Lakhoni (10 page)

The
halkeen who held the rod handed it to Lakhoni. Lakhoni held it carefully at its
ends, waiting for whatever signal he assumed would be given. Dread lodged in
his core like a chunk of rotten meat. He tried to keep his breathing even,
shouted mentally at his heart to slow.
No, I can do this.
Every warrior
in the Separated must have done it. Gimno must have done it.

“You
will be purified with each stroke of the grooming blade. During the grooming,
you must remain completely still—demonstrating your will to overcome all
difficulty in the battle to reclaim the Birthright.”

The
Bonaha’s voice became soft. “Remember Lakhoni, you must not move. If you do,
the grooming blade will cut you, and you will be scarred. A warrior must not
have a scarred scalp.”

He
could almost believe the Bonaha was concerned about him, but the glittering
hunger in the small man’s eyes belied that. He glanced down at the obsidian.
That shouldn’t be too bad. The thorns on the rod looked to be somewhat barbed.
If he could hold it just so, he might be able to avoid jabbing them into his
hands.

“Now
kneel, Lakhoni.”

The
fire flickered gold and red. His eyes felt dry and tight. He blinked and turned
his head. The obsidian chips were gone, replaced in their soft leather pouch.
Pain still throbbed from his knees, where he’d knelt on the jagged obsidian.
That had been just the beginning. The places on the backs of his hands and tops
of his feet, where the coal had ‘purified’ him, had already been soothed with a
sharp-smelling, cooling ointment.

He
sat on one of the hide-covered chairs in the Bonaha’s home, Gimno tending his
knees and hands. His body was loose, jittery with released tension. One of the
halkeen held the thorny rod, cleaning it carefully with a bristle brush.
Lakhoni tore his eyes away from the thorns, forcing his hands to stay still for
Gimno to wrap them in soft bandages.

Lakhoni
remembered each scrape of the blade across his scalp, each touch of the hot
coal. The stabbing in his hands and knees. At first, he’d forced himself to be
still, commanding every fiber of every muscle to hold fast. But the pain had
been too great and had nearly shattered his concentration.

Then
he found a place to put the pain. A place he could watch everything happening
and envision each source of pain channeling the agony into a deep well that
couldn’t be filled. He saw each bone in his body, each tendon, each muscle.
How
did I do that?

And
then it had ended and he’d half crawled, half fallen into the chair with
Gimno’s help.

If
the ritual had been meant to purify him, it had worked, although he felt even
more distant from the people of the Living Dead. As Gimno wrapped Lakhoni’s
hand, after making sure no thorns had remained behind, Lakhoni reviewed the
words of the Bonaha. The small man had intoned a heavy chant with each stroke of
the blade across Lakhoni’s scalp. Things about proving will and devotion to the
Great Spirit. About becoming part of the chosen Separated.

And
somehow, at the same time, thoughts of Alronna had carried him through, helped
him stay in that place deep inside. She was out there. She was waiting for him.
She didn’t know he was coming, but he would find her.

Gimno’s
hand on his shoulder had broken him out of the pain-redirecting trance. He’d
come to, instantly blinded by the fire, every chewed and stabbed and burnt and
scraped part of his body crying out.

“Now
stand,” Gimno had said.

“Arise,
Lakhoni of the Separated.” This time it was the Bonaha who spoke. “Sit down a
new being, a new man. A warrior of the Living Dead.”

Lakhoni
had flexed his leg muscles, pushing himself up. He got halfway up when he
swayed, fresh pain in his knees making them buckle. His bones ached.

Gimno
caught him under his arms and eased him into the padded chair where he now sat.

He
wondered how long he had been in the trance, forcing fresh waves of pain into a
place deep inside. How had he found that place? How could he find it again?

A
halkeen appeared again, handing Gimno fresh bandaging cloths and a gut of
something that sloshed. Another followed, carrying a sachet filled with something
that smelled crisp like a new morning.

“As
it must be, Lakhoni,” the Bonaha said. “You have done well. Your will is
strong.”

Gimno
placed the sachet, which was moist to the touch against Lakhoni’s lips. “Hold
this.”

Lakhoni
obeyed, gently pressing the small packet to his mouth. Whatever it held felt
incredibly cooling against the fire pulsating there. Gimno continued wrapping
Lakhoni’s wounded feet.

“And
now Gimno administers to you and his Rite of Consecration is completed,” the
Bonaha said. “Two rebirths in one day.” Lakhoni turned to see the Bonaha
pouring the contents of a clay bottle into an ornately carved wood cup. The
Bonaha took a long sip. “A good day for the Separated.”

As
Gimno ministered first to his knees, then his hands, mists in his brain finally
dissipated.
I passed. And Gimno’s a halkeen.

“I
know you are not familiar with our rites and traditions, my boy,” the Bonaha
said. “So listen closely. Gimno will continue to train you, as is his right.
But you will shoulder some responsibility for the protection and sustenance of
the Separated. When the wounds of your Trial have healed sufficiently, you will
receive your first symbol.”

Lakhoni
wondered at that for a moment, but the Bonaha indicated the tattoo on his
chest. “This first symbol is that of the Separated. You become worthy of a new
one each time you take a life in defense of the Separated.”

Understanding
immediately what the Bonaha implied, he looked down at that tattoos covering
Gimno. The tall man had to have hundreds.

Hundreds
of ‘symbols.’ Symbols of death.

He
wondered what was meant by ‘‘in defense of the Separated.” He remembered the
young man.

As
Gimno’s gentle hands wrapped his injuries in soft, soothing ointment and cloth,
Lakhoni knew what “in defense” meant.

Murder.
And they intended Lakhoni to join the ranks of these murderers.

The
ritual had worked more than they would ever know. Absolute clarity filled him.

No.
I won’t be a murderer.

Soft
popping and hissing emanated from the hot coals. Lakhoni sat several feet away,
finding the heat uncomfortable on his burns. Vena approached the fire, kneeling
in front of it and using a small wooden paddle to arrange a space for the bread
stone, which sat just outside the fire pit. After a short time, she placed the
stone into the coals and put the paddle down.

Turning,
she moved toward Lakhoni. “Ready for more ointment?”

Lakhoni
met her eyes. “Yes.” The sachet he had received in the Bonaha’s hut the
previous day had lost its potency after being applied to his mouth, feet, and
hands. The places the coal had touched throbbed in time to the beat of his
heart.

“How
is the rest of you?”

He
heard concern in her voice. He remembered her face as she surged toward the
young man who had been sacrificed. How could a person be made up of two
completely different sides? Gimno’s touch had been so gentle in treating
Lakhoni’s injuries, but then right after, back in the Bonaha’s home, Gimno had
undergone the process of becoming red like the other halkeen
.
He had
murdered countless people and would now help the Bonaha—help the Bonaha do
what? Sacrifice innocent people? Groom young warriors? What else did the
halkeen do? Apparently they still hunted, since Gimno had departed with the
other men this morning, leaving Lakhoni behind to recover from his Grooming.

Lakhoni
forced the thought out of his mind. “They’re not terrible. I think they will be
better in a few days.”

Nodding,
Vena went into her hut. Noises followed and soon she emerged with a small cloth
packet. It glistened in her hand. “Take this. When Corzon returns from the
hunt, we will have him treat you also.”

Lakhoni
nodded and took the packet.
And will Corzon, or Anor, or any of the others
earn a tattoo today?
Not for the first time, Lakhoni wondered whether being
on the hunt often meant doing something other than searching for food.
Of
course, I am seeking the death of the king—who is also the enemy of the
Separated. Will the king’s death be the cause of my first tattoo?
The
thought sat heavily in him.

He
was grateful that he had never let slip to Gimno or any of the other Separated
that he believed Alronna was alive. He was certain that if they knew of his
belief, they would never stop watching him. But they thought his entire village
and family had been destroyed. They had no reason to suspect that he might not
be totally devoted to the Living Dead.

Powerless
frustration at not being able to leave this instant and find Alronna built in
him again. It was as if the world was conspiring to make his family’s death go
unpunished and to let Alronna suffer at the hands of Zyron’s dogs. He felt as
if he could shatter the stone under him with one slam of his fist.

He
thought back to the tattoos covering Gimno. Could it be that Gimno didn’t see
the deaths that earned him those tattoos as murders?
Is killing the king
justice or murder?
The thought drew him up short.

Justice,
it had to be. He pressed the packet from Vena to his lips. Zyron was a murderer
and death was answered with death, as ordained by the Great Spirit.
But
where does it end?

Lakhoni
focused on the cooling sensation from the packet he held to his mouth.

I
must rescue Alronna, that is clear. But am I the one to bring justice to a
betraying king?
Visions
of his slaughtered family and friends made his stomach churn. He stared at the
rock wall of the cavern, trying to rid himself of the images.

Zyron’s
men had killed Lakhoni’s father, mother, and the people of his village. Death
must be met with death.
And who else is there? Who else is left?

Lakhoni
looked around, the pain of the cruel torture he had just undergone still aching
in him. He thought of the terrible ritual with the young man, the pleasure
these people seemed to take in causing pain and death. And it all seemed
pointless, or that the entire point was to cause pain and suffering.

There
is nobody left but me, and Alronna when I find her.
Clarity filled him. He would
rescue Alronna, get her to a safe place, and then be the agent of justice.
But
I will not make the king suffer. He will know why justice has come to him and
who has brought it. Then he will die as swiftly as a blade falls.

Swift
justice. He would not cause suffering and watch it with the hunger he had seen in
the Bonaha’s eyes as the small man had described the ritual of grooming and
purifying.

And
how did such a small man gain control over all of these people
? It sounded like they’d had a
different leader at the start of their journey.
Malganoza.

Lakhoni
considered what he knew about the beliefs of the Separated. They had been
robbed or mistreated by King Zyron, for one thing. Which was clearly not an
uncommon thing. He guessed that many of them were survivors of attacks on their
home villages. This would be a good reason to dislike King Zyron. But he had
gathered that a lot of the people in the community had left Zyron’s people by
choice.
Why would they leave?
The people of Zyron hated the Usurpers because
their leader had stolen the kingship from the oldest brother in the days of the
First Fathers. Was this the birthright the Bonaha had talked about? Lakhoni
tried to remember what the Bonaha had said at the sacrifice. Something about a
prophesied leader coming from shadow. The leader would lead the Separated back
into the light. And then something about an inheritance. Was the Bonaha
supposed to be that leader?

Lakhoni
sat on the stone ground, eyes focused on nothing, the cooling ointment tasting
fresh and clean on his lips. His path forward was clear, but he felt like
understanding the Separated was still out of reach. He didn’t know how long he
sat there, but as the hunters began appearing in the circles, he forced his
attention away from his repetitive thoughts.

Corzon
appeared in the circle, his incredible nose leading the way. Anor followed.
They each carried a pair of rabbits. Anor also held one end of a long pole on
which a cleaned buck hung by its legs. Gimno, his body a deep red, held the other
end. His tattoos could still be seen through the red dye that permanently
covered his body now. Apparently the ritual included a pool of incredibly hot
water with red dye paste stirred in and Gimno having to stay under water long
enough for the man to nearly black out.

Through
talking with Gimno in training, Lakhoni had learned only a little about what it
meant to be one of the halkeen of the Living Dead. There was to be a ritual
sometime in the near future, during which the Separated would accept Gimno
officially as a halkeen. Until that time, Gimno lived mostly the same life he
had before. After the ritual, Gimno had said, a halkeen spent his days with the
Bonaha, serving and helping with rituals and other important labor for the
benefit of the Separated.

Gimno
appeared to think of Lakhoni as the son he had not yet fathered with Vena.
Lakhoni had been surprised, although he didn’t understand why it had never
occurred to him, to find that three of the young girls in Gimno’s circle were
his daughters.

After
a few minutes while women directed men in the arranging of the meat, Corzon
approached Lakhoni. “Let me take a look.”

Lakhoni
nodded, lowering his hands.

“Open
a little,” Corzon said.

His
lips in danger of splitting, Lakhoni carefully parted them.

Corzon
hummed to himself quietly as he examined Lakhoni. He removed the bandages on
Lakhoni’s hands, feet, and knees as well.

“Healing
well. A couple more days and you’ll be able to hunt again.”

Lakhoni
grunted in acknowledgement.
And soon I’ll get away from you people.

“Not
that we’ll be hunting for much longer. The season is turning. We smelled snow
today,” Corzon said.

Winter
was coming fast. The image of soft, white flakes flashed behind his eyes.
Winter would be perfect. He could leave on a day when the snow was falling. If
he timed it well, the snow would cover his tracks. Then the Separated wouldn’t
be able to track him. All signs of his passing would be gone by spring.

He
had to heal and learn fast; he would need as much training as possible to get
away from the Separated and to get to the king.
Turn the training against
them.
They had taken him in, healed him and fed him.
Will this be a
betrayal?
The question hung in his heart as Corzon bandaged his hands with
soft leather.

He
pushed the thought away. It didn’t matter. If he had to lie to get away and
betray the training and trust of the Separated—he would do it.