Sigquaya, Page 3

  “Mu-mum?” I sputtered.

  There was an infectious giggle, and I could almost picture the smile that came with it.

  “Hello, young one.”

  This voice came from above me, and it couldn’t have been more opposite of the first voice. This one was gentle and warm, its sound an equivalent to the water I’d just been hoisted from. The hand at my back fell to my side and gently pushed, prompting me to roll over.

  “Lie back,” said the gentle voice. “Let me have a look at you.”

  I did. At that moment, I would have done anything for that voice. I was alive. I was away from the Gildrom, from the crowd, from my father. At that moment, it was all that I wanted.

  As I rolled onto my back, a face swam into focus. A woman, younger than I expected, much younger than my mother. I couldn’t see a lot by the light of the single torch overhead; her unlined face was almost completely in shadow, with her hair haloed by the lamplight behind it. In fact, her whole body seemed outlined with torchlight. I could tell she was smiling too, and I could tell that she meant it. Her eyes were large and dark, her haloed hair the color of wheat just before harvest.

  “You look like her,” I croaked, and she giggled again. The smile was just as I’d pictured it. I don’t know. Maybe it was because the last time I saw my mother, she was so sad that I just wanted to see her happy one more time. It was the look I saw in this woman’s face.

  Then, suddenly, I felt queasy again. Was she a god? Or was she the one who was supposed to prepare me for them? Like a cook or a server.

  I turned away, looking for the one who’d hauled me out of the water. When I saw him, my first thought was, He could be a god.

  He was big, really big, bearded, and easily twice the size of the woman, I could tell, even though he was still up to his chest in the water. He wore a light tan tunic under a thick vest, both stretched tight across his barrel chest. His beard was thick, scruffy, and water flecked; his dark hair was slicked back as if he’d been underwater, which he probably had. His eyes were even darker than the woman’s, and he glared at me, but not really at me, more through me. I couldn’t understand why, but despite his size and scowl, the man didn’t seem to frighten me. His face was a combination of concern and frustration. I was pretty sure one was for me and the other was for my circumstances.

  I had to ask, though it was hard to get my voice to work. “Are—are you . . . gods?”

  The man glanced at the woman as she laughed again.

  By the gods, I thought. I could listen to that sound all day.

  I turned back to the woman’s smile as she shook her head. “No, my child, we are not gods. There are no gods here. It’s just us, and we’ve come here for you.” Her eyes softened. “We’ve been expecting you.”

  That was an odd thing to say. She giggled and gave me a quirky grin as if reading my expression. “We will tell you everything, my child, all in good time. For now, we want to make sure you are uninjured. And, to assure you”—she lay her hand on my chest, rubbing softly—“you are safe.”

  She raised me up to a sitting position, which hurt, looking me over all the while. The man waded to the edge of the water beside me. He pulled out a long, serrated knife strapped to his side, and I thought, Here it comes, but instead of gutting me like a fish, he snapped the ropes from around my wrists. Then, he hoisted himself out to sit beside me. He was wearing what looked like deerskin breeches with reinforced pockets at his sides and thighs, bulging with knife handles, slings, and other tools. Everything was dripping with river water. He sheathed his serrated knife and reached into a large sack lying beside us, grabbing an iron awl and a heavy hammer as he went to work on the chains around my feet.

  “Don’t move,” he said.

  “No shit,” I thought. “Who are you people, anyway?”

  The man shot a sideways look at me, and the woman laughed again.

  Did I say that out loud?

  As if in answer, the woman said, “My name is Daina.” Then she nodded to the man across from me. “And this is Marshaan.”

  “And I would watch my mouth,” he growled, brandishing the awl, “or I could just as easily slip off a toe as a chain.”

  I didn’t doubt him for a second.

  “I, umm, I’m Tristan.”

  “Mmm,” she purred with an approving nod. “And how old are you, Tristan?”

  “Umm, I’ve seen almost twelve harvests.”

  “Tristan,” she said. “That’s a good name. Then she fixed me with a conspiring look. “But when the time comes, I think we can do even better.”

  Better than what? And why? What does that even mean?

  I suppose it never really hit me until then to wonder where exactly I was, where my family was, what I was doing here. And, how was I even alive? And—

  “All in good time, my child.”

  And why do you keep calling me that?

  After a few more minutes, Daina finished up and stood. I could see that she wore leathering very similar to what Marshaan wore, only a lighter color and more supple. She too wore a tan-colored tunic, a leather vest, and leggings of leather and soft cloth. Between her and Marshaan, they looked like they would have been more at home in a hunting encampment than a damp, water-logged cavern.

  “He has quite a few scrapes,” she said. “One deep in the middle of his back, and that gash over his eye will have to be mended.”

  Marshaan grunted in reply as, with one last clang, the chains at my feet fell away. He gathered them together and tossed them into the river.

  “Very well,” he agreed. “Have a look at those ankles, and I’ll get these things together.”

  He replaced the hammer and awl, slung the sack over his back, and hoisted himself to his feet. I could tell, even in the wide opening of where we were, that Marshaan still had to stoop to accommodate his size. He looked at me with a curt nod. “Our work here is done anyway.”

  “Can you walk?” the woman asked me as she gently turned my feet this way and that.

  I rolled to the side, testing my legs and wincing as I stood. I wobbled a little and everything still ached, but it all worked, and I nodded.

  “Good,” Marshaan said. “Let’s make our way back. I’m not fond of being here any longer than I have to. This place makes me sick.”

  “This place is sacred, Marshaan,” Daina scolded.

  “I know that.” He grunted in what I guess was an acknowledgment. He looked around the cavern as he shifted the tools on his back, muttering something about a “reaping place” along with a few more words I didn’t understand.

  “Marshaan,” Daina chided.

  “What?” he growled as he looked from the woman to me and back.

  “What’s a reaping place?” I asked.

  He set his jaw and his nostrils flared. My father had the same look at times, especially when I was really trying to get his attention, even for a moment. I called it determination. My father called it “being annoying.” Like him, I wasn’t sure if Marshaan was going to answer me or backhand me. Luckily, he answered.

  “This place,” he said, jutting his hairy chin toward the water. “This is a reaping place. We call it Estemere.” He gestured toward the underground river. “Flowing through here are the Waters of Death and Life. This is where we do Ahredai’s work. Where we right the wrongs of the Hæðn who toss aside life as if it could appease some infernal god. The work is merciful, though the reason sickens me.”

  I understood about half of that but knew better than to ask what an Ahredai or a Hæðn was. At least not right then.

  As if eager to get on the move, Marshaan adjusted the sack of tools a second time and motioned us out of the opening toward a narrow shaft of the tunnel. Daina led the way, torch in hand, with me in the middle and Marshaan bringing up the rear, bent even more within the confines of the close walls, clanking his tools and muttering the whole way.

  “What happens now?” I asked as we walked. “Do I go back home? Back to the Temple? I mean, I’ve never
really been . . .” I paused, searching for the right words.

  Daina stopped mid-stride and turned to face me. “Never been sacrificed before?” she offered.

  All I could do was nod.

  “Tell me.” She leaned closer. “Do you want to go home?”

  I hesitated.

  “Ca-can I?” I finally managed, though I wondered if the real question was if I actually wanted to.

  She looked at me for another long moment with a deep, abiding sympathy in her eyes. Then she turned without a word and walked on.

  I wondered if, in a way, her silence was the answer to both of my questions.

  4

  Celebration in Sacrifice,

  Honor in Death

  The Temple of the Cyneþrymm was set like a fine jewel in the center of Brynslæd, all white marble, gold, and polished granite. A shining beacon of power and strength. A warning to its adversaries and a lure to its devoted. Lesser empires might have ornate palaces displaying the wealth and supremacy of the king or the ruling class. Brynslæd had its Temple.

  Yet, calling the Temple of the Cyneþrymm a temple at all was a bit of a misnomer. The Temple was a U-shaped collection of several altars under one massive timber-planked and gilded dome, constructed to mirror and magnify the gleaming contours of the Gildrom. The dome and archway over the entrance hall were supported by twenty-seven smooth marble columns. The entrance hall faced north, with the entire side facing the Gildrom open. To the east and west, idols to the Empire’s pantheon of gods stood one after another, twelve to a side, exquisitely carved in stone and wooden figures, all of them, like the ceiling, gilded with gold and set atop altars of polished marble. These were the Cyneþrymm—the Gathering of Gods—of the Temple’s namesake.

  The massive golden idol to Brynewielm stood at the far end, facing the open entrance and reaching almost to the top of the gilded dome twenty meters above. His head showed three human-like faces, with three eyes each, seeing everything in all directions. His body and arms were like that of a lion. His legs like the finest steed. And his tail, long and whipping, like a lizard. One clawed hand held a scroll, signifying prophecy, with one end crumpled and darkened to look burnt, signifying his power in fire. The other clawed hand held aloft a thick sheaf of grain, signifying his control of the harvest.

  The city itself was surrounded on three sides by a thick wall of stone and mortar, tall gatehouses stood to the south and east and, like the Temple, the city’s entire northern side was open. But it was far from vulnerable. Brynslæd butted up against a steep and saw-toothed mountain called Dunwielm—the Mountain of Fire and the lair of Brynewielm.

  Brynslæd sat wedged into a jagged bowl carved into the side of the mountain looking from a distance like a stadium for the gods. The mountain was crowned in Scots pine and shimmering aspen, hemming in the city and protecting the Empire from attack and from the fierce northern winds that often blew long streamers of snow off the peaks in midwinter. There were several caverns and tunnel passages dotting the higher altitudes, but these were guarded by broad stands of tea willow and wild juniper, by thorn-covered blackberry and carpets of slick moss, and fortified by generations of Legends, rumors, and ghost stories. There was only one tunnel passage that the people were welcomed into, and only one pathway leading to its entrance. That was the Gildrom.

  The crowd from the morning’s ceremony fanned out from the wide path as compact dirt gave way to smooth cobblestone. The Gildrom’s path wove down the mountainside and emptied onto the main boulevard that pierced through the heart of Brynslæd. Here, the street was lined on both sides by tall colonnades that ran all the way to and around the Temple and all the way to the Southern Gates. Underneath the colonnades, merchants and money changers hawked their wares to the steady stream of passersby, locals and visitors alike, buying sacred trinkets, carpets, intricately designed textiles, food, and weapons. At this early hour, many of the street merchants were still setting up their tables, yet they welcomed the Rectors and faithful with festive greetings and prayers for acceptance of the offering.

  News, especially gossip and misfortune, often traveled faster than the foot traffic that carried it, so by the time Remè Denaeus passed by, he was met with strained, half-hearted greetings, and even a few pitiful shakes of the head. People knew. People were talking. People were already passing judgment. On his son. His family. His future. Maybe it was all in his mind. But he could hear it, feel it, see it in the eyes of the others, as if every furtive glance held the same anger, shame, and disgust that he felt for himself.

  His mind was torn, both with the desire to stand tall and proud, the father of the honored dead, or to shrink away and disappear, the head of a soiled family name. Yes, his son had shown fear and cowardice. But others had whimpered at the water’s edge; infants had wailed, and children’s legs had buckled at the last. Not always, but—

  Then there was Rhiana, his wife, who hadn’t “shown” at all. This, he thought, would be harder to explain away. But, then again, grief can get the best of some weaker-willed people.

  He slowed a bit, as if the light of dawn had struck him for the first time that morning.

  Yes, that could be it! He chewed his lip as a story began to unfold in his mind. She was filled with pride, of course. Proud to be chosen. But her feeble femininity rendered her grief-stricken—unfortunate timing and all that. And, to be fair, this was not her first . . .

  Remè brushed the last thought away.

  No, if anything, her family’s past should have girded her, made her stronger and more resilient. And, more importantly, thinking of her family, how would Lord Grayson see all of this?

  Derrick Grayson, Rhiana’s father, was on the Grand Council and had been for years. The Grand Council oversaw all matters of law and politics within the Empire, just as the Temple Rectors oversaw all matters of religion and moral principles—areas that, too often for the Council’s liking, overlapped into rulings of law and politics.

  Early on, Grayson had earned a reputation of being outspoken and controversial, a thorn in the side of the Temple Rectors whom he seemed to clash with on a regular basis. Then, years ago, Grayson suddenly grew quiet and reserved, the confrontations ceased, and now he rarely spoke in Council at all. Remè knew it had to do with the family’s past, and with Grayson’s constant grappling with the Temple. The Rectors had silenced him with a sudden and drastic finality. How would his daughter’s, Remè’s wife’s, absence affect him, his Councilship, and his decisions on matters of Empire and family? How would Rhiana’s absence reflect on Remè’s own future prospects?

  The swirling questions only seemed to sicken him further until finally the frustration of it all—the whispers, the glances, the internal turmoil—had gotten the better of him. Remè straightened his cloak, thrust out his chin, and elbowed his way through the merchant tables, storming off down a side street toward his home. It made no sense to worry about the uncertainty of his future, at least not yet. Now, all he could do was remedy the present. Besides, why should he punish himself when there was someone else more obviously at fault? Appearances were everything in Brynslæd. In matters of public, Temple, and government. And in any hope of political ascension. He would have to show them all that he was still capable of authority and control. Especially within his own family.

  As he rounded the last corner, Remè was finally, blessedly, alone, his home facing him at the end of the street. He spied the outline of Rhiana’s silhouette at the front window. Her head was down, bobbing as if she were frantically scrubbing something below the window’s sill. Her hair hung in loose tendrils over her brow.

  Remè paused a moment, looking at his wife. When they had first met, she was ravishing, the spitting image of her mother, with fine-boned features, an olive complexion, deep mahogany hair, and the most riveting violet eyes. There were fleeting rumors that she, like her mother, was Ma’wan. But she had never shown any power or magical ability. Ever. She was quite good with herbal healing, but this had only to do with her kno
wledge of the local flora and foliage, more so than in any conjuring ability. Still, the rumors had been another difficult public prejudice to overcome.

  And now this.

  As he approached, he could see the taut set of her jaw and the glistening of sweat on her face, mingling with tears as they dripped off her cheeks into the wash basin below. She’d been crying, obviously, and by the look of it, tears of frustration more than any sadness. Stress had creased her once-flawless features over the years, her olive skin had grown pale, her mahogany hair had gone limp, and the riveting violet of her eyes had grown lifeless and cold. Remè paused, having to push back a rising flush of empathy. No, gods damn it! Her place was beside me. No matter what! Sadness, anger, resentment, whatever she felt, it was no excuse. How many times would he have to remind her? How many times would he have to establish his authority, a warning to her, and a warrant to the community?

  Steeling himself, he burst through the door, slamming it shut behind him, rattling cups on the shelves and canisters of drying herbs on the tabletop, and sending dust clouds swirling from the packed earth floor.

  His wife, clearing dishes from the morning meal, scrubbing pans as if every speck of food was a personal affront, raised her bloodshot eyes, greeting him with nothing more than a hard-edged glare and icy silence. She had yet to change dress from the previous night, and her rumpled bedclothes were spotted here and there with oil from cooking breakfast and soapy water from cleaning up after.

  Their children, Arteura and Marcus, sat in a corner together, listlessly playing with rag dolls and stick-log homes. The girl was ten, just a year behind Tristan, and their youngest son would soon celebrate his seventh harvest. They flinched as he burst in, anxious, their eyes as red-rimmed as their mother’s, their lips still trembling with fear and confusion. On instinct, Arteura reached for her younger brother, pulling him close, her eyes shifting from grief to tenderness in an instant. Once again, Remè had to fight back his damnable empathy. It would be a long road to recovery after the loss of their oldest sibling, but this was a life lesson they still had to learn: There is celebration in sacrifice, and there is honor in death.