Bloodstone (14 page)

The first time, Keirith woke to pain.

The throbbing in his head radiated down his neck to his stiff arms and finally to his wrists. Only then did he realize they were lashed together and tied to some kind of wooden beam. He heard the rhythmic creak of paddles from above and the splash of water against the sides of the boat and then a soft moan. He lifted his head and discovered Owan lying near him. Chinks of light filtered through the planks, enough to tell him they were lying in the bowels of the boat, but too dim for him to make out the extent of Owan’s injuries. He whispered his name, but got no response. After a while, the moaning ceased.

He dreamed of flying with the eagle. All of his kinfolk gathered by the lakeshore to watch. When he soared overhead, they shouted his name over and over to the rhythmic pounding of a drum.

He came awake in joy and bit back a moan when he realized where he was. The light was nearly gone, but the drumming was real—the same rumble he had heard before the boats came out of the mist. Pebbles crunched against the bottom of the boat as it shuddered to a halt.

Tense and alert, he listened to the sounds from above: the tramp of boots, the creak of wood, men calling to each other and laughing. And then silence. A square of gray light appeared and the blinding flare of a torch. A rope ladder was flung into the hole and two men climbed down. He shrank back against the beam when he recognized the Big One and Gap Tooth.

The Big One scowled at him. Then Gap Tooth whispered something that made him smile. The Big One picked up Owan’s limp wrist, then flung it down with a sound of disgust. He gestured to Gap Tooth who heaved Owan over his shoulder. Crouching to keep from bumping their heads against the planks, they made their way back to the rope ladder, hauled Owan out of the hole, and slammed the wooden door shut behind them.

Keirith struggled briefly, but only succeeded in pulling the rope tighter. The air was close and dank and smelled of pine resin, but he also caught the faint scent of woods-moke. The growl of distant thunder proved too rhythmic and regular; he guessed he was hearing the crash of waves against the shore.

The boat must have reached the place where the river emptied into the great sea. Only days earlier, his father had been here for the Gathering. Was he still alive? Had his mam escaped with Faelia and Callie? How many of his kinfolk had been killed? How many others had been stolen?

He struck his head against the beam, allowing fresh pain to drive away thought. As the pale light faded to darkness, he succumbed to the lulling rhythm of the waves and slept once more.

The third time, he woke to terror.

Hands dragged him from sleep. There seemed to be dozens of them, shoving a piece of cloth into his mouth, fumbling with the rope around his wrists, digging into his armpits to lift him. He kicked and heard a grunt as his foot struck flesh. A fist punched him in the belly and he doubled over, retching dryly into the gag.

He heard whispers. A scratch. A spark flickered and died. Another scratch, another flicker. This time, the spark caught. A light flared, steadied, swayed back and forth. He raised his head. The light swung across the three faces: a gap-toothed smile, a greasy forelock, and the dark, glittering eyes of the Big One.

He flailed uselessly as they forced him onto his hands and knees. Wasn’t it enough that they had dragged him from his home? What more could they want?

His forehead was shoved onto the wooden planks. Booted feet kicked his legs apart. Hands seized his thighs and spread them wider. His tunic was flung over his waist. A man spat. Another chuckled. Fingers dug into his naked buttocks.

Keirith screamed.

T
HE PROCESSION WAS already making its way to the lakeshore when he and Muina joined it. Darak took his place beside Griane who looked very pale but composed. But when he touched her arm, he could feel tremors coursing through her body. He tightened his grip, but she refused to look at him.

As he passed the birthing hut, he heard Lisula singing the death chant. Gortin could lead the rite of Opening, freeing the spirits of their dead to fly to the Forever Isles, but Lisula’s sweet voice would help ease the grief of their kinfolk.

His footsteps faltered when he saw the pyre. It stood nearly chest high and, although narrow, was the length of four huts. He realized why it was so narrow when they began laying the bodies on it. Even the tallest men struggled to accomplish the task with grace and dignity; had the pyre been any wider, they would have had to fling the bodies of their loved ones atop it.

A greasy sheen covered the doeskin garments. Tallow, he realized, smeared on tunics, breeches, and skirts to help the bodies burn. The greenwood at the top of the pyre had been anointed in a similar fashion, while deadwood and brush had been stacked at the bottom where it would burn—please, gods—hot and fast.

Although it was the right and responsibility of the family members to prepare the dead for their final journey, he stepped forward to help. In a tribe as small as theirs, all of the bloodlines were intermingled. And if his hands were a liability, his height and strength gave him an advantage in lifting the bodies into position.

He felt no revulsion when he clutched bony shoulders or a pair of cool, stiff legs, only grief and a sense of shame that they must endure his greasy fingers fumbling with their limbs. And even that faded as he concentrated on maintaining his grip lest the tallow-smeared garments slip through his maimed hands.

In spite of the morning chill, sweat ran down his sides. His arms trembled from the effort of lifting bodies. Surreptitiously, he wiped his palms on his breeches before reaching for Callie’s hand. The ceremony would be hard enough for him to witness without the memory of his father’s greasy hand clasping his.

Family members stepped forward to lay gifts of food beside their loved ones to strengthen them for their journey. They lay in rows of three, heads nearly touching the shoes of their kinfolk, feet facing southwest so they could follow the sun to the Forever Isles.

The chanting ceased. Gortin circled the pyre sunwise, reciting the names of the dead. Two more had died in the night. No wonder Griane had trembled.

Callie’s grip tightened as Gortin approached. Although he had witnessed other rites, Gortin’s appearance must still frighten him. The right side of his face was blackened with soot, signifying life’s dark passage into death, while the left bore a spiral, painted in blood.

He squeezed Callie’s hand and then gripped it so hard that his son whimpered. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Griane’s head snap toward him, but he couldn’t take his eyes from Gortin.

In an ordinary rite, the bodies would be left in the Death Hut until scavengers cleaned the flesh from the bones. Always, the Tree-Father retained a finger bone of the deceased, braiding it into his hair before interring the rest of the bones in the tribal cairn. For this morning’s ceremony, Gortin wore twenty-three braids, one for each of the dead, just as tradition dictated. At the end of each plait hung a severed finger.

A part of him realized that Gortin probably intended to lay each in the Death Hut, preserving one small part of the rite. But all Darak could see was Morgath sitting cross-legged before him on the parched earth of Chaos, smiling and humming as he braided each of his severed fingers into Yeorna’s golden hair.

Sweat drenched him. Bile rose into his throat. He clamped his lips together, choking it down, but even with his eyes closed, Morgath’s smiling face remained. He concentrated on controlling his body, on Griane’s fingers digging into his forearm. In the end, though, it was his father’s words that kept him from shaming himself before his tribe.

Morgath’s face receded, replaced by his father’s, his expression stern but sorrowful.

He opened his eyes to find Griane watching him, her thin face pinched with worry. He couldn’t manage a smile—she wouldn’t have believed it anyway—but he nodded once and saw the taut lines of her face ease a little.

Gortin’s voice rose, dispelling Darak’s memories. Torch held high, he shouted the final words of the rite: “We have carried Death out of the village.”

Together, they intoned the response: “Let it not return to us soon.”

Gortin’s eye swept the circle gathered around the pyre. “The fire may eat their flesh. The wind may scatter their ashes. But their spirits shall fly on the wings of eagles to the sunlit shores of the Forever Isles.”

As he thrust the torch into the pyre, a great wail rose from the women. It crescendoed to a high keening as the brush caught. Some beat their breasts. Others fell to their knees, tearing at their hair. As the frenzy grew, a few began to sway, then to whirl and spin, all the while shrieking their grief. The shaman could open the gateway to the other-world, but the women’s voices would announce the arrival of these new spirits.

Griane and Faelia screamed with the others. Faelia’s red hair whipped around her as she danced. Like most of the men, Darak stood in silence. A man was permitted to weep or roar the name of a loved one, but the shrill death-song belonged to the women.

The flames reached higher, embracing the bodies. Hair ignited, shrouding the faces in a blaze that quickly died. Doeskin burned more slowly, the stink of tallow and leather gradually overwhelmed by the appalling stench of burning flesh.

Callie bent over, retching. Darak wiped his mouth with the hem of his tunic. Other parents did the same for their children. Even a few of the adults had to leave the circle, then stumble back to bear witness.

No amount of tallow could speed the flames. The death-song ebbed, choked by grief and smoke. In silence, the tribe watched the pyre collapse. Ashes fell like dirty snow. Darak wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stared, sickened, at the greasy gray stain. The thick smoke slowly dispersed, revealing the sun high above the trees to the east.

He was surprised to hear Gortin summon the people back to the village. For the first time, he glanced toward the standing stones. “Where is the boy?” he whispered to Griane.

“Escaped.”

“What?”

“Last night.”

“But that’s—”

“Not now.”

He’d watched Jurl lash him to the oak. The boy could not have wriggled free.

As they neared the village, his stomach lurched. It was customary to feast after any rite, but the smell of the roasting meat sickened him. What he wanted—and needed—was a drink. Others clearly felt the same; although it was only midmorning, men were passing jugs of brogac and skins of wine.

Urkiat trailed after him as he followed his family into the hut. Faelia rushed to the stone basin and plunged her hands into the water, scrubbing her face, her neck, her arms. One by one, they did the same, cleaning the ashes of the dead from their bodies.

Callie shivered as Griane wiped his face. “I’m sorry,” he said. “For getting sick.”

“Other folk got sick. Even grown-ups.”

“Faelia didn’t. You didn’t. Fa didn’t.”

Darak crouched before his son. “I had your hand for strength—and your mam’s. Otherwise . . .” He shrugged. “It was hard today. For all of us.”

“Try and remember them as they were,” Urkiat said. “That helps. A little.”

Callie thought a moment. “Tree-Brother Meniad—he was always kind.”

“Aye,” said Darak. “And remember the stories Trian used to tell? And what a good fisherman Elathar was? And the way Erca’s voice carried through the village, no matter how hard you tried to get away from it?”

Callie’s eyes went wide and then his lips curved in a smile so much like Tinnean’s it made him ache. “Even if you covered your ears.”

“Aye. Even then.”

“She always knew if you’d done something wrong,” Faelia said.

“And never hesitated to tell you,” Griane added.

They were all smiling now. Relieved, he got to his feet.

“Callie, take the pot of cheese.” Griane’s voice was brisk. “Faelia, bring the skin of elderberry wine. I’ll put some oatcakes on the fire before I check on the wounded. Urkiat . . .”

“I’ll see if the men need any help with the fish traps.”

Darak waited until they left. Even then he hesitated, watching Griane knead the melted dripping into the oats. She was the first to break the silence. “You asked about the boy?”

He nodded, relieved to postpone the discussion of his departure.

“Jurl and Rothisar roused the village before dawn. He’d stolen a coracle, but Nionik sent out search parties anyway. Jurl wasn’t sure how he got free. He must have loosened the ropes somehow. Apparently, the boy taunted him. When Jurl went over to the tree to teach him to mind his tongue, the boy grabbed his ankle. He fell and hit his head on a rock.”