Tribe: The Red Hand (Tribe Series Book 1) (10 page)

But not soon enough!
Kestrel thought in alarm. Her insides cramped, and she feared she was about to make a fool of herself. She swallowed the flood of spit in her mouth, forced herself to breathe slowly and deeply, until the queasiness passed. It was not so easy to hide the heat filling her cheeks. Even from afar, she guessed her face must be glowing red.

It is time
, a small voice whispered in the back of her mind.

Kestrel turned to face the villagers, and froze.

The faces were blurred smears all around her. She blinked several times, but they never grew any clearer.

If they are blurry to me, then I must be blurry to them.

It was a thin, unrealistic wish.

She had stood where they did often enough to know anyone in her place stood out with an otherworldly clarity, as if the Ancestors themselves intervened in this act to ensure that only the bravest in all things became a Red Hand.

It is time
, the voice said again.

I cannot!

You must.

I … I … I must.

Kestrel stared straight ahead, her face rigid as stone. Hands shaking, she bent, caught the bottom of her dress, and carefully pulled it up and over her head. As the dress fell from her fingers, the cooling evening air pebbled her bare skin.

No one laughed or snickered, which had been her greatest fear, but neither did they look away. She stood before them, as naked and defenseless as a newborn, save for the bandages at her neck and hip and belly. According to this part of the ceremony, if there was any fault hidden within her, the Ancestors would make it known to all.

Half sure the Ancestors would strike her dead for keeping Aiden’s secrets, Kestrel waited, staring straight ahead, arms spread wide. No boils erupted over her skin, nor did lightning fall from the cloudless twilight sky, nor any of the other gruesome things One-Ear Tom often spoke of during the Reaptime celebration.

In the gathering darkness, the villagers looked on, giving her their silent support. A day might come when they were as exposed as she was now, and on that day, in her capacity as a Red Hand, they would expect her to repay their support with her skill and courage as a warrior.

Only when the low thrumming of drums sounded, and torches were lit, one by one around the crescent-shaped perimeter formed by the villagers, did Kestrel lower her arms. Letting out a breath that rattled in her throat, she walked around the bench and knelt, facing her people.

The Bone Tree ceremony had begun.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

One-Ear Tom walked up to Kestrel after she knelt, his tread falling in time with the beat of the drums. He offered Kes a gap-toothed smile. “You did well.”

She smiled nervously in return, but said nothing.

He had changed into a long robe the color of fresh blood, and was carrying a wooden tray loaded with stoneware cups. Red smears covered the wide mouths of some. A few of the others held arrays of wooden tool handles of all different lengths.

Kestrel fixated on those handles, all spotted with red fingerprints. “Will it hurt?”

The old warrior set his tray down on the end of the bench, and then picked up the smallest, cleanest looking cup. “After a few sips of seeker’s tea, you’ll not feel any pain.” He held it out to her, his movements precise, solemn. “Drink, young Kes, and learn the will of the Ancestors.”

When Kestrel took the cup, she realized that her embarrassment had faded. That was not to say she was comfortable being undressed in front of so many, let alone One-Ear Tom, but her bare skin seemed less important than it had before. The ceremony had nothing to do with desires of the flesh. In place of the discomfort, she had gained a growing sense of confidence and purpose amongst her tribe.

“What will I see?” She had asked the same of her brother and father once, but they had refused to tell. The secret of the seeker’s tea was reserved for Red Hands alone.

Instead of answering, One-Ear Tom motioned for her to drink, and she did. The thick liquid was warm and bitter, and she almost gagged. Instead, she managed to drink it all down without so much as a grimace.

After draining the cup, she handed it back with the same reverence in which he had presented it to her.

He took it in his gnarled hands, looked inside, nodded approvingly. “Your brother spewed the first sip back into the cup.” One-Ear Tom grinned. “Of course, that meant he had to drink that, too.”

While Kestrel found that slightly amusing, she was interested in other matters. “What will I see?” she insisted, alarmed by the sudden, heavy gurgling in her belly.

One-Ear Tom placed the cup back with the others. “Can you keep a secret?” he asked in a conspiratorial hush.

You have no idea
, Kestrel thought, even as she nodded.

“I saw
nothing
when I drank the tea,” he admitted. “Oh, I felt strange, but I gained no secret knowledge from the Ancestors. I tell you, as I was told on the day I became a Red Hand, and as I’ve told all who have received the cup from my hand, there is no shame in not hearing from the Ancestors. They are fickle, our guardians, and one should always remember that they dole out blessings and curses according to their will, not ours. I’ve often suspected that those who claim to have seen some sign, actually saw only what their secret hearts showed them.” He shrugged. “But I could be wrong. Either way, if you see something, Kes, you must speak of it at the appointed time.”

That was not exactly what Kestrel wanted to hear, but she bowed her head in acceptance.

One-Ear Tom caught her eye. “Can you promise me something?”

“Of course.”

“When you wake in the morning, do not hold how you feel against me.”

“I won’t,” she promised, not sure what he was getting at.

“Then let us begin.”

Kestrel nodded again, and he took his tray and its burden of cups and tools around behind her, and knelt in the gravel, which had taken on a wintry radiance, like fresh snow reflecting the light of a full moon. But the moon had not yet risen, so there was only faint starlight, and what little was thrown by the distant torches.
Is this the strangeness he mentioned?
If so, it was not so bad.

“Are you ready?” One-Ear Tom asked, his voice deeper than usual, each word dragging.

“Yes,” she answered, her own voice booming in her ears.

She glanced up sharply, taking in the faces of the villagers. None seemed startled by her outburst, which made her wonder if she had called out loudly at all.

Her mind shifted.

Where they had looked blurry before, now she could make out their features with freakish clarity, even those standing beyond the flickering torchlight. Not only that, it seemed as if she could hear their breathing, a collective, whispering rush of sound, like a fitful wind pushing through a grove of aspens. She could also hear their heartbeats pounding in tandem with the rhythmic thudding of the drums. It was impossible, but she thought if she listened hard enough, she would actually hear their thoughts.

The seeker’s tea is doing this
, Kestrel considered uneasily, wanting it to stop, but knowing there was no escape until it had run its course. She fought against the desire to leap to her feet and run away.

I am a Red Hand, and fear is the first enemy I must slay.

She flinched at the feel of small, cold teeth biting into the skin of her shoulder, and they went away.

“Are you
sure
you are ready?” One-Ear Tom asked.

Kestrel’s gaze swept around.

The gravel was not just glowing anymore. Tongues of pale flame were leaping off the path’s surface, and within those snowy flames she saw long, distorted faces.

Beyond the band of gravel, the swaying grass, such a vibrant green that it hurt her eyes, whispered secrets in a delicate language she could not understand. Over it all, yet perfectly distinct, she heard the rushing gale heaving in and out of the villagers’ chests, the thunder of their hearts. The torches dotting the crowd flared with the intensity of small suns, and their heat reached across the field, climbed the flanks of the knoll, and fell on her bare skin, making it tingle.

“Begin,” she said, her tone calm, assured.

The teeth returned to nibble her skin, but the pain was less than before. With it came the muffled sound of wood striking wood—
tap-tap-tap-tap
—a sound picked up and intensified by the rattling bones swinging from the ancient oak’s boughs.

Kestrel kept her back straight as One-Ear Tom worked, her slitted eyes taking in her surroundings. A flood of images surged over her. She saw herself fighting the lion again, then running from the Stone Dogs. She saw the old city, then the firelance in Aiden’s hand devastating the metal statue.

Say nothing about any of this.
His voice was thick with menace.

You do not frighten me. I am a Red Hand
.

The defiant thought flew from her mind in this vision, just as the shimmering pulse of air had flown from the firelance pistol. Instead of striking a metal man, it struck Aiden in the chest. He exploded into a cloud of glittering dust. Harmless now. Harmless forever.

The tapping ended, the nibbling ceased, and One-Ear Tom said something behind her. His words were garbled. The beating of the drums roared and raged, the wind howled and screamed, bones clacked and rattled, but Kestrel felt only peace within the surreal storm.

Movement caught her eye, and she watched one band of Red Hands separate from the others. Each band had between twenty-five and thirty warriors, few of them women, and they had all donned red robes matching One-Ear Tom’s.

The band marched in a line toward the top of the knoll. Her brother was not among them. Because they were siblings, a rarity amongst the Red Hands, he would come last.

One by one, the Red Hands moved behind her, and the tapping and nibbling against her skin resumed for some immeasurable time, ceased, then began again.

Again and again, until all the bands had come and gone, and only Aiden remained.

He sneered down at her, and she sneered in return.

Scowling, he moved behind her. Where there had been tapping and nibbling before, she heard great hammering booms, felt claws of fire digging into her flesh. He wanted to hurt her, cow her, shame her.

Back straight and rigid as an iron rod, she bore the pain.

And then it was over. One-Ear Tom, with a disparaging look at Aiden’s retreating back, helped Kestrel to her feet and brought her around the stone bench.

Kestrel looked down at her people, and they looked up at her, rapt, silent, waiting. When the old warrior turned her around, the silence held a little longer, then the villagers let out a cheer that shook the air.

Though she could not see it herself, Kestrel knew what provoked their jubilant approval. The mark of the Red Hand had been set deep into her skin, and there it would forever remain.

When the cheering died down, One-Ear Tom helped her dress in a snug roughspun shirt that stuck to her bloody back, then leather trousers that stuck to her sweating legs, and finally soft boots. The clothes were more suitable for what was coming, but Kestrel would have been happy if she’d had only bags to wear.

As she straightened from tugging on her last boot, the villagers cheered again, but the lone face she easily picked out belonged to her brother. As always, he was looking at her as if the mere sight of her disgusted him beyond words.

The pride she felt withered in the heat of her anger for Aiden’s abuses on this night, and all her life.

The time is fast coming, my brother, when we will face each other below the Bone Tree … and I promise to show you as much care as you have shown me.

A heady thought, but even with the power of the seeker’s tea doing its strange work upon her, she was not sure she had the strength or the will to challenge Aiden. All she could do was try … and hope she was not about to make the greatest mistake of her life.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Below where Kestrel and One-Ear Tom stood, the Red Hands, marching to the drums’ lumbering beat, formed a large ring. The villagers linked hands and made a larger ring around them. Every third person held aloft a torch.

Now the Red Hands peeled off their robes and drew mock weapons—long knives carved from ash trees. After pairing off, their precise movements matching the rhythm of the drums, the ring they had formed began to rotate within the ring formed by the villagers, and as it did, the paired warriors moved through a series of fighting stances. Each strike was countered with a block, their ash weapons slamming together with sharp claps. At first, the sound of those practice weapons coming together was chaotic, but quickly took on its own hypnotic cadence.

“Careful, young Kes,” One-Ear Tom said, studying her face.

She shifted her gaze from Aiden to him. The seeker’s tea was still at work in her, but the otherworldly sensations had dissipated. What she felt now was an uncanny clarity of mind. “What do you mean?”