Blood Seed: Coin of Rulve Book One (21 page)

They both knew they were running out of time. The moon of Seed would fall into darkness in only four nights. She waited until they all sat down, then welcomed the newcomers.

“So you finally got off your asses and joined us,” Blinor growled at them. 

“I haven’t joined you,” Delo said in a tremulous voice. “Rom said just come for more information.”

“Tell them what happened to you during the blizzard,” Rom prompted.

A bitter look hardened the man’s round face. “Two of my prize cows died. Including one serviced by Ferce’s best bull. Every ducat I paid to breed her was wasted! My sons say this would never have happened if—” He sniffed, looked uncomfortable, and waved the rest of the thought away.

Everyone turned to Olan, who still looked gaunt from the fluenza. “My daughter was badly injured, priestess. She was in the barn, getting the milk bucket, when”—his voice cracked, and he took a moment to compose himself—“when the roof caved in under the heavy snow. If I join you, will Ele heal her?”

“I’m sure the goddess will be compassionate, my son. She has a mother’s heart. But it all depends on your faith. And on your courage, Olan. Even Ele can do nothing without that.”

“Looks to me,” Asher said, “there’s nine men in this room right now, all eligible to form a new council.” As a former Holdman, Pogreb was the exception.

“And they”—Blinor grinned, nodding in the direction of the Council House across the road—“are only eight.”

Rom held up his hand. “But they don’t know that yet. They believe I’m still with them.”

“Moro should be here,” Blinor said. “He got taken in by the foreigner’s lies to the point where his wife wasn’t even decently buried. Now her bones are out in the deadlands somewhere, being gnawed at by mewlets and wolves.”

His remark opened a floodgate, and everyone began talking at once. 

“He sits there with that carving knife, molesting babies, and our witless council does nothing.” 

“Mama suffers in her chair, and he walks free to jump out and attack us.”

“What he did to Ubela, to Mariat, he can do to the daughter of any man here!”

“The worst of his crimes remains unpunished, and every one of us pays the price!”

Sokol jumped to his feet. “No more talk! It’s time to act. What about the rest of you?”

It was the moment Parduka had been waiting for, praying for. The moment when they heard, loud and clear, Ele's call. She looked at Rom, seated in the back, and every head turned to him. The smith was the one they most respected, the one who could call forth their strength and ignite their resolve.

He got to his feet and looked each man in the eye, one by one in the wavering light. “Sokol is right. It’s time to decide. Who stands with us?”

Gwin jumped up, followed by Blinor and Greak’s two neighbors. Temo stood next. They all looked down at the two remaining men: the newcomers, Olan and Delo.

“What’s the matter with you?” Gwin asked Olan. “You almost died from the fluenza the foreigner brought upon us. And what happened to your daughter demands justice.”

Olan bit his lip. “Justice, yes. But these restored Rites—are they the only way to save my little girl?”

“Saving this one or that one,” Blinor retorted, “isn’t the point. We must do what we must do, for the good of all. We may not like it or feel easy about it, but the protection of the entire village is laid upon us.”

Olan still hesitated, and Parduka’s heart began to pound. “What about proof?” he asked. “Of all his crimes, only the one deserves death. Do we have proof that he did it?”

“We have two witnesses!” Blinor cried. “What more proof do you need, man!”

Parduka put her hands on Olan’s shoulders. “Rest easy, my son. There is no doubt. Not one of us would have come to this point if there were. Come now, step out in faith, and join us.”

“Only faith will save your daughter, Olan,” Rom said gently.

The others murmured agreement.

His face pale, Olan nodded and rose to his feet.

They all turned to Delo, the only one still sitting.

“Did you come here just to talk, Delo?” Sokol snarled. “Or are you going to stand up like a man?”

The corpulent cattleman flushed and climbed to his feet. “It just takes me longer to get up,” he muttered.

They stood in the candlelight and regarded each other.

“We are nine!” Parduka cried. “At last we are nine! Our goddess has performed a miracle, just in time for her dark moon.” She raised her arms to Ele. “Thank you, All-Mother. Thank you for the faith and courage that you have bestowed on all of us here. Thank you making us a righteous instrument in your hands.”

“We have just formed the new Council of At-Wysher,” Rom said to them, “a new governance that will root out evil and make our village safe for our families again. Together we will foster piety and restore important values that have been hacked away. Things will be different from now on.”

Faith glowed in Olan’s eyes. “The goddess will heal my daughter. I know it. The very night we perform the new Rites, my little one will rise from her bed and walk to me.”

Parduka grasped his arm and spoke gently. “Those who trust in Ele will never be forsaken.”

She turned to face the others. “In four days we will meet in this room. We will formally pronounce our vows to Ele and elect a new Holdman. Then we will go forth after midnight, into the dark moon of Seed, and for the first time in decades, perform the ancient Rites at their traditional time and rightful place.”

Pogreb leaned forward, his one eye gleaming. “A new council has formed, yes; but also a new Dark Circle. A circle—hee, hee, hee!—that will become a noose around the foreigner’s neck!”

After everyone left, Rom stayed behind. “Did you bring it?” Parduka asked.

He withdrew from his pocket one of the foreigner’s carvings: a wooden hay-mouse. It was the one, she knew, he had taken from Oris, his younger son.

Parduka shuddered when she saw what Rom had done to it. “I can barely look at this,” she muttered. “Yet it is excellent work. This is a true symbol of the evil that lies in the foreigner’s black heart.” She looked up at him. “You are Ele’s chosen, Rom. You are truly a warrior in her service.”

He took the carving from her. “Voy already went through the foreigner’s barn,” he said. “The sneaky little rat will know just where to put this.”

Sheft spent the next day alone at the south end of Etane’s field, digging the furrow that tomorrow would contain the fire there. In the distance, at the north end, men were doing the same thing. Sheft glimpsed Oris running around with a smaller boy who was probably one of the Fercian relatives. By late afternoon, everyone had finished their work and gone to their pre-wedding merriment, and Sheft trudged home. Tarn was staying overnight at Moro’s house, so Sheft fed the chickens, washed up, and ate a solitary supper.

Afterward he went out to stand on the doorstep. Deep purple suffused the sky in the east, but in the west the great trees of the Riftwood stood silhouetted against a fading band of gold, set with the sparkling jewel of the Twilight Star. Etane’s celebration was probably in full swing by now. Torches would be set outside, and guests would not fear the night because it was said Ele especially protected weddings. He thought he heard bursts of distant laughter on the still air.

In five days, when the moon was a new crescent, he would go to the Wind-gate. There would be very little to pack: a blanket, his carving knives, a few articles of clothing. He’d also take the book of tales; Riah would’ve wanted him to have it.

At times his conversation with Yarahe seemed like an improbable dream. Soon he would be leaving home, and going home, but he had no idea what he might face there. At night he held the Toltyr Arulve in a tight fist and prayed for courage.

Early the next morning, he answered the knock on his door to find Etane on the doorstep. It looked to be a cool, clear day with no wind—perfect weather for both the burn and the wedding. 

Etane, however, looked harried. “Leeza’s father broke a wagon wheel last night, wouldn’t you know it? He feels terrible about it, but now we’ll need Tarn’s wagon to get the trestle tables from Vehoke, and my father’s wagon to fetch the casks from Cloor, and that means we’ll have to use Leeza’s
brother’s
wagon for the aunts who are still waiting for a ride—and as angry as stirred-up wasps, I’m told—and
that
means he can’t get the kunta-kart from his uncle’s house.” He looked at Sheft in horror. “Oh Ele, I’m babbling, aren’t I?”

“No, no. Grooms are supposed to get nervous before—”

“What I’m trying to say is we’ll need your old cart as kunta.” This was a cart used to store the men’s tools after a burn. They had to be kept safely out of sight because the presence of any earth-plunging object at a wedding ceremony was considered bad luck—symbols of competition, the old men chortled, for the groom.

“That cart has a crack in the shaft.” 

“It’ll be fine. Nobody will be riding in it.”

“But what if—”

“It won’t. When the burn’s over, I’ll make sure all our rakes and hoes get put into the cart. Oris will bring Padiky out to you when we’re through with her, and then after the ceremony you can just leave the cart behind our barn.”

“All right.”

“Be on the lookout for greensnakes; they’re just emerging from their holes. And watch for flare-ups! Everyone will be in a rush to get cleaned up for the ceremony, so a brush pile may be left smoldering.” He glanced anxiously toward his father’s house. “Ele’s eyes, I don’t want a major fire on my wedding day. Oh, make sure there’s a good, deep ditch around that grove of trees I showed you. I don’t want the burn going through there. Leeza thinks it’s so pretty with those wildflowers and all.”

“I’ll see to it.”

Etane hesitated. “Leeza and I will be going up to Ferce for a few days after the wedding, so…I guess this is good-bye.” He grasped Sheft’s shoulder and shook it gently. “Take care of yourself.”

Sheft had been so preoccupied that he forgot this moment would be coming. Regret that he’d never see Etane again rushed over him. “You too.” He was near tears, but what he’d told the falconform remained true: even now, his best friend couldn’t look him in the eyes.

Etane, near tears himself, squeezed his shoulder. He turned and rushed off toward a thin line of smoke rising into the sunlit air. The burn had begun.

With a heavy sigh, Sheft went into the barn and assayed the cart. The chickens had left their droppings on it during the blizzard, but no one would care about that. The crack had not gotten any worse since the fall, and it looked like the shaft could withstand a load of light tools. 

He pulled the cart to Etane’s field. Even though it carried nothing but his rake, shovel, and ax, the cumbersome thing was built high off the ground, seemed to weigh as much as a full-size wagon, and tended to see-saw between its big wheels. He was glad to drop it just outside the shallow ditch. After drinking water from his flagon, he inspected the entire length of the perimeter dug the day before, making sure the ditch was deep enough to contain the burn.  

All was well, so he crossed over the fire-break and threaded his way past the piles of brush toward Etane’s grove. Several fine trees grew there, including a large star-nut just beginning to bud. A carpet of yellow crocus lay at its feet, and airy, pink-veined harbingers nodded in the sun. No wonder Etane wanted to protect this place for Leeza. He would probably build their house here, maybe make a swing for their children and hang it from a tree.

Whoever had dug the ditch that protected all this, however, had done a poor job. The fire-break was too close to the trees in one place and non-existent in another, where several boar-bushes grew. It was noon by the time he finished axing out their tough roots, and he was tired and sweaty. By now the line of low flames was advancing toward him, as well as the men who were raking debris into it.

He ducked out of sight into the woods behind the field and took the long way home. There he ate a bowl of groats leftover from breakfast, planted a row of peas in the kitchen garden, and when he judged the burn was over, returned to the blackened field for a final check. All the workers had gone to clean up for the wedding, leaving behind a haze of smoke. The grove was untouched, an island of greenery in the midst of the ash.

Just beyond the cart, however, two brush-heaps hadn’t burned completely. An occasional tongue of flame licked out of the twigs that poked from their charred circles. Not good, but soon remedied.

He propped up the shaft to keep the cart level and unhooked the back. The workers had carelessly tossed spades, hoes, rakes, and axes into a sharp and dangerous heap; and everything had gotten tangled in a coil of rope. Even worse, the cart was overloaded, for they had thrown in an old hand-plough as well. Irritated—Etane knew how cautious he was with metal tools—Sheft carefully extricated a rake, stepped over the furrow, and began to break up the farther brush heap.

The sun was hot, the cord of the toltyr rubbed against the back of his sunburned neck, and the smoke rasping against his throat reminded him he’d forgotten to refill the water flagon. In spite of all this, he smiled to himself at one point, thinking that soon Etane would be saying his wedding vows. But, with a twist in his heart, the smile disappeared. He’d never exchange such vows himself.

The first brush fire was out by the time Oris arrived with Padiky. For once doing what he’d been told, the boy hitched her to the cart and kicked away the prop. Wiping his forehead on his sleeve, Sheft began working on the other brush heap, in which a few low flames crackled.

Oris didn’t immediately run off and Sheft turned to see what he was doing. On the other side of the furrow, almost hidden in the grass, he lay on his stomach in the meager shade just behind the cart, apparently watching for small creatures that always emerged from a burn. 

He didn’t like to see the boy lying so close to an open cart filled with sharp tools. Uneasy, he walked out of the perimeter with his rake. “You should get back to Moro’s house. The party will be starting soon.”

The boy rolled partly on his side and squinted up at him. He wore a light spring shirt and his face was smudged. “I was waiting for you.”

“What for?”

“For a toy. The kind you brought to the market-fair. Remember?”

“I remember.”

“Well, Gwin was mean. He took mine away. Can I have another one?”

“I think there’s one or two left. But right now get away from that cart.”

“First get the toy. I’ll wait here while—”

Padiky started and tossed her head. The cart shuddered. The mass of tools creaked, shifted toward the opening. The mare’s eye rolled back, staring at something that moved toward her in the grass. A greensnake.

Sheft dropped his rake and ran forward. “Oris, get away!”

The snake swirled around Padiky’s hooves and she bucked in terror. With a loud crack, the shaft splintered partway through, the cart tipped, and its sharp-edged contents began sliding toward Oris.

The boy screamed, buried his face in his arms, and there was nothing between him and the cart’s jagged cargo except a thin shirt. Sheft dived over him an instant before the shaft gave way. An avalanche of edges slammed onto his back. It bit down as Padiky squealed in terror and bolted, dragging the tangled pile of iron and steel. Metal clanged and screeched. He cringed as sharp prongs caught on his shoulder blade, tore free. With eyes squeezed shut, he held on to Oris as rakes and hoes plowed over his back, as something heavy cracked into his ribs, as wooden handles bounced over his legs. In seconds, everything was dragged away.

Then silence. The jingle of harness. Padiky must have stopped, shaken herself. Feeling oddly numb, he opened his eyes. Inches from his face, a greensnake slid away into the grass.

Beneath him, Oris whimpered.

Sheft pushed a hoe off himself and got onto his hands and knees. “Are you hurt?” He turned the child over and peered into his face. “Oris, are you
hurt
?”

The boy’s mouth contorted. “My leg’s all twisted! You broke it!”

Sheft felt Oris’s leg. “It’s—it’s all right. No b-broken bones.” He climbed unsteadily to his feet. His back felt wet and cold, and he couldn’t seem to take a deep breath.

Padiky stood, shivering, a short distance away, but now inside the perimeter. A trail of implements led to a pile of hoes and rakes still entangled in the rope.

He felt strangely unbalanced, as if he carried a sodden pack.

“You don’t look so good.” Oris was standing now, staring at him.

Sudden pain seared down his back and stabbed into his ribs. Hot and heavy, it pushed him to his knees. He turned his head, to see a bright red stain spreading over his left sleeve.

“Oris,” he croaked. “Unhitch the horse. Be careful of the broken shaft. Ride to Moro’s house and get Tarn.” He swallowed, his throat dry. “Hurry.”

Oris rode off, and Sheft bore down on the spirikai knot. He constricted it as tightly as he could, while pain lashed across his back. The ice took a long time coming, and then it rushed up and numbed his brain and froze his hands into clumsy blocks. The red stain slowed but did not stop, and the thirsty ground wheeled under him. Panting for air, he lifted his head. The house was too far away. He’d never make it.

The cart. He had to get into the cart. The planks would soak up the blood until he could summon enough ice.

Using the hoe to support himself, he got to his feet, lost the hoe when he stumbled over the furrow, and reached the wooden platform. Part of the broken shaft had been driven into the ground, anchoring the cart and propping it almost level. The vehicle shook as he pulled himself onto it, but it didn’t tilt. He groaned under the red-hot gashes and collapsed face down on the surface.

But he had found no refuge. There were gaps between the boards. He could see the ground beneath him. The toltyr still hung from his neck, but the medallion had fallen through a crack. It dangled beneath him, blood oozing down the length of the cord, coalescing on the medallion, falling drop by drop onto the ashy ground.

Shuddering with effort, he constricted the inner knot even tighter. It wasn’t enough. Blood was oozing out from under him, staining the planks. 

The smell of smoke penetrated the pain, and he twisted his head to the left. The second debris pile. It was only a foot away and burning brightly. Flames danced near the dry wood of the cart wheel. 

He jerked at the cord, but the medallion was stuck between the planks. He couldn’t raise his head more than an inch or two above the boards to get it off his neck. As if in a nightmare, the earth beneath him darkened. It stirred, formed bubbles, then seeds. They wriggled into the ground and erupted into a mass of tiny plants.

He fumbled with icy hands to free the toltyr, but the crack was too narrow to get his fingers through. A wave of pain squeezed his eyes shut. When he opened them, flames were licking at the cart wheel, crackling and hissing. 

He raised his head as far as he could and strained at the cord. Its braided thickness bit into the back of his neck but held, and he couldn’t get it over his head, couldn’t think through the pain and smoke and ice. Gasping for air, choking on acrid fumes, he jerked at the toltyr until his strength gave way and his cheek thudded against the rough wood. He was tethered to the cart, and oh God Rulve, there was nothing he could do about it.

Except burn.

Relax the inner constriction. Allow himself to bleed. Fire would save him.

Fire would destroy the plants beneath him, would lick the blood off his skin, would sear his veins into a charred and twiggy heap. It would devour the red-stained cart and leave nothing to attract the black mist. The roots and the pain and the far-off anguished voices would be swept away in a blaze of merciful immolation. The long struggle would be over.