Blood for Honor
Chapter 11

Warren Payne stands in the middle of the living room of what is now my cabin, balding head glowing in the flickering light of the fireplace. His voice is somber as he recalls the scout report. “Despite favoring diplomacy over fighting, Vesper could not look past what Charon did, ma’am.”

He sounds as tired as I feel. His one good eye droops with exhaustion, and the eyelid of his blind eye has fallen shut, hiding its milky white color. His salt and pepper beard is looking saltier as well. No one has slept in days, worried we may be attacked again as we lick our wounds.

“I would hope not. There isn’t anything much lower than one who takes advantage of peace talks to slaughter the competition when they are defenseless. It is dishonorable,” I say, sinking into the end of the couch closest to the fireplace. “All anyone has these days is their word. What did Vesper do about it?”

“Report is they took control of the Market after subduing Charon, but they didn’t put them down as I would have done, ma’am. Some whispers speak of cages and torture, but it sounds like wild speculation over something none of us know anything about.”

I take a sip of the whiskey from the glass in my hand, staring into the low-burning fire in thought. “All I know is that Vesper sent wagons loaded down with ammo, guns, medicine, and our dead—” including my father’s body.

“I heard, ma’am. How will you respond?” I turn my eyes to Warren, chewing on my lower lip. Curiosity gleams dully in his olive green eye.

“I haven’t decided yet,” I say with a slight shrug. “I will figure it out once we have dealt with the funerals. They need to be put to rest—all of them. I don’t care how long it takes. The morale is low enough without tossing corpses in a mass grave.”

“Yes, ma’am. I will keep the Watch on guard.”

I nod my head. “Good. Dismissed.”

Warren beats his closed right fist over his heart once with a bow of his head. He leaves the cabin, and I turn my attention to the fire, downing the rest of the whiskey in one gulp.

Thanks to Vesper, we can give our people a proper send-off before they start rotting. Funeral pyres have lit up the riverbank for days, and nearly every Blackthorn from the outer villages has made the pilgrimage here. Our village was not the only one that lost people.

On either side of my father’s unlit pyre, memorial flames already burn for Damian and Danny. As the next Chief, no one questioned me when I commissioned Danny’s pyre next to the others, but many still whisper.

Whether I could ever prove Danny’s innocence or not, some believe he is guilty. I will be hard-pressed to change their mind when I am not sure of his innocence myself. So, for now, I will ignore it. The fact that I do not have the bodies of my brother or husband to close this chapter of my life has not fully hit me, but I am grateful to be able to put my father to rest. There is something to a proper funeral, and whatever happened to the two men’s corpses is too morbid to ponder.

The pyres are built on the river’s edge, overlooking the white sand bar meeting the water a half-mile from the village. Rose petals litter the ground around the wooden structures where some of the children took it upon themselves to help decorate for the send-off—spearheaded by my niece. The red petals glisten like blood in the torchlight surrounding the meeting area. Who could tell a little girl that she should not pick the last of the year’s roses for her grandfather’s funeral, much less her father’s memorial? A shortage of rose petals in the newly rebuilt Apothecary is nothing compared to the importance of this single night.

Small ceremonies have been ongoing for days, but tonight will be different. Tonight we are sending off a Chief. Our Warlord. My father. His coyote pelt mantel rests on my shoulders, shielding me from the bitterly cold wind that whips my wool skirts around my ankles. The cold of winter is approaching fast, nearly two months ahead of schedule.

The Matron of Death, a white-haired woman who tends to our dead, appears from the shadows. She ignites the torch in her hand by the flame of Damian’s pyre, and the riverbank goes silent. She slowly lowers the flame, resting it in the cavern underneath my father’s body in silence. Tongues of fire crackle to life and spread out from the point of contact with the mother flame, sputtering around the base of the pyre before fully engulfing the shrouded figure on top.

The Matron speaks, but I cannot focus on her words as I watch the flames dance across the latticework of tattoos on her wrinkled face. Her milky eyes glow orange in the fire as she turns to meet my gaze. She motions for me to step forward, and I kneel at her feet.

The Matron lays a short ceremonial dagger into the flames of my father’s pyre, heating it to red-hot. She speaks with her low, ambient voice ebbing and flowing in unknown tongues. The sound sends shivers down my spine. She slips the coyote fur from my shoulders, brushing the thin straps of my shirt away to expose the skin beneath, and withdraws the dagger from the fire. She holds it in front of my face, and I peer into the yellow-orange heat pulsing through the metal. I should fear the pain it will bring as it scars my skin, but I almost welcome it.

With one side, she presses it into the skin on my right shoulder. I grit my teeth, withholding the hiss of pain I wish to exude, but I must go through with this in silence. To show pain is to show weakness. The leader of Blackthorn cannot be weak.

My nostrils flare, and I close my eyes as the putrid smell of cooking flesh fills my nose. The Matron pulls the blade away, placing it back in the fire while repeating her words. She withdraws it and places the other side of the dagger on my left shoulder. I almost cry out, but I refuse to make a noise. I take a deep breath, embracing the pain, and she withdraws the dagger from my burning flesh for the second time. I open my eyes to meet the Matron’s gaze. She holds her hand out for mine. I try not to hesitate in giving it to her, but I know what comes next.

She places the still-hot razor edge of the blade against my palm and slowly drags it along my skin. I flinch but do not pull away. Blood wells up in my hand, and the Matron pulls a small stone bowl from her robes. I turn my hand over the bowl, allowing my blood to run freely into it until she pulls it away. I wrap my hand with the bandage she hands to me. She smiles a toothless smile with a short nod, holding the bloody dagger above her head and the bowl at her breast.

Her voice is raspy but full of pride as she speaks words we can all understand. “Bear witness to the transition of power!”

I stand, and the Matron hands me the bowl of blood. I take a steadying breath and turn to face the mass of bodies watching the ceremony quietly. I shiver as cold glares from some of the crowd penetrate me like blades, shuddering out an uneven breath under their scrutiny. All eyes are on me, but Keena’s gaze from the front row burns more than the blistering wounds on my shoulders. Ysabel’s eyes are wide with fear as she glances between us.

Why is she fearful?

Keena looks down at Ysabel, a single eyebrow raised in question, but her daughter shakes her head quickly in disbelief. Keena bears her teeth in anger. She rears back and slaps Ysabel across the cheek. The smacking sound echoes down the river, and Keena turns on her heel, cutting through the crowd to leave without looking back. Ysabel watches her go with a hand over her cheek, tears glistening in her eyes.

Keena will not swear fealty to me. I can accept that. I never dreamed that she would kneel in front of me and kiss the Blackthorn ring on my finger, must less allow me to mark her with my blood. The ring should be her husband’s, on his hand, with his blood on her forehead.

What hurts is a third of the crowd that turns to follow her without a second of hesitation. My breath hitches as I watch Blackthorn fracture before my eyes—because of me.

Your people won’t accept your leadership when your father is gone. Not after Danny. When they replace out your husband is a traitor, they won’t trust you as they should and will look for someone else to lead them.

Carnegie’s words will haunt me forever.

Some people nervously glance around, unsure of what they should do. Only a fraction of the group is unwavering in their loyalty, staring daggers at the backs of those who dare turn on our clan.

I cannot discern the tone of the Matron’s voice, but the pride so evident in it before is gone now. “Line up to swear fealty to your new Chief!”

Ysabel steps forward, leading the remaining group to line up in front of me as if nothing has happened. Her mother’s handprint is already red against her olive-toned cheek, shining brightly in the firelight.

My niece kneels first and delicately kisses my father’s large Blackthorn signet ring on my outstretched hand. I dip my thumb into the blood, and she lifts her head. With a gentle dab, I mark her forehead. Tears well up in my eyes as she stands, kissing me on the cheek before stepping away to allow the next person to kneel.

She doesn’t leave, merely stands off to the side while the remaining members of our clan kneel before me. Not because she wants anything, but because she wants to be here; otherwise, she would not have turned her back on her mother.

I cannot let her sacrifice be in vain.

Everything is off-kilter with fewer people. The jobs others would be doing fall on those already burdened with keeping our village up and running.

We have not been attacked, but war looms on the horizon with Charon nipping at the heels of the outer villages. With an impending war comes more work on top of everyday chores. Even the children hasten to work twice as hard. Ysabel has stepped up wondrously, rallying the pack to complete the workloads handed down at a near-impossible rate.

The weapons and ammo that Vesper sent take some of the burdens off our shoulders in the weapons department. But the Blacksmith has been working overtime sharpening and making new swords, daggers, and axes. Without Danny’s help, the work is slow going. The blacksmith apprentices have never had to work under the pressure that they are currently experiencing. Unfortunately, not all can withstand the test, painstakingly slowing down the process when they crack.

I feel useless, unable to put my hand to anything, but too many questions and things happening at once require my attention. I walk through the streets as I tighten the furs around my bandaged shoulders, shielding them against the brisk breeze. I have to make sure everyone is breaking their backs and getting things done, but it does not sit well with me. Not to mention, it is way more mentally exhausting than I thought it would be.

Answering questions is becoming tiresome, and I long for the monotony of following orders without thought. It may not give my weary body a break, but it would at least give my overworked brain a much-needed reprieve. I sigh as someone calls my name once again and turn to face yet another onslaught of problems I have to figure out how to fix.

Would it be worth it to pray for a bit of rain? If it rains hard enough, we will have no choice but to retreat inside.

Ask, and you shall receive—my mother’s voice echoes in my mind, a faint memory. I fear I will soon forget what she sounded like, but she had to have told me that saying at least once a week, if not more, while she was alive. My mother was a woman of faith who believed in the impossible being possible, but my selfishness will not do us any good. So I refrain from trying to will thunder clouds into existence with my mind.

We don’t need any more setbacks, and I don’t believe in that mess anyway.