Season of Sacrifice (19 page)

Bringham’s popularity had apparently grown in Smithcourt while Coren was on his journey to the westlands. Coren felt more and more pressure to consolidate his position, to win over the people of Smithcourt, and all the rest of the kingdom. The city folk could all too easily throw their support to Bringham, making it impossible for Coren to take the Iron Throne.

So, Coren worked to curry favor among the Smithcourt folk. He paid his soldiers to keep some semblance of peace in the streets. He hosted a three-day festival to welcome the arrival of Reade and Maida, the Sun-lord and Sun-lady, complete with fireworks and sweetmeats for everyone in the streets.

Nevertheless, gangs of young men roamed the streets at night, fighting each other and building nasty rivalries. Three times, Maddock had seen fresh-blooded bodies lying in the streets—one with a crude knife carved into his chest to show that Coren’s men had been at work. The other corpses had been little more than boys, and there had been no hint who had murdered them.

At first, overwhelmed by a city that could have swallowed thousands of Land’s End villages, Maddock had wandered aimlessly through Smithcourt. The first people he’d dared to ask for directions had run in fear, apparently thinking him a lawless cutthroat. A second group had roared at his outlandish accent. The third cluster of rogues had attempted to steal from him, kicking him in the ribs when they found that he had nothing left to take, nothing but an odd, pointed star made of blackened wood.

It was not until that horde attacked him that he realized Lila had stolen the pouch that had hung at his waist. Even now, he grimaced at her pretended passion outside the city walls, at his gullibility in responding to her. In the end, though, the joke had been on her—the leather sack had been empty.

Of course, she had probably gained a pretty penny for his sword. As expected, Lila had spread the word that an outlander was on the loose, and the entire city of Smithcourt seethed with suspicion. No matter how much Maddock cursed to himself, he had been unable to exit the city gates to retrieve his weapon. The chances were simply too great that he would never regain entrance into Smithcourt.

Trapped inside the city walls, he’d been forced to figure out some sort of disguise. He put his dagger to good use, chopping off his hair in an approximation of a soldier’s helmet-sculpted cut. He had contemplated stealing other clothes, but figured that theft would likely result in additional unwelcome attention. Besides, his doublet and trews were so filthy, they could hardly be named a color. Nothing he wore would betray him.

Trying to believe that he blended in with Smithcourt’s turbulent population, Maddock had tracked down Duke Coren’s palace. The duke was a cautious man, however, and Maddock soon learned that there was no easy way into the massive stone edifice. Both gates were manned by heavily armed guards. Every visitor was inspected, and no one was permitted to enter without a pass.

Still, in Coren’s ongoing efforts to keep his name in the people’s prayers, the postern gate was opened each morning. Coren’s kitchen wenches came out, bearing remnants of food from the palace kitchens. Butts of bread, flat ale, fruit starting to turn—Maddock found that he could fill his belly without missing the coins that Wilson had stolen from him. More importantly, on a few occasions, Duke Coren’s guard handed out jobs as well, small missions that were worth a copper or another meal—and a day’s pass into the palace compound.

Maddock cleared his throat as he joined the day’s hungry horde. During the past fortnight, he had learned that his voice would betray him to these city folk. Looking at his face, no one realized that he was from the outlands—his beard had grown in heavy, and his hair was short enough that no one would confuse him with a fisherman. But try as he might, he could not consistently reproduce the rounded vowels of the city folk.

That was fine. Begging did not require speech. He could hold out a pitiful hand, grunt and push like the Smithcourt scum who’d been born to this life.

There were more hapless fools than usual today. Soldiers stood at attention to either side of the heavy metal portcullis, hands resting ominously on their weapons. As Maddock jostled for a good position, the postern gate opened, and a scowling soldier came forward with a pair of women.

The crowd surged as the kitchen maids handed out heels of bread. Grasping hands scrambled for apples that had gone soft, and a squabble broke out over a pile of roasted bones. Amid the cursing, Maddock remained silent, remembering to fight for his portion without saying a word.

Just as he laid his fingers on a roasted rib, he felt the prick of a dagger in the small of his back. “Take the bone,” a voice growled. “Take the bone and come with me.” If Maddock had given any serious thought to disobeying, he changed his mind at the blade’s sharp reminder. “Don’t turn about. Just walk.”

Maddock did as he was told, feeling foolish as he clutched the cold, greasy rib bone. His unknown assailant guided him away from Coren’s palace and down a dark side street. Just as Maddock concluded that he had no choice but to confront the man, three shadows leaped from a nearby doorway.

Maddock fought, but he never truly had a chance. A rough burlap sack was tugged over his head, and his arms were pinned behind him, his hands lashed so tightly that he dropped even the silly weapon of the roasted bone. Blind and weaponless, Maddock cursed himself for a fool as he was marched through chilly, winding streets.

His captors took him to a building that stank of standing water and rotted meat. Maddock was forced up rickety stairs and then shoved to his knees on a rough wooden floor. He heard men walking around him, heavy men, but he could see nothing through the burlap sack. He started to crane his neck wildly, but then froze, determined not to give the men the satisfaction of seeing his fear.

Maddock’s lashed hands were suddenly grabbed behind his back, and some strong man pulled up sharply. His shoulders stretched to the point of pain, but he bit off a curse. One man set a knife against Maddock’s pounding jugular, and another leveled a dagger at his groin, pricking through his trews so that he understood his danger.

“Speak, man! Name yourself, or you’ll find you’re missing some valued equipment.”

Maddock gasped for breath, struggling to break away from his captors. His throat worked, but he knew that he must not speak; he must not reveal his identity through his accented words.

“Cat got your tongue, man?” the interrogator taunted, and he must have given some silent command, for the other captors tightened their grips. Maddock’s shoulders were nearly ripped from their sockets, and he could not help but moan at the pain. Moan, but not speak. Not give them the satisfaction of defeating him.

The pain crested to a red wave behind his eyes, and Maddock fought to catch a breath against the knife that still flickered at his throat. He might have kept his silence even then, but he felt the other blade cut through his ragged trews, felt the cold iron against his cringing flesh. “Who are you bastards?” he bellowed at last, casting prudence to all the Guardians. “What do you want?”

The captors were still for a moment, and then the leader must have given another silent signal. The knives withdrew. Maddock gasped for breath, but his relief was short-lived.

“You
are
the outlander, then.” The man barely hinted that his statement was a question.

There seemed no advantage in refusing to answer. “Aye.”

“The one Coren seeks.”

“Aye.”

“Then you’ll fight against the duke, once we get you into his palace.”

“Wh—what?”

“Come now! You may come from the outlands, but you must understand plain speech.”

“Why would you help me get into the palace?”

“We’ve been watching you, lad. We know you try to hide your speech, but you don’t always remember, and you don’t do it well. We know you lurk by Coren’s postern gate every morning, every night. We’ve seen you study the walls, trying to find another way in.”

“Why is that any business of yours?” Some of Maddock’s bravado returned, stung to life by the man’s criticism of his reconnaissance.

“I think we’ve got the same goal, lad. Neither one of us wants to see Coren on the Iron Throne.” The man spat, and there was a general rumble among the other captors.

“So what do you propose?” Maddock’s heart was pounding.

“We have a man on the inside, a guard at the postern gate. Go beg tomorrow, and he’ll see that you’re chosen for one of Coren’s special details.”

“And then?” Maddock could not believe entrance to the palace would be so easy.

“And then you look around. You do whatever Coren asks. You do whatever you planned on doing when you get behind those walls. And you report back to us, about what the bastard’s planning. If you make it out.”

“It’s as easy as that?” Maddock’s skepticism bought him another tug on his bound arms, but the unseen leader laughed harshly.

“Not so easy, lad. Have you seen anyone return from working inside the palace? Have you seen any of your beggar friends leave Coren’s stronghold, once they’ve been selected for service?” Maddock’s silence was sufficient answer. He had not thought about the matter before; he had been too intent on getting into the palace to think about leaving it. The brigand in front of him continued speaking, apparently unaware of Maddock’s thoughts. “We’ll give you the chance to try, though, to help yourself and us.”

“But if you already have someone inside the palace, why do you need me?”

“You ask a lot of questions, lad.” For an instant, Maddock thought he’d get no further answer, but then the man continued. “Our man is just a guard. He’s not allowed into some parts of the palace—the parts where Coren is plotting something, something that will cement his claim to the throne.”

“Then send in another one of your men. Let
him
do Coren’s…special task, and your work besides.”

“We have sent our men. Three of them. Each has been selected by our guard. Each has been taken to the inner keep. None has returned. We don’t have enough men to continue the sacrifice.”

A prickle of fear walked up Maddock’s spine. “Why do you think I’ll fare any better?”

“You have your own reason to try, whatever it is. You’ve managed to stay alive in the city streets. You might succeed. And we don’t have any other option.”

“Who
are
you?” Maddock asked again. “Why should I trust you?”

“If you don’t know my name, you can’t betray me. Suffice to say I think Duke Bringham is the best man for the Iron Throne.”

“But—”

“Enough!” The man stomped his foot on the floor, and the crumbling room shook. “You have two choices. Accept our offer. Or refuse.”

Maddock felt cold iron kiss his jugular. “I’ll help!”

“I knew you were a wise man. A brave one, too.” The leader’s voice was sardonic.

Maddock’s voice rang out in the small room, loud enough and steady enough that he heard Bringham’s men take a step back. “I’m brave enough to do your job. Your job, and my own as well.”

Alana stood beside the Tree, gulping the cool breeze that came off the ocean. Her palms were slick with sweat, and her heart pounded inside her chest. It had been days since she had drunk the heartswell tea, but her body still remembered the herb, still remembered the fever it had planted deep inside her. Even now, her flesh yearned for the sensations that Maddock had experienced by the gamblers’ fire. Her vision blurred as his breath—her own breath—came short, as Lila’s lips settled on his, on hers.

Sick with embarrassment, Alana settled her flushed cheek against the Tree’s rough bark. The oak’s rings pulsed outward, calling to her with their living force. The Tree wanted her to sing. It wanted her to tell it of the People, near and far.

Alana resisted, though, as she had ever since drinking the heartswell tea. She was afraid that she would sully the oak with her new knowledge, her new memories. She quavered at the thought of what the other woodsingers would say, how they would treat her when they learned about the intimacy she had shared with Maddock. For days now, she had cut herself off from her sisters and the Tree, drowning in her shame as completely as her father had drowned in his ocean storm.

Still, Alana lingered on the Headland. She did not want to leave the Tree. She did not want to retreat to her cottage, to her musty journals and her cold hearth and her lonely, narrow bed.

Maybe she
should
reach out to the other woodsingers. Maybe one of them had been tricked in a similar fashion, fooled into drinking heartswell and sharing a fisherman’s thoughts, a fisherman’s flesh. Maybe one of the women would know how to drive the heartswell dreams from her mind, from her body.

And if Alana asked her sisters, then she could live those feelings one more time. She could feel hot lips on hers, urgent fingers fumbling at her waist. She could remember heat and warmth and blood pounding….

Desperate, mortified, Alana threw her mind open to her sisters.

“So!” The woodsinger’s exclamation startled Alana into a wordless cry. “You’ve learned the power of heartswell!”

“I didn’t mean to, sister! It’s just that Goody Glenna…She gave me a tea. She told me to reach for Maddock. I didn’t know that I would…I didn’t think….” Alana trailed off, blushing. There were tears in her voice as she asked, “Why would Goody Glenna do such a thing?”

“Goody Glenna thought to help you.” The woodsinger’s voice surprised Alana. It was gentle, kind. There was no trace of scorn or revulsion. “She knew that you were disappointed in Maddock, ready to abandon him and his bavin. You needed to remember that there was a
man
you were watching, not just a coward.”

“But to think of him
that
way!”

Another sister chimed in, teasing. “What better way to think of a man? Stop your blushing, girl! Do you think you’re the only woman who’s ever felt the call of flesh to flesh?”

“But I’m a woodsinger!” Alana protested.

“Aye, you’re a woodsinger.” A third woman joined in the discussion, scarcely restraining her laughter. “Does that make you special? Does that make your flesh colder than any other woman’s?”

“I’m not supposed to think about such things,” Alana moaned. “It’s unnatural.”

“Unnatural?” All three of the woodsingers pounced on Alana’s word.

“The Tree does not allow its woodsingers to wed!” Alana cried.

“Aye,” agreed the first sister, the calm one. “The Tree does not want you to shift your loyalties, once you’re sworn to it. It doesn’t want you torn.”

The third voice, the laughing one, went on. “But the Tree is still part of the natural world, sister. Look at the birds in its branches, the squirrels collecting its acorns! The Tree understands hot blood!”

“Besides,” teased the second woodsinger, “you’ve hardly decided to
wed
Maddock. You merely thought of him as a man. Your feelings weren’t shameful or bad. They were natural.”

“Aye,” the laughing sister said. “They’re part of the world the Guardians shaped, part of the world the Great Mother birthed.”

“I should have been stronger, though,” Alana said miserably. “I should have held myself apart. And now that it’s over, I should be able to make myself forget.”

The first woodsinger answered, and Alana could picture the woman shaking her head. “You demand too much of yourself. Ask the Tree if you won’t believe us.”

For the first time since she had become a woodsinger, Alana cringed at the thought of embracing the Tree’s essence. She was not worthy. She was unclean. Before she could refuse, though, she felt the Tree’s awareness ripple along the edges of her thoughts. Once again, it was asking for her to sing. It wanted her to talk to it, to share with it, to let it know her thoughts.

Sighing, Alana gave herself up to the oaken essence, letting it pull her in, slip her past the other woodsingers. She was drawn into the Tree’s sheltering embrace, into its smooth, even rings. She ran her mind around those circles, gliding over them as if she were meditating.

As she touched the Tree, she immediately sensed its calm acceptance of her heartswell thoughts. It embraced her passion; it understood her body. The Tree had lived for centuries. It had seen far greater folly in all its years; it had witnessed greater mistakes. One woman’s stirrings for one man were like a single drop of rain amid the oak’s green leaves.

Alana felt the Tree’s love for her, its endless, depthless forgiveness. She remembered seeing that emotion in her father’s eyes before he went to sea, before he was taken by the Guardians. She had thought there could be no such love left in all the world, not after her father’s bloated body had washed onto the sandy beach below.

But she’d been wrong.

Alana opened her mouth and filled her lungs with cool ocean air. As she began to sing, as she began to tell the Tree of Maddock and heartswell and all that had happened in Smithcourt, she knew that the Tree already understood. It already accepted her. It already loved her. It already rejoiced in her safe return.

She sang louder, then. She gathered together the heat in her blood and wove it into her wordless song. She explained to the Tree that she had never meant to reach out for Maddock in that way; she had never meant to invade his body. She had not known how it would feel to kiss a man, to be kissed by a man. She had not known how it would feel to have her blood rise, throbbing throughout her body….

But then Alana realized that she
should
have known. She could have known. Any time that she had wanted to learn, she could have reached inside the Tree, plumbed the oak’s deep memories. Other woodsingers had sung of love. They had sung of men and women. They had sung of pure and burning lust.

Alana was not alone. She was not flawed.

Her song faltered, frayed into silence by the Tree’s wordless acceptance, by the oak’s simple love. Before she could begin her chant again, though, a question emanated from deep inside the oaken core.

The oak asked her if she wanted to be released. It asked if she wanted to leave, to return to the world of the People, to fishermen and warriors, to men and women. To ordinary, fleshly pleasure.

The Tree spiced its question with some of the memories planted in its rings. Blood pounded again through Alana’s veins, heated with the musk of heartswell, throbbing with the memories that chased each other through the Tree’s concentric depth. Alana gathered the oak’s question in her body, collected it in her flesh. She studied the pounding bass notes until every fiber of her body understood what the Tree asked.

And then she sang her answer.

She was no mere animal, mating and moving on through the forest. She was anchored to the Tree. To the Tree, and the People, and her life as a woodsinger. Alana filled her lungs and sang her way up through the Tree’s encircling rings. She did not want to leave the Tree. Her passion had served a purpose; she had forgiven Maddock’s cowardice. She had accepted him back into the People’s fold.

The woodsinger took a deep breath. She had wasted enough time with her foolishness. Let her look to the children, as she should have been doing these past few days. Let her turn to Reade’s bavin, to see how the twins fared. Alana ceased her singing and reached through the Tree for the thin white thread that stretched across the land.

Reade sighed and shifted his bottom on the hard wooden stool. This was stupid, all of his tutor’s questions. This was as bad as the day when Da had taught him how to tie a sharkstooth hitch.

Then, Da had found Reade and Maida playing on the beach. Reade had been pretending for Maida, showing her how well he could tie a knot. He convinced her that his sharkstooth held fast, and he laughed when she could not imitate his loops around a driftwood branch. It was all very funny, until Da tugged at the rope and made it come loose. Da had laughed at Reade, and Maida had laughed with Da, and Reade had burst into tears.

Da had sat next to him then, on the sand, beneath a setting sun as red as cow’s blood. Da had put strong arms around him and guided his hands, over and under and around and around. That had been the first time Reade had tied a real sharkstooth, and his heart had pounded like pilchards turning over in the bottom of a boat. The second time was less interesting, though, and by five repetitions, he hardly cared if he ever tied another knot again.

“This is important, Reade,” Da had said. “Someday your life may turn on whether you can tie this knot. You wouldn’t want to be caught far out at sea, depending on another man’s work.”

“This is important, Sun-lord.” The echoing words made Reade blink, and he found himself staring up into an old man’s wrinkled face. “Pay attention!”

It wasn’t fair, old Kenwald scolding him. Reade
had
been trying. He’d been trying all morning. Kenwald hadn’t let him eat a sweetcake, or even duck into the garderobe. The old herald was worse than Da had ever been. Worse than Mum even. Reade clenched his hands into angry fists. “Why is it important? Why do I have to know all these things?”

“You wouldn’t want to depend on a herald, Sun-lord. Not when all the glory of the Iron Throne might depend on your remembering a noble’s proper title.”

Just like Da, Kenwald was. Well, the old man
looked
different, with his wrinkled face, and his shaking hands, and his long white beard. Da had never had a beard. But Kenwald made Reade learn things just like Da had done. Da had made Reade learn where the pilchards swam, the names of all the winds, the times that the tides rose and fell….

“Who are the four dukes, Sun-lord?” Kenwald asked.

Reade sighed and said, “There are four dukes in all the land: the Duke of Norvingale, who is called Ferin; the Duke of Southglen, who is called Bringham; the Duke of Eastham, who is called Lymore; and the Duke of Westmarch, who is called Coren.”

Reade was startled by a crashing sound. He whirled toward the door of the solar and saw Duke Coren leaning against the stone arch. The duke’s strong hands came together again and again, slowly, like Sartain Fisherman applauding the largest catch of the season. Reade’s cheeks flushed hot, as red as Coren’s doublet. “Well done, Sun-lord. Well done.”

Reade wriggled down from his high stool and tugged his robes into place. “I’ve learned all the dukes’ names, Your Grace, just like you told me I must. And I’ve learned the names of the Three Kingdoms, and the Four Seas, and the Five Marches. I’ve learned so much my head has grown!”

Duke Coren settled a hand on the boy’s head, tousling his hair. “So, is it true, Kenwald? Has the Sun-lord been a good student?”

The old herald bowed deeply. “Aye, Your Grace. He’s learned all that. It took him a few days to grasp the difference between a duke and a king, but once he caught on, he had no trouble memorizing the lists.”

Reade flushed. He wanted Duke Coren to smile at him again. “I would have learned it faster, Your Grace, but I kept thinking about the dragons in Southglen.”

Duke Coren knelt in front of Reade, grabbing his shoulders. His eyes flashed bright. “Dragons? What have you been told about dragons?”

Reade glanced up at Kenwald. That was funny—the old man was gaping like a salmon plucked from the ocean. “Kenwald told me all about the dragons in Southglen, about how Duke Bringham’s da slew the last one, when the duke was the same age that I am now. Duke Bringham has a dragon painted on his shield, to remember his da.”

“So Kenwald has been telling you about Bringham, has he?”

The old man answered before Reade could. “Your Grace! The boy is making up tales! Someone else must have told him about Southglen!”

That wasn’t true! Kenwald
had
spoken about dragons. And the dragons had kept Reade from concentrating, from learning the names of all the dukes yesterday. Yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that.

Duke Coren’s hand was heavy on Reade’s shoulder. His lips were so thin inside his beard that they almost disappeared. “Sun-lord, I ask you in the name of Culain. Did Kenwald speak to you about Southglen?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“And what precisely did Kenwald tell you about that…about Bringham?”

“H—he told me about the dragons, Your Grace. He said that Bringham’s da was a brave man, and that Bringham wears a coat of arms to remember his da. It’s silver, his shield is, silver with a dragon azure. That’s blue, Your Grace.”

“Yes, Sun-lord. It is.”

Reade barely swallowed his smile. There! Now let Kenwald tell the duke that Reade was slow to learn! But when Reade looked up at the old herald, he saw that the man was gripping the table with his brown-spotted hands. The teacher’s head was bowed, and his breath came in funny little pants, as if he’d been running. The old man licked his lips, and he swallowed, loud enough that Reade could hear.

Reade was surprised to find that his own palms were slick with sweat. He said, “Please, Your Grace. I
like
stories about dragons. I like Duke Bringham’s coat of arms.”

Duke Coren nodded, but something shifted behind his eyes. Reade thought of the sharks that the fishermen sometimes brought up in their nets. “Kenwald distracted you from your studies, didn’t he, Sun-lord?”