by Claudia King
“Then there was Ilen Ra's pilgrimage,” Jarek continued, “and the other metal hunters who went out that year. None of them have returned. Many families lost sons to those expeditions.”
“Ilen Ra likes to wander,” Thakayn said. “I've known the old man to disappear for years at a time.”
“But never when he has a band of followers to bring home,” the Dawn King said. “This year's pilgrims fared better, at least. All of them but Liliac have returned, yes?” He looked to Radeen-Na, who nodded.
“I may have asked Liliac to return home by a different path,” Jarek said, a hopeful smile touching his lips as he thought with eagerness about the news the shaman might bring. “If all has gone well he should arrive within the next moon.”
“Mm.” The Dawn King gave Jarek a curious look, but he motioned for him to continue.
“Anyway, what am I saying with all this talk? You've stolen my threads of thought right away. Ah, the harvest, the harvest.” Jarek rubbed his chin, considering with the tact Atalyn had taught him how his words might affect his standing in the eyes of the other priests. “I have to say, I believe Hasham and Eral have a better grasp of the spirits' will this time. A season of sadness needs great feasting and joy to chase away the rumours of bad omens.”
“We read truer omens than the village shamans,” Thakayn said.
“Forgive me, my friend,” Hasham interposed, “but we are not the ones sitting in their shrines and telling their fortunes. The laypeople cannot be blamed for looking elsewhere when our divine insight is secreted away within this temple.”
Knowing that Thakayn would not be swayed, Jarek looked up the table to Radeen-Na and asked, “Would you want to travel north and build a village after last winter?”
“Yes. It would give my hands something to do. Better than lounging and feasting.”
The Dawn King put a stop to the debate by rising to his feet. His fingers splayed out across the table's stone surface as he leaned forward.
“Jarek knows the will of the people better than most. He listens without trying, and I trust him when he says they are ill at ease. The time is right for a summer of feasting. Let it be known that this is the spirits' will, for there are no bad omens this season. The harvest looks to be bountiful, and the troubles of the winter are behind us.” He turned his attention to Radeen-Na. “I fear you would be hard pressed to find hands for your new village anyway. We lost many intrepid men to the pilgrimages last year, and it will take time for their sons and daughters to come of age. When our settlements are clamouring with restless hands again, then it will be time to think of preparations for a new village.”
Radeen-Na's cheeks retained their angry flush, but he grunted and bowed his head obsequiously. Though the warrior frequently butted heads with the other high priests, he was passionately stubborn in his loyalty. If he could not win a fight with the other members of the conclave then he would turn all of his energy toward suppressing his own doubts. The man took great pride in serving the Dawn King, especially when he was commanded to go against himself. Few men could claim such strength of will, and that was why Radeen-Na was the priest of the Brother, embodying the power and determination of his people.
Thakayn made no such attempt to hide his displeasure at the Dawn King's decision, but he composed himself with civility nonetheless. A roll of his eyes and a shake of the head followed, but he held back the sigh that Jarek could see lingering on his lips.
“Splendid, excellent!” Hasham said as he rose to his feet, his bench scraping audibly over the floorstones. “Some of us may be old and miserable, but at least our boys have the spark of joy left within them. Permit me, Dawn King, and I will send messengers to the farmsteads with your word.”
Atalyn nodded. “Do so. The conclave is dismissed.”
Jarek sat and waited for the others to leave, watching a string of ants creep up the side of his bench from a gap between the floorstones. Many of the thin slabs had cracked when the earth was uneven, and it was hard work to have rocks found or cut to replace them. Hasham clapped him on the shoulder, leaning down to murmur, “I'll make sure we have seats of honour at the first feast, my boy,” before leaving. Jarek gave him a smile and a nod. He knew what “seats of honour” meant. It went without saying that any high priest would hold a position of the highest reverence at any celebration, but Hasham liked to make special accommodations for himself. If there was an exceptionally talented cook in attendance, he would make sure that that cook waited on him personally. Renowned singers and storytellers would always be placed within earshot, and pretty girls with aspirations of becoming temple concubines would be afforded every opportunity to impress him. Indulgent though he was, Jarek could not bring himself to dislike the jovial priest of the Father. A little greed was to be forgiven in a man who so relished bringing cheer and contentment to the people.
“Lost in thought, are you, Jarek?” Atalyn's voice sounded from the far end of the table. Jarek looked up and realised that he was alone with the Dawn King.
“No, just relieved that our gathering is over.”
“Hm. That's why I keep you here. Always have one man with you who wishes he was someplace else. That way your council will never become a chorus of echoes.” Behind him the sun was beginning to set, its weary rays lancing through a series of thin vertical windows in the chamber's northern wall. The light breeze they afforded was welcome on a day like this, and Jarek felt himself beset by the sudden urge to take the shape of his wolf and flee from this unnatural cave of wood and stone.
Ever in tune with Jarek's hidden compulsions, the Dawn King lifted his chin slightly and said, “Take some water.”
Jarek stood and crossed to the northern end of the chamber near the windows, uncovering a clay pitcher and filling one of the cups next to it. The water was warm and brackish, but someone had flavoured it with fruit. After wetting his palette Jarek crumbled a handful of the herbs from his pouch into the cup and drank the rest. A few moments later the pull of his wolf slackened.
“Do you think it a gift?” Atalyn said softly as he moved to sit on the lip of one of the windows. The hillside fell away steeply beyond the walls of the chamber, commanding a broad view of the plains beyond. “Or would you rather be free from taking those herbs?”
“I wish I could do both,” Jarek said. “Run as a wolf and walk as a man without fearing for my life.”
“Of course you do. But you know that cannot be. Forced to choose, which would you prefer?”
Jarek smiled. “Is it not obvious? I am still here with you, aren't I?”
“I know you sometimes wish you weren't.”
“The world is not made to serve us, we are made to serve it. I learned long ago that I cannot expect all my dreams to come true.”
Atalyn nodded slowly. “I told a lie before. That is why I made you my priest of the Son, Jarek. You understand leadership better than most. Better, even, than the men here who have spent all their lives earning it. Hasham, Thakayn, Mountain Sky; they see how leadership serves them first and how it serves their followers second. I have seen this many times. Power calls to those who are too eager to wield it, but a true leader does not wish to be served. He is the servant of others. All the people who dwell in these lands,” he gestured out the window, “they are our true masters, and it is for them that we hold our conclave. Would that I were a spirit and I could hear all their wants and prayers, but alas, I am just a man, and so you my priests must help me listen.”
Jarek poured himself another half cup of water. Atalyn had a wise way of leading. The alphas of the Moon People had advisors, but they were not the same as Atalyn's high priests. In establishing his conclave he had ensured that no one voice would ever rise too loud above the others. It was also part of the reason he had never fathered a son, for Atalyn believed leadership should be earned through ability and intellect, not birthright. If another person were to take the name Dawn King one day he wanted it to be a man who had proven himself truly worthy of the title, and a so
n would only muddy the waters of succession. It was fortunate, Jarek reflected, that Atalyn had no taste for women. The Dawn King would have had far more difficulty resisting the urge to sire an heir had he be been enticed by the beautiful concubines filling his temple.
“Why did you ask Liliac to change the path of his pilgrimage?” Atalyn asked.
Here was the question. It was something that could not be spoken of when the other high priests were present. Any subject that touched upon Jarek's understanding of the Moon People was best handled with great care
“To seek someone out,” he said. “They say a great sorceress may lead the Moon People now. I once knew a girl who could have grown into such a woman.”
“Mm. And so you sent our shaman off in search of this seeress? That was a very reckless thing to do, Jarek. Ilen Ra often sought out Moon People like her, and now it seems he has paid the price for his curiosity.”
“But before that he did manage to befriend them,” Jarek pointed out. “Half the men in this land who speak their tongue learned it from him. Do not fear. Liliac is a shrewd man, and I told him to stay out of danger.”
“I must admit,” Atalyn said, “it would please me to learn more of this sorceress. To speak with such a woman... Part of me envies Liliac and his quest.”
Jarek shrugged and drained his cup again. “It will probably lead nowhere. Just a whim of mine when I heard the tale. If the spirits are kind to Liliac then we shall know before the end of the summer.”
Atalyn stood, patted Jarek on the arm, and made his way back to his seat. “Be sure to share the news with me when it arrives. Now please, go into the village tonight and spread the word of the coming celebration. The people will be happy to hear it from you. Then they will believe it is the will of the spirits.”
The corner of Jarek's mouth perked upward. “And I am the only priest who leaves the temple often enough to win their affection.”
“Hm. True. Take Thakayn with you to show them that this is truly a special announcement. They will enjoy his beauty alongside your charm.”
His smile quickly fading, Jarek made a bow and crossed the floorstones to the draped entranceway at the other end of the chamber. What terrible fortune, a night with Thakayn, of all people! He should have held his tongue. Thankfully he did not have far to go before he found the priest of the Sister. The narrow tunnel separating the conclave chamber from the temple proper led him back into the great hall, where servants carried food in from the outdoor cooking pits and concubines lounged in anticipation of the evening meal. Three of the lower priests, those shamans who had been elevated to positions of status within the temple and to whom many of the village's organisational duties fell, had engaged Thakayn in conversation on their way past.
“High Priest,” Jarek interrupted. “The Dawn King asks that we go into the village and spread word of the coming celebrations.”
Thakayn's beautiful green eyes narrowed. “Me? With you?”
“The Dawn King requests it.”
With a sigh Thakayn dismissed his entourage off to the feasting hall, a low wooden longhouse attached to the side of the great hall wherein informal gatherings were held and meals were eaten.
“If the Dawn King asks, we oblige,” he said. “Try not to play the fool tonight, will you? It's not how we should be seen by the laypeople.”
Jarek nodded meekly, already concocting jokes he could make at Thakayn's expense. After calling for a servant to bring them sandals they set out from the temple gates with the guardsman Ryndel accompanying them, spear and blade in hand. No one in the village would dare cause trouble for a priest of the temple, Jarek knew, but it was a ceremonial escort, and perhaps the official occasion warranted it.
A few of the other guardsmen were turning away the last of the laypeople who had been hoping for an audience that day, sending them weary and sullen back down the path to the village. A few looked up hopefully when they saw Jarek and Thakayn passing by, but a fierce look from Ryndel kept them at a distance.
As they walked past the cooking pits Thakayn wrinkled his nose at the ripe scent of the refuse pile nearby, lifting his sandal out of the way as a rat scurried past.
“They need to burn that sooner this year, especially with a feast coming. Make sure it's done, Ryndel.”
“We have tried, but it refuses to catch, High Priest. It may need to be moved by hand unless we want to waste wood building a bonfire.”
A sharp squeak sounded as the rat tried to clamber back into its nest in a heap of scattered wood shavings and plant offcuts. A dirty figure swaddled in rags lifted up the impaled rodent on the end of an old spear, the head of which had been snapped off to leave behind a sharp wooden point. Jarek recognised her as the girl he had spoken to in Nirut's wayhouse a season prior. She looked even worse than she had back then.
“That damned woman,” Ryndel growled. “Get out of there! Back to the village with you.”
“She's not an animal, Ryndel,” Jarek said.
“She behaves as well as one, High Priest. I've told her she'll get no audience within the temple, but she keeps coming back, always digging around in our leavings like she's one of the rats herself.”
With the deftness of a hunter, the girl's hand shot out and snapped the impaled rat's neck with a click of her fingers, unafraid of the animal's bite. She looked up suspiciously at the trio, her eyes flitting between them before settling on Jarek.
“I still want to join a pilgrimage,” she said.
“There are no more pilgrimages left to join this year, Rat,” Thakayn replied. “Scuttle back where you came from.”
The girl slid her gaze toward the other high priest, speaking without emotion. “I can't. The Moon People burned my home.”
“The spirits weep for you, now do as I say, and stay away from the temple from now on.”
Beneath the grime and dead-eyed anger, Jarek caught flash of hurt in the girl's expression. It was the look of a wounded, beaten-down creature, one who had almost given up hope.
“Take her into the temple, Ryndel,” Jarek said. “But go around the side to the servants' hall. See that she's washed and fed, and give her an audience with Radeen-Na if he is not eating.”
“High Priest—” the guardsman began to protest, but Thakayn interrupted him before Jarek could.
“An audience, too? And then I suppose you will have her bathed in scented oils and dressed in a concubine's clothes?”
“The spirits are compassionate, Thakayn. Is the Sister not guardian of hearth and home? Would you rather leave this girl to pick through our leavings than offer her a spot by your fire?”
“I'd rather she be in neither of those places. What can this one hope to gain from an audience anyway?”
“I want to kill Moon People,” the girl said.
Strangely, Thakayn paused and turned to look at her. “You do, do you? You know it is not a woman's place to fight.”
“If more women from my village had known how to fight they might still be alive.”
“What an interesting idea,” Thakayn said, suddenly smiling. “I have changed my mind. Ryndel, do as the priest of the Son says. Give this rat a meal, and see that she is made to look like... less of what she is. You'll have time to catch up with us before we reach the village.”
Despite his obvious dismay, Ryndel was not about to argue with two of his high priests at once. He took a step forward and gestured the girl over with his spear.
“Come with me, and put that stick down.”
The girl gripped her skewer tighter for a moment, looking at the impaled rat as if reluctant to give up her evening meal. The enticing aroma of food wafting over from the cooking pits seemed to sway her, however, and she stuck the broken spear into a heap of dirt and hopped off the refuse pile to join Ryndel.
“What's your name?” Jarek asked before they left.
She gave him a sullen look, eyes flicking between the two high priests. Without humour she said, “Rat.”
Jarek frowned, but her repl
y drew an approving chuckle from Thakayn.
“Ugh, I don't pity the one who has to bathe you,” Ryndel said, wrinkling his nose as he turned the girl around and quickly led her up the hill toward the temple.
Once they were alone Jarek said, “It's not like you to change your mind.”
“Well, perhaps you were right, Jarek,” Thakayn said. “The Sister watches over hearth and home, and that girl seemed to be without one. We cannot have vagabonds wandering the village. The Dawn King's hand tends to all, and it is a generous hand indeed.” The priest of the Sister turned and began to walk down the slope with an uncharacteristic jauntiness in his step.
Jarek rubbed his chin in consternation. What was Thakayn up to? He could not possibly want the girl as a concubine, and it was not in his nature to act benevolently unless he had an audience there to witness it. Jarek drew an exasperated breath. He had not been made for this side of priesthood. Secrets and scheming were not palatable to him. If only he had a friend with a cunning enough mind to unravel it all.
A shiver prickled his skin as he felt a familiar touch on his shoulder. That cold old phantom. He closed his eyes, shaking his head to dismiss it. The feeling had been stronger this summer ever since he sent Liliac away in search of her. Were the spirits reaching out to him? Or was it only his imagination?
She could have seen through Thakayn. Adel had always been the sharp knife who cut away the world's veils, and Jarek the gentle hand that pointed her in the right direction.
He would have to keep a close eye on the priest of the Sister. Thakayn rarely agreed with him unless he was plotting something.
—7—
Adel and Kiren
Adel remembered trying to claw herself free of a net, choking and struggling as she strained with increasing futility to call upon the shape of her wolf. What had happened after that? Either she had drowned or driven herself to the point of exhaustion, for she was in a listless, bobbing space with the feeling of water all around her. Sometimes the world seemed to wobble, and her heart leaped with the instinctive panic that she was falling. Dreams did not move like this, and yet she could not shake the sense that she was dreaming. Strange voices spoke around her. It was difficult to make out what they were saying, though she felt she could have pieced it together if she tried. At one point the drowning fog seemed to be clearing, and she began to feel hard ground beneath her, but it still bobbed with the same unnatural motion of her dreams. Then something wet touched her lips, and she realised that her skin was scorched and burning underneath a harsh sun. She drank with a thirst she had not realised she possessed, swallowing something that felt like a lumpy broth. Not long afterwards the drowning dream consumed her again, and she sank deeper than ever into that uncanny place where her wolf was absent. Even sleep brought with it a restless unease.
