Roar (Stormheart #1)(76)
Sacred Soul communities differed widely in their degree of devotion and the severity of their traditions. It certainly could have been worse. While a nuisance, it wasn’t a great hardship to offer a few drops of blood every morning. And a token of sacrifice only needed to be something of importance, something used well and often that the person offering would miss. But in some places, a token was not enough, and much greater sacrifices were required. Ransom left his hometown after his childhood sweetheart was offered up as a sacrifice, and he’d met Duke less than a year later in Odilar. Locke knew his friend wouldn’t take well to this town, no matter how mild their customs.
Ransom ran a hand over his mouth, scratching what was left of his beard in agitation before replying, “Fine.”
Locke gave everyone a moment to decide what they would offer and fetch it if need be. All scattered except Roar. She glanced behind him at the altar with fascination and a healthy dose of fear. “I don’t know what to offer,” she told him. “Nothing I have is particularly valuable.” She clutched at something beneath her shirt, a necklace he guessed. “Nothing that I can part with anyway.”
“It’s not about the value of the object, but the value of the sacrifice. To these people, the storms are gods. Not the kind you pray to or the kind who grant miracles or comfort. They are like the gods of old who were a race all their own. Immortal and proud and unpredictable … and prone to cruelty. Like a child crushing a bug beneath his heels because he can. Followers of the Sacred Souls believe if they willingly sacrifice to the storms, they’re less likely to tempt their wrath.”
Locke didn’t loathe religion the way Ransom did, but he’d been a hunter long enough to see that storms cared nothing for trinkets or blood. But this town believed, and it had helped them survive without a Stormling this long. So he would do what he must.
In the end, Locke, Roar, and Bait chose blood, while Ransom, Jinx, and Sly chose tokens. He led the way over to the altar where Minister Vareeth and two others waited. The dark-skinned man was walking away with Duke, and Locke guessed he was the owner of the inn.
Sly volunteered to go first. She wasn’t technically a Sacred Soul follower. Her beliefs dated further back than the customs followed here, but it was close enough. She pulled back her hood, revealing the dark curls that were cut close to her scalp. Sly favored simplicity, another inclination from her childhood, so she didn’t keep much with her on the road. She walked up next to the minister, and then removed the shoes from her feet. She had others, he knew, but they were old and worn, and she had replaced them just weeks ago in Pavan.
She held her new shoes in her hands, and the minister smiled, approving her choice.
“Repeat after me,” Vareeth said. “We call to the heavens, to the Sacred Skies.”
Sly glanced briefly back at Roar, then at Locke, before repeating the words the minister spoke.
“We call to the souls ancient and wise. We humble ourselves before your strength. We beseech you for your mercy. We honor your power and control.”
The minister gestured for her to place her shoes upon the altar where dozens of other items already lay. Like most Storm altars, it was made from a mineral. This one was a glassy black crystal, cut through with brownish-red stone and sediment. Locke guessed it was fulgurite, which formed when skyfire met sand, cut to form a raised circular altar. Sly set her shoes down carefully and repeated the last of the minister’s chant.
“We offer a sacrifice to you in hopes you find it worthy and true.” When she was finished, the minister ran his thumb vertically from the bridge of her nose to the top of her forehead, where the Sacred Soul followers often wore painted markings in their more formal ceremonies.
“May the Storms grant you mercy and peace. Welcome to Toleme.”
Sly took the blessing in silence, and then stepped aside for the next in their group. No one immediately came forward, so Locke pulled a blade from a holster at his hip and took his turn. He repeated the same invocation, then before the last lines, pricked his thumb with the tip of his knife and let the blood drip onto the black stone as he said the final words. He pulled a kerchief from his pocket to stop the blood and stood patiently as the minister gave him the same blessing. When he backed away, his eyes shifted to meet Roar’s wide-eyed gaze. He watched her observe the others, as one by one they made their offerings. Ransom gave a knife, and Jinx one of the many rings decorating her fingers. Then finally, Bait spilled his drops of blood, and it was Roar’s turn.
She squared her shoulders, set her jaw, and stepped up to the altar. He saw her hand shake as she reached back to pull a knife from the harness at her back. Her pale skin had gone ashen, and she looked … nervous. She usually did her best to hide all her emotions but anger, but now, it was as if she couldn’t.
It only took a second for him to decide, and he turned to the minister. “Father, if I may, can I stay with her? She is new to our party, and this is well beyond the scope of her experience.”
It was a testament to her anxiety that Roar didn’t even argue when he removed the knife from her grip. He took her shaking hand in his as the minister began to speak.
*
Roar felt so ashamed, so embarrassed, but not even those emotions could push out the one that crowded in her chest and made it hard to take a full breath. Worse, she couldn’t even give the emotion a name. She only knew that as each of her companions had recited the words, calling out to the heavens, she had grown more and more uncomfortable, like a heavy weight pressed down on her shoulders. She was not afraid of a tiny prick of a knife when she had willingly taken a blade to her arm not so long ago. But some bone-deep instinct whispered of danger here.