Fantasy Magazine, Issue 66 (April 2021) by Arley Sorg

Author:Arley Sorg [John Joseph Adams]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Adamant Press
Published: 2021-03-30T17:09:25+00:00

3

Vensera sat beside him now. The silverwood barrier that formed the pentangle was sufficient only to protect them when seated. And deceptive though it was, sitting passively in that large ash-grey space, that vile thing would lash out faster than a viper’s fangs if so much as an inch of mortal flesh showed over the top. She was seated beside him, their hands clasped together tightly, dressed in their finest regal attire, waiting to be called upon to do their part.

It had taken a great deal of convincing to get the priests to conduct the ceremony at all. In the end, it was their own reduced circumstances that had brought them around. When the liege was defeated, so were all those dependent on her munificence. The priests had experienced loss of luxury and the looming specter of abject poverty, even starvation, if something was not done, and quickly. The ban on any citizen, high or low, crossing Gwannland’s newly redrawn borders, ruled out any chance of fleeing or seeking succor elsewhere.

Dronas has done everything possible to destroy us without actually sentencing us to death, Gwann thought heatedly. That way, he can have his revenge and stay within the letter of Krushan law.

Krushan law, as arcane and antiquated as their ceremonial rituals, forbade the killing of any bloodline oathsworn to Hastinaga. The forebear of the Kuin had taken the sacred oath before the first of the dynasty, the mythic Kr’ush himself, in the misty prehistory of the world. Dronas’s campaign of vengeance prevented him from harming any Kuin directly. He had done the next best thing: invited them to pitched battle, wiped out their army, taken everything of value to them, and left them with nothing but this desolate patch of fallow territory with no water source, no farmlands, towns, cities, or means of trade. He may as well have taken them to the middle of the Red Desert and abandoned them without food, water, or transport. That would have been a speedier death.

Vensera felt Gwann’s grip tighten and sensed his anger. She squeezed back, her much stronger grip curbed to avoid hurting him. He let the anger dissipate slowly, determined to keep his head clear through this ritual. It was dangerous enough without being distracted by his own emotions.

This must work.

He had to believe that now, and so did Vensera.

The priests had warned them beforehand: they must come to the altar with genuine need, holding back nothing. And if granted their given wish, they must accept it without question.

That was the way of the stone gods. You took what you were given, and you thanked stonefire.

Or stonefire would eat you alive.

The high priest was approaching a peak in the chanting. His face was limned with perspiration. Despite its deceptive appearance, the tiny pebble was exuding heat more intense than any bonfire. Yet it remained stolidly black and inert, just a little bit of black rock. The heat was penetrating enough that Gwann felt the palm that gripped Vensera’s grow slippery with sweat, even though they were seated some yards behind the high priest herself.

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