Page 16 of Where Darkness Dwells

“Tonight, we offer the blood of a sola as a tribute to the mighty kaligorven that jealously guard this land.” He raises the ceremonious spear and shouts, “Habith ténesomni eth noér lurum.”

No one below the age of sixteen knows what the phrase means, but that’s one thing I can recall.Dwelling in darkness is our good.The words feel heavy on my tongue as I echo them with the voice of thousands.

As if it awaited a proper introduction, a wind picks up and moans through the forest beyond, bending and snapping trees like twigs as it draws near. A collective gasp echoes around the clearing. All become mute, save the frightened children who mewl into the night.

I strain to see beyond the blinding sola blood and the towering flames, my abdomen tensing. I can’t make out anything, but I sense a malignant force. It is very close. It presses in on me from all sides, harder and harder as the approaching gale grows to a deafening volume. Pulsing like a wound, the blackness constricts forcefully. I might pass out. Either the dark really is so thick even the sola blood is being blotted from sight, or my vision is failing.

My chest heaves as I breathe through the terror, willing it not to crush me. Sweat soaks the ceremonial garment, and I think of my youngest brothers at my side. Are they as affected as me? I shoot out a hand to locate Shemai, the baby of the family, feel his scratchy cloak, and attempt to tug him closer.

“Lay off, Belwyn,” the nine-year-old says irritably, following it with a forceful shove. I can’t see him, but from the sound of his voice, Shemai is anything but afraid. I press against the bridge of my nose with my knuckles and try to focus on breathing. I am supposed to be the brave older brother. It is for me to be annoyed by my sibling’s babyishness, not the other way around.

What is wrong with me?

The wind-racket ceases as a new sound emerges. It is low, guttural, almost animal in tone. Yet also rhythmic, like great footfalls or drums. Thrumming, it keeps beat with my pulse, one beat for every three of mine. I feel it pull, drawing my mind with irresistible force, like the barbed hook that reels a fish to its captor’s net.

Boom, pulse, pulse. Boom, pulse, pulse.

Even if we wanted, not a soul could utter a sound. Everyone freezes under the spell.

Boom, pulse, pulse. Boom.

Every eye fixes on the unknown point past the roaring fire, past the column of sola light. However eager the valefolk are to see the awesome thing that lies beyond, the wicked darkness prevents them. It still manages to grow thicker by the second. Rolling in like a heavy curtain, it advances nearer as the volume of the otherworldly sound increases.

I do not like being so close to the trees from which the Shrouded will emerge, but being shamed by my little brother pricks my pride. Resisting the urge to cower, I hold my ground, but my heart continues to thud. I conceal my shaking hands in the deep folds of my robe, suck in cold air through gritted teeth, and turn to face the blooming wall of black.

With each beat, doom draws closer. It envelops the entire tree line now. Am I mistaken, or are there ghostly shapes in those swells?

The change in atmosphere acts as the cue for Father and Krandel to assume their positions. I don’t want to look away from the spectacle, but I force myself to observe them. The men take their spear-like instruments and hook them together, crescent to crescent, around the wide mouth of the clay pot. In this way, pushing with equal force and aided by two additional men on either side, they raise the giant urn a few feet from the ground. It takes an incredible amount of exertion. The weight of sola blood and earthenware must be considerable; the muscles of the men’s thick arms bulge, glistening with sweat. Together, they march their load toward the bonfire, careful to keep it level, not willing to waste one drop of gleaming blood. When the flames are near enough to lick around the base of the urn, periodically obscuring it from view, they halt.

At the same moment, the rhythmic pounding ceases. I turn toward the forest, and my blood freezes.

An enormous figure emerges from the center of the cloud. It can’t be seen naturally, using light to reveal the hidden. Instead, it’s like an image turned inside out, with undulating ribbons of thinner darkness outlining the edges of its limbs, shoulders, and head. I only get brief glimpses of its form, but they accumulate in my mind like the burning trails of light that cling to retinas. I am left with a fading impression of something inexplicable and grotesque.

I feel the kaligorva’s towering height—at least nine feet. It is roughly human in form, but the powerful hind legs on which it balances are not like a man’s. These are haunches, bending backward first, then forward above frightening, clawed feet. Sheets of darkness wave behind it like flags in a spiteful breeze, resembling a cloak. Or perhaps they are wings.

What cannot be obscured are the molten pits of its eyes. Filthy and fierce, the thin crust of darkness that surrounds them barely contains them. A shudder passes through my frame when I lock on to those burning chasms. They go on inside the beast forever, down, deep down, into the very heart of its sludge of a soul. My mind screams to look away, away, anywhere but at their smoldering ruin, but my body cannot act.

“Eternal Beings of the ténesomni.”

My father’s voice makes me jump. It demands the attention of the entire Vale. I am vaguely impressed to see, when I force myself to face the fire once more, the men have been suspending the urn above the blaze the whole time.

Father’s voice does not betray his physical strain. “We are honored by your presence.”

This time, no one dares cheer. The mood is now one of apprehension rather than triumph.

“We beseech you to accept the blood of the sola as an offering of peace, a sign of the covenant we have held with you, our protectors, for generations.”

His elocution is perfectly timed. He barely finishes the words when the vessel shatters from the heat of the blaze, sending sola blood gushing like an angry, glowing river over the remnants of firewood. The moment the blood contacts the ignati, the fire extinguishes with one last blinding explosion of light. Hot air tinged with a musky, spiced scent blasts my sweat-drenched hair off my brow. The valefolk gasp, staggering to keep their footing in its wake. A whoosh of frigid wind sweeps in from the opposite direction. Darkness rushes to fill the void left by the sola blood’s light, like a pack of jackals diving in for the kill.

At this plunge into blindness, cries emanate around the clearing. This is a darkness so complete even people bred and raised to live in a black-stained land are alarmed by it. I am too young to remember the Reckonings of the past, but I wonder at all those older than me. Do they not know what to expect? Maybe the ceremony is something to which one can never really become accustomed.

But this is not my father’s first Reckoning. Quickly, the Foremost steps in to take control before the ceremony deteriorates into chaos. “Be still,” he shouts with unquestionable authority, and all thoughts of deserting are banished. “Do not be so weak. We are in the presence of the kaligorven.”

My limbs quiver as a rumbling growl emanates from the thickest core of shadow. Persisting, it climbs in volume until the ground trembles, the pebbles skittering across the hard-packed earth in rhythm with the vibrations. The sound crescendos and changes from a bestial moan to something almost human. For a moment, I imagine I hear words.

Ican.

You have not obeyed ... All of you will pay. This ténesomni must remain ... Unbroken ... Until we return.

---