Free Sword of Shadows by Karin Rita Gastreich Page A

mother had died, where Rishona had first smelled the raw and unforgiving earth. She had forced herself out of Tamara’s dying womb, refusing to follow her mother into the Afterlife. She remembered that day, the shouts and anger, the sound of metal ripping through flesh. The void of loss into which her life had been thrust.
    Trees towered over them, their immense shadows shifting in the deepening twilight. Wind whispered through dense branches. The past wrapped around Rishona’s senses.
    She heard her mother’s cries, felt Tamara’s terror and agony. Beyond the din of men locked in battle, Rishona heard the desperate squall of a newborn child. The salty taste of fresh blood and bitter afterbirth settled upon her tongue. She knelt, gathered the earth in her hands, and pressed the soft loam against her face. Then she wept long and hard for the betrayal and murder of her parents.
    When at last her sobs faded, Rishona returned the tear-drenched earth to its place. She stood and commanded the priestess Donatya to bring the tools of sacrifice.
    Using traditional herbs of Moisehén, they marked four cardinal points at twelve paces from where Tamara had perished and Rishona was born. Branches of dried mara’luni were intermixed with these, yielding an eight-point circle. As Rishona and Donatya poured wine and oil along the rim, Mechnes placed his guards around the periphery.
    Much good they will do, if this does not go well.
    Rishona closed her eyes, felt her heart beating inside the silence of the night. She had called these beasts once before, but never like this. Never to the surface. Did she have the strength to contain them? Did she truly understand what they were about to unleash? It did not matter. There was no turning back now.
    She took a place at the center of the circle and began to chant, calling upon all the Gods of the Syrnte, ancient and young, forgotten and remembered. Extending her hands extended toward the earth, she let threads of her spirit reach the void below. At the same time, she lifted her face to the heavens to draw upon the vast powers of the night sky.
    Make me one with the goddesses of old. Give their power to me.
    At the edge of the circle, Donatya drew back the curtain of the litter and helped Merina out. The servant cradled a white owl at her chest. Her eyes were unfocused, and she hummed an absent tune. She walked on unsteady feet, supported at the elbow by Donatya’s gentle touch, and knelt before Rishona.    
    Donatya had counseled against having Merina drugged, claiming that terror was the greatest source of sacrificial magic. But Merina had served Rishona long and faithfully, and the San’iloman could not deny her this one mercy.
    Rishona took the owl from Merina. She calmed its fluttering wings, stroked the soft feathers, and kissed the miniature head. Pressing its shivering body over her heart, Rishona accepted the obsidian blade from Donatya.
    The San’iloman closed her eyes. Beneath her bare feet, the earth trembled. An agonized howl touched her soul, the desperate hunger of beasts forever condemned.
    “Come then,” she whispered. “Return to the light.”
    In a single motion, Rishona released the owl and swept the knife forward. Merina looked up as the bird fluttered away. At first, she did not notice the gash left by her mistress’s blade. Then a gurgling gasp escaped her lips. Merina’s hands flew to her throat and found a pulsing river of blood.
    Rishona’s heart constricted, but only for a moment. She took hold of the servant and held her close.
    “Sweet Merina,” she murmured. “This had to be done. Today the Gods will write your name in the books of the immortals, for you have made a great sacrifice for the glory of the Syrnte and the people of Moisehén.”
    Merina’s blood spilled dark over Rishona’s ivory dress. She beat helplessly against the firm hold of the San’iloman, squirming like a rabbit ensnared, passing one hand over her throat in desperate, rapid