Blood Seed: Coin of Rulve Book One Page 11

“What allegations?” Sheft asked. “From who?”

  His father finally looked at him. “You tell me. Rumor has it you were quite busy at the market-fair in Ferce. Now is not the time to discuss it.” But his demeanor clearly stated: when this burial is over, there will be hell to pay.

  Riah took off her apron. “Take us both home. The villagers have no particular liking for me either, nor I for them. When everyone has gone, come get us on the way to the gravesite.”

  “But I don’t understand!” Mariat exclaimed, turning to Sheft.

  “Neither do I. But my father is right: we’ll settle this later.” He glanced at Tarn, then back to her. “I won’t go home, Mariat. I’ll wait in the barn.”

  “But you were closer to Ane than any villager,” Mariat objected. “You should have a place right here with her.” And with me, her eyes said.

  “I won’t be far.”

  “Better get out there then,” Etane urged him, looking out the back window. “A wagon is coming.”

  “If you insist on this,” Tarn said to Sheft, “have the decency to stay out of sight.” He and Riah left the house, and a moment later their wagon rattled off.

  Sheft found a place in the barn where he could not be seen, but where he could look out through the open doors. Had Dorik found out about the fight with Gwin and Voy? Why would the Holdman care about that? He’d done nothing but defend himself, nothing but make sure Mariat got home safe.

  A wagon rumbled up and Delo and his wife climbed out, the wife carrying a covered dish. Soon other carts pulled in and other families brought food. Sheft settled back into a pile of hay and some of the tension in his shoulders and neck, which he had not realized was there, began to ease. The toll from two restless nights crept over him and images of Ane wafted through his mind.

  Smiling, she wiped her hands on her apron; frowning, she parted leaves in the squash patch, looking for borers. She sat by the hearth, the pale yellow blanket over her lap, while he sat at her feet and read to her from the book of tales. Her frail hand caressed his hair. “Wheat-head,” she murmured, “will you wear Rulve’s body and save the land?”

  With a start, he woke.

  “Agh!” Etane cried. “You almost made me drop this.” He held out a steaming plate.

  # # #

  Sheft looked terrible, Etane thought, and it wasn’t all because of Ane’s death. There were shadows under his eyes and a bruise on his cheek. “I figured you didn’t have anything to eat all day, so I snuck this out.” Fishing a fork out of his pocket, he handed it to Sheft along with a plate of chicken, boiled potatoes, and rhubarb preserves.

  “Thanks.” He looked down. “I’m sorry, Etane. Sorry about your mom.”

  “Yeah.” Etane lowered himself beside him in the hay, and they sat in silence for a while.

  “Do you know what’s bothering my father?” Sheft asked him.

  Etane shrugged. “People in the village don’t say much to me because they know we’re friends.” This wasn’t quite true. When he stopped at Cloor’s on the way home from Ferce yesterday, he discovered the village was buzzing with wild rumors about the one they called—still, after all these years—the foreigner.

  “You know something, Etane. I can tell.”

  “Well, a few of the village girls have been talking, mainly Ubela.”

  “Delo’s daughter?”

  “For Ele’s sake, Sheft. You’ve lived here all your life and still don’t know who’s who? She’s the butcher’s step-daughter.” Etane sighed. Sheft’s standoffish reserve sometimes made him impatient, even though he certainly understood the reason for it.

  “Sorry. You’re right. But what were these girls talking about?”

  “Just some gossip. It’s not worth even getting into.”

  “What kind of gossip?” In his obvious dismay Sheft looked full at him. At the sight of those silver eyes, Etane felt himself stiffen. Sheft must have seen it, because immediately he winced away.

  I’m sorry, Etane thought, but I just can’t help it. He looked at his friend’s lowered eyes, his bruised face, and with a surge of sympathy put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s all rumor and foolish talk. But there’s gossip about something else that happened at the market-fair, and I want to get your version of it. People are claiming you jumped out and attacked Gwin.”

  “What!”

  “They say you whacked him when he wasn’t looking, with a tree limb or a cudgel. Someone—get this, Sheft—someone actually said you used a wooden leg. Supposedly you wrested it off a poor beggar sunning himself in the horse-field.”

  They looked at each other for a second, then burst out laughing. Sheft fell back against the haystack. “That old man,” he gasped, “put up a ferocious resistance!”

  “I can see by looking at you that he did. Your cheek is a mess and so is your right hand.”

  Sheft straightened up. “You and your sister. Neither of you miss a thing.”

  “So what really happened?”

  Various troubled expressions passed over Sheft’s face. “A—a problem arose,” he said at last. “When Gwin decided he’d take your sister home from the fair. Instead of me taking her home.”

  “I see. And then?”

  “Well, there was a disagreement about that.”

  He finally got the whole story out of Sheft, and at the end felt a kind of wry admiration for him. “It certainly was no fair fight. But I also heard you got thrown out of town.”

  The side of Sheft’s mouth went up in a rueful quirk. “It was more like I was asked to leave.”

  Etane blew a breath from his puffed-out cheeks. This all seemed so ironic for his quiet and self-effacing friend. But Sheft now had a deadly enemy and could have been badly hurt. He resolved to keep an eye out for him. “Actually, I was at the fair the same day you were, but we went early in the morning when it just opened. I was staying the night with Leeza’s family.”

  “Sounds like things are getting serious between you two.”

  “I guess they are.” As far as things getting serious, he’d noticed for some time how Sheft and his sister looked at each other. He’d been anticipating that Sheft would speak to Moro, to ask for Mariat in troth, but so far it hadn’t happened. Apparently his friend moved rather slowly in these matters and needed a subtle hint. “You know, I’ve been hoping one day you’d clear a fieldhold nearby. Marry my sister and settle down on it. Mama would have liked that too.”

  For some reason, Sheft’s face clouded. He put his plate on the hay beside him.

  “I’ve even told Leeza about you,” Etane went on. “Don’t worry: I mentioned your mother comes from Ullar-Sent and therefore you look a little odd. See, I was thinking that come late winter, maybe as early as the middle of Herb-Bearer, I’d have a field-burn to clear out my land. Build a little place on it and settle down.”

  “With Leeza?”

  “Yeah. I asked her to marry me, and she said yes.”

  Sheft leaned over and clapped him on the shoulder. “That’s wonderful news, Etane. I’m glad for you.”

  He spoke sincerely, but also a little sadly. Etane got the distinct impression of someone out in the cold, gazing into fire lit windows. But that was Sheft’s fault. He’d be cold only until he got the courage to ask for Mariat, who would then keep him warm for the rest of his days. “Can I count on you to help at the field-burn? I wanted you to be firstman at our wedding, but…well, it might be better if I ask Leeza’s brother instead.”

  “I understand.”

  “I’ll still need you as my field manager. When everyone’s gone, you come in and make sure the work’s been done right. What do you say?”

  Sheft hesitated, but then said, “Of course I’ll do it. You’re my friend.”

  Etane nodded, and for a while they talked about his new field. Moro had originally cleared it when Etane was born and for years kept a cow on it. Except for one beautiful grove, most of the big trees had been cut down, but a lot of brush still remained. They agreed that if the weather allowed
, he and Sheft would do some preliminary cutting in the next few weeks.

  Activity in the yard caused Etane to turn. Tarn came back alone in the wagon and went into the house, and then another wagon rattled in. It was Gwin, who drove the finest horse in At-Wysher, a brown gelding with two white forefeet. He wore a coat fitted at the waist and what looked like new boots. With a confident set to his shoulders, he entered the house.

  Etane glanced at Sheft, whose face had hardened at the sight of Gwin. “Don’t let him bother you. Just finish your dinner.” He waved away a drone-fly that was hovering over Sheft’s plate.

  Sheft took a bite of chicken, then began pushing a piece of potato around with his fork. “Did your father,” he asked without looking up, “ever tell you anything about—about the Rites?”

  The Rites. Neither he nor Moro had to take part this year, so Etane had forgotten about them. The moon was shrinking away; and two nights from now, the first of Hawk, it would fall into its dark circle. That’s when the Rites were traditionally held—and they would be Sheft’s first. He shifted uneasily on the hay. “All I know is there are twenty men in the circle, including the Holdman, the elders, and their first-born sons eighteen or over.”

  “That’s only eighteen people.”

  “Yeah. To make it twenty, Parduka appoints a different man and his son on a rotating basis.

  Thank Ele she hasn’t chosen us this year. With the funeral and all, it would kill my dad—plus I’m not that anxious to go ever. Maybe she forgot I’m eighteen.”

  “I know it’s all supposed to be kept secret, but”—his friend shot a pleading glance at him and looked quickly down again—“but Moro must’ve said something more.”

  And Tarn, he thought with a pang of sympathy for Sheft, apparently hadn’t said anything at all. “Well, no one’s allowed to talk about what goes on, but he did mention that men have a duty to appease Wask.”

  Sheft stiffened. “Appease? How?”

  “I’m not sure. But don’t worry about going out that night. The whole Circle is under the protection of Ele.”

  For a moment Sheft said nothing. “But I don’t believe in Ele.”

  He shrugged. “You’ll get through it. Everyone does.”

  # # #

  Easy for you to say, Sheft thought. He put his plate aside and rubbed the back of his neck. He couldn’t seem to blot out the mental picture of what he feared regarding the Rites: a sharp blade, sharp eyes watching, blood dripping toward the waiting ground.

  The sound of a door closing made him turn. Gwin was leaving the house. Voy, who had apparently been sleeping in his wagon, poked his head up. The two spoke in low tones, Voy laughed, and Gwin drove away. Tarn’s wagon stood alone now in front of the house.

  Moro peered toward the barn, looking for them. “Come on, Sheft,” Etane said. “Help me harness the horse. It’s time.” His eyes were sad.

  Back in the house, Sheft put his unfinished dinner on the table and saw that only fifteen or so additional candles had been lighted.

  “Most of the villagers stayed home,” Tarn reported. “They didn’t think Ane was getting a proper funeral. Don’t take this amiss, Moro, but Parduka complained that a ceremony should have been conducted in the House of Ele, with the cremation out back. Graves in the deadlands insult the goddess, she says. The one who is really insulted, I suspect, is the priestess, who will receive no funeral offering. Dorik sends his respects, but doesn’t want to quarrel with Parduka over this.”

  “Ane put her faith in Rulve,” Moro said with a hint of stubbornness. “She’ll be buried according to her wishes.”

  One by one, Mariat blew out the candles. In the dim light, Sheft leaned over the bier and looked at the quiet face he’d never see again. He tucked beside her body the paper with the quote from the book of tales. How I’ll miss you, Ane. How I’ll miss you. He still felt numb, even as Mariat wrapped Ane in her new blanket and he helped carry her out to Moro’s wagon. She was so light he could have done it himself. He could have cradled her in his arms like a child.

  The two wagons headed east, picking up Riah on the way. The sky had become so overcast that Sheft couldn’t tell where the sun was. At the gravesite, he watched Moro and Etane remove the frail body from Moro’s wagon and lower it into the earth. At the bottom of the hole, the pale yellow blanket shone faintly, as if with its own light.

  Tarn’s shovel scraped. Clods of dirt scattered over the blanket.

  No! He clenched his shovel with both hands, his chest tight.

  “She’s not down there, Sheft,” a gentle voice beside him whispered. Mariat touched his arm. “She’s in Rulve’s hands.”

  He looked at her, into her lovely eyes full of both grief and faith, and felt ashamed. He was supposed to be comforting her, not the other way around. He nodded and turned to the work at hand, but the tightness inside him intensified as the yellow blanket gradually disappeared under shovelfuls of dirt. Soon all the light was obliterated from the hole where Ane lay.

  On top of the mound they placed in a circle the rocks he and Etane had gathered earlier. In the center Moro planted the torch, and struck the flint. The torch had become so damp it took him a while to light it. Finally it flared, and everyone stood silent, gazing down on the grave. Mariat took his hand, and it was the only human touch between the stony ground and the dead sky.

  The light changed, and he looked up. Clouds streamed past, thinning the veil over the diffuse disk of the sun in the west, until all around them the mist-filled air suddenly glowed gold. For a moment the flame of the little torch was engulfed by a greater light. A bittersweet emotion ached in his chest.

  Too soon the glory passed: the overcast closed in once more and Ane had gone forever.

  The small group rode away in the wagons. Sheft watched the lonely torch flame grow smaller, until it finally dipped out of sight behind a rise in the land.

  Chapter 12. On Fire

  Sitting in the back of the rattling wagon, Sheft looked at Mariat, riding ahead. How could she endure this grief? She’d been home barely three months, been reunited with her family for only one short season, and now her mother had been snatched away. He turned his head to where he had last seen the sun. The grey sky had swallowed it.

  But in its place rose an ominous black plume. Dread washed through him. “Something’s burning,” he said to his father. “In our fieldhold.”

  Tarn squinted where Sheft pointed, then shouted up to Moro. “There’s smoke coming from our place!” The men jumped out, leaving Riah and Mariat to bring the vehicles in by the road, and ran over the muddy fields. Sheft caught the sharp tang of cinders. He and Etane reached the fieldhold before the older men. “Thank Ele it’s not your house!” Etane cried.

  But Sheft had known that already and ran around the corner. Dirt-brown wisps curled around the edges of the closed door of the chicken shed. Tendrils rose from chinks in the steaming roof. Only one frantic hen clucked and flapped in the farthest corner of the chicken yard. Where were the others? He rushed to the door of the shed and, knowing what would happen, darted to the side as he pulled it open. A thick cloud of smoke rolled out. He bent down to look under the worst of it and glimpsed a smoldering pile of straw and old nests in the center of the shed. The recent rain had so far kept the shed from bursting into flames, but the pile seethed with burning embers.

  “We need rakes,” Sheft cried. They each grabbed one out of the barn, almost colliding with the two older men as they rushed up. “Get water!” he called to them.

  He and Etane, bending low to avoid the roiling smoke, fought their way into the shed and began raking the pile toward the door. Heat beat against his face, and smoke stung his eyes and throat. Tarn appeared, threw a bucket of water on the pile, which hissed out another cloud of smoke, and then dashed out. “The roof!” Sheft cried after him. “Douse the roof!”

  Coughing and blinking, he raked, glimpsed the bodies of two charred hens, smelled burnt feathers. Whoever had done this made sure most of the fowl were trap
ped inside. A gush of soot-filled water from the ceiling soaked his shirt, followed soon after by another. No wind was blowing through the lattice window in the back of the shed, but the humid air wafting down from the Riftwood sent smoke and fumes directly into his eyes. He could hardly see the shadowy form of Etane beside him.

  His boots squished over the muddy ground, his face stung from the heat, and his shoulders ached as he raked as fast as he could. He finally got most of the debris out the door and staggered to the side, wiping his eyes on his sleeve and taking gulps of clean air. Etane was out too, bent over and coughing.

  Tarn and Moro shouldered past them, armed with hoes. Soon the remains of the debris lay spread out in the chicken yard for the women to pour water over. The last embers winked out, leaving a caustic smell and pall of smoke. Breathing heavily, leaning on their rakes, their faces and hair streaked with soot, they all rested for a moment, then surveyed the damage.

  Inside the shed, the charred roof sagged open in the center and the remains of four hens, their bones poking out of ashes, lay on the floor. More ominous, eggshells crunched underfoot, and trails of yolks and whites were cooked onto the smoke-blackened walls. They found the rooster near the back window, its neck twisted. Whoever started the fire had killed the rooster and hurled eggs against the wood.

  “Who in Ele’s name would do this?” Moro cried.

  Sheft remembered the odd way Gwin and Voy had acted at Moro’s house earlier that day. He knew exactly who had done this, and why.

  Under the soot, Tarn’s face was white. “Whoever started this fire could have torched our house and barn. This was merely a warning.” He turned on Sheft. “This happened because of what you did at the market-fair. Admit it!”

  It was as if he had been hit by a board. His own anger flared. “Why do you believe every village gossip, but not your own son? What I say isn’t good enough for you, is it? Nothing I’ve ever done was good enough!”

  Tarn thrust his face into his. “So you’re blaming me for this?” he shouted.

  Sheft kept his gaze averted, but the father who rarely looked at him now glared into his soul. Tarn demanded the truth. And the truth, he realized with a cold wash of insight, was that he himself bore the ultimate responsibility. This destruction happened because of what he was. Those who had done it hated him, and he alone should have borne the burden of that hatred.