The Burning Stone
Page 50

The priest laughs, a reedy sound like wind caught in stones. “Why would you think I and those like me want booty? What good does it do us?”
“Then what do you and those like you want?”
The old priest leans forward. Hands trembling, he reaches for the casket, but Fifth Son merely draws it away. He does not fear the priest; his magics seem mostly show, but he knows that a keener mind could wreak havoc with them.
He does not trust magic.
“Freedom from the OldMothers,” whispers the priest hoarsely.
Fifth Son lets out a breath, satisfied and surprised by this confession. The jewels drilled into his teeth glint in the sun as he bares his teeth. “I can give you that. After you and those like you have given me what I need.”
“But how am I to convince them?”
“That problem is yours to solve.”
He leaves the old priest behind then, and runs ahead. The priest will search, of course, and use his magic to call to his hidden heart. But there are other magics that know the power of concealment. Before he goes to the OldMother’s hall to assemble with the others, he takes the chest to the homesteads of his human slaves and there he gives it into the care of Ursuline, she who has made herself OldMother among the Soft Ones. She has assured him that the circle-god has magic fully as strong as that of the RockChildren’s priests—this will prove the test of her god’s magic. And in any case, no RockChild will imagine that he might entrust a mere weak slave with something so powerful and precious.
She is curious but not foolhardy. She takes the casket from him and without attempting to look inside—for he has told her what it contains—confines it within the blanket-covered box that she calls the holy Hearth of their god. Then she places withered herbs, a cracked jug, and a crude carved circle on the altar and sings a spell over it, what she calls a psalm.
“Our bargain?” she asks boldly. She is no longer afraid of him, because she has seen that when he kills, he kills quickly, and she does not fear death. He admires that in her. Like the WiseMothers, she understands inexorable fate.
“Our bargain,” he replies. She wants a token. The Soft Ones are ever like that, needing things to carry with them, objects to touch, in order to keep their word. He traces the wooden circle that hangs at his chest, his gift from Alain Henrisson. “I swear on my bond with the one who gifted me with my freedom that I will give you what you ask for if you keep this chest safe until I need it. Do that, and I will keep my bargain—as long as I become chieftain. Otherwise I will be dead, and you will be as well.”
She chuckles, but he knows enough about the Soft Ones to see this laughter does not insult him but is instead a compliment. “You are different than the others. God give Their blessing to the merciful and the just. They will guide you to success.”
“So you hope,” he agrees.
He leaves her hovel, whistles in his dogs, and heads down the long valley to OldMother’s compound. The path runs silent before and behind him; only a few slaves mewl and whine in their pens, dumb beasts shut away until the great events of the next hand of days have played out their course. His slaves, unconfined, are at their work—or hidden in certain places according to his plan. He has entrusted them with a great deal, but they know that if he does not succeed, they will die at the hands of the victor.
OldMother’s drone rises up, a low rumble that lies as close along the steep valleys of Rikin as the blanket of spruce and pine and the mixed thickets of heather and fern; her song makes the lichen quicken and grow on rock faces, a pattern readable only by the SwiftDaughters. He strolls out onto the dancing ground of beaten earth alone but for his dogs.
His brothers howl with derision when they see him.
“WeakBrother, do you mean to be the first one to bare your throat?”
“Coward! Where were you when the fighting came to Gent?”
“What treasures did you give to Bloodheart, tongueless one?”
So they howl, taunting him. Their warbands cluster in packs, each pack striving to be the loudest—as if loudness denotes strength. He has ordered his soldiers to remain silent, and they do so. He, too, remains silent as OldMother slides the knife of decision out of the pouch in her thigh and raises it to point at the fiery heart of the sun, now riding low along the southern range. With a slashing motion, she brings their noise, and her drone, to a sudden end.
Six of Bloodheart’s sons come forward into the center of the dancing ground, and when he steps forward last of all, there are seven. All the other RockChildren have chosen not to contend but instead to bare their throats to the victor. No doubt those who choose submission are showing wisdom in knowing just how weak they are.