Blackveil

“It’s ... it’s a curse,” Sarat said between sobs. “Someone is cursing us.”

Grandmother did not think so. The first pile had been left outside their cave, a great heap of innards that must have come from more than one creature. Days later they’d found another fresh pile in the center of the road they followed, Way of the Moon. This was the third they’d encountered, pink and bloody and glossy in the damp of the forest environs.

“I think,” Grandmother said, “these are offerings.”

“Offerings?” Cole asked in surprise.

“Yes. We have been watched since not long after we entered Way of the Moon.”

Her people darted anxious looks into the forest around them and huddled a little closer together. Lala, though, remained unconcerned, winding a length of intestine around her stick.

“Thought so,” Deglin said with a darkening expression. “I thought we were being followed.”

“It’ll be our guts on the road next!” Sarat wailed.

“I do not think we need to fear the Watchers,” Grandmother replied, hoping her calm, steady voice would prevent Sarat from lapsing into outright hysterics. Her people were correct to fear the forest, but she could not allow that fear to overcome them. “I believe the offerings to be a sign of respect from those who watch. They are primitive creatures with a certain amount of intelligence, and they find power in such things. They are honoring us.”

“Or warning us,” Deglin rumbled.

“I think not,” Grandmother said, “but it may be we have been rude, not acknowledging the gifts as we should. Even primitive creatures expect some acknowledgment in return.”

She thought it over for some moments, ignoring Sarat’s sobbing and the terrible damp that made her old bones ache. She still wasn’t entirely recovered from the spider bite and every day they trudged along Way of the Moon was torture to her body. The men carried her pack, and Lala took up the basket of yarn to relieve her of even that minor burden. Every step confirmed Grandmother’s growing conviction that she would never again walk in the world outside. Only her love of the empire and her people kept her setting one foot in front of the other, as well as her desire to please God, who commanded her to awaken the Sleepers. She would not rest until she accomplished her task.

As she gazed at the entrails at her feet, she realized they presented an opportunity, an opportunity to not only impress the Watchers, but to use the innate potency of their gift for her own purposes. Using the blood and organs of what once had been living creatures always enhanced the art. Necromancy, some called it, as if it were a bad thing. When cast appropriately, necromantic art proved particularly powerful.

Human remains and blood worked best, but the gift from the Watchers should serve well enough. She wondered how the infusion of the forest’s etherea on these remains would affect the outcome of her spell. It could prove risky, but this whole endeavor was full of risks. What was one more? The possible benefits outweighed the danger.

“I need a good hot fire,” she announced.

Her retainers glanced uncertainly at one another.

“We gonna eat that?” Griz asked, pointing at the entrails.

Grandmother smiled at his expression of distaste. “No, my son. We’re going to burn it. That is why I need a hot fire. Hot and big.” She then knelt down beside Lala. “Child, I would like you to help me.”

Lala had picked out a carrion beetle from the pile, a nasty, large thing with pincers, and dropped it to pay close attention to her grandmother. Grandmother knew that if they did not do something with the entrails soon, larger and nastier creatures would arrive, attracted by the scent of an easy meal.

“Would you like to make the fire pretty?” Grandmother asked.

Lala nodded.

“Good. You know the knots. You will make the fire pretty to impress the Watchers.”

Lala nodded again looking very serious and determined. The pair of them picked through the yarn basket for the skeins they wanted.

It was not easy building a bonfire in that wet place. Much of the dead and fallen wood they tried to collect crumbled in their hands from decay, and it harbored stinging insects. Eventually they assembled enough wood to create a good-sized mound and the men took on the unpleasant task of placing the entrails atop it.

Deglin was an adept fire maker, but the wet stuff allowed only a few pitiful smoldering flames. Grandmother needed something far more impressive and hot, so after warning the others to stand clear in case the forest warped her spell, she cast a clump of knotted yarn into the flames.

The fire surged up the mound of wood in an inferno so intense that she had to retreat several steps. The forest seemed to bend away from the blaze in dismay, and there was much scurrying and rattling of branches and underbrush as creatures fled the area. The entrails snapped and popped as they burned in the fire.

Grandmother laughed. She’d wanted a hot fire and she got one. It would certainly make an impression on the Watchers, and they would not doubt her power. She gestured to Lala to add her knots.

“Go carefully, child, do not burn yourself.”

Lala approached the fire without fear and tossed her knots into it. Immediately color saturated the flames—cool blues and purples, verdant green, angry red. Shapes formed among the individual flames, people and animals. Grandmother saw a pony and she thought Lala must miss the one she had to abandon on the other side of the wall. Sparks turned to birds that flew into the canopy. A butterfly flittered over Grandmother’s head.