Sigquaya, Page 22

  “Ha! Well . . . keep it up, whatever it is.”

  ≈≈≈≈≈≈

  Arteura made it to the path of the Gildrom, limping painfully through the shadows until she got to the street market. There, she’d palmed a scroll off one of the auditor’s tables. From then on, no one paid attention to the limping and hooded Rector with his nose buried in a scroll—which took all of her effort to hold with two hands—slipping behind the booths and masses of people, obviously on his way to the Gildrom.

  She walked as quickly as her swollen knee would allow without drawing undo attention, halfway up the path, then down the narrow, overgrown, winding trail she and her mother had taken around the city wall and out to the fields. She fell once, then spent the next several minutes on her back on the steep, downhill incline, sweating, writhing, and biting her lip so as not to cry out.

  When the throbbing in her shoulder and knee had subsided to a semi-tolerable level, she made her way to the pathway that lead to the Mihtcarr—toward her and Marcus’s secret spot. Once there, she spared no time in shedding the robe and her grimy and torn clothes underneath, wading into the pool and bathing in the falls of the Mihtcarr. She leaned back, breathing deeply and finally able to relax—at least from the pain, if not from her circumstances. She could feel her knee and shoulder as they were mended by the healing water. She closed her eyes and concentrated on the injuries as the water worked: learning its ways, its strengths, its—she had to laugh at the unreality of it all—personality. The water, through Sigquaya, was a willing teacher.

  She stayed there, in the comfort of the water, in the veil of the falls, watching the azure sky fade to a pale blue, to orange, and finally, to a starlit black.

  Afterward, fully healed and pain free, she dressed in her pants and the Rector’s robe, tossing her torn and bloodied tunic beneath the falls. She liked the loose feel of the robe; the flow hid her weapons even more than the pants alone and provided a built-in disguise should she dare to return to Brynslæd.

  The fact was, she had no idea where she would go, or what she would do. She had no idea about the fate of her mother, of Marcus, of any of her family.

  It was a bitter pill—the fleeting realization that she might not ever know—and she hesitated to swallow it, at least not yet. For now, she would do her best to sleep, trying not to worry or jump at every twig snap and rustling leaf. She failed miserably, but at least she tried.

  25

  The Dishonored Dead

  That next morning, the Þrymm guards led the sacrifice forward, hooded, hands bound at the waist and feet in chains just long enough to put one foot in front of the other. Unlike the other honored dead, this sacrifice was a prisoner. The restraints were tight and unyielding. There was whimpering and sobbing beneath the hood, creating a pathetic display. As the sacrifice passed through the crowd, there was jeering, catcalls, threats, and angry shouts. There was pushing and shoving. Clothes were tugged and ripped. Blood was drawn.

  The Rectors stood in a half-circle, their voices ringing out in prayerful song. When they were finished, the sacrifice was led forward to the edge of the Gildrom pool. Small pebbles plop-plopped into the slowly swirling water, their sound lost to the cacophony of the crowd.

  The Elder stood to the side, letting the melee unfold. The people wanted this release. Needed it. He was merely maintaining order by giving in to the bloodlust of the crowd.

  He stepped up to the prisoner and removed the hood. Rhiana Denaeus stood, shaking and mewling, her wide, wild eyes darting around the enraged throng as the uproar rose to a crescendo.

  Finally, the Elder raised his hands to calm the crowd. No torches were snuffed. No secrecy or darkness was asked. The Elder wanted to ensure that every person could witness the ceremony taking place today. The gods would be appeased, yes, but more importantly, so would the community.

  As the din eventually subsided, he began. “Through time immemorial, these ceremonies have been performed. In planting and harvest, the gods have shown favor, or”—he looked pointedly at Rhiana—“the gods have turned their faces away.”

  The crowd’s voices began to rise once again, and again the Elder signaled for calm.

  “Today, the honored family remains blessed.” He turned, acknowledging a young couple clutching their toddler son tightly between them. They nodded in fearful gratitude. “Because today,” he went on, his voice building, “the gods have provided us a surrogate. A substitute of their own bidding. And they should be especially pleased. For today, they shall be satisfied.”

  The crowd’s shouting rose yet again, and this time the Elder let the affirmations and threats ring out. He stepped back and left Rhiana Denaeus on her own at the edge of the Gildrom. Small, frail, whimpering, and pathetic. Alone. Facing the pool, and the wrath of an angry mob.

  ≈≈≈≈≈≈

  There was a light in front of us.

  The river made a few more sharp bends, one to the right, then to the left, and in the distance, down a long, gentle slope, we saw a bright arc of light. An opening. And it was daylight.

  Between all that had happened—the waterfall, the driving explosion of water, losing my friends, then finally finding them again—we had apparently slogged our way through the Waters all night.

  The closer we got to the opening, the more I could hear the distinct sound of falling water.

  Great, I thought. Another damned waterfall.

  We had to bend to peer through the narrow opening, but sure enough, the river gave way to a long, draping waterfall splashing into a wide pool below. It was quite picturesque; the pool was surrounded by thick green foliage, including tall pine and dense fern, clove and juniper, and a few brightly colored wildflowers. There was something odd about the place, though. Every once in a while, as the breeze gusted up from the falls below, I could swear it smelled like decay and I wasn’t sure—death?

  The memories of a distant life bubbled just below the surface of my conscience, but I couldn’t bring them any closer. For some reason, I felt like I should know this spot, but that made absolutely no sense.

  Then Marshaan squatted beside me. “I know this place,” he growled.

  “I have the same feeling. Like I should recognize it or something.”

  “And well you should, if what I fear is true.”

  I looked at him squarely. “And what do you fear?”

  He raised his chin and surveyed the land below us. “That what we’re looking at—that what we may actually be standing in—is the Mihtcarr.”

  ≈≈≈≈≈≈

  Arteura awoke to the sound of voices. She had fallen asleep under the cover of tangled roots at the base of the fallen tree where she and Marcus stored their wooden training weapons, her mock Þrymm guard’s uniform rolled up as a makeshift pillow.

  The voices she’d heard were still distant but distinct, and coming her way.

  She silently rolled to her back and looked in their direction. There was no one. The tone of the voices sounded like camaraderie, like jovial ribbing and friendly laughter. Not like a search party. And not like anyone in a hurry.

  She risked sitting up. There, in the distance, coming down the pathway from Brynslæd, she saw a line of cream-colored robes like the one she was wearing. At least four of them, probably more.

  The Mihtcarr, she thought. Rectors. The sacrifice. They’re going through with the damnable sacrifice!

  They weren’t looking around. They weren’t looking for her. And why would they? They were here to watch the Mihtcarr. To see if the gods had accepted whatever sacrifice the Elder was going to perform this very morning.

  She seethed at the thought of all her mother and her had been through in the days before: the discovery of Sigquaya being used at the Gildrom, being found, being imprisoned, the Elder’s trumped-up charges in that sham of a trial. And now, after all of that, the man was still going through with his circus of ritual. She felt a moment’s sadness for whomever was the unfortunate “honored dead,” but then, even that only sto
ked her anger.

  Who was she actually angry at, though? The Elder? The Temple? The gods? The Empire?

  Yes, she thought. Yes! All of them! Even these Rectors.

  When she was sure they’d passed by, she stood and brushed dust and dead leaves off her clothes. She thought about it, then unrolled the makeshift Þrymm guard’s uniform she’d used as a pillow and put it on beneath the Rector’s robe. After all, two disguises were better than one. As she did, the wheels of thought and doubt began to spin inside her brain. Here she was, at the Mihtcarr, one girl against only the gods knew how many Rectors.

  What could one girl do against what would admittedly be a band of fervent believers? She and her mother once thought they could disrupt the ceremony. Could she still?

  Then she thought of the promise she’d made to her mother.

  “Just promise me you won’t do anything stupid . . .”

  Then she thought of the promises she’d made to herself: Dying is stupid . . . I’m going to kill him, Mother . . .

  What could one girl do against a band of fervent believers? Whatever she damn well sets her mind to!

  ≈≈≈≈≈≈

  Rhiana was alone. Standing at the precipice of the Gildrom. Surrounded by an angry crowd at a fevered pitch.

  The Elder smiled inwardly. The only thing needed to control a crowd was fear, and maybe a scapegoat to blame. After this, order would be restored, and the Empire would follow him anywhere.

  But then, the fevered pitch began to subside. A hush began to fall through the crowd, starting at the back, where the crowd spilled over toward the entrance of the Gildrom, and working its way forward. The Elder could see the crowd shushing and parting. Someone was coming toward them, slowly and purposefully, like a battleship splitting the seas, leaving an expectant calm in its wake.

  When the people closest to the front shuffled aside, Amelia Grayson stepped into the light, across the Gildrom pool from her daughter and the Elder, her silver-streaked raven hair glowing amber and her wide-set eyes flashing like amethysts in the torchlight. They were fixed on the Elder, unblinking and lucid.

  “Mother, what are you—”

  Amelia’s gaze turned to her daughter as she shook her head slowly, silencing her.

  The Elder’s nostrils flared, his lips thinned, and his fists clenched. This was the one person he had not anticipated, not expected, at today’s ceremony. She should have been cowed into silence, coerced into exile, frightened into submission. This whole charade was as much for her and her family as it was for the Empire. She obviously hadn’t learned her place, her role. Her appearance here was a disruption, an annoyance, and yet more.

  The first crack began to appear in his own façade. He was remiss not to have felt the approach of Amelia’s magic. What he did feel was unusual, uncomfortable, and old. He felt doubt, yes. He felt hesitation. And something else. A feeling long thought tucked away and hidden. Something not experienced since he had discovered his own gifts so long ago, since first coming to Brynslæd, leading the Temple, and ruling an Empire.

  Aoren Carpeian, the Elder of the Cyneþrymm, felt fear.

  26

  Above the Mihtcarr

  We were about to step out and see if there was a way to reach the ground when Marshaan shoved me roughly back inside. I hit my head on the upper ledge and saw stars.

  “Hey!” I protested. “What was that for?”

  “Someone’s coming,” he hissed.

  He peeked back out. “I count six. All dressed the same. In white robes of some sort.”

  “Rectors?” I wondered. “Then, this is the Mihtcarr.”

  He peeked out again, then suddenly ducked back in.

  “Damn,” he said. “They were looking up here. I hope they didn’t see—”

  There was a commotion from down below, and Marshaan cursed.

  “They did,” Telluras groaned.

  “Now what?” I asked.

  With our cover blown, Marshaan brazenly stuck his head out, looked down, and cursed again, then looked up above the opening.

  “We go up,” he said. “There’s some vines and outcroppings here. It arcs up about two stories above us. Hopefully the ground levels out up there.”

  “Then what?” I asked, a little more desperately this time. “What if it doesn’t?”

  “Says the boy who can climb a hundred feet without breaking a sweat.” He shrugged. “I suppose we’ll see when we get there.” He leaned out and looked down below him again. “They’re already a third of the way up. Let’s move. Rahn, are you good to climb?”

  “Watch me,” he spat and elbowed up behind Marshaan.

  We climbed, two on one side of the opening, two on the other.

  This was definitely the Mihtcarr; we wound our way around the “eyes” of the god’s face and continued up the steep climb. Once above the face, it did slope back and, thankfully, about thirty feet above us, leveled enough that we could stand on solid ground. Here, the landscape continued at a gentle slope a good distance before meeting a sheer rock wall that rose up to an imposing mountain overhead.

  That has to be Dunwielm!

  “We’re trapped!” Telluras grumbled.

  Marshaan, Rahn, and I scanned around desperately. It looked like Telluras was right. Before us and to the right stood the rock wall, and to the other side the landscape sloped away, down to what would likely be the pathway back to Brynslæd. It was a plausible escape route, yes, but it led to Brynslæd, and everything Marshaan and the others had so carefully warned me about.

  As if in confirmation, two Rectors were already cresting the Mihtcarr behind us, brandishing longswords and not looking at all hospitable or forgiving.

  Marshaan turned, his hands twitching at his sides, hesitant to draw his knives just yet. “Weapons!” he called out.

  “Hunting knives,” Telluras answered.

  “Umm.” Rahn panicked. “I’ve got nothing.”

  I didn’t either, but then I thought of this newfound fire trick I’d somehow picked up. Did it just light wooden sticks? Or, could it be used to fend off a man with a big sword? Either way, I’d probably find out before this was over, whatever this was going to be.

  More Rectors appeared behind the first two.

  “You two,” Marshaan gruffed, indicating me and Rahn. “Get behind us just in case. And if this goes south and one of them drops a weapon, for gods’ sake, pick it up and use it!”

  One of the Rectors stepped forward, crouched and ready, his sword held at the waist. “Who are you?” he called out, moving in on Marshaan. “What are you doing here?”

  “We’re merely travelers,” Marshaan answered, raising his hands in peace. “We got lost on our way to . . . Talenwood?”

  “Nice,” Telluras muttered, rolling his eyes. “They’ll surely buy that.”

  “You’re more than lost, traveler,” the Rector said as he began side-stepping to the left. The other Rectors, five of them now, fanned out and formed a half-circle, cutting us off from the Mihtcarr and any other path down, and hemming us in with the sheer rock wall at our backs.

  “We’ve already put a stop to heretics trying to interfere in this sacred ritual,” he went on. “You seem to me like you might be with them.”

  Marshaan’s eyes darted to me in question. “No,” he answered. “We know nothing of any conspiracy. Or of any ritual, for that matter.”

  “Liars!” the Rector spat. “What were you doing at the Mihtcarr? In fact, what were you doing IN the Mihtcarr?”

  They were circling each other now, Marshaan and the Rector, stalking and crouched like predators waiting for an opening to strike. The Rector had his longsword drawn, and Marshaan slowly took out his hunting knife, paltry by comparison. His other hand was still held up, but it seemed that any show of peace was looking more and more futile.

  “As I said,” Marshaan answered as calmly as his shortening fuse would let him, “we are only travelers, and we are lost. We were climbing up beside the falls back there, trying to reac
h some higher ground to see if there was a passage around this mountain.”

  “Where are you from?”

  Marshaan clicked his tongue and winced. “You probably haven’t heard of it.”

  “I’ve heard of a lot of places, traveler. Try me.”

  “Upper Duckwater,” Marshaan answered.

  “And just where would that be at?”

  “I told you you’d never heard of it. It’s just north of Lower Duckwater.”

  I looked quickly at Telluras and saw that it was all he could do not to break into a grin at that. It must have been some kind of inside joke between the brothers. I was beginning to hope that I’d live long enough for them to tell me.

  I could hear the edge creeping into Marshaan’s voice, and I was sure these Rectors could as well. Telluras had unsheathed one of his knives and moved up, even with Marshaan. Rahn’s wide eyes kept darting from Marshaan to the Rectors, then to me and back again. He’d obviously reached the same conclusion I had. Another dam was about to burst. The question was, who was about to be overrun?

  Then another Rector appeared, well behind the others, rounding the ledge of the Mihtcarr. This one didn’t brandish a longsword. He had two smaller swords that he’d slowly withdrawn from underneath his robe. They were about the length of a forearm, and he loosely held one in each hand, keeping his distance from the other Rectors and staying well behind them.

  Almost as if trying not to draw attention to himself.

  ≈≈≈≈≈≈

  Arteura had padded her way silently to the edge of the Mihtcarr’s pool, crawling among the cover of tall fern and lilies. She’d seen the Rectors’ attention drawn to something at the face of the Mihtcarr that clearly agitated them. Then she’d seen them start to climb the rocks at both sides of the falls.

  She risked peeking out and, just for a second, saw a face peeking back, out of the mouth of the rock god looming above her. Then four people clamored through, climbing frantically out of the mouth and scurrying up the face, with the Rectors soon behind them.