Blood Seed: Coin of Rulve Book One (11 page)

Gwin shot him a black look. He intended to marry Mariat one day and didn’t want to imply she might be used goods. “We saw no evidence of that.”

“I just hope to Ele,” Delo said, “that nothing happened that could have been prevented.”

“What happened or didn’t happen,” Rom said, reaching out to grasp his son’s arm, “don’t blame yourself, Gwin. You did all you could.”

Gwin used the same arm to reach for his ale, and thereby dislodged his father’s hand.

“Such goings-on might be allowed in Ullar-Sent,” Vehoke said, “but not here in our own village.” He stood up so suddenly that his chair fell over. “I have an innocent daughter to protect!” The noise woke Voy, who sat up, blinking.

“My two boys would never act in such a manner!” Delo exclaimed. “Gede in particular has the utmost respect for women.” He glared around the table. “We’ve got three council elders here. Do something!”

“You forget,” Rom said in a low voice, “Tarn and Dorik have their supporters.” He glanced significantly at Cloor, but the man was busy helping Vehoke back into his chair.

Delo banged a pudgy fist on the table. His mug tipped but he hastily righted it. “We need a new Holdman, an upright, moral man. A man who recognizes the Groper’s work when he sees it.”

“We need a Holdman who’ll enforce the law,” Vehoke agreed. “Even Moro’s son is keeping company with a girl from Ferce. We need to put a stop to that kind of thing.”

“There’s no law against foreigners,” Cloor said mildly, taking his seat once more.

“It’s our tradition! We can’t tolerate any more outsiders. Especially when there are many young ladies right here in the village to choose from. My own Melis for instance. A quiet respectable girl.”

Using his cane, Pogreb got to his feet and dragged his chair to their table. “You are devout, Vehoke, and you are right. Our goddess Ele does not want outsiders among us. But—hee, hee, hee—one is already here, stalking our maidens like a wolf.” The old man sat down and a fly settled on his balding head, but he did not seem to notice. “All of you should have listened to our priestess in Redstar. She begged the council to restore the ancient Rites. But no, nothing was done.” The fly crawled down the old man’s face, and he waved it away. “Now one reeking with sin will be part of our holiest circle at the Rites!”

The resulting silence gave Gwin the opportunity he’d been waiting for. “I’m not sure if I should bring this up,” he said, “but Pogreb has a point. Something else happened yesterday. Even more troubling.” 

Every pair of eyes swiveled toward him, “When we first got to the fair, we saw this table full of carved animals for sale. They were all crudely done, but I noticed that children, even Oris, were oddly attracted to them. You noticed that too, didn’t you, Voy?”

Voy managed to nod with his cup tilted to his lips, and Gwin continued.

“Apparently the foreigner had carved them. He was sitting in the back of the wagon, in the shadows. With that hair, you can’t mistake him.” He clasped his hands around his mug and stared at it. “Anyway, I went round back and—well, I saw what he was doing.” He paused, then looked up at them. “He was too busy to notice me. The piss-head was restraining a little boy, holding him tight between his legs. In one hand the foreigner clutched one of his so-called
toys.
In the other”—he took a breath—“he held a carving knife.”

“What!” Vehoke exclaimed in horror. “He was molesting a little boy?”

“I think he had been,” Gwin said with a grimace. “The child was whimpering. But what I actually witnessed was something even worse.” He chewed his lip, as if reluctant to continue.

“Speak up, son,” Rom murmured.

Gwin leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. He told how, in the shadows behind the wagon, the foreigner had committed an act so vile that he could only stand there in shock.

Dead silence descended. The rain had stopped, and the mewlet bones hanging outside the open door clattered softly.

“What you just described is a sacrilege!” Pogreb cried in a tremulous voice. “A filthy abomination!”

Cloor stared at Gwin. “You’ve made a serious allegation here. Can you prove it?”

Gwin spread out his arms. “You have only my word. But by Ele, I’m telling you the truth. When the foreigner finally turned and saw me, he had this grin on his face. Like an animal’s. And his eyes! They were glowing with—there’s no other way to describe it—with a kind of demonic glee.”

“My god!” Vehoke exclaimed.

“In the old days,” Pogreb hissed, “those eyes would be taken care of. In the days of the ancient Rites, they would be put to good use.”

Cloor put both hands on the table and looked at each man. “That’s enough. As the owner here, I listen to a lot of crap. But as a council elder, I draw the line at this kind of talk. Molesting a child is one thing, Gwin, but what you’re saying is another. I’m not spreading that around, and I advise none of you do either.” He stood up. “It’s getting dark and I’m closing up.”

Some of the men muttered, but they all left. Gwin, steadying Voy in a firm grasp, was the last out the door. The rain had let up for the moment, but there was a damp wind coming off the deadlands, which would surely bring another downpour. No one was out on the street.

“Where’d you get that shtuff about the grin?” Voy said, stumbling and bleary-eyed.

“Shut up.” That detail had slipped out, and Gwin didn’t want to talk about it. He put no truck in dreams, but a recent one haunted him. In his dream he was staring at a figure with its back to him. The figure turned, and it was the foreigner. An inhuman grin spread over its face, the expression sly and—somehow—horribly intimate.
Come closer
, it seemed to say.
Embrace me.
Even days later, the sickness of it stuck in his throat.

Gwin deposited Voy on his doorstep and walked on alone. Maybe he should have kept his mouth shut in front of Cloor, and talked to the others later. But he’d had no idea the man was so close-minded. In any case, he’d been forthcoming with everyone. Not in every superficial detail, but in what he knew in his very bones to be the truth. A fundamental truth upon which their village had been founded and by which the goddess kept them safe. For the good of all, the Council of Elders must understand that the piss-head was the greatest threat their village had ever faced.

Gwin stepped around a puddle in the street. He would not think about that idiot Vehoke, with his disgusting allusions regarding Mariat and the foreigner. But if it were true, or even if a tithe of it were true, he would make sure the hayseed would never be able to trouble any woman in that way again.

When he got home, Oris was still up, playing with his wooden soldiers on the floor. The child should have eaten his dinner and been in bed already, as Rom had always insisted he be at that age. But now Rom acted the indulgent father with his stepson and didn’t use enough discipline on him. Instead he sat at the fire with his boots off, wiggling his toes.

Gwin was further irritated to see his father’s wife—he could never think of her as his stepmother—was just now setting out plates when dinner should have been already on the table. What did she do all day? He was about to speak to her, for Rom certainly would not, when he noticed Oris had suddenly gone quiet. The child looked guiltily up at him and held something behind his back.

“What are you hiding?”

“Nothing. Mama said I could play with it.”

“You should be in bed, not playing with toys. Give it to me.”

Oris looked up at him, his chin set. Gwin made a move towards him, and the boy quickly handed him a toy wooden mouse with painted eyes.

Gwin stared at it in horror. “You stole this, didn’t you?”

Oris ran to his mother and hid behind her skirt. “You wouldn’t buy it for me!”

“The foreigner made this,” Gwin shouted. “It’s fit only for kindling!” He turned to throw the vile object into the hearth.

But Rom stayed his hand. “Just a minute, Gwin.” He turned to Oris. “Did you take this without paying for it?”

The boy hesitated, but his mother poked him in the arm, and he nodded.

“Stealing is a serious matter, Oris, and one I won’t tolerate. But since you’ve admitted it, this time I will overlook what you’ve done. Gwin will return this to the man who made it. Don’t speak about this to anyone—ever. I don’t want the whole village to think my stepson is a thief.

Round-eyed, the boy nodded again.

Motioning to Gwin to bring the toy and follow him, Rom stepped into the bedroom and closed the door. “Keep that safe, and out of sight,” he said in a low voice. “I have the feeling that one day it may prove useful.”

Rom grinned, and from the knowing look in his eyes Gwin realized that for once he and his father were on the same side.

On the day after the fair, Sheft avoided the intermittent rain showers by working in the barn. He hadn’t slept well. Used to the slow procession of seasons and crops, yesterday’s barrage of events swirled in his head.

He should never have fallen in love with Mariat, never allowed her to fall in love with him. Given what he was, both were despicable acts. Even Gwin could see that. But if he parted from her, he would have to face the inevitable consequence: to watch her being courted by some other man. And that other man would be Gwin. Both at the common harvest and yesterday at the fair, he’d made his feelings for Mariat clear.

Seizing the hand brush, he reached into the deep shelf at the back of the barn and jabbed at the cobwebs and dead leaves. The fabric screens would be stored here for the winter and the shelf had to be kept clean and dry. He stepped back to check for leaks in the roof. The face of Miramakamen sprang into his mind.

The old man had intimated that he, Sheft, was chosen by Rulve, that he had some kind of destiny. He couldn’t accept that. What better way to make up for a lifetime of rejection than imagining oneself to be special? To believe that the Creator of the world chose him for anything at all could only arise from pathetic need. Or from something even worse: a monumental pride, a deep-seated belief he was better than everyone else. He groaned at the thought.

The only thing of which he was certain, the only thing he could not deny, was that experience of divine love. It was a love he could never deserve and never repay, but its source was undeniably the compassion and providence of Rulve.

But if Rulve was the God who calls, why had he heard only cries on the wind, the ghost of a bell, the ravings of a crazy old man? Sheft clenched his fists, wincing at the pain the right one caused him.

If you want something, Rulve, shout it out. Be loud like your thunder, speak through your whirlwind. Anything less I can’t hear, I can’t understand!

The barn rang with silence. With a despairing sigh, he stacked the screens and piled them onto the shelf.

Then another thought jumped into his mind like a grinning specter: the Rites of the Dark Circle were only five nights away.

#   #   #

At dawn the next morning, someone pounded on the door. Sheft moved past Riah, who was frying eggs, to open it. Etane stood there. He looked ragged, as if he, too, had spent a wakeful night. “Mama’s dead.” he said.

Something twisted in Sheft’s throat; but before he could really feel it, numbness, almost like the ice, spread through him. Behind him, Riah uttered a soft exclamation.

“She—she just slipped away.” Etane glanced at the shovel he held and then, as if apologizing for its presence, at Sheft. “I need help to dig the grave.”

A grave? For Ane? In his mind she was still alive; the wan smile she gave him only days ago still lingered in his heart.

A short time later he stood in the deadlands with Etane, digging in the muddy ground. In only a few hours, this dark hole would claim the gentle woman who was like a mother to him. Neither spoke. Yesterday’s showers had ended, leaving behind a high fog and humidity. Sheft’s shirt clung to his back and drone-flies swarmed around them. After they finished gathering a pile of rocks for a cairn, Etane trudged home to prepare for the wake. Sheft followed him as far as his own house, where he scraped the mud from his boots on the doorstep. But the reality of the grave still clung to them.

The house was empty. Riah had gone to help Mariat with preparations for the wake, and Tarn had ridden into the village to tell the news of Ane’s death to those who might want to pay their respects. Sheft peeled off his clothes, washed at the basin, and put on his best outfit—a collared tunic and trousers passed down to him by his father.

He had to give Ane something—something she loved that she could take with her. He found a quill, and copied on a sheet of his father’s paper a passage from Ane’s favorite story from the book of tales: “You can only save your life if you lose it.” When the ink was dry, he folded the paper, put it in his pocket and set out for Moro’s house.

Mariat opened the door and immediately fell into his arms. Wordless, she clung to him.

She needed him, he realized with a pang, as no one else ever had. In spite of what Gwin had spewed at the fair, what if courage and compassion demanded he stay by her side? What if love demanded he never let her go? They drew apart. Her eyes were awash with grief, but they also held a kind of aching wisdom, as if she had gazed upon a darkly shining mystery that had forever deepened her. She had witnessed two deaths in less than half a year.

With her hand tightly in his, Sheft sat down beside Moro. A row of chairs and makeshift benches faced the bier. It was only the trestle table, which two days ago had held their wares in Ferce. Now it was pushed against the wall and draped with a cloth. Ane lay there in her best dress, her head resting on a pillow and covered to the waist with the pale yellow blanket they had purchased at the fair. Her grey hair was neatly combed, and her blue-veined hands lay folded over the blanket. Plates holding beeswax candles were arranged on the floor around the bier. Four candles were burning already, and with a glance at Sheft, Etane lit another. A muggy air wafted through the open door, swaying the bunches of flybane that hung from the ceiling and making the candle-flames gutter.

“It happened so quietly,” Moro said, staring at the bier. “She took a breath, and I waited—holding my own breath, I think—but then…nothing.” Faint puzzlement creased his forehead.

Riah, who was bending over a pot at the hearth, took a fork out and tapped it on the rim. “The potatoes are done,” she said in a low voice.

The rattle of an incoming wagon came through the door, followed shortly after by Tarn. His lips formed a tight, white line. He avoided looking at Sheft and spoke only to Moro. “When I broke the news to Dorik, he told me there might be trouble if Sheft were seen at this wake. After speaking with him, I agreed. Therefore, only I will represent our family here today. I am sure you understand.”

Never taking his eyes from the bier, Moro nodded, but seemed not to hear. Sheft, however, got to his feet, a cold knot forming inside him. “Trouble? What kind of trouble?”

Mariat also stood. “Why can’t Sheft stay?”

Tarn turned to her. “I was told there are certain allegations being made in the village. I will consider them later. For now, Sheft must leave.”

“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.”