Reign of Shadows (23 page)

“No!”
Caelan yelled in protest, but they ignored him.

Raging,
he thought of Lea. She’d said the emeralds were to remind him of her always.

“In
the name of the gods, don’t take that too,” he said in desperation. “It’s only
my amulet. I—”

The
raiders opened the pouch, joking among themselves, and poured out the emeralds.

The
fight died in Caelan. Everything was gone. He stared bleakly at nothing.

An
exclamation of surprise made him look. Instead of emeralds, two brownish,
ordinary pebbles rested on the leader’s palm. The man frowned in disgust and
tossed them down along with the pouch.

“Bah!”

As
he walked away, trailed by the others, Caelan’s new owner picked up the pouch
and the
two
pebbles. He put the rocks
back inside and returned the pouch to Caelan.

“Your
amulet, you keep,” he said kindly. “Stupid Traulander bring forty ducats. Me
rich man soon.”

Dumbfounded,
Caelan took the pouch with nerveless fingers. He didn’t know whether to be more
astonished at the pebbles or at the man’s unexpected generosity.

But
how . . . what had happened? Was the miracle in the cave just an illusion? Had
he and Lea only fooled themselves?

Heartsick,
he dug into the pouch and felt the beveled sides of the small, polished
emerald.

Astonished,
he pulled it out. In the sunlight, it was only a brown pebble. He stared,
unable to explain it, then dropped it back into the pouch. Peering inside, he
could dimly see the outline of the two emeralds. A glint of green winked out at
him.

Caelan
opened his mouth, then closed it. Briefly he smelled the soft fragrance of warm
earth and blossoms; then it was gone, obliterated by the stench of smoke and
death.

The
earth spirits were still with him, still protecting the gift they had given
him. He did not know why, but he wasn’t going to question it. Hope filtered
back through his grief and despair. Only a tiny sliver of hope, but it was more
than he’d had a moment before.

Then
the Thyzarene put iron shackles on his wrists, and reality returned with all
its grim implications. Caelan stared at the chains and could not imagine
himself a slave.

His
owner grinned at him with admiration. “Plenty tall. Plenty strong. Young. All
good things. You best of all those captured. When I am rich, I shall pay dowry
for good wife. Best quality wife. See? All good things happening.”

Caelan
looked at the forest. His heart ached for his little sister. Perhaps he should
tell them about her. Alone, she would die. If taken captive, she would be
enslaved and sold, but she would be alive.

“Not
too young,” the Thyzarene chattered on, gloating. He took out his smelly salve
and began smearing it on Caelan’s cuts. The wound in Caelan’s face stopped
throbbing, and suddenly the pain was bearable.

Caelan
sucked in a deep breath and refused to feel grateful.

“Too
young, go too cheap,” the Thyzarene said. “No profit there. Always trouble with
little ones. Easier when they die. You just right.”

Caelan’s
throat closed off. He said nothing about Lea.

The
Thyzarene yanked on Caelan’s chains. “You come. Come! We have far to go.”

Feeling
the unaccustomed clanking weight of the shackles and all their shame, Caelan
did as he was told. Following Raul and Gunder, who were also chained, Caelan
walked past the dead, and looked down at their beloved faces for the last time.
Anya and Tisa, Surva, Old Farns ... his father.

He
jerked to a stop. “My fault,” he whispered, staring at his father’s sightless
eyes. “I—I’m sorry I wasn’t the son you wanted—”

The
Thyzarene pulled him onward. “Come. You come now!”

Bound
and helpless, Caelan was taken to where the dragons milled and bugled, sniffing
the air and snapping restlessly. His owner put him astride Kuvar and chained
him to the beast’s harness.

And
when it lurched, lifting into the air with a mighty beating of its leathery
wings, Caelan looked down at the forest where he had abandoned his sister. He
should have ignored the desire to play hero and stayed with her. He knew that
now. As long as he lived, he would live with the chains of that guilt on his
soul.

Once
again he could see her tear-stained face, could hear her desperate plea ringing
in his ears. “Caelan!”

He
shut his eyes and wept.

Four years later

Flames
burned high
in the central fire pit, throwing off intense heat. Hundreds of fat white
candles blazed along shelves built high on each wall of the sanctum. The smell
of melting wax mingled with the more pungent aroma of burning incense.

The
gathered sisterhood of the Penestricans entered the sanctum in a double line.
Their chanting rose and fell like the ocean tide. As they entered, the women
parted in opposite directions to line the rough-hewn walls. Each sister stood
veiled in black. Each held a skull in her hands. The tops of the skulls had
been sawn off to form crucibles filled with a mixture of soil and female blood.

The
chanting rose in intensity. At the entrance a woman robed in black appeared.
Her pale narrow face revealed nothing except concentration. It was ageless,
unlined, yet gaunt as though a lifetime of challenges had drawn her down to
only the essentials.

She
was the Magria, supreme mother within the sisterhood. Their chanting beat
within her like her own pulse.

For
three days she had fasted in preparation for the visioning. She had lain in the
sweat chamber, forcing all impurities from her body. Now she stood emptied,
ready. Her mind was clear. She had no hesitations.

Behind
her, the deputy Anas untied the lacings of the Magria’s robe and pulled it off
her shoulders, leaving her naked. The intense heat struck her skin, and the
Magria drew in a quick breath.

She
walked forward to the sand pit that surrounded the fire. The sand was hot
enough to burn the bare soles of her feet. The Magria did not flinch. In her
state of heightened awareness, physical pain only served to clarify the
visioning. She could have walked across live coals had it been necessary.

The
chanting continued, rising in a frenzy around her. She could feel the
collective force of the sisterhood around her, sustaining and strengthening her
for what lay ahead.

She
lifted her hands high in supplication to the stone image of the goddess mother
in its niche on the opposite wall. The chanting ceased in abrupt unison, and
all was silent. The Magria closed her eyes and reached into the stone box next
to the fire pit.

“Within
the power of the goddess mother, we call forth these children of the earth,”
she said. “Let them tell us their truth. Let us be worthy enough to understand
it.”

Her
fingers entwined among the knot of writhing snakes inside the box, and she
lifted them out. A dozen or more in number, they hissed and coiled about her
wrists, but none of them struck her.

The
Magria held them high for a moment, then tossed them upon the sand. “Truth-sayers,
speak!” she called out.

Retreating
from the sand pit, she climbed a tall dais overlooking it and seated herself on
the stone chair.

The
serpents writhed and slithered across the sand. They were active in the heat,
hungry. But none of them made any effort to crawl out of the shallow pit.

Watching,
her mind empty with anticipation, the Magria clutched the arms of her chair and
waited in silence. She considered the lines drawn on the sand by the snakes,
finding the pattern disturbingly clear.

As
she had expected ... but she must wait. It was not yet time for interpretation.

Without
warning, crimson filled her vision, coating all that she saw. Blood ... or the
scarlet hue of rubies. The jewels blazed before her as though a hand had tossed
a thousand of them across the sand. They reflected the firelight, glittering
with life of their own. One of the snakes opened its mouth wide, fangs
unfolding. It gulped down an egg-sized ruby, the jewel bulging through its
length.

The
Magria swayed in her chair and moaned.

Around
her the walls ran with blood. It pooled on the floor, then ran in streams into
the pit where the sand soaked it up.

Feeling
the power, the Magria moaned again. Her heart pulsed stronger and stronger. The
veiled sisters began to chant again, very soft and low, while the flames hissed
and blazed.

The
snake continued to eat the rubies, faster and faster, gorging itself on them
until its length was swollen and lumpy. At last it lay still and sated, its
mouth open. Another snake began to eat the jewels that remained.

The
Magria swayed in her chair, biting her lip to hold back her cries. She must be
strong. She must hold the vision until it was finished. But this one was very
powerful, far more so than she had expected.

Fear
lay on her like sweat. Around her blood puddled at her feet, welling up between
her toes, staining her skin with its warmth. The wet, heavy scent of it filled
her nostrils.

The
second snake was still gobbling rubies. So few of the jewels remained
unconsumed ... so few.

Across
the sand pit, the remaining serpents rolled themselves together into a writhing
wad. When they abruptly separated and slithered apart, the Magria saw there
were now only seven.

One
was colored a rich green. Another was blue; another gold; and yet another
black. The fifth was striped with crimson bands. The sixth was speckled gray
and brown. The seventh was white, its skin loose, stretching. The Magria saw
that it was shedding its skin. The others surrounded it, coiled and hissing,
their forked tongues flickering in and out as they waited.

The
Magria felt pain inside her chest as though anticipation had drawn it too
tight. She forgot to breathe.

Then
the gold-colored serpent moved away from the black snake that companioned it.
The crimson-banded serpent approached the gold one, but it veered away. The
green and blue snakes surrounded the gold one, but the black serpent intervened
and drove the gold serpent back toward the one with crimson bands. Gold and
crimson entwined themselves together, and the black serpent retreated. Green
and blue faced each other, rearing high. The green shook rattles on its tail in
warning. The blue flared out a hood. Swaying with mutual menace, they struck in
battle, lashing and coiling about each other in a fury.

Meanwhile,
the pale molting snake emerged wet and glistening. It was five times larger
than any of the others. It looked like none of the others, white as death, an
unholy thing that seemed to grow larger while the others fought.

Then
the gold serpent, lying so still around the one with crimson bands, tightened
its coils and began to squeeze. When the crimson-banded one struggled, the gold
one struck at the vulnerable spot at the back of its head.

Pain
speared the back of the Magria’s skull. With a scream she threw herself back in
her chair.

The
gold serpent raced across the sand, pursued by the green and the blue. The
black snake tried to follow but found itself cut off by the gray speckled one.
The two fought furiously until at last the black twisted free. It reared up,
seeking the gold serpent, but before the gold serpent was round I he white
snake of death uncoiled its mammoth, sluggish body. It rose up, stretching high
above the dais itself. And it swallowed the Magria.

* * *

Hours
later, she awakened on the stone of revival, the granite smooth and cool
beneath her back. Around her stood the rough walls of the small, private
chamber cut into the rock just beyond the sanctum. The air was cool and
refreshing. She could feel dried sweat on her skin. Her body seemed weightless,
as though only her spirit anchored her to the stone. Exhaustion had melted her
bones to nothing.

Someone
came to her and laid a cool cloth across her forehead. The Magria could smell
restorative herbs scenting the water that had moistened the cloth. She closed
her eyes to seek the multiple points of relaxation. Cool hands continued to
minister to her. Soothing hands.