Reign of Shadows - Deborah Chester [61]
Caelan looked at the forest. His heart ached for his little sister. Perhaps he should tell them about her. Alone, she would die. If taken captive, she would be enslaved and sold, but she would be alive.
“Not too young,” the Thyzarene chattered on, gloating. He took out his smelly salve and began smearing it on Caelan’s cuts. The wound in Caelan’s face stopped throbbing, and suddenly the pain was bearable.
Caelan sucked in a deep breath and refused to feel grateful.
“Too young, go too cheap,” the Thyzarene said. “No profit there. Always trouble with little ones. Easier when they die. You just right.”
Caelan’s throat closed off. He said nothing about Lea.
The Thyzarene yanked on Caelan’s chains. “You come. Come! We have far to go.”
Feeling the unaccustomed clanking weight of the shackles and all their shame, Caelan did as he was told. Following Raul and Gunder, who were also chained, Caelan walked past the dead, and looked down at their beloved faces for the last time. Anya and Tisa, Surva, Old Farns ... his father.
He jerked to a stop. “My fault,” he whispered, staring at his father’s sightless eyes. “I—I’m sorry I wasn’t the son you wanted—”
The Thyzarene pulled him onward. “Come. You come now!”
Bound and helpless, Caelan was taken to where the dragons milled and bugled, sniffing the air and snapping restlessly. His owner put him astride Kuvar and chained him to the beast’s harness.
And when it lurched, lifting into the air with a mighty beating of its leathery wings, Caelan looked down at the forest where he had abandoned his sister. He should have ignored the desire to play hero and stayed with her. He knew that now. As long as he lived, he would live with the chains of that guilt on his soul.
Once again he could see her tear-stained face, could hear her desperate plea ringing in his ears. “Caelan!”
He shut his eyes and wept.
PART TWO
Chapter Twelve
Four years later
FLAMES BURNED HIGH in the central fire pit, throwing off intense heat. Hundreds of fat white candles blazed along shelves built high on each wall of the sanctum. The smell of melting wax mingled with the more pungent aroma of burning incense.
The gathered sisterhood of the Penestricans entered the sanctum in a double line. Their chanting rose and fell like the ocean tide. As they entered, the women parted in opposite directions to line the rough-hewn walls. Each sister stood veiled in black. Each held a skull in her hands. The tops of the skulls had been sawn off to form crucibles filled with a mixture of soil and female blood.
The chanting rose in intensity. At the entrance a woman robed in black appeared. Her pale narrow face revealed nothing except concentration. It was ageless, unlined, yet gaunt as though a lifetime of challenges had drawn her down to only the essentials.
She was the Magria, supreme mother within the sisterhood. Their chanting beat within her like her own pulse.
For three days she had fasted in preparation for the visioning. She had lain in the sweat chamber, forcing all impurities from her body. Now she stood emptied, ready. Her mind was clear. She had no hesitations.
Behind her, the deputy Anas untied the lacings of the Magria’s robe and pulled it off her shoulders, leaving her naked. The intense heat struck her skin, and the Magria drew in a quick breath.
She walked forward to the sand pit that surrounded the fire. The sand was hot enough to burn the bare soles of her feet. The Magria did not flinch. In her state of heightened awareness, physical pain only served to clarify the visioning. She could have walked across live coals had it been necessary.
The chanting continued, rising in a frenzy around her. She could feel the collective force of the sisterhood around her, sustaining and strengthening her for what lay ahead.
She lifted her hands high in supplication to the stone image of the goddess mother in its niche on the opposite wall. The chanting ceased in abrupt unison, and all was silent. The Magria closed her eyes and reached into the stone box next to the fire pit.
“Within the power