A Tribute at the Gates Read online

  The spot adjacent to the Master’s House was filled by a small stable, home to several mules and carriages for transporting crops. Storerooms for food, tools and clothing sat in a row next to that, each given their own modest building. Supplies were closely guarded and rationed out by task, accordant to the master’s will.

  Next to the storerooms was the woodworker’s shop, tasked with repairing the necessary farming equipment and furnishing the community’s crude cups and eating utensils. The final building was home to the blacksmith. The inadequate tools provided to the tributes to accomplish their tasks were in constant need of repair, and the inferior quality metal ore provided to the poorly-trained blacksmith never held up long.

  Cadsae was quiet as Ryl approached, the steady pounding of hammer on iron having ceased for the night. Passing the smithy on the right, he noted three shapes detach themselves from the shadows, seeming to materialize out of thin air from under the overhang.

  “Cutting it close tonight, eh, herd?” The unmistakable voice of Master Delsith cut through the darkness like a knife.

  Herd, the choice insult from guards toward tributes.

  “Here to welcome the newest tribute to the flock?” hissed the master, antipathy and disdain coating the words like a venomous shroud. Ryl stopped as was protocol when speaking to the master, dreading the upcoming conversation.

  There were fortunately minimal interactions between guards and tributes. The tributes dealt with the master on matters regarding labor assignments, the Mender for injuries, illnesses and for their weekly treatment and a small group of guards for food rations, tools and clothing. One sub-master oversaw the tributes and the tasks at Tabenville, the furthest settlement from Cadsae, nestled at the base of the Haven Mountains.

  This isn't to say interactions between the patrolling guards and the tributes never occurred. Tributes were subjected to daily verbal abuse at the hands of virtually all their captors. Mild physical altercations happened with alarming frequency, typically falsely justified by a report that the tribute had been found in violation of curfew or another unwritten rule. Beatings were swift and didn’t often cause permanent damage.

  Tributes, while herded like animals, verbally and psychologically abused at the hands of their masters and guards, were still a valuable crop. The privileged few having paid handsomely to sponsor their tribute typically had staff employed within the guards keeping a watchful eye on their most expensive assets. The death of a tribute through anything other than incurable natural causes was always followed by swift investigations and harsh political, financial and physical punishments.

  Harsh. A subjective word when discussing punishments in comparison to the life of a tribute.

  “Yes. Apologies, Master, sir.” Ryl did his best to sound sincere. “I finished late and wanted to return as soon as possible for my next assignment.”

  There was a shred of truth to this statement. Ryl preferred assignments that took him from Cadsae. He enjoyed the relative freedom of living in the small work camps. Farther from the master.

  Master Delsith was, by all accounts, a typical Master. Drunk on power over his fellow men, cruel, and not here by his own choosing. Rarely did anyone choose to be assigned inside The Stocks. Masters, like the guards were sentenced to The Stocks to serve time as punishment for their various crimes. Their loathing contempt was taken out vehemently on their current charges.

  “Why don’t you go crawl back to your own now,” Delsith sneered to the enjoyment of the guards following a few paces behind. “And be sure you’re in for assignment at first light tomorrow.”

  “Of course, Master.” Ryl forced a pathetically weak smile.

  Master Delsith made no attempt to step around Ryl as he continued on his patrols, planting his shoulder squarely into Ryl’s chest just above his heart. The blow caught Ryl off guard, the force spinning him back on his heels in a half-circle. The first of the trailing guards caught Ryl across the back of the legs just above the knees with his standard issue, thin ironwood baton, buckling his legs. The second guard, holding the baton by both ends slammed it into the back of Ryl's shoulders sending him sprawling to the hard-packed dirt road, scraping the side of his face as it grated along the ground.

  “Watch where you’re walking. Clumsy herd,” the second guard laughed, reaching his baton out to strike the first guard’s extended baton in a mocking salute.

  The battle raged on inside Ryl. As his blood began to boil, he felt an almost uncontrollable rage brewing inside. One side fought to strike an unexpected blow from behind against the second guard, to cause as much damage as he could before being beaten senseless. The second, thankfully stronger, urged restraint.

  In the end, Ryl merely sighed a deep sigh and rose to his feet, brushing himself off as he continued on toward the common house.

  4

  There was a small fire burning in the common house when Ryl entered, a thin smoky haze hanging just below the ceiling. A gathering of tributes loosely huddled around a young boy, talking quietly among themselves in groups. Others patiently waiting as the boy sobbed uncontrollably into one of the tribute’s compassionate shoulders. The feeling of welcome washed over him as he made his way closer to the group, as if the benevolence and understanding were being exuded from their very cores.

  Several heads turned, acknowledging Ryl’s mournful smile with a quick nod of their heads as he made his way across the common room toward the ragged group. Leaving the others, one man approached, meeting Ryl ahead of the gathering.

  “Hello Odus,” Ryl greeted warmly, shaking hands with his friend. Odus’ powerful grip bordered on uncomfortable as it squeezed the knuckles together. Odus, H1353.

  “Ryl. It’s getting late, didn’t know if we’d be seeing you tonight,” his friend said. Then pointing to the side of his face with a half-smile, he added, “You stop and say hi to the master before coming here?”

  Ryl gingerly put a hand to his forehead, happily finding no blood. No alexen.

  “Same conversation as always. Must look worse than it is,” Ryl said with a smile. “How’s this one holding up?”

  “Much the same as you can expect. Guards caught up with him and his family a week after the Deliverance.” Odus’ words trailed off. He knew Ryl well enough to catch the sudden look of hatred that darted across Ryl’s eyes.

  “Sorry, Ryl,” Odus said, putting a hand on Ryl’s shoulder, giving it a brief squeeze.

  Ryl shrugged, acknowledging and shaking off any hard feelings. He couldn’t rightly hold his friend to blame for his family’s betrayal.

  “This one’s a tough little bastard,” Odus quipped. “Killed one of the guards trying to reel him in. Ended up with quite the scar to prove it. Had him laid up for nearly a moon before they could send him here.”

  Ryl’s eyes lit up with a sudden fire. Now that was a new twist to the usual tragic story. In his eight cycles in The Stocks, he’d never heard of a tribute killing a guard or one of the hunters sent to collect them.

  “Has he met Sarial yet?” Ryl asked, anxious to meet this new tribute.

  “Yeah, he’s with the Gran now.”

  Sarial, H1365.

  Sarial was lovingly known by her fellow tributes as the Gran. Having been in The Stocks for cycles before Ryl arrived, she was the adopted grandmother to all that arrived. She would still be here for twelve long cycles after Ryl's Harvest.

  A tribute’s Harvest date was determined during the ascertaining testing. Based on the volume of alexen in the blood, a date of optimal saturation was determined. Alexen would build up in a tribute’s system steadily until reaching a maximum point of saturation. After that, the levels would slowly decrease. Harvesting a tribute at that point resulted in the highest potency when the blood was converted into elixir.

  The lower the level of alexen at testing, the longer it would take for the tribute to reach saturation. Extremely low levels of alexen, as in Sarial's case, resulted in an extended time before reaching optimal saturation. The standard lengt
h of growth, as most tributes were brought in as children, was between fifteen to twenty cycles.

  While not known to affect the rate of saturation, the nature of the alexen was also either determined to be active or passive. The determining factor for this was time. The nature was judged on a scale based upon the speed of reaction when mixed with a specific reagent. Reactions occurring after four hours were considered to be passive, while anything under was considered active. To have an active alexen was exceptionally rare, virtually unheard of.

  Ryl thought back to the results of his test he’d overheard from the guard.

  Under fifteen minutes. That number couldn’t possibly be accurate.

  No one knew what caused the blood of the ancients. Occurrences were rare, occurring once every several thousand tested, or less. Nor did it follow along family blood lines, or discriminate between the sexes. The age of eight was the earliest age a child would show alexen, the telltale sign of their cursed blood. Discovering and securing the tribute as early as possible helped to mitigate the risks in the process.

  Truth about the blood of the ancients and the dire import of the seemingly mundane test were generally hidden from the child. Time and continued education allowed for a significant increase in understanding the process they were to undertake.

  Although remote, there remained a lingering concern that following the report of discovery, the tribute would stand the risk of kidnap. A nominal threat, yet taken with grave import. Other kingdoms or jealous lords were the prime concern. Delaying the acquisition additionally increased the risk of damage to the tribute, or guards, as the child matured in age and strength. The weeping child enveloped in Sarial’s comforting arms proved to be an exception.

  Ryl clapped his friend on the shoulder and continued on toward the group, recognizing all, knowing the names and numbers of most. Laj, H1350, ready for the next cycle’s Harvest, Rikel, H1354, Zed, H1352, the gentle giant and the current improperly trained blacksmith of The Stocks, and Cray, H1361, a quiet, young face and story he recognized. Another child abandoned by his parents, whose love was only conditional. The last of the group was young Elora, H1360. Elora, having only been in The Stocks for three cycles, at the age of eleven had proven compassionate well beyond her age. Far more mature than any child should have to be.

  Nodding to greet each of them in turn, Ryl moved through the small group approaching Sarial and The Stocks’ newest charge. The young boy, body having expended all of its tears, now whimpered quietly, body shaking with each exaggerated exhale. Sarial and the boy sat together in a chair, close to the warmth of the quietly crackling fire. She looked up as he advanced, her sweet, motherly voice continuing its hushed comfort, calling Ryl in closer, with a warm smile and a gentle wave of her hand.

  At nearly thirty cycles of age, Sarial was the eldest of the tributes. Now in the prime of her life, her inherent beauty was accentuated by her kindness and beneficent personality. She was a tall woman, taller than most of the boys and young men in The Stocks. Her long brown hair framed her kind face. High cheekbones seemed to pull her mouth into a perpetual smile. Her brown eyes, that had witnessed so much sorrow, still radiated a thoughtful serenity. Her naturally lithe figure was too thin from the meager rations they were given. Ragged clothes, however, could do nothing to diminish her inherent beauty.

  Sarial has been the third-born daughter of the head of House Deraly. Her father was a provincial lord, holding court over the province of Northwatch far to the north on the northern tip of the Haven Mountains that represented the opposite end of the same range that enclosed the northern end of The Stocks. From there, the mountains traveled for over one thousand miles to the north to where their vertical cliffs met the Frozen Sea.

  As the mountainous terrain of her ancestral home produced nearly one quarter of the kingdom’s supply of gold, her father was granted the privilege of attending the Deliverance and given first right of refusal over his daughter’s sponsorship.

  For the noble Lord Deraly, the decision was a simple one. Knowing her abnormally low alexen count would require a much longer time to reach peak saturation, her sponsorship was bartered to another, younger lord, thus allowing her father to enjoy the benefits of a Harvest many cycles earlier than hers would have allowed. It was an investment in his personal life, his riches, his power and the long-term standing of his house as a whole.

  Sarial was no longer a princess. Her political value now lay in her blood, no longer through marriage. She had been a young princess, learning etiquette of the court until her ascertaining. Her life was supposed to have led to marriage, through love or politics to an heir to another house. Now, she was an insurance policy, an extension of the father’s thirst for boundless power.

  A tribute.

  “Look up, Aelin, dear,” Sarial whispered to the boy in her arms as Ryl knelt down before the two of them. “There’s someone here I’d like you to meet.”

  The young boy slowly turned his head, wiping a sleeve across his running nose and eyes, careful to avoid the long red wound running down the right side of his face. Starting just above his hairline and extending vertically down off his chin, the wound had been roughly sutured. Now red and still intensely painful, it at last appeared to be beginning the slow healing process. Unknown to Ryl at the time, that same wound continued on, cutting diagonally down from his the center of his upper chest to his left hip. Had he not been turning his head when slashed with the offending blade, his head would have been cleaved in two.

  Ryl gave the boy an appreciative nod.

  “Hello young Aelin, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” Ryl said, offering his hand. Aelin reached out tentatively, his small fingers grasping ahold. Ryl was taken back by the strength contained within the young man’s hand. Doing his best to make Aelin smile, he pulled his hand back, using his best exaggerated theatrics.

  “Ouch! Be gentle,” Ryl fell back to a seated position, cradling his hand like it was injured. “Haven’t they told you how sensitive I am?”

  Aelin, smiled, and a small chuckle, barely loud enough to be audible, escaped from somewhere deep inside.

  “Good, that’s a good start,” Ryl said.

  Ryl took a breath, composing himself before starting his next statement. His mind flashed back to the fateful night of his arrival over eight cycles ago. The next words, Ryl could recite verbatim. They’d been offered to him his first night in The Stocks, a lost, terrified, broken child, scared, mad and confused all at the same time. This was Elias’ job.

  Now it was his.

  5

  Ryl lay on the rough, wooden floor of the carriage, curled into the fetal position staring blankly at nothing in particular. It had been nearly a moon since he had been torn away from the childhood he knew, his new home a sweltering carriage bouncing over the uneven road. Aside from the barely edible food that was carelessly shoved through the small sliding opening at the bottom of the door, Ryl had no interaction with the outside world.

  After the first week, he’d given up trying to scratch, claw or kick his way to freedom. His fingernails were broken, his hands nearly raw. He had given up screaming for help, or politely asking for answers. His voice had given out without garnering a response. The walls of his moving prison still proved too sturdy for the child's hands to break through.

  After that point, his mind and body had gone numb. The days slipped by in a blur. The daylight hours were spent watching the world slip away behind him through the metal bars of the doors small window. The carriage would stop most nights, giving a brief respite from the grueling travel. The hours of darkness, however, where trapped in a torturous state between fitful sleep and the terrors of his mind.

  This had to be a mistake. His family would never do this to him.

  But they had.

  In truth, Ryl still didn’t understand what was happening or why. The uncertainty terrified him.

  The bandage that had been wrapped over his brands had become useless after the first week. Being soaked with blood, dr
ied and the soaked again had transformed the originally coarse fabric into sandpaper, aggravating the stinging brands. Now exposed, the air was a relief, although as it healed and began to scab over Ryl had to consciously resist the persistent desire to scratch at it. He would have given anything to be able to scrape the marks off entirely, removing all proof of the number or design on the opposite side. His number.

  H1351+

  The carriage had passed through several small villages, never stopping for long. The people he’d seen had given them an extremely wide berth, faces frozen in looks of disgust. The balance of the time, Ryl watched the wilderness pass by in wonder.

  If not for the dreadful circumstances, he would have enjoyed the journey. The new sights, smells, and experiences would have been exhilarating. Now, they merely served as a mild distraction for his severely tortured mind.

  Early one morning, just over a moon into the agonizing expedition, Ryl was awoken from his brief tormented slumber by a new sensation. After leaving Pernell, the carriage had, up until this point, been traveling on what appeared to be and felt like hard-packed dirt roads. The large wooden wheels of the carriage now skipped over evenly spaced cobblestone, producing a distinct cadence. Ryl dragged himself to his feet as quickly as his malnourished body would allow, peering out the window at the sight that met his young eyes.

  To the left of the road was a veritable mountain of a city. Houses made of wood and stone seemed to rise from the ground, towering high enough to block out the sun. To the right, however, was a sight Ryl had only imagined in his dreams, the sea. As far as his eyes could view, the world was covered in a slowly undulating blanket of blue, sparkling as it reflected the light of the late afternoon sun. Light blue-green water of the Sea of Prosper calmly lapped against the raised stone wall of the shore, while further out the colors morphed into a deeper blue before being lost over the horizon.