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Swinging my legs over the edge of the bed, I stifle a groan. My eyes are open, but I cannot see. I cower in the dark, my pulse surging in my ears. Fingers dig into my kneecaps, and I struggle to make myself believe I am awake. That I exist.
Where is Amyrah?
I stagger across the room. The hearth is cold, and the bolétis must have faded out days ago.
The emptiness of this place circles me like the specter’s laughter in the dream. I can still feel its poison pulsing through my veins. A sound somewhere between a yelp and a roar escapes from deep within. I grip my head with fierce pressure and hurtle into the pouring rain.
The streets of Utsanek are drenched and deserted. I should have stayed home.
Hurrying through the abandoned market square, I pause in front of the towering fanum. The sharp steps are laden with baskets of goods of every kind, now soggy. It is rare for the valefolk to show this much devotion to the kaligorven. I resist the urge to spit, but with difficulty.
When I reach the northern boundary of the city and stumble into the center of yet another Reckoning Ceremony, my fears are confirmed.
My stomach churns. Entering the crowd, searching the faces, I hope I won’t find Amyrah’s among them. Kuvror Erovantus is not something she needs to see.
I press on until I am able to hear what is going on at the far end of the clearing, though it is difficult over the pouring rain. Many scowls and rude gestures launch my way. Probably because I have not bathed in a fortnight.
The Foremost presides over the ceremony, like always, his deep voice penetrating through the deluge. But I do not pay attention to his words. They are meaningless. My eyes fix, instead, to the colossal urn raised on strong poles over the bonfire.
Luminosity exudes from it, the downpour having no effect on the blood’s endless combustion. Tears crowd my vision, but I do not know if it is because of the pain in my eyes or the pain in my heart. I blink, and I no longer see an earthen vessel. It is the lion-sola, noble in death. It is the stoic wren that found my daughter. It is the brilliance in my terrible dream. It is the mortal wounds in my wife.
Knees weak, I buckle forward and grab on to whatever I can to keep me from falling. Strong hands shove me off, and I sway as I struggle to stay upright.
Shaking away the vision, I focus instead on those closest to the blaze. They are not the regular band of hunters, but people. Ordinary people with hurt and vengeance written all over their faces. A tall young man with dark hair looks especially afflicted. He shifts his weight from heel to heel and clenches his fists at his sides. His face communicates more than anger; it screams self-loathing.
A feeling I understand.
The urn cracks open with a deafening snap, unleashing the deluge of the sola’s lifeblood over the fire. Like every Kuvror Erovantus I have seen, the blood reacts to the ignati with an eruption of heat and light. The spectators around me cower, but I am too numb to respond.
Stillness falls. Even the storm abates somewhat. Not a soul stirs or whispers or sighs. Thousands upon thousands of people fill this clearing, and no one speaks. What are they waiting—or hoping—for?
When an unnatural wind assails the ceremonial grounds, I have my answer. Rain flies horizontally, soaking every inch of me. At the moment my courage begins to fail, everything calms. Even the rain ceases. I wipe my face and strain my eyes in the darkness, alarmed by how thick it has become. I can feel it shifting over my skin.
There are shapes in the shadows, somehow still visible in the lack of light. Several hideous forms emerge from the trees, of varied statures and shapes, but all dreadful. I dare not stare at them for long. The kaligorven advance on the gathering, and a hushed murmur infects the people. They shrink back together, carrying me with them. But no one flees.
A voice, like stone on stone, like the rumblings of the foundation of the earth, emanates from the ténesomni. I shudder.
Your offering pleases ... The light is yours to take.
Relief exudes from the valefolk—exhales, and even quiet laughter. But they are quickly silenced.
Your faith still lacks. Our patience wears thin. When we return ... proof of your devotion will be required.
A pall descends, dragging the hope down with it. But the mutterings of confusion and frustration become lost in the uproar of the Shrouded’s retreat.
They are gone.
“Might I make a suggestion?”
The Reckoning Grounds have transformed into a frothing sea of terrified valefolk, but a silky voice slices through the hysterics. My shoulders tense as a fog of memory settles over my reason. The valefolk packed around me, the ténesomni, the kaligorven—all are beyond my notice. I latch on to that voice, feeling as though I will suffocate without proof of its owner’s existence. I do not remember moving, but now only a single row of heads stands between myself and the blackened chasm that was once a roaring fire.
A lithe form appears from between the trees, and my bones turn to liquid. Sheets of darkness swirl away with each tread of the man’s leather-shod feet. I blink, fighting to keep myself in the present. It is both like and unlike what I have seen occur around my daughter. The shadows part for him as they do for her, but they do not reach in as if they would devour his soul. The hair on the back of my neck stands on end.
“And who are you?” Dravek grabs a lantern from one of his men, shoving him to the side. The Foremost wears a sleeveless tunic and trousers, dispensing with the traditional robes of Kuvror Erovantus. The lantern’s glow barely reaches the ink that rings his bulging bicep. He waits for the stranger to approach.
I strain to make out his face, though I do not really need to see it. I can recall it perfectly from my nightmare.
“Don’t you remember me?” The man saunters to the edge of the stone pit. His sharp features twist into a mischievous grin. “After all, I am one of your own.”
