all the way to his wrist.

  My brother’s cries filled the hall. When Father peeled the flesh back, the white of Garreth’s bones peeked through under layers of tendons and blood.

  My stomach churned, but I couldn’t look away.

  Father bound Garreth’s wrists, jerking him to his feet and addressing the warriors. “My first order is to clear this clan of traitors. Let it be known: This man committed treason against his chieftain. He’s forsaken his people, his inheritance, and his name. He’s no Son of Stone, and no son of mine.” Father called for a sentry. “Take him to the other end of the forest and leave him,” he ordered. “If anyone sees this traitor again, kill him on sight.”

  Exile. The harshest of all penalties, short of execution.

  “Please, Father,” I said. “Don’t do this.”

  Madoc and the sentry dragged Garreth out the door. I drew my knife, slicing into the arms of the men who held me until they let go. By the time I was outside, Madoc had thrown Garreth over the back of a waiting horse. I ran after them, shouting my brother’s name.

  I was only a few paces from the horse when another set of hands gripped me—my father’s. “Let him go. You have no brother. He’s nothing but a ghost to you now.”