The Burning Stone

Page 116

The chieftain’s chair—which he alone had the foresight to salvage from the disaster at Gent—is brought forward, and he seats himself in it. “Come forward, each one, and bare your throat before me.”
He extends his claws, and they come forward one by one. First the soldiers who followed him even through his disgrace stride up, confident, proud, ready to serve his will. They believe in his strength. After them the others come forward, some with reluctance, some with curiosity. A few he smells fear on, and those he kills at once. But Rikin’s tribe is a strong one, and few among his uncles, cousins, and brothers have survived Bloodheart’s campaigns by showing weakness.
It takes most of the day for each soldier to submit, but he minds it not; this is not a ceremony which should be hurried.
The sun sinks in preparation for a longer night than last night, each night waxing, each day waning, toward the midpoint that Alain Henrisson calls the autumn equinox and the Wise-Mothers call The-Dragon-Has-Turned-Her-Back-On-The-Sun. From the shore he hears the lap of waters stirred by creatures out in the depths. Have the merfolk come to witness? Have they come to pledge themselves to his rule?
He cannot yet leave his chair. There is other business to transact.
“Where is the priest?” he asks, and the priest shuffles forward, mumbling and chanting and humming in his reedy flute voice. “Do you have what I need, priest?”
“Do you hold safe what I most hold dear?” retorts the priest.
He smiles. “It lies safe in a place you will never find, Uncle. Do you have that which I demand in return for its safekeeping?”
“Must I not now walk many journeys?” the priest complains. “Must I not now trek on many fell paths? Do you think it will bind itself easily into my power and thus yours?”
“I will be patient a while longer,” he answers.
Movement eddies at the back as the SwiftDaughters ready themselves to come forward, to escort him to the chair of OldMother. But he is not done yet. He gestures, and out of the shadows walk his slaves, in tidy lines, obedient to his wishes. They are not beasts, like the other slaves, but even so the tribesmen murmur in surprise and with distrust.
“What means this?” some of the RockChildren cry. And others: “Will we follow after the one who wears the circle of the Soft Ones and who lets these slaves walk in his train like honored warriors?”
“Challenge me if you wish,” says Fifth Son, softly to show threat but loudly enough to carry. “But I am far ahead of you on the path, Brothers. I have defeated my rivals and walked without harm on the nesting ground of the WiseMothers. Can any of you say the same? Come forward and challenge me if you dare.” He does not raise his voice or bellow, as Bloodheart would have. He does not rise, to make of his stature a challenge. He does not need to.
They fear him because he is different.
And they are not fools. They will wait, and measure him and run in his tracks as long as he walks the path of victory. Only a weak leader needs to look back over his shoulder; a strong leader need only scan the ground ahead, because he knows that his troops are faithful and that they run eagerly at his heels.
“Come forward, those who are born of human kin and who serve me.”
They come hesitantly through the glistening obsidian spears and the gleam of claw, but they come, although he can smell fear on all of them except one. They dare not refuse him, and some have even become bold enough to hold their heads high.
The chieftain and OldMother among them kneel before him, as he has taught them to do; he has seen this form of obeisance in Alain Henrisson’s dreams.
The deacon Ursuline, like any OldMother, does not fear him—she alone of her tribe. She lifts her eyes to meet his gaze. “I have done as you asked, and you have no cause to be displeased by my service to you. What of our bargain?”
Said boldly, among those who could cut her throat in an instant. He bares his teeth to remind her of his power, but she has the serenity that walks with those who themselves walk hand in hand with the gods, even if it is only her circle god, whose footsteps he has never seen mark the earth.
“You have served me well. In this way I reward you: All the slaves of Rikin fjord may walk free of the pens and build longhalls, as is the custom of your kind. This they may do, as long as they submit to the will of their masters in all other ways. As long as they serve our purpose, they may live, and as long as there is peace among those who walk free of the pens, they may live. If there is not peace, then justice will be swift.” He curls his fists toward his chest so that his unsheathed claws shine bright before him, slender blades of killing sharpness grown into his body. “Do you doubt me?”