Devil's Sacrifice Page 2

slash down the villainous lord?

  “No! He asked the man to speak with him or die. No one but them knows what was said but the king must have told him something horrifying, for the lord gave the queen to her husband and fled the kingdom, never to return.

  “But it was too late. The queen never recovered. She died only weeks later and the day she died brought the first of many snowfalls. How fragile even paradise turned out to be.”

  The stranger said nothing. He did not look up or even twitch. The room remained silent as the other farmer’s woefully remembered the cause of their plight. Frederic shrugged and turned back to his own beer, indifferent to the apparent lack of interest.

  A few moments later, the stranger lifted his hood and wrapped the fabric around it, returning it to the state it had been before he arrived. Abruptly and maliciously, he pulled on each mitten and secured it tightly. When he was rebundled, he stood and walked from the tavern, leaving the untouched beer and frozen bread.

  All had heard of the death of the Wolds of Gren but the extent to which it had occurred would have been unsettling to anyone and the traveller had been unprepared for the conditions to be as harsh as they were. If he had known, he would not have been so willing to sacrifice his horse so soon. With no transportation, he walked as fast as he could from the tavern and along the road in a duel with the blizzard.

  There were times when he was convinced he had left the path; when all around him – above and below – looked white. However, his quest must truly have been divine. He not only managed to reach the castle he sought but also reached it by noon the next day; far earlier than should have been possible on foot and while fighting the large drifts.

  The wind had stopped and the clouds now relinquished only a light dusting. Unlike the days of prosperity, there was no activity within the courtyard. The gates had been open allowing him free passage with not a single guard. Only the softest crackle of the countless snowflakes hitting the ground could be heard if one was silent and held his breath. The grey monolith in the centre of the compound seemed abandoned and it was simply that there had been no news of the king’s death that kept him walking towards the large doors to the great hall.

  The hinges were nearly frozen and the snowdrifts impeded the movement but he was able to pull and push one of the doors just enough to squeeze inside. Though drafty, the hall was surprisingly warm and luminous. The fireplaces that lined the walls were lit and the flames threatened to escape the confines of the hearth. Except for the slumped form upon the throne, there was no one present. He could not tell who sat there for the body was layered in furs and blankets.

  With the contained warmth, the traveller’s measures against the cold quickly became too much and he unwrapped his head and his hands, though he left his coat as it was. He was not planning to stay that long.

  “I never expected to see you again,” said a tired voice from the furred mound.

  It was the king, though he sounded near lifeless compared with the last time they had spoken.

  “You cannot steal my wife again, Lord Willamar. She is dead and the Earth along with her,” he said. What might have been intended bitterness was lost by his exhaustion.

  Lord Willamar continued his approach. At first he said nothing but this proved only a short hesitation. “I came to make amends.”

  The king scoffed, “Amends implies a solution, a rectification of the events. There is no such thing.”

  When Lord Willamar said nothing and the crackling of the burning wood began to make the silence deafening, the king continued, “When I met Avila, I knew I would have the richest of kingdoms, an eternally youthful wife, and the most content and peaceful of lives. I was convinced I would grow old without ever a care just as all my predecessors had. I had everything that men have fought entire wars to gain. Then you came along and took it all away from me.

  “All those who could, fled for warmer kingdoms. There is no need to employ soldiers, for who would want a dead kingdom? Those who remain can survive only through our trade alliances secured by what gold we gained during our prosperity but even that dwindles, as do I. Soon, I will die, young but sick. The kingdom will truly be dead.”

  Lord Willamar had the decency to lower his chin in shame but his eyes remained upon the king and showed his defiance was untouched. He offered very little to the king’s pain. “I am sorry,” he said quietly.

  The king let out a breath that spoke not of his physical weariness but of his battered soul. “As am I,” he said. “We worried so much about what would happen if people knew the truth, yet it was the not knowing that brought the end upon us. If you had known she was the heart of the land, would you have taken her?”

  Lord Willamar shook his head. “I would have defended you both until the end of my life,” he said. His tone made it obvious to both that he hoped it was a truthful answer.

  As the king attempted to sit up a little straighter, the blankets slipped from his head to show that his hair had only the tiniest hint of its original black. The lines etched upon his forehead looked many decades old, though it had only been a fraction of that time.

  “How is Hexe?” the king asked, seemingly tired of such heavy conversation.

  “Dead,” replied Lord Willamar.

  There was silence as the two men stared awkwardly at each other and then around the room. After several more moments, the king broke the silence. “If you have truly returned to make amends, you must visit Avila’s tomb. The ground was too frozen to bury her. The ice came upon us within hours of her death. It is where the castle gardens once were. You will know the place.”

  Lord Willamar nodded. “Good-bye.”

  Trudging through the drifts to the back of the castle, Lord Willamar pushed passed doubt and fear and forced himself to turn the last corner to the familiar spot of the gardens. In the midst of what had once been the most vibrant of flowers stood a small stone structure. Refusing to hesitate, and failing only for a moment, Lord Willamar walked to it, opened the tiny door and went inside.

  To his surprise, Avila lay looking as pristine as ever in a white gown upon a stone slab. Her auburn hair was the most colourful thing he had seen in his life and it remained so as the waves of it cascaded over the edge of the stone. In fact, against the backdrop of grey in which he had been living the last several days, the vibrant colour nearly burned his eyes.

  He could not see the colour of her eyes but he knew the long lashes hid the infinitely deep greens he had remembered. Her perfect features remained unmarred and to his hope she did not look truly dead, only asleep. He had seen death. Looking upon her vibrancy, he was sure this woman could never truly die.

  With shaking fingers, he pulled a tightly wrapped bundle from under his coat and began slowly to remove the ragged linen that encased the contents. When he had finished, he held the carved, ivory handle of a dagger in his right hand and the heart of Hexe in his left.

  “Forgive what we did to you and to the people,” he pleaded as he placed the heart upon the unmoving chest. “May the land regain its Heart.”

  For a moment, he stared at the strange animals and demons carved upon the handle of the dagger. With a deep breath to renew his courage, he raised it high above him.

  “I give you my life though Hell will have my soul,” he said before bringing the dagger down as hard and fast as he could into his chest.

  As his body fell across Avila’s, his blood poured from him and over her dress. It did not soak her white gown but passed through it, leaving it untouched, so that every drop could penetrate the pours of her skin. The heart upon her chest had begun to beat strongly and within moments, it too had been absorbed into her body. As Lord Willamar's life bled into her, he began to disappear. The dagger, having performed its only intended task, melted and even the handle turned into a viscous liquid that poured onto the floor to escape through the cracks of the stone into the earth beneath.

  With a great gasp of breath, Avila sat up. She panted slightly as if she had been exerted
by terror and looked around with frantic unknowing as she tried to make sense of where she was. Alone in a strange room, there was no evidence of how she had come to be upon the stone slab. She stepped shakily onto the ground and walked hurriedly from the tomb.

  ###

  About the Author

  Tara Kristen Young is a computing archaeologist who spends many of her days helping with the investigations of hunter-gatherer cemeteries in Russia and Japan. Other days are spent twisting her archaeological knowledge into new forms to create fantasy stories. Time not spent researching or writing is joyfully filled with the company of her daughter and husband.

  Other Works by Tara K. Young

  The Whispering War, Book 2 of the Moirean Tapestry (coming Summer 2011)

  Connect with Tara Online

  Twitter https://twitter.com/TYoungWrite#

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  Website https://www.myriadmaia.com