Page 62 of Anathema

I wanted to charge forth and save her, but the Vonkovyan soldiers stood between the two of us, and without some sort of weapon, I’d be useless to defend her.

Instead, I kept my gaze turned from her, to collect myself, because it was up to me to figure this out. On the fringes of the crowd, I caught sight of The Crone Witch leaning into her cane, the hood of her cloak pulled up over her head. She tipped her chin up, and I followed the path of her gaze to find the bright, full moon overhead. Full moons on the night of the winter solstice were said to be rare.

An omen. A sign the villagers would see as justification for their cruelty.

I had to think logically. Wise. Haste would doom my sister and me.

“My fellow parishioners,” Sacton Crain lifted his hands up. “On this eve of the winter solstice we bear witness to a most egregious crime against our beloved god. This young woman stands accused of fornicating with her uncle and sprouting the seed of this terrible iniquity. For, inside her belly lived the unholy beast, but by the Red God’s grace, it has been destroyed!”

It was then I noticed the dried blood at her thighs that, in the dim light, I hadn’t noticed before, and tears welled in my eyes as I choked back the urge to cry. Instead, I lifted my gaze to Aleysia, and where the spark of rebellion had once shined, nothing but a dull resignation remained.

No. I would not let them turn her into the monster. Not when I stood amongst so many of them in the crowd. Those who’d committed crimes far worse. Like Moros, and his repulsive collection.

“But she is not alone in this sin,” Sacton Crain kept on, inciting a collective gasp from the crowd, and I listened intently to see if he’d dare to accuse Uncle Riftyn. “For the man who planted the seed is as much to blame!”

I scanned over the parishioners to find Agatha, Lolla, and Uncle Riftyn standing at the back. Even in the darkness, I could see Agatha’s eyes widen with fear. Uncle Riftyn shook his head, backing up a step, but two brawny parishioners took hold of his arms.

“Tonight, we will bear witness to two banishings!” the governor announced from where he stood alongside Sacton Crain, while the men hauled Uncle Riftyn past me, toward the front of the crowd.

In one hard shove, they threw him to the ground before Aleysia, who stood trembling, undoubtedly chilled to the bone. Uncle Riftyn jumped to his feet and charged back toward the crowd. The Vonkovyan soldiers stepped in front of him, one of them knocking him backward.

“This good community has no tolerance for depravity and sexual perversion. Your bones, flesh, and blood will cleanse us of this offense!” Sacton Crain pointed to both of them, his teeth bared like a rabid dog ready to tear into them.

The soldiers prodded the two of them toward that dreaded archway.

Aleysia screamed, the sound rippling through my muscles like a battle cry.

Do something!

To my left, one of the parishioners stood holding a torch that blazed and wavered against the frigid wind. My mind swirled in chaos, my senses slipping into the depths of rage.

Without a lick of a plan, I reached for her torch, knocking embers onto her dress. She tugged for it, and in the struggle, it slipped just enough to catch on her cloak.

A hand gripped my arm, and I spun around to Moros, holding the flaming torch between us. The hood of my cloak fell back as I swiped out at him, and he jumped back a step. A Vonkovyan soldier took hold of my hood, yanking me backward, and I spun around, the fire catching on the cloth of his tunic.

He let out a cry and released me, frantically patting at the growing flame.

Another soldier lurched, but I swiped the torch at him and backed myself toward Aleysia and Uncle Riftyn.

Bayonet lifted and aimed at me, he prodded forward, and I found myself trapped between the crowd and the archway.

“Witch!” someone from the crowd shouted, and my blood turned to ice.

A hard object struck my hip on a blast of bruising pain, and I looked down to see a rock had been thrown at me. Another struck my arm.

“Witch!” another voice screeched.

Aleysia cried out, and I turned to see one had struck the side of her head, the blood trickling down her temple.

“Witch! Witch! Witch!” The crowd chanted in unison as they lurched forward, The Eating Woods at our backs.

An unbidden memory flashed through my mind out of nowhere. The dream I’d had of Danyra. The symbol on her hand that I saw clearly in my head–the intersecting lines.

One parishioner rushed toward the three of us, a pickaxe drawn back.

A rush of heat and adrenaline charged through me. As he neared, I threw out my hand on instinct, and a loud clattering sent me jumping back on a shocked breath. The man with the axe skidded to a halt. On the ground between us lay a pile of off-white and ivory-colored objects stained with rot and decay. Bones. Some splintered. Others were so intact, I could make out a long stretch of vertebrae.

Spine.

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