The Cup and the Sword (5)

Part 1 
Part 2 
Part 3
Part 4

Trigger Warning: SA
Please Do Not Proceed unless you are in the right place mentally.

There was water, running water. It was all over her. Bara sat upright, gasping. She was in a brook, a stream, unclothed, and there were stones underneath her. The moons were high, Pheya bright and close, voluptuous in her mystery, protecting all from the Vastness beyond. As’r unknown till sundown, where he stepped forth with every hour and held fast through the night, warning of the true Vastness beyond. It had to be deepest night for both large orbs to be so bright in the sky, turning the stream to moving silver. The water was icy cold.

Bara looked about herself, trying to comprehend. To her left there was a fire, but no one sat at it, nor moved beyond the shadows. She rose to her feet and stumbled, the stones of the stream were slippery. She succeeded, however, and rushed to the fire, the icy water and night air making her shiver. There was nothing to cover herself, nothing to clothe herself with, but the fire was warm, warm. She crouched as close as she dared, huddling her legs to her chest, trying to comprehend. The last thing she remembered was blackness, terrifying blackness that closed in on her senses. Bara touched her throat, she could still feel the merciless hand there. And now she was here at a stream under the double moons with a bright fire before her. What was this? She looked to As’r and Pheya. They shone silently back at her. Why have you cursed me? 

There was movement, Bara sensed rather than heard it. The hateful beast appeared out of the shadows, stepped into the light of the fire like a darak. Bara looked away. Like herself, he did not have anything to cover him. From the quick glimpse she saw, he must have come out of the stream as well. The need to run was a demand in her limbs, but she could not unwind her arms from her huddled legs. Rather, she curled closer, wishing to stay unseen. That was for nought, for he took a branch beside her and stoked the fire. Bara huddled closer still, heart racing, willing herself to move, run, scream, do something, anything, but all her limbs stayed stuck as they were, as if frozen together after a sudden frost, for she was trembling still.

Bara did not know what was to happen, did not understand what she was seeing, and felt her mind fray with incomprehension. What was this? Ye Gods, why was she brought here? What was to be done with her now that she was here? For she had never heard of this, and there were many dark tales and much rumour about the Demon Horde. Yet she was here, under As’r and Pheya’s eyes, unclothed, without any strength to move, let alone run, comprehending nothing. Bara tried again, tears filling her sight, but she could not unwind her arms, nor straighten herself to run. So she remained as she was, huddled, watching, trembling, waiting for what was to come.

As before, the speed was beyond her understanding. The hateful creature grabbed her arm, pulled her to her feet, and turned her to him. To her infinite relief, her strength returned, and Bara tried to fight him. There was a struggle, for they were each yet too wet from water to keep a firm hold, but his strength exceeded hers and she was flat on the grass before she knew it, his hand yet again at her throat. He growled something and she saw him raise a stone, large and glistening with flint, clutched in the fist of his hand. He would kill her now, bludgeon her with the stone. Why here and not before she could not tell, but Bara saw the stone in his fist by the firelight and closed her eyes. In a moment he would strike and she would stand before the Lord of the Gate and tell her tale.

He released her instead. Confused, Bara opened her eyes only to see the strangest thing. The hateful creature cut into his arm with the flint, deep enough for blood to show. He dropped the stone and moved his arm over her until the red dripped on her middle, splattering on her skin as he moved his arm this way and that until a trail of red splashes reached from her ankles to her thighs, from her breasts to that place she could not think of, her shoulders and arms, her neck. Once the trail was made, he spread the red across her form with his hands until she was smeared with his blood, touching her mouth with his stained fingers, covering her breasts with the red, covering her shins, reaching between her thighs. She tried to stop him, even now she would fight, she would refuse, absolutely, but he was as quick as a snake, caught her hands in an iron grip, keeping them pinned against the grass beside her, his knee locking one leg down painfully as he parted her thighs and forced his blood stained fingers into her. He did not keep them there as Bara expected but removed them right after, releasing her even, which gave her the chance to kick and make to flee but he caught her, yanked her back to her knees and slapped her. It stung sharply and Bara was for a moment too stunned to move.

‘Stay.’

It was a sharp bark, the command unmistakable, equal to the harsh sound on the white terrace, the one that stopped all his men. Bara did not fight when he pushed her back to the grass. He had sounded too dangerous to try and flee again, the Gods knew what he else he was capable of. Bara lay still, staring at the moons, asking the Gods repeatedly what she had done to deserve this. She could see the streams of blood pouring from the wound on his arm, her body stained by that very red. It was drying on her skin, but he used what flowed freely to draw signs on her thighs and around her navel, around the buds of her chest, her throat and her lips, her forehead. He reached somewhere once he was done. Next, he had removed a burning branch from the fire. Bara stared at it like she stared at that scorpion as a child. She knew, any moment it would sting. He moved the branch over her, close enough to feel the heat, and she followed it transfixed. Voice so low it was above a whisper, the hateful beast made sounds, even sounds, while specks of ash fell onto her as he moved it twice, thrice, four times over her. She counted eight lengths before he began beating himself with the burning branch, quick beats against his arms and chest and thighs, twice against his back, eight times in total before he threw the branch back into the fire. 

The creature got to his feet then and picked her up as if she weighed no more than a cup of water. He carried her to the stream, knelt in the water and had the strength to immerse her thrice into it without letting her go, growling sounds as he did this. Then he set her on the stone bed as before, water rushing all about her, and left the stream but returned with a branch from the fire, a burning branch he somehow fixed into the stream’s bed, shedding light on her. He knelt beside her again and removed what he had stained her with, with his bloodstained hands, making those low sounds, equal to a steady murmur that he seemed to repeat, almost like a chant, touching her lips, reaching between her thighs again. His hands were rough on her skin despite the water, his grip too tight, yet he removed the red, removed it until she was clean of it again. And not by any water, but by running water, water straight from its source, water straight from the Gods.

Realization dropped icily into Bara’s mind. Fire and Running Water, Untouched Earth and Living Blood, all these were sacred, for they were straight from the Gods. He had used all these for his strange ritual, for what else was this? And even the blade he used was flint. Nothing mortal made had touched him or her, for they were both unclothed, untouched by anything woven, soldered, or otherwise formed by mortal hand. That a heathen creature such as he would know of these things was beyond Bara’s comprehension. It made her silent and kept her from fighting him when he picked her up out of the stream and set her beside the fire again. He stoked it, bringing more branches from beyond the dark, until the fire was a bright blaze. He did not bring anything to cover either himself nor her. If she guessed rightly, nothing mortal made could touch them till the sun was fully risen again.

Bara lay next to the fire on the grass, her skin prickling from the icy water, every part of herself acutely aware of the rough touch of the hateful creature’s hands. Since she took her Oaths, none other save women’s hands had touched her. Even her own father could never touch her hand once her Oaths had been spoken. And here she was, lying on grass after all her Oaths were shattered, broken, the lainar wholly destroyed. Yet Bara could not close herself from the realization that just befell her. A ritual had been performed, only which one and for what purpose she could not say. It had been performed, however, by exactly those means sacred under Holy Law. That a fhārch would know of them… it was beyond Bara’s understanding.

Draen counted his men. There were two and fifty, enough to hold what was needed. The order was to secure the Flats before Midsun, that way they would have silence until Solstice and could negotiate from then on. Imarius had fled to the White Hills which were far from the coasts and once reached impassable, for the snows closed the passes early. It was clever, Draen had to concede, for Imarius had fled with most of his court, allowing none to be left behind and used as leverage. With the southern treks granted free passage as well as the caravanserais, the negotiations had succeeded. Then Imarius did what they had not deemed possible. He slipped away in the dark of night, and none were left behind to tell how it was done. Their mages were strong after all, nightcloaks were not easily wrought. The tithes would be paid, however, Imarius would want the routes to stay free. This now in the Flats was the last before the heat descended in full, and it was to Draen to see it was done.

The villages they passed were deserted. Some would not believe it and thrashed coops, poking spears through hay and thatch, but nothing living was there. Even the livestock had been taken or fled, they never left anything behind if they could help it. It was just as well, they knew to feed themselves, the days so far had been fat in their pickings.

It seemed there would be nothing but empty villages and farmsteads until a scout shouted and they found him dead in the bushes, an arrow through his eye. There were archers then, skilled archers, and that meant either a fort or a temple, maybe both. When they passed the olive grove, Draen knew it would be a temple and could see the expectation in his men. Temples always meant women and so far, temple women were very forthcoming in this degenerate land. It had taken will and command to make his men leave the coasts, and some, Draen was certain, still would have preferred to stay, their minds too weak to resist their wine and women.

They guards were well-hidden, but not well enough. Either fear or courage made them leave their hiding places. There were twenty, one of them clever enough to unseat him, but that was quickly remedied. The guard was young, more boy than man, but Draen commended him for his excellent aim. He hadn’t been knocked off his saddle in a while. In another life the boy would be a good hunter. Draen mounted his horse and they rode up the incline, past the usual cypress to the white of their shrines. It looked empty but he didn’t trust it. Twenty men at the gates either meant all had fled or there were far more within. He scanned the stone. These ones here knew to keep themselves out of sight.

‘They’re gone,’ Kolgar said but Draen dismounted.

The shrine did not look abandoned. There was a certain sense to deserted shrines, something empty that this one didn’t have. Draen kept his sword unsheathed, still red from the young guard who had shown good courage. Nothing approached him, nothing moved as he climbed the marble. What they wasted on their shrines when simple wood would do. He stopped and looked about. Silence. The hot sun turned the stone to blinding white. He made their presence known, calling for them to come out, but even after three calls nothing changed. Maybe Kolgar was right.

There was movement in the corner of his eye. He looked, readying himself. First he only saw something white, moving. Then he understood what it was. One of their women, shrouded in white and gold. She did not waver like some, nor did she smile like others. Her face was calm, her eyes steady. She stopped at the top steps in full sun. She was young, at least younger than he expected. Her twentieth winter was past, but her thirtieth was yet long to come. There was fear in her eyes and defiance. And like all of her kind she was more than sightly, her shape hinted through the folds. Whatever their gods were, they blessed their women in comeliness and form. 

He could hardly believe she was alone. No sane woman would stay behind, not even one of them, but she didn’t look to lie. Unless it was a ploy to distract him. He tried her to it and she surprised him by her defiance. His men unsheathed their swords, but he stopped them. He sensed this one was different and gave commands accordingly. She would be choice leverage come negotiations.

*

Kolgar was furious. The woman had fooled him, tricked him with a need to release her water, and he had believed it like a foal fresh on its hooves. He had caught her of course and she was in his sien. Draen laughed until Kolgar mentioned that the men were asking questions. They expected something to be done. Draen told him this one was not like those at the coasts. Kolgar spoke bluntly, the men would not understand. She had defied him, openly, and he knew what they thought of them. He would have to do something. Draen’s answer was as always, he would not shed their blood. No matter what gods they worshipped, you never knew who was watching. Kolgar shrugged, he was only saying what was being spoken. 

As always, Kolgar’s words were seeds in his mind that grew to saplings and finally right trees with deep roots and full foliage. He found him drinking with Ored.

‘Are they still talking?’

Kolgar nodded. Draen sat with them.

‘Speak.’

‘There’s a penalty we all know,’ Fred said coolly.

‘A sage is a sage,’ Draen answered.

Ored sneered, ‘Their gods are not ours, k’rak! Would they care about ours?’

‘They saved Grida.’

‘He’s a Healer.’

That was Kolgar, who liked to drop words like stones into hot oil.

‘Among them, a Healer is a sage, Kol, you know that.’

‘So you spare the bitch for Grida’s sake?’

Ored was in anger and the wine was making him worse.

‘She wears their seal.’

‘Who cares! She could be a goat maid left behind to fool you!’

‘No.’

Both Kolgar and Fred showed their surprise.

‘No goat maid would have that look.’

‘A look?’ Ored was in laughter. ‘You are easily fooled, k’rak.’

Draen remained silent. Kolgar looked into his cup. Ored’s laughter died. He looked undecided, then got to his feet and joined the others.

‘You doubt it,’ Draen said. Kolgar shrugged and drank from his cup. ‘Speak your mind.’

‘She managed to fool me and ran away. Others would have done different.’

Draen filled his cup and drank it. The wine was of good stock. At least in that their temples knew their business.

‘She’s one of them, I know it.’

‘So you will not.’

‘A sage is a sage, you know my mind in this.’

‘Ored does not speak an untruth, k’rak. Their gods are not our gods.’

It was always in these things that he and Kolgar did not see towards the same horizon, yet Draen did not demand allegiance in this. Letting Kolgar speak his mind made him know what the men expected. Draen drank from his wine first before speaking.

‘I know their gods are not our own. Already the stone they waste on their shrines. And they call us thieves. Even so, I have to look further than this. You never know who’s watching.’

‘Do you think there were Eyes today?’

‘You never know.’ By Kolgar’s look, Draen would have to explain in full. ‘If I had agreed to that fire in the Plains as so many wanted, do you think they would have let Grida live?’

Kolgar shook his head, though grudgingly.

‘The men can show their anger, but I can’t waste arrows on sprites.’

Kolgar was silent for so long, there was no escaping the question.

‘How bad is it?’

‘They all saw it. First the archer and then her. And you even let the two runts live.’

‘They were on holy ground, even they must know that.’

‘You let them live, k’rak. That is all they need to know.’

Draen said nothing and drank from his cup. To hold first saddle is to be hated and loved in equal amounts, he had said. All praise its honour, but it is a burden. You will have to see when all are blind. You will have to hear when all are deaf. When none can walk, you will rise up and go. And none will thank you for it.

*

The plan was simple, he would try her to it. The men would stop talking and if any Eyes were watching they would know she lived. If she was anything like those at the coasts there would be no great change anyway. If she really was like those at the coasts, she would find her own end anyway, for once his, stepping to another would mean the knife, and none would question him for it. The matter would be solved and any questions lost with the ashes strewn in the Winds. He still sensed she wasn’t what the men thought she was. Just seeing her on that dining chair was proof enough. She jumped at every sound and whatever she was hiding behind her back was something she did not know how to handle well. Yet Kolgar was drinking with others beyond the sien, and Draen knew the guards had their eyes and ears open.

*

Habrin asked what the matter was, laughing, ‘Is she a drak after all?’ Draen punched his laughing face, sending the bitches son crashing into three others. Knowing Habrin, he was likely loudest in the demand that something be done. Now it was done and he had brought the Wrath of the Gods on himself. It didn’t look right and she fought too hard. They usually relented soon enough and played along. She fought and scratched and bit but others had done the same before and were suddenly soft as water. She did fall silent, only it was too silent. She hardly moved. Then he left her and there was blood everywhere. He knew then, knew that he had seen correctly the moment she walked out of the shadows. She was not a known woman, but had followed their laws as all others should have.

The Sands of Time could not be re-poured and that alone was too much. The men were shouting his name, though, Kolgar and Tren pulling him back and away before Habrin got it into his head to retaliate and force his hand. Habrin was too good an archer to lose. Draen freed himself and saw their shocked faces. They had not seen his rage in some time, though some seemed satisfied with it. Draen understood they had thought him softened by the coasts as well. He demanded to know where the last of the temple guards were. Some had wanted to run them, but Draen knew they could be useful later on, and it was always well to have leverage, no matter how meagre. Now it was well he let them live for they must know what he needed to know.

Kolgar brought him to the guards, tied up behind the horses. The younger was venomous but alive, the other still in the mists. Kolgar explained while he spoke. Had their mistress ever known a man? It took a moment until the boy understood. Draen knew when comprehension sunk its arrows, for the horror in boy’s eyes was too true to be affected. Draen couldn’t believe it and asked again.

‘Is she a known woman?’

Kolgar repeated his question. The boy shook his head, speaking of oaths and cups and something about a song. Draen needed to know, however, and spoke on.

‘This song, what is it?’

With many words and confusion the boy finally understood what they wanted. Kolgar explained as the boy spoke.

‘She is a song. No, a voice of their gods. She speaks their wisdom to them. She is the highest among their own and sacred to all.’

It was much worse than Draen expected and by Kolgar’s look, he too had not expected this. So far they had only encountered servants and acolytes. Why would their highest stay behind? It made little sense. Draen had to be certain.

‘When were her oaths spoken?’

The boy frowned, confused, eyes darting between them. He spoke however and by Kolgar’s words she had been promised to their gods since birth, wedded to As’ril the day her Oaths were spoken, help-meet to Pheyr the day she wore their sacred cloth.

‘This is bad, k’rak,’ Kolgar said, looking to Draen, who for the first time since Alathan saw real fear in his Second’s eyes. ‘If true, you must appease Them, otherwise we shall all be lost.’

‘They wed them to the High Court?’ Draen asked, disbelieving. That was insanity. The High Court knew no mercy when slighted. To tie a mortal to them in such a way was more than provocation, and by his look, Kolgar understood that all too well.

‘Alathan. Jirigan. The Plains,’ Kolgar said then, looking at Draen with new understanding. ‘That’s why it is always so bad. They have tied themselves to the worst of them all.’

‘You keep that to yourself, understood?’ Draen said, aware of his Second’s shock. ‘We’ll talk about this in council. Kol. Understood?’ Kolgar nodded, reluctantly. ‘Now ask him what happens if she is known,’ Draen made himself say. Kolgar hesitated, but spoke all the same.

The boy understood quickly and completely. He spoke in quick, sharp sounds, his voice rising in fury. Kolgar spoke on. By the boy’s voice and expression, his answer was a curse against their blood and kin unto the seventh generation. Young and slight though he was, the guard struggled to free himself and if he hadn’t been restrained, the boy would have grabbed the next thing and bludgeoned them with it. The look in his eyes was beyond murder. It was a hatred so deep, even the Gods would acknowledge it.

So it was true. One look and Kolgar understood. They were all in peril. Alathan, Jirigan, and the Plains had shown it clearly. He had till sunrise. Beyond that, the Gods would know no mercy.

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