Page 38

A CRUEL CUT

SILAS

A scream of sound cuts through the ceaseless arguing, a shriek like an eagle’s cry, and all heads snap around as one to look at our Keeper, white eyes wide, lips pressed together in a thin, tight line.

She is immobile, noiseless, and I can’t figure out where the sharp wail came from.

I don’t even have time to consider, though, before Rannoch is running forward, pushing past me to stumble to a horrified stop in front of her.

And only then do I notice the tip of the Guiding Knife protruding from the back of her hand, bloodless and just as void of color as the swaying woman in front of me.

“Keeper?” I can’t help but whisper the question.

It’s the wrong choice, I know it’s the wrong choice even as the word pushes past my lips.

I should be strong and sharp, commanding, but her face is taught with pain and fear, and I don’t have it in me to be anyone other than Silas when she is bent before me looking like a crushed flower.

I know Raek will hear it, will twist it around when he meets with his rat-like friends in the quiet corners of the Council House, plotting and planning.

But she is wild-eyed and frightened, blade through her hand, trembling like a leaf in the storm winds, and for once I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do .

I have no time to consider action though, because, in one fluid motion, the Keeper pulls the knife from her hand and turns to the Blood Tree.

No one else is moving, no one is speaking — not even Nickolas.

So no one is prepared when she takes two short, powerful steps and then, swinging her arm high, plunges the knife down into the red sapped trunk.

It seems for a moment that she has lost her mind; there is enough time to exchange a worried glance with Rannoch, I know that, and then all hell breaks loose and all conscious thought disappears.

Because the Blood Tree squeals , like a pig at slaughter, the sound causing several men to drop to their knees, retching.

The rest look nauseous, curving over their stomachs, faces draining of all color.

There is no one paler than the Keeper, though, who is locked against the tree, now bleeding hand wrapped around the knife as though she can’t let it go.

Below us, the Earth rumbles.

It starts low, far beneath our feet, a faint shiver, grass tips wavering slightly, as though a soft breeze came by.

But nothing has moved in the still air, and the tremor grows and strengthens until tiny cracks appear on the surface under our boots.

They widen, and widen further, until I can see the layers in the earth and rock, until I can see how far down the ground is soaked with blood.

It is inches deep. Inches, and I turn horrified eyes to Rannoch, who is already looking at me with dawning realization.

This was not the sacrifice of a few villagers, not to have the hard packed earth beneath the Blood Tree saturated as though there were a scarlet spring beneath its roots.

This is something much, much darker than I can even think of in the moment.

Above us, there is a sound like a glass breaking, like a stone flung through a window pane, and it echoes off the nearby peaks, reverberating in a thunderous symphony.

The booming finally pulls the BoneKeeper from her trance, and she glances toward the mountain before slumping back against the tree in seeming exhaustion. Dripping crimson hand resting on her bone necklace, she sighs, closing her eyes, and simply says, “I would run if I were you.”

And Gods help us, we do.

And she smiles as though she sees it.