Opposite him, a step out of measure, Adnihilo circled like a leopard in the grass—arm cocked and coiled tight, a crooked stick gripped behind his back, ready to strike. He was the witch’s beast, grim-jawed and gaunt cheeked, bronze skin and red-brown curls and slashed motley irises.
It was over in an instant. The pastor’s son thrust and the half-blood parried, pressured the bind, then ducked under the mock sword and struck his friend on the thigh. The outside. A costly mistake. Adam grabbed his pretend sword by the blade and hooked it around Adnihilo’s neck. He wrenched, sent them tangled to the ground where they fought no longer than a minute before unraveling in exhaustion.
“Hey there, boys.” Jezebel’s voice snapped their heads around and had them both scrambling to their feet. “When Shaka told us where to find you, I thought you might be doing a different kind of playing at sticks.”
Adam’s burnt cheeks flushed deeper pink, “Who, me?” he said. “Father would wring my neck if he—I mean—Please. Don’t tell him where you found me. I wasn’t doing anything, I swear. He’d never believe me, so please, my lady.”
“Hmm, ‘my lady.’ I like the sound of that. Don’t you, Cain?”
“Cain?” The pastor’s son blurted out, “Then. You must be Jezebel!” A sudden sheepishness overtook him as his face turned scarlet.
“Someone’s been talking, I see. You’re Adam, right? David’s son?”
“Yes, my lady. My apologies for not properly—I mean. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you and your, um, husband. But, about what I said. Please, don’t tell my father where we’ve been practicing. If he knew—”
“That you’ve been buying Amsah’s girls in the evening?” Adam’s face turned from scarlet to beet. He might have even cried had Jezebel not sweetened her tongue. Her weakness—sympathy. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that, truly. A man like yourself wouldn’t even consider it.”
The Messah’s voice cracked. “No, I’d never. I plan to be a man of the cloth one day.” Some of the pale returned to his face. He smiled, glancing toward the half-blood. “my friend here, though—”
“Will never have to.” Cain finished. “Adnihilo.”
The witch’s son stood with his head down and shoulders stooped. He knew a punishment was coming, even surrendered his practice sword before the sacrifice could ask for it. So when Cain planted a hand on his bony collar, it was wary relief that showed in place of pain.
“What, you thought I was angry about the Messah, that I didn’t know?”
Adnihilo murmured some words.
“Up here, boy. Look me in the face.” The sacrifice waited patiently as his pupil gathered the courage to meet his gaze. It was a long wait, and no sooner did their eyes meet did Cain strike the half-blood’s inner thigh. Down he fell. “There. You’ll remember where I hit you. Inside, not out. No long struggle like you just had.” He pointed toward his pupil’s bruising leg. “And Adnihilo.”
The half-blood climbed to his feet. Grimacing, he answered, “Kill the boy.”
“Are we done with the lessons, yet?” Jezebel wound Cain’s arm around herself. “I’m starved, and I’m sure they feel the same.”
Adam’s eyes lit up. “I almost forgot! We’re holding a feast tonight at the parish for the holyday. Father asked me—if I ever got the opportunity—he said he’d love it if you’d come to one. He’s wanted a chance to meet you ever since Adnihilo and I—I mean…”
The Sacrifice spat. “You can tell the pastor that—”
“We will absolutely be joining you for supper,” Jezebel answered faster than Cain could protest. “A feast sounds fantastic!” She hissed into his ear, “You promised.”
The sacrifice tossed back his head and sighed. Standing, breathing, watching the vultures circle in the sky as he tried to find a way to cheat fate. He even prayed, but the gods remained silent as his eyes fell to the three hopeful faces. “Fine. We’ll eat with the Messah tonight.”
Second Verse
Colors poured from stained-glass portraits, bright images of men robed in silver-gold, posed before backdrops of quilted pastures and vast vistas of indigo sky. And there were beams of red as well, shafts bleeding from crimson blades hung high in the panes like crosses mounted in the clouds. Together those solar rays mingled with the dull glow of seven gilded braziers arranged in a row at the east end of Herbstfield’s chapel.
Only a few days each year did Jael Leonhardt get to see all seven flames lit, to enjoy the sweet aroma of their burning oils, and to read their inscriptions illuminated by fire-light. In truth, she could hardly see the words from her seat amidst the central pews, though she did not need to read to recite them. They were the seven virtues hewn into Saint’s Rock when Constance founded the church. Faith, Obedience, Humility, Justice, Compassion, Suffering, and Absolution.
Jael’s thoughts clung to the final virtue as she and the other members of the assembly sat through Acolyte Gareth’s ceremonial greeting as well as his newly-composed holyday hymns. They were beautiful as always, yet she forgot the words no later than she heard them, so restless was she for the sermon to begin. It felt like ages, eons as she waited on the deacon to grace them with his presence.
Where is he? Gavin’s never late, thoughtLeonhardt, tapping her heels as her eyes flitted between the attending families. Most were of the local gentry: landed farmers or wealthy tradesman with their distracted children done up in dress—mothers busy fussing with their young ones, fathers gazing vacantly into the golden flames. They were the ones seated toward the front, where the assembly sorted themselves by rank and wealth. The rear pews were sorted by youth: man-boys and giggling
