Elizabeth Haydon - Destiny - Child of the Sky

“My words resonated with you, I see. Thank you for meeting me, Your Grace.”

The other man nodded.

“Until now you have not understood what you have been asked to do. You have merely followed the compulsion, hmm?”

The second man’s whisper was hoarse. “Yes.”

“But now, now you are ready to understand, aren’t you, Your Grace? Ready to participate in your own destiny? I am so pleased that you have decided to accept my offer. And you are doing so of your own free will? You understand what I am asking, and what I offer?”

“I believe I do, Your Grace.” The words were thick.

“Now, now, Your Grace, I meant no offense. I merely mean to ensure that you are aware of the power that awaits you, in this world and the Afterlife.”

“Yes.” His voice had dropped to a whisper.

The reply was a whisper as well. “Unquestioned authority. Invulnerability. And Life unending.”

“Yes.”

“Good, good.” In the darkness the tiny blade glittered.

The second man swallowed heavily and pulled back the sleeve of his robe, his eyes shining as brightly as the blade.

“Just a drop to seal the bargain; then your position at the head of your order is secured.”

The second man nodded, trembling, but not from the cold. The thin, needle-like blade punctured the skin of his forearm swiftly, causing no pain. A crimson drop appeared, tiny at first, then welled to the size of a bead of rain.

A gray head bent over his arm, and he shuddered as the first man placed his lips, warm and eager, against the flesh of his forearm, then greedily inhaled the drop of blood. He felt a surge, a flash of fire that rolled through him like a sexual climax, something that he was forbidden by the rules of the order.

The pit of his stomach had been boiling all night. The burning acid in his stomach abated miraculously, leaving him dizzy and light-headed with relief. The sensation that had been twisting his stomach dissipated out through his skull, leaving him feeling excited and strangely alive.

The first holy man smiled warmly.

“Welcome, my son. Welcome to the true faith. Once we have removed any impediments, you may do with it as you will.”

The slaughter began just at the moment when the prizes for the sledge races were being awarded.

One of the most prestigious and hotly contested events of the winter carnival, the sledge races pitted the sheer brute strength and speed of four-man teams against each other for the coveted prizes of a full-cask of reserve Canderian whiskey, a salted roast ox, a hammered gold medallion, and bragging rights throughout Roland.

Teams for the event were usually comprised of family members, and were awarded their booty personally by Lord Stephen in a humorous ceremony full of pomp and pageantry, capped with a grandiose procession around the festival grounds. The winning contestants sat in the place of honor atop their heavy sledge, which was pulled by the members of the losing teams, to the triumphant strains of a ceremonial march, amid tremendous fanfare, up to the base of the reviewing stand, where the winners received their prizes.

The sledge races had long been one of Stephen Navarne’s favorite events, and he stood now, whistling and cheering along with the masses, as the winners tormented their opponents by hurling snow and hay from their lofty perch at the losers as they dragged the sledge around the festival grounds. A good-natured snow fight had broken out at the turn, and Stephen laughed uproariously as the losing teams began rocking the sledge back and forth, toppling the winners into the snowdrifts.

There was something immensely freeing to be watching an event outside of his new ramparts for the first and only time during the carnival, Stephen decided. The wall had hampered the festival, had ensured that the snow within the sheltered lands had become packed and tramped under the thousands of boots that had trod upon it. The sledge races had required more room, and fresh snow, so the attendees had ventured outside the wall through the eastern gate, and now stood in a wide, loose oval, encircling the pristine snow of the back lands, the area past the wall. The freshness of the place was the perfect venue for this last event. Once the prizes had been awarded the crowd would return inside the ramparts and the feast would begin, culminating in what would surely be the best of his famous bonfires.

As he listened to the merry laughter of his children blending into the delayed roar of the crowd’s mirth, Stephen looked down for a moment at the medallion in his hand. The gold caught the light of the winter sun and sent it reflecting around the vast open arena, coming to rest for a moment on Melisande’s hair, making her tresses gleam brightly. His eye was drawn to the medal once again, and then to the roasted ox, wrapped in heavy burlap, smelling of rich spice and hickory smoke. A minor wave of surprise rippled through him. The full-cask of whiskey was missing.

The duke cast a glance around for Cedric Canderre and spotted him, laughing, his arm draped loosely around the waist of a local tavern wench. He shook his head and searched for Canderre’s son instead.

“Andrew!” Stephen shouted to the Ale Count. Sir Andrew heard and turned from watching the revelry. “The full-cask—it’s not here.”

Sir Andrew glanced up to the reviewing stand from his place nearby where he had been watching the games, then nodded his understanding. He turned back to summon one of his manservants to fetch the cask, but saw they were shouting encouragement to the snow-fight participants, whistling and hooting with glee as the sledge capsized, tossing the head of the winning clan face-first into the snow. Unwilling to interrupt their revelry, Andrew smiled and started toward the front gate of Haguefort to the east-west thoroughfare, where the alewagon had been left.

Satisfied that the prize was on its way, Stephen turned his attentions back to the snow war unfolding between the winners and losers of the sledge-race competition and their extended families. He rested his hand on Melly’s shoulder, winding his fingers through her bright curls, unknowingly savoring the last few moments of her innocence.

“Andrew! Wait!”

Andrew sighed. Dunstin’s voice was heavy with the sound of drink—ale, from the high tone of it, calling to him from across Haguefort’s inner courtyard.

Keenly mindful that the festival’s host was about to award a prize that he didn’t have in his possession, Sir Andrew kept up the trot he had been maintaining, and waved to the younger Baldasarre brother.

“Can’t, cousin,” he shouted in return. “I have to get Stephen’s prize for the sledge race.”

“The full-cask?” Dustin called back as he struggled in vain to keep up, sliding on the slippery courtyard. “Wait up! I’ll help you! You can’t lift it alone.”

Sir Andrew smiled to himself but didn’t slow his pace. Despite his slight build he was strong and hearty, fit from the heavy lifting work he routinely did in his own stables and cellars. He could hear Dunstin, more used to a life of leisure as the wastrel brother of a duke, puffing behind him as he hurried on.

“Wait, you sod!” the younger Baldasarre bellowed, causing Andrew to slow to a walk as he came to the central gate, exhaling with irritation. “What’s the matter—you’re worried I’m going to liberate your prize whiskey? You blackguard! Do I look like a highwayman to you?”

“No, Dunstin, you look like a petulant, drunken brat,” Andrew replied, knocking the snow off that had wedged about the heels of his boots. “It grieves me to know how much of my fine ale is sloshing around in your fat belly at this moment.”

Dunstin’s red face showed no sign of being stricken by the soft-spoken count’s unusually harsh words as he came to a halt beside him in the gateway. “I am not petulant,” he said, resting his hands on his knees and bending over slightly to catch his breath. “And it is fine ale, I’ll grant you, too fine to be wasted on the likes of that.” He inclined his head behind them to the east where the once-boundless vista of Navarne’s fields was black with the thousands of festivalgoers and grinned. “Let them drink Navarne’s bilgewater, or perhaps Bethany’s. You should be saving the Canderian liquor for the nobility anyway.”