Empress Aurora Trilogy Quest For the Kingdom Parts I, II, and III Revised With Index (Quest For the Kingdom Set) (55 page)

It was not
that Marcus was truly surprised at how quickly the courtship of Dag and Judoc
progressed. If he was surprised it was due to how well-suited the two actually
seemed.

After the romance
and betrothal with Fanchon that flared up like a bursting flame in a burning
log, leaving only ash in its remains, Marcus warily observed Dag’s newest lady
love. He earnestly hoped she would not break his friend’s heart, as did Fanchon
and his former sweetheart in Trekur Lende long ago.

But Judoc was
as different from Fanchon as a hummingbird is to a butterfly. Each shared a
sense of joy, and a quickness to laugh, but where Fanchon had been prone to
flights of fancy, randomly fluttering from one topic of conversation to
another, Judoc seemed intent on whatever purpose was at hand, never wavering
until the task was done, whether it be tending her fish stall or studying the
teachings of Alexandros. Her mind was quick and her intellect keen, as she bent
her attention to absorbing all she could of her new faith.

Marcus had
been accustomed to think of the Eirini as savage and dull of intelligence, and
his months of slavery had not changed his opinion. It was therefore a surprise
and a delight to debate with Judoc, as she posed questions that confounded even
Felix on occasion. She believed as simply and innocently as a child, yet
hungered for a deeper understanding.

In time Judoc
shared with them the story of her husband, Denzel, and how his sudden death
affected their son, Brenus.

“Sure, he went
all of a sudden like; last winter when the snow fell fast and heavy, and the
wind blew for hours until it piled the snow deep on the hillside, so deep you
could not walk in it. It was then that Denzel took a daft notion in his head to
venture out in search of deer, for we had eaten nothing but bread and cheese
for days, and Brenus had a taste for venison stew, and aye, wouldn’t it go down
well in this bitter cold? I warned him not to go: the snow was deep and there was
an evil wind about, but he would not listen; he said he wanted to bring back
venison for Brenus, and off he went.

“They found
him two days later, his poor body frozen not more than three miles from our
hut. They carried him in, all covered with snow, ice clinging even to his hair,
his hand tightly gripped about his bow.

“Brenus blamed
himself for his father’s death; said if he hadn’t made such a fuss about
wanting venison stew Denzel would not have ventured out in the storm. I tried
to comfort him, to tell him it was his father’s own daft notion that was the
death of him: but Brenus would not listen to me. Full of anger he was, and
given to bouts of rage. It was himself he blamed, but his bitterness had to
find a way to vent itself. He did not smile from the day of his father’s death
until the day that Cort befriended him, and that’s the truth.

“I expect that
Dominio sent Cort here to reach out his hand to Brenus, and save him from his
despair. And now I have my boy back, and for that, God be thanked and praised!”

And Judoc
nodded to herself as if satisfied: Dominio worked all things out for good, and
that was enough for her.

Her happy
disposition endeared her to Dag’s friends, and her lilting voice and playful
teasing of the great man from the wild North won their hearts. Judoc at times
challenged Dag if she did not agree with him, even pecked at him at times if he
did not meet her expectations on some matter. Dag was at first amazed, then
amused at such treatment by the woman. Among his people a woman did what she
was told without question. But so convincing were Judoc’s arguments that Dag
usually complied with her wishes.

Marcus
remembered one occasion with a chuckle. They had all taken a stroll in the
woods one afternoon after the work of the morning was behind them. Cort and
Brenus ran ahead of them, chasing squirrels, tossing twigs, and turning
somersaults in sheer exuberance at the fineness of the day.

Kyrene and
Judoc walked behind them arm in arm, giggling and whispering, for their bonding
had been swift and strong. Elena followed behind, a pout marring her sweet,
demure face. Marcus had not detected any sincere desire for friendship on her
part toward Kyrene, but he had noted that Elena was of a jealous nature and did
not like to be ignored.

He and Felix,
and Dag and Bimo brought up the rear.

The boys ran
farther and farther ahead of them until at last Judoc put her foot down.

“Brenus!” she
called. “See you that you keep to the path!”

“Aye!” he
called back, then proceeded to run ahead.

“Brenus!”
Judoc yelled in a voice that startled everyone in its power and urgency. “Come
back here! This instant!”

Brenus nodded
his head, but turned giggling to Cort, who skipped ahead with him.

“And you!”
Judoc wheeled around and addressed Dag. “Do you mean to tell me you let your
son do as he pleases? Tell them to come back here!”

Dag merely
blinked at her, and stared at her blankly. He made no attempt to comply with
her request and remained where he was. This was too much for Judoc, who stomped
her foot and marched back to where he stood.

“Our boys,”
she spat out between her teeth, “yours and mine, are running off the path. They
must come back.
Do
something!”

At last her
seemingly unreasonable behavior struck a response from Dag and he glared at her
with his nostrils flaring. For a moment he stood rooted in place like a mighty
oak tree patiently bearing with the attack of a tiny woodpecker. Judoc stood
and stared at him with unblinking eyes. She firmly planted her feet in front of
him, hands on her hips, and eyes ablaze with indignation. Dag took one look at
that small, determined face and suddenly gave in.

“Cort!
Brenus!” he bellowed. “Come back here! Now!”

The boys
looked back at the big man, then at each other. They shrugged and walked back
to join the rest of the group.

Judoc’s eyes
closed and she let out a slow breath. Marcus fancied she looked relieved, and
wondered why wandering off the path had upset her so…

Yes, Marcus
thought with an inward chuckle. He much preferred Judoc to Fanchon, who had
outwardly adored Dag, but inwardly fumed when he did not obey her wishes; until
she left him when her hidden resentment could be borne no longer.

As the days
grew shorter the air grew brisker and the sense of the dying year was brought
home to them when they woke one morning to the first frost of the season. Now
the days would speed on to their denouement, when the trees would begin to drop
their leaves and carpet the forest with a mosaic of color.

Marcus and his
friends also became aware of a sense of anticipation among the villagers. A
subtle excitement animated them; they were quicker to laugh and slower to
anger. But what the cause was no one would say.

It was Judoc
who revealed the source of their secret glee.

“Ah,” she
intoned with eyes half shut when Marcus questioned her. “It is time for the
Gathering. That is what excites them and lightens their hearts.”

“The
Gathering?” Felix repeated. “What is that? Do you know, Marcus, since you lived
among them for a while?”

Marcus shook
his head, as mystified as Felix.

“I was a
slave, Felix,” he remarked dryly. “And as such was hardly privy to their
secrets.”

He turned to
Judoc and nodded for her to proceed as he lifted one eyebrow in inquiry. The
others gave her their full attention as they gathered around the fire in her
small hut on this chilly evening.

Judoc looked
at the fire for several moments, as if mesmerized by the dancing flames. When
at last she looked away, she glanced at the faces of all in turn before she
spoke.

Instead of
answering Marcus’ question, she posed one in turn.

“Do you recall
the day when Brenus ran off the path, and I called him back?” was her
unexpected query.

“Yes,” Marcus
promptly replied. “You seemed concerned beyond all reason, I thought.”

“I had good
reason,” Judoc quickly responded. “For you see, they live in the wild places
and we must not stray from the path.”

“They?” Felix
echoed, as he glanced aside at Marcus.

Marcus hoped
Felix would not mock Judoc, who was deadly earnest.

“They,” she
answered without hesitation. “The Tuadan.”

“And who are the
Tuadan?” Marcus coaxed her to further disclosure.

“They are the
rulers of the wild places,” Judoc continued, her eyes once again riveted on the
fire. “They once ruled from the heavens but they did what was forbidden and
were diminished and fell to earth. There, they were banished to the hills and
valleys, the trees and the fields.

“Some say they
walk in the places where no man has set his foot, and they guard their domain
with fierce and jealous anger, punishing the unwary. And it is they who bless
the crops or curse them at their pleasure. It is not wise to stray from the
paths, for there are those who have done so; and never returned.”

Even Felix did
not break the silence that followed these words, such was the gravity of
Judoc’s face. They waited for her to continue. After a momentary pause for
reflection she continued.

“My people try
to appease them so the blessing is on the crops each year. If any offend them,
they blight the harvest and we starve in the winter months. So every year there
is a festival in their honor, where we do them homage and ask for their
blessing for the harvest.

“Yet, I cannot
tell you what that festival is; for all are sworn to secrecy and the penalty is
severe to any who reveal it. But you must beware not to offend those who will
partake in its rites. For it is in two day’s time, on the night of the full
moon of Harvest.”

They lay
concealed in the long grass that surrounded the circle of oak trees next to a
hillock. It was the spot where they had passed their first night in Eirinia,
and which had filled Marcus and Kyrene with such dread and horror.

Kyrene was
right, Marcus mused as he lay with Felix, Dag, and Bimo in the long grass. This
is
a place of rituals, for it is where Judoc told us the festival would
take place.

It was also,
Marcus noted with a shudder, near the place where Brenus had wandered off the
path and so alarmed his mother. And little wonder, for the place made Marcus
bristle like a cat with its hackles raised. Truly, he thought, this place is
horrifying.

He recalled
the stories he had heard before while in Eirinia, of those creatures who walked
by night to take back the land they once possessed. Marcus realized they were
indeed true: for the Tuadan that Judoc spoke of were none other than the Astra,
those beings fallen from their previous glory who desired to ensnare the
children of Dominio in idolatry to themselves. The same Astra of whom Xenon had
warned them to beware…

The moon
glowed orange in a sky of ink across which clouds raced as if attempting to
erase it from view. The crickets were silenced now, having succumbed to the
frost, and the only sound to be heard was the clacking of branches as the
gentle breeze set them striking each other. A cascade of leaves fell to earth,
rustling in their descent, deadening the footsteps of anyone, or anything, that
might approach them.

They had crept
out of Cadeyrn’s hut once they were assured that all were asleep; for it was
evident that Cadeyrn and his family were not some of those who joined in this
ritual. That privilege, Judoc had told them, was reserved for those advanced in
knowledge of the secret rites, and spoke the tongue of the Tuadan, having
learned it from their fathers, who passed it down before them. Their leader
wore a gold circlet around his neck, symbol of his supremacy in the knowledge
of the secret rites.

They had made
their way in silence and stealth, not daring to risk even one word, lest their
presence be given away. They followed the directions of Judoc, who knew of a
shortcut which would grant them time to conceal themselves from the celebrants
before they arrived.

They had not
long to wait.

The silence
was broken by the rustle of the grass as the villagers made their way to their
secret site. Looking neither to the right or left they walked in single file,
their tongues silent in reverence, garbed in long brown robes that brushed the
earth with each movement.

They entered
the grove of oak trees one by one, each stooping to kiss the ground as they
came within the circle. A dozen or more entered, until a tall man clad as the
others but with a gold circlet around his neck brought up the rear and ended
the procession.

He stood
erectly with a primitive kind of majesty, as he nodded at a younger man who
held a type of flute in his hands. The young man piped a tune so haunting in
its eerie beauty that Marcus would not have been surprised if the trees began
to dance. He felt his own blood respond and with difficulty restrained himself
from rising and dancing.

No such
restraints inhibited the participants, however, who all danced in a circle
around the man who had entered last. He remained impassive, and as rooted in
place as the oak trees among which he stood. He might have been as one with
them, so stoic was he in his silent dignity.

The dancers
continued their strange gyrations. Leaping, twirling, and bowing before the oak
trees they continued. Marcus felt his limbs begin to cramp, and Felix stifled
the urge to yawn. Dag and Bimo remained impassive.

At last, the
dancing ceased and the worshipers dropped to their knees in a circle around the
man with the gold circlet. He raised one arm and all became instantly still.
The man walked the outer perimeter of the circle, then moved back into the
center of it.

He spoke words
in a tongue that even Marcus had never heard, no, not even during the months he
spent in captivity in Eirinia. The language was guttural, and the man’s voice
deepened nearly into a growl as he spoke. On occasion the celebrants repeated a
phrase and bowed their foreheads to the ground, then kissed the earth.

And then
silence descended on the entire group. The eyes of the participants stared
straight ahead, and it appeared to Marcus that each one held his breath. The
reason became apparent when the man in the center withdrew from the folds of
his robe several long sticks.

He held them
in his hands, and circling slowly, turned to each man to take one from his
hand. Each man drew a stick until none were left. Then, at a snap of the
fingers from the man in the center, they turned toward one another and held out
their sticks, each one crossing the other.

Marcus and his
friends could now see that the sticks were of varying lengths. The leader
carefully inspected each stick, and then held up the arm of one man. It could
be seen that his stick was the shortest.

The other
celebrants closed their eyes and dropped their sticks. They gathered around the
man who drew the shortest stick and pulled him to his feet. Each man bowed
before him and chanted a phrase, then withdrew back to his place. One by one
they did this until every man had bowed before him.

At last the
circle was reformed with only the man and the leader standing in the center of
it. The leader pulled a small jar of what appeared to be an ointment of some
kind and opening it, smeared some on the man’s forehead. The man closed his
eyes and moved his lips silently.

Then the
leader raised one hand. A small wide basin carved of wood was brought to him.

He chanted
over it solemnly, before he placed it on the ground in front of the man with
the ointment. The leader clapped his hands, and two of the celebrants came to
the other man, one on each side of him. Together they removed his robe.

Clad only in
an undergarment that covered him from waist to his knees, the man stood before
them all. His eyes widened and he paled. He took short, hard gasps of breath,
and seemed on the verge of fainting.

And then the
leader moved up behind him, and grasping him by the hair, forced him to kneel
over the basin at his feet. So intently were Marcus and his friends focused on
the man that they had not noticed the leader draw a large sharp knife from the
folds of his robe.

Too late they
saw the flash of it as it was raised in the air over the man’s head, then lowered
in an arc around him. The leader swiftly and savagely cut the man’s throat,
holding him over the basin, to catch every drop of his blood.

He pushed the
dead man’s body aside, then held up the basin of blood, and as the celebrants
chanted once again, sprinkled it on the ground in the inner perimeter of the
circle.

But for Dag it
was too much to bear.

“No!” he cried
in outrage, as he burst from his hiding place into the sacred circle.

“This shall
not be!”

Right on his
heels followed Marcus, Felix, and Bimo, standing shoulder to shoulder with him.

The shocked
celebrants rose to their feet, and the leader lunged at Dag with knife upheld.
But Dag was too quick for him and twisted his wrist violently, forcing him to
drop the knife. Bimo leaped on it and took it for safekeeping.

Dag and the
leader stood glaring at one another, so closely their noses almost touched.

“Why have you
done this vile thing?” Dag demanded, speaking in the Common Tongue.

In his furious
indignation the leader nearly spat his answer in Dag’s face.

“It is our
custom, to worship Tuadan, and ask for blessing on the harvest!” he bellowed.
“You have defiled our holy place! Get out or we will kill you!”

Marcus never
knew how Dag had the courage for what happened next.

“Your gods!”
Dag shouted. “Your evil, false gods! Is
this
how they want to be served?
I would never give my heart to such a one! No! I say to you that I serve One
who
gives
life, not takes it!”

“There is no
such One, only the Tuadan, who came here before us,” the leader snarled.

But Dag was
not to be silenced.

“I know who
your Tuadan
are
!” he shouted, in a voice that thundered in the small
grove of trees.

“They are the
Astra, whom my God cast from Heaven for their crimes. It was He who cast them
down to the earth, where they lie and kill, demanding the blood of men to slake
their pride.”

“I do not
believe you,” the leader growled, and turned his back on Dag.

“Then I will
show you!” Dag declared, almost beyond reason now, flinging every caution to
the wind.

He walked over
to where the dead man lay on the ground and stood over him.

“Your gods
take life, but my God
gives
life!”

And as Dag stood
before them all, he extended his hands over the dead man.

“O most holy
Dominio,” he spoke, “you who have the power of life and death, I ask in the name
of Alexandros whom I serve, that you would grant life to this innocent one.”

Every eye was
now turned to the body of the dead man. He laid utterly still, his face waxen
from the flow of blood that had seeped from him. One moment passed, then
another. Marcus felt a drop of sweat trickle from his brow down to his upper
lip. He ran his tongue over it: it was salty.

The men’s eyes
were now turning away from the victim to look at Dag. He faced them defiantly.
The men began to mutter, and to give him menacing looks.

Just when Marcus
thought that Dag was about to join the victim on the floor he heard it. At
first he did not know what it was, and then recognized it; the rattle of
someone struggling to draw breath. And it came from the body of the man lying
on the floor.