Chapter 63
In his tiny cell with walls of packed earth, Abass could hear the drums. At first, he thought he imagined them, so distant that he mistook them for the pounding of his pulse. Regular, but dissonant, and too loud, until the muted thumping became part of his existence, a second heartbeat, the pulse of the black, cold dirt that surrounded him on every side and drew the heat of life from him.
The drums marked the beginning of this High Harvest.
It was a simple affair, really. When the drums sounded, the harvest-masters would begin a frenzy of street harvests, surrounded by mobs of the excited and, more frequently, the fearful. Blood would soak the dark soil, sanctifying the city for the god-made-flesh, a plea for him to look upon them once again, bless them again.
The first few days of street harvests were the worst; at some point, when his people were worthy and ready, the tair would emerge from his temple, the sacrificial blade—the disi—in hand. Then the true harvest began. He would sacrifice one man and one woman in the outer court, on the great altar, and the ritual would be met by screams of adulation. Then the tair would return to the temple to begin the weeklong harvest within the walls, pouring out their lives on the altar in the inner court.
Abass had only seen one High Harvest, when he was eight. He had watched, blood pounding in his ears, the ecstasy of the harvest upon him. Different people felt it different ways. For some, it was the madness of the street harvest. The most passionate of those became harvest-masters, roaming the streets, men and women in search of a pleasure that only harvests could bring—like rengi addicts, only worse. A man thirsting for rengi would kill for money, but someone addicted to the harvest killed for the experience.
For others, the High Harvest brought insatiable lust, or implacable anger. Other simply moved with restless energy, unable to sleep or rest for the week of the harvest. When those days were over, though, and the week of the High Harvest ended, men and women returned to themselves—except for those who had become addicted to the pleasure of the harvest.
The drums marked the beginning of the High Harvest. Silence marked the end. Abass did not know how long the drums had been going. Time had no meaning. The darkness of the cell was broken only by the steady, yellow light through the grate in the metal door. Food came occasionally, and water. It was worse than the pits. There, at least, he had had company, as mad as it was. There, he had had hope. Hope of escaping. Hope of saving Isola.
Those hopes were dead now. Isola was dead now, or as good as dead. The harvests had begun. Abass had been betrayed and, it seemed, so had Maq. The former tun-esis had dreamed of killing his own god; to judge by the drums, Maq had failed. Or perhaps Maq had been the traitor all along. Or Eyl. Or Fadhra.
But no. Serhan seemed the most likely one. The murderous, one-eyed man who frightened even Fadhra. Maq and Eyl had hated the tair, had planned its downfall. Fadhra wanted only revenge. Serhan—it was impossible for it not to be Serhan.
Abass shook his head. He had thought the same about each of the others. He had thought the same of Qatal. It seemed that, in addition to a propensity for putting the people he loved in danger, Abass’s other great failing was being a terrible judge of character. The darkness of the cell bred madness in him, circling thoughts of suspicion and doubt, until he realized he could trust no one to save him, and certainly no one to save Isola.
Instead of trying to escape, though, he plunged deeper into despair. He ate and drank, but only because the numbness of despair inhibited any planning—even starvation and death seemed too far away to be worth considering. So he lay, cold earth rough against him, his wounds half-closed.
They had taken his pouch of dew, and the brachal was cold and uncomfortable against his upper arm. The dew that had remained inside him after being captured had coiled deep within ever since they arrived at the cell. There was salt near him, or perhaps that strange fire. It made no difference; even with dew in him, Abass would not have done anything differently. Despair held him to the floor as certainly as the chains.
Something sounded outside the door. Raised voices that cut off abruptly, and then only the sound of drums and his own heartbeat.
A key clicked in the lock. The metal door swung open, spilling bright yellow light across Abass. He blinked in spite of himself, squinting his eyes against the sudden illumination, and trying to see. Someone to take him to the harvest? Or someone to free him?
Tears filled his eyes, but he forced them open. Someone small and slender against the darkness, coming closer.
Fadhra. He recognized those beautiful, deep-dark eyes. Red-rimmed eyes, now. She knelt next to him and coughed lightly, then bit her lip.
Looking into her eyes, he saw it then. The guilt. The self-loathing. He would recognize them anywhere; Abass had carried them with him for too many years. She was the one.
Fadhra had betrayed him.
He turned away from her, grateful for the darkness on the other side of the cell, for the cool, moist earth against his cheek and lips, bitter as grief.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, her voice breaking.