Season of Sacrifice Read online

  Duke Coren’s skepticism creased his forehead into a frown. “A tree remember? What sort of witchery is that?”

  Alana forced herself to step away from the oak’s quiet comfort, to stride to the outer reach of its branches. Her voice was cold as she answered, “Perhaps, Your Grace, you will understand better if I show you.”

  Forcing down the chill behind her words, she began to chant deep in her throat, a soft sound like a mother’s lullaby. Another breeze skirled through the new green leaves, but she ignored it, opening her mouth to voice the hymn that rose within her. The tune was wordless, a whisper about the People’s lives, about the festival that spread across the beach.

  Alana sang of the long line of huers who had cried out from the Headland, of the fish that had just been caught. She sang of the strange men who had come with Coren, of the anger barely hidden behind their inland beards. She sang of the dogs that were chained well away from the People, and the power of the man who stood before her, and his skepticism about the woodsinger.

  As she sang, a stillness fell over the hill. The breeze calmed in a pocket around the two humans and the Tree. The children’s laughing cries on the beach below melted away, swirled into the sudden silence. Alana felt the Tree listen to her, felt it add her words to its great store of knowledge. Inside her mind and her heart, she sensed the massive oak measuring the request that she had not quite dared to make.

  A single branch began to lower.

  Her song turned into a laugh when she glimpsed Duke Coren’s amazed face. She reached up toward the branch, and the Tree moved like a supple cat, curving to greet her and caress her cheek with a whisper of fragile leaves. She strode closer to the living wood, tracing the branch back toward its heart in the tree’s trunk. She followed a path that was as thick as her wrist, then her neck, then her waist.

  When she reached the limits of the great Tree’s flexibility, she settled her hands on the rough wood. Her sung notes wrapped around the Tree’s essence, melding with the living bark. For just a moment, her heart beat with the fresh sweetness of oaken sap, and her soul settled into an otherworldly calm, layer on circular layer of peace. She was no longer Alana Woodsinger, hoping to impress a worldly duke. For a single, timeless instant, she was the Tree; she was the oaken daughter of the Great Mother, the living essence of the Guardians in all the world.

  And then her heart beat again, and she was a woman once more, an ordinary woman standing beside a branch that quivered in a sudden gust of wind. She lifted her hand from the oak, not surprised to see its valleys and peaks etched into her skin, carved over the lines of her own palm. She sighed and shook her head, not noticing when her hair fell free of its improvised knot. Coren appeared not to notice either, for he gazed intently at what the Tree had revealed.

  “What in the name of the Seven Gods is that?” His gruff surprise grounded Alana rapidly, and she bit back a smile at the skeptical finger he pointed toward the bark.

  She barely had to touch the patch of wood to lift it from its nest. Perfectly symmetrical, the wooden globe was carved into an intricate star, tiny points striking out against the air like a night-black snowflake. As Alana turned the star before the duke’s eyes, she saw his interest sharpen until it was as penetrating as one of the carved points.

  She smiled. “The children call it a woodstar, but the real name is a bavin.”

  “A ‘bavin’?” He stumbled over the unfamiliar term.

  “It’s an old word. The first woodsingers learned to ask the Tree for them. When a bavin is lit, it burns without consuming the wood. Each boat we make receives a bavin. The woodstars are set in the prow, so that the Tree can track us out at sea. As woodsinger, I always know where my people are, by watching through the bavins.”

  “How many does the tree hold?”

  “Hold?” The question puzzled her, startled her almost as much as the avaricious gleam in his eyes. She felt the Tree’s sudden concern, its disquiet at the inlander’s question. Unconsciously, she settled her hand against the fresh bavin scar, as if she were gentling a newborn colt. “We’ve never tried to find out.”

  “If you cut down this branch, do they just come rolling out?”

  “Oh, no.” Alana laughed uneasily. “The Tree does not contain bavins until we ask it to. Even then, it does not always give us woodstars. It must believe that we need a bavin before it makes the sacrifice.” She realized that he could not understand until he had examined the Tree’s gift, and she tossed the carved sphere to the man. She saw his surprise as his fist closed around it, as he registered how light it was. “The Tree has chosen to give this one to you. Take it as a keepsake of your time with the People.”

  He stared at the bavin for a long minute before secreting it in a leather pouch that hung at his waist. When he bowed, she felt as if she were a noblewoman in Smithcourt’s royal castle. She shoved away the uneasiness that the Tree swirled into her thoughts. After all, what could an oak tree know of nobility? What could it know of the king’s distant court? How could any woodsinger have told the Tree about the strange ways of Smithcourt?

  Duke Coren bowed fluidly. “And may I see you to the beach, my lady?”

  She paused only long enough to caress the Tree, to thank it once again for its gift and to feel the balm of its comforting acknowledgment at the back of her mind. “I would be honored, Your Grace.”

  Such courtly words were foreign to the People, but Alana had practiced for nearly a fortnight, since Duke Coren had arrived, leading a train of packhorses laden with trade goods. After the visitors’ troublesome dogs had been banished to the village’s perimeter, the People had been pleased with the duke’s riches. They longed for the smooth linen that Coren brought to trade; it was crisper and softer than their own rough wool. There were other items as well—trinkets of colored glass that pleased parents and children alike, hardened leather for shoe soles, and iron knives worked by near-magical smiths.

  The people had no iron anywhere near the Headland. They needed to trade for all the metal they required, for cookpots and hardware for their boats and for precious knives. The People’s need was one of the many challenges of life on the Headland. Devoted as the People were to the Tree, to the living essence that combined all the Guardians’ forces, they still needed to bargain for iron, for the other major gift that the Guardians had crafted when they created this Age. The People remembered the Guardians’ ancient power over earth and air, fire and water; they knew the forged power of the dark metal that was not theirs. They consoled themselves with the force of the Tree, and they traded when they could.

  During Duke Coren’s visit, the People marveled that the nobleman wanted so little in exchange for the precious goods he brought. All he asked for were barrels of salt fish and oil, left over after the easy winter. Those, and a handful of purple and white clamshell beads. The entire visit had carried the excitement of Midsummer Day, although it was barely spring.

  That excitement was heightened by Duke Coren’s proclamation that he traded in the name of the king. Of course, the westlands were ruled by the distant king in Smithcourt, but no lord from so far inland had ever deigned to travel all the way to the Headland. The People had lived for generations as complacent subjects, raising their cups to their absent, distant liege. They enjoyed the fact that they were not ground under some noble heel on a regular basis, even if that meant that the price of iron remained high, that trade in linen and beads remained rare.

  Nevertheless, the presence of a nobleman spurred a giddy excitement among all the People. There were even rumors that Duke Coren hoped to ascend to the Iron Throne when he returned to Smithcourt after this journey. After all, even the People had heard of the king’s untimely death the previous year, of his passing without an heir. That gossip was strong enough to make the journey to the edge of the kingdom. Duke Coren supposedly claimed the crown because of the wealth that he had poured into the dead king’s treasury, wealth from trading in lands so distant that the People could not imagine their names. />
  On the duke’s first night in the village, when all the People were gathered about a warm hearth sipping ale, the nobleman had handed out presents. Excitement had fluttered beneath Alana’s breastbone. She had told herself that she had no use for a silver brooch, and it was completely inappropriate for a strange man to proffer the sturdy linen sash that gathered the colors of the rainbow and nestled them around her narrow hips. Nevertheless, it would have been rude to decline his gifts. Besides, there was the village to think of—if she, the woodsinger, refused her presents, then the People could not accept theirs.

  Therefore, she kept Coren’s offerings, and she found herself drawn into conversation with the generous lord. He went out of his way to make her feel at ease. He was an ambassador of good will, and it was her duty to pave his way among the fishermen. It was not his fault that she was drawn to him in ways that were not entirely proper for the People’s woodsinger, especially not a woodsinger who had been called to her post before settling on a husband.

  Alas, that was one seaside tradition that Alana was not going to divulge to Duke Coren. There was no reason for him to learn that she was sworn to the Tree forever, that she would never be permitted to settle in a cottage with a man, to raise children, to divide her attention between a family and the Tree. Of course, if she had found her mate before being called to serve the oak, things would have been different…. The Tree would have made its choice knowing her commitment to her family. But Alana had had no family when the Tree chose. She had had no distractions. The Tree would not tolerate her divided loyalty now. She would remain alone.

  Through no fault of her own, she would remain alone.

  Repeating that rule to herself even now, Alana stumbled as her hard-soled winter shoe turned on a stone. Before she could catch herself, Coren’s hand was under her elbow, steadying her with a quiet strength. “Careful, my lady,” he murmured, and she was startled by the sudden breathlessness that closed her throat. She forced herself to look down at the stony path, to focus on the earth underfoot. She thought she heard the duke chuckle beside her, but she refused to meet his piercing eyes.

  His hand was still on her arm when they emerged from the scrubby ocean grass onto the beach. The People looked up in expectation, and a sudden hush fell over the crowd. Laughter and a reed flute’s dancing notes slipped away in the crash of breakers. Alana saw the gossiping glint in Goodwife Glenna’s eyes, and she jerked her arm away from the duke as if she’d been burned.

  Goody Glenna was the oldest of the People. The crone’s hearing might be going, but her eyes were sharp, and Alana knew that the old gossip was recording this latest tidbit to share by the communal ovens on the next baking day. Alana sighed. She was already tired of the Women’s Council watching her every move. She knew that she was not permitted a husband. She had accepted that she was sworn to the Tree.

  “Alana!” The woodsinger whirled to face Sartain, the current leader of all the People. The fisherman was short and muscular; like most of his folk, his body had been shaped by hauling nets heavy with fish. His back was stooped from years of repetitive labor, and his hands were horny pads, callused by decades of service on the People’s coracles. Sartain’s eyes were carved deep in his face, protected by a web of lines etched by sun and wind.

  “Yes, Sartain?”

  “While you’ve kept our guest up on the bluff, the feast has been laid. We can’t have the duke saying that the People lack hospitality, can we?” Alana heard a good-natured smile behind the fisherman’s sea-salt words. “Come, woodsinger, let us begin the feast.”

  Sartain turned and led the way to the strip of firm sand, still dark from the ocean’s tidal soaking. When a restless silence had once more fallen over the beach, he spoke. “My People,” he began, and then, with only a gull’s cry for competition, he stumbled through a few formulaic greetings, awkwardly daring to clap his hand on Duke Coren’s shoulder. “Your Grace,” Sartain continued with gruff modesty as he realized the presumption he had taken, “I would not bore you with an old fisherman’s words.” He looked about in embarrassment and gestured toward one of the People. “Maddock, stand forward and speak to the duke.”

  Alana watched Maddock flow beside the Fisherman with a stoat’s grace, his teeth white against his dark skin and darker hair. Maddock was one of the few men among the People who had ever ventured beyond the Headland of Slaughter. Last year, he had journeyed inland to trade salt fish for precious iron and tin and to meet with the royal census takers, declaring how many men, women, and children lived beside the sea. Now, Maddock spoke for all those People, using flowery language to admit pride and gratitude.

  Alana’s breath caught in her throat as she watched the young man proclaim the People’s hospitality. As if unconsciously, Maddock let the wind tug the edge of his cloak, flaring the fabric to accentuate his broad shoulders. The casual fist that he set against his hip was a subtle reminder of his strength, and Alana caught herself wondering for the hundredth time how his strong hands would feel against her flesh, against the naked skin of her back….

  She shook her head in annoyance. Of course she thought of the young fisherman that way—he did everything he could to make every girl in the village pine for him. It was certainly no coincidence last summer that he had not finished his bath when the girls came to draw cooking water for the Midsummer Feast. He purposely used the village common to practice his fighting forms, wearing nothing more than his breeches as he swung about his smith-precious iron sword. He had his own reasons for tending the spitted lambs at the summer festivals, sweltering by the heat of the fire so that the flames drew out a glow on his bared chest.

  Old Goody Glenna reveled in the attention all the girls paid to Maddock. Each day she found a new tale to tell, a story of the woe that had befallen some smitten slip of a girl when she accepted the sort of invitation that Maddock kept open. Alana, searching her knowledge from the Tree, knew that only a fraction of Goody Glenna’s stories were true. Nevertheless, the young woodsinger also knew that it was her duty to help keep the village girls in line.

  She had intended to do just that, late last fall, when she had confronted Maddock for the first time since donning her woodsinger’s cloak. With a grin, the man had admitted every one of his faults, casting his dark blue eyes toward his feet with a child’s heart-stealing shame. Alana had caught herself wishing he would brush against her as he left the clearing or, better yet, that he would not leave at all….

  Foolishness.

  When Maddock finished his speech, Sartain invoked the traditional blessings of earth, fire, water, and air. With the Guardians’ names still hovering over the People and their guests, laughter broke out. The young twins, Maida and Reade, recommenced their game of tag, and a drum joined the flute’s rollicking voice, dancing amid the crash of waves.

  After filing by the great iron cooking pots, Alana settled on a convenient outcrop of rock, a little removed from the crowds of boisterous people. She pulled her iron dagger from her waist, smiling at the rich present that her father had given her long before he met the Guardians of Water.

  Now, Alana used the treasured blade to salute her father with the sea’s first harvest, carefully picking the flesh from a steaming pilchard. She was grateful that Sartain had led his early morning fishermen to such bounty—all of the People were tired of the salt fish that had sustained them for the winter.

  Sartain was clearly in a celebratory mood as well, for he ordered the young men to break out a barrel of apple wine. As Alana looked over the rim of her earthenware cup, she noted that Coren and his followers did not partake of the sweet, cool stuff. Perhaps their inland palate was accustomed to finer drink. It was a failing in the man, she mused, but not a deadly one.

  “Hmphhh! He does not deign to drink our apple wine! Perhaps m’lord would prefer mead from the king’s court!”

  Alana did not need to turn about to chastise the complainer; she did not even need to listen to the woodsingers’ quiet murmurs at the back of her mind to id
entify the speaker. “Hush, Landon. I think, instead, that he is loathe to take something that we clearly hold so dear.” She set down her dagger and forced herself to face the lanky young man. While she knew that Landon’s long face could be pleasant, an ugly frown distorted his features now. A sea breeze chose that unfortunate moment to skip across his brow, stressing the fact that he had already lost the better part of his hair.

  She frequently had to remind herself that Landon was only four years older than she. His cautious ways and his receding hairline lent him an aura of conservative seniority almost as great as Goody Glenna’s. There was a time when Alana had found his maturity compelling. Things had not gone well, though, since the winter solstice. The woodsinger delicately forced her thoughts away from a memory as prickly as the bavin she had just sung for Duke Coren.

  Landon made that retreat easier as he grumbled, “I’m certain you would know about his thoughts, Alana. What secrets did he whisper to you by the Tree? Did you actually give him that woodstar you sang?”

  “Were you spying on me, Landon? What I do with the Tree is no interest of yours!”

  “The Tree belongs to all the People, Alana. Not to you, and certainly not to some cursed inlander. Look at him, the way the women wait on him! It’s not like he’s even eating the tidbits they offer.”

  “You sound like a child! What has Coren ever done to you?”

  “Ah, so now he is ‘Coren.’ Not ‘my lord’ and not ‘the duke,’ but simply Coren.”

  “You know the People have never put much stock in titles! If I didn’t know better, I’d think that you were jealous.”