TAKING THE KNIFE
C lumps of towering amarantox guarded either side of the trail, broad leaves limp and bronze-hued with the promise of winter, yet no less poisonous than the day they’d emerged as pointed shoots from the soil. Sefe paused for breath, squinting ahead to where the footpath dropped sharply into the ravine the tribe had been paralleling across the Tox .
The Crossing.
His entire twenty-six years of life he’d walked this route. Now he was reduced to using his spear as a walking stick. He was the tribe’s healer, but that meant little these days. A straggling mother and child had passed him some time ago, leaving him to bring up the rear. Even if he survived the Crossing’s roiling water, he would not reach camp until long after everyone had bedded down.
The tribe couldn’t linger, not even for the c8alspanir healer. Summer had been hard, with uneven rainfall and frequent sunstorms , and now the rival hunters had not come for the Autumn Trade. The Hunger would be long this year. He traced a finger over one of the raised scars along his jaw. Being marked as one of the Knowing – a healer – might protect him from rival tribe attacks, but was not assurance of long life. For over a year, now, as his infirmity grew worse, he’d been training his replacement. His duty to the tribe – to take the Knife and offer himself as food, as had been done for generations – was nearly upon him.
He trembled. Perhaps if he paused a moment, he'd find the strength to continue. Gently pushing aside a wide amarantox leaf, he spotted the drop-off and an expanse of churning river. Ferny gray-green tamarisk trembled on the high bank. Near the cliff, where he might catch a hint of breeze off the water, rested a stone slab the perfect height to sit on.
He shuffled forward a step and tensed. A haphazard shelter of bruise-barked tamarisk logs rested near a spot of blackened earth where a fire had been.
Hunters?
His mouth turned dry. He should run. At least back away. Outside the trade times, hunters respected no tribal ties, and sometimes even ignored a healer's scars. He attempted to slide an unsteady foot back, but the fire in his spine locked his hips. Wobbling, he caught himself against the amarantox . Dry stalks clattered and leaves rattled to the ground around him.
No sneaking away now.
After a few quivering, breathless moments, he swallowed his panic and dared turn his head to look around. The camp appeared to be abandoned. He heaved a sigh. Legs threatening to collapse beneath him, he edged toward the sitting stone, his gaze on the clearing in case anything of value had been left behind.
A small noise drew his attention as something moved against the amarantox – a flash of brilliant green and the
amarantox , crouched near one corner of the shelter.
A flame runna girl.
His heart stopped, all thought of his pain forgotten. Flame runnas didn’t travel alone. He jerked his gaze to the cloudless, blue sky. The green-skinned people always arrived by air, torching the land and everything on it, edible or not – plant, animal, human. And then they left without gathering a thing, heedless of the waste.
He'd survived their raids twice. Once when he was six, by sheer luck and his quick, small feet ; and again at twelve, when his brother thrust him off the butte into the Black Pool. His parents had been engulfed in the fire, and Sefe’d been nearly paralyzed by a back injury. His aunt, the tribe's healer, had adopted them both, mended his spine, and kept away the Knife by teaching Sefe her art and marking him with the raised keloid scars of a healer.
No escape this time.
For months he’d fought his duty to the Knife, each morning waking and struggling to his feet in spite of the pain . Now flame runnas would take his duty from him. Guilt swamped him and he closed his eyes. A waste of meat . Armin, the tribe leader, would send someone back to look for him – to gather his remains for the Flesh Feast. But in this
C lumps of towering amarantox guarded either side of the trail, broad leaves limp and bronze-hued with the promise of winter, yet no less poisonous than the day they’d emerged as pointed shoots from the soil. Sefe paused for breath, squinting ahead to where the footpath dropped sharply into the ravine the tribe had been paralleling across the Tox .
The Crossing.
His entire twenty-six years of life he’d walked this route. Now he was reduced to using his spear as a walking stick. He was the tribe’s healer, but that meant little these days. A straggling mother and child had passed him some time ago, leaving him to bring up the rear. Even if he survived the Crossing’s roiling water, he would not reach camp until long after everyone had bedded down.
The tribe couldn’t linger, not even for the c8alspanir healer. Summer had been hard, with uneven rainfall and frequent sunstorms , and now the rival hunters had not come for the Autumn Trade. The Hunger would be long this year. He traced a finger over one of the raised scars along his jaw. Being marked as one of the Knowing – a healer – might protect him from rival tribe attacks, but was not assurance of long life. For over a year, now, as his infirmity grew worse, he’d been training his replacement. His duty to the tribe – to take the Knife and offer himself as food, as had been done for generations – was nearly upon him.
He trembled. Perhaps if he paused a moment, he'd find the strength to continue. Gently pushing aside a wide amarantox leaf, he spotted the drop-off and an expanse of churning river. Ferny gray-green tamarisk trembled on the high bank. Near the cliff, where he might catch a hint of breeze off the water, rested a stone slab the perfect height to sit on.
He shuffled forward a step and tensed. A haphazard shelter of bruise-barked tamarisk logs rested near a spot of blackened earth where a fire had been.
Hunters?
His mouth turned dry. He should run. At least back away. Outside the trade times, hunters respected no tribal ties, and sometimes even ignored a healer's scars. He attempted to slide an unsteady foot back, but the fire in his spine locked his hips. Wobbling, he caught himself against the amarantox . Dry stalks clattered and leaves rattled to the ground around him.
No sneaking away now.
After a few quivering, breathless moments, he swallowed his panic and dared turn his head to look around. The camp appeared to be abandoned. He heaved a sigh. Legs threatening to collapse beneath him, he edged toward the sitting stone, his gaze on the clearing in case anything of value had been left behind.
A small noise drew his attention as something moved against the amarantox – a flash of brilliant green and the
amarantox , crouched near one corner of the shelter.
A flame runna girl.
His heart stopped, all thought of his pain forgotten. Flame runnas didn’t travel alone. He jerked his gaze to the cloudless, blue sky. The green-skinned people always arrived by air, torching the land and everything on it, edible or not – plant, animal, human. And then they left without gathering a thing, heedless of the waste.
He'd survived their raids twice. Once when he was six, by sheer luck and his quick, small feet ; and again at twelve, when his brother thrust him off the butte into the Black Pool. His parents had been engulfed in the fire, and Sefe’d been nearly paralyzed by a back injury. His aunt, the tribe's healer, had adopted them both, mended his spine, and kept away the Knife by teaching Sefe her art and marking him with the raised keloid scars of a healer.
No escape this time.
For months he’d fought his duty to the Knife, each morning waking and struggling to his feet in spite of the pain . Now flame runnas would take his duty from him. Guilt swamped him and he closed his eyes. A waste of meat . Armin, the tribe leader, would send someone back to look for him – to gather his remains for the Flesh Feast. But in this
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