Esmelie had not witnessed a Maiden Sacrifice ceremony before. Last spring, she had heard the thumping of the drums and the blasts of the trumpets, but she had kept the door of the shack firmly shut and the threadbare curtains drawn across the window. Like most Mountain folk, she preferred not to revel in such a repulsive thing. She had a vague idea of what happened: an anointment by the King, music, fire and the worst part of all: the journey into the mountains. To death.
She fidgeted in the saddle.
For the first time, she felt a prickle of fear. It occurred to her that she should not have given the Maiden Sacrifice reward to the orphanage. She did not begrudge the children the flecks, but the reward could have been sent to Maylie. It might have helped her sister start again somewhere new.
More doubts crept into Esmelie’s mind. Perhaps she should not have left without saying goodbye. It had seemed the right decision then, but now she was not so sure. It was this kind of natural impulsiveness that had never served her well.
But it was too late.
They were entering the main square and the castle rose up before them, a sparkling bronze against the purplish mountains. She could scarcely believe that she – a poor, scrappy Mountain girl – was about to step into the home of royalty. She could scarcely believe that she was about to die.
The crowd in the square began clapping and jeering. The tragic respect she had commanded earlier vanished. Drunken and rowdy, the men – they were mostly men – surged forward, pointing and shouting.
Esmelie felt her fear swelling. The reality of what lay ahead of her sharpened into focus. This was not a dream. This was happening.
The herald pulled her horse close and the guards at the gates fanned around them, holding back the crowd.
‘There she is!’
‘Send her to the dragon!’
‘Let her burn!’
Esmelie clutched the reins of her mare, her knuckles white like bone.
Before her, the castle gates swung open.
Maylie
Eight winters old
MAYLIE’S PAP ALWAYSsaid that she had killed her mam with her relentless crying.
Esmelie told her it was a lie and not to listen to Pap when he was in one of his rages, sodden with ale and hating everything and everyone. But Maylie thought there must be something in it. After all, her mam had died just three days after she was born. It was a fear that lingered, a sense that her existence signified a horrific betrayal. Perhaps that was why Pap could barely stand to look at her. Perhaps that was why he made her feel worthless.
One summer morning, at eight winters old, Maylie finally plucked up the courage to ask her aunt for the truth. She stammered out the question, simmering with the mixture of guilt and grief that always accompanied thoughts of her mam. But in response, Tadrie vehemently shook her head. ‘It were just one of those things, May,’ she said, bustling about her cottage. ‘I tried every herb and tinctureI had, but the Great Creator took my little sister. It were just her time.’
Maylie wanted to believe it, but doubts lingered. ‘If Mam hadn’t birthed me, she would’ve lived?’
Tadrie paused by the sink, damp herbs dripping through her fingers. ‘It weren’t your fault, May.’
‘But Pap says—’
‘Never mind him.’ Tadrie’s dark eyes narrowed. She dried her hands on her apron and folded her arms over her large chest.
Esmelie said that Tadrie was as stubby and round as a bread roll and though Maylie denied it, she could not help but see the resemblance.
‘Make yourself useful and tie up those herbs.’ Tadrie nodded towards the greenery drying on the side. ‘I don’t want to hear any more of this nonsense.’
Maylie slumped into a seat at the table and began picking through the brittle, bitter-smelling plants. She worked diligently, muttering the name of each plant as she went and losing herself to the rhythm of the task. Gradually, the knot of anxiety in her stomach ebbed away.
Then something flickered.
Maylie raised her head to look out of the open window. A shadow wavered at the edge of the trees, long and lithe.
‘Maylie?’ her aunt called. ‘Can you see something?’
Maylie nodded. They did not often talk about her Sight. Tadrie had always maintained that it was normal and fairly harmless, but now she looked concerned.
