Page 1 of Thon

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Krista

Lastnight’spoundingrainhas given way to a gloomy drizzle, which hazes the chilly air and casts a miserable pall over the muddy commune. Old-style thatched roofs and drowsy faces materialize from the early morning murk as the Patriarch and the High Priest lead Krista through the center of town, their hands gripping her elbows like pincers. She jostles between them, her boots sticking in the muck and her hands bound in front of her, but no one speaks.

Two of the Patriarch's wives and most of Krista’s sisters follow behind them in a silent procession of shame, their eyes pointed firmly at the ground. People along their path click their tongues and whisper things like, “The Patriarch’s own daughter …” and, “Always knew she was …” and so on. Krista's sisters will bear the brunt of her disgrace, but they will recover. They are good children, proper daughters, and they will each bow their heads quietly to their husbands when the time comes. Sometime soon, when all of this blows over, they will believe they are fine.

Bolder neighbors used to tell Krista that she takes after her mother, but Krista never knew that person. They all say she 'passed,' which, in community-speak, could also mean 'exiled' or ‘killed.’ Regardless of what the commune believes, it wasn’t Krista’s mother that ruined her for this place. It was a forbidden data tablet, smuggled in on Trade Day and pre-loaded withideas,that ran her afoul of the commune. Ideas will do that. The wrong ones will make you a stranger to your own people.

The data pad is still in her bedroom, tucked beneath a floorboard where it will gather dust until the battery gives out and no one remembers Krista. If they find the pad at all, its existence will be an enigma—a dead, useless mystery. This is just one of many pains and affronts, but it's the only one that feels like a betrayal, as though she’s leaving an ally and a mentor behind.

Krista’s boot catches in the sucking mud and she stumbles sideways into Father, who cringes away in disgust.

It will be over soon. Just a few more minutes.

The little procession grows larger as it nears the heavy wooden gate. Everyone wants one last look at the savage woman who turned on her new husband.Husband. The word fills Krista with familiar, careworn fury all over again, and her fingers squeeze together until the nails bite into her palms. She’s properly seething by the time her escorts release her, thrusting Krista away from them like rancid garbage.

The men turn to address their murmuring flock. Krista’s father is the Patriarch, lord of the backwoods, but he shares his power with this knobby old relic who calls himself ‘the bridge to the divine.’ Patriarch and High Priest disagree on many things, but Krista has unified them against a common danger. They might even collaborate agreeably for a couple of days after this. Had she hoped for her father’s mercy, Krista might have been disappointed, but she hadn’t, so she isn’t. Father’s eyes slice past her, already striking her from his memory.

Here it comes.She won’t say anything, no matter how angry she is. It will go faster if she doesn’t say anything. Krista squares her stance and plants her feet, but then the High Priest speaks first, with his righteous contempt and his stupid, affected accent.

“For raising a blade against her husband—”

Nope. She can’t do it. “I’m not married,” Krista blurts, casting her gaze over the assembled crowd and finding no one looking back. Not directly, anyway. They’re happy enough to gawk when her head is turned, but no one wants to engage with her directly. Oh well. In for a penny and all that. “In fact, I disagreed loudly at the—”

But the High Priest raises his voice to drown her out. “—And for disfiguring her husband’s face—”

“Disfiguring?”Krista interrupts again. “You’re calling that sad little scratch adisfigurement?He barely bled!"

The villagers tut softly and shift their weight, looking at one another, at the Patriarch, at the Priest. Anywhere but at Krista. They’re shabby and dull-eyed, the most limited version of Humanity, moving so determinedly and deliberately backward. The High Priest says it’s best to return to the Old Ways. To abandon the stars and live humbly in the dirt as all Humans once did.

With an immense show of effort, the High Priest turns his shoulder and continues reading the ‘charges,’ such as they are. “—with the intent to murder—”

Krista’s rage ignites, snapping through her like a hungry flame. It has plenty of dry tinder to catch. “Everyoneknows that he attacked me first! I toldall of youthat I would not have a husband!”

Finally, this draws the priest’s attention. He breaks off from his spiel to turn and scowl directly at Krista, drawing his hood up against the rain. “That was not your decision to make. He paid your bride price. You were his.”

“I’m not a goat that you can auction off at the market!”

“No,” Father pronounces coldly. “Goats have value. You are just an oath-breaker.”

Krista steps forward, ready to fling herself stupidly at this enormous, vicious man, but the High Priest clears his throat to remind them both that this is his moment to officiate. “And the oath-breaker has chosen exile over death.”

“Ineverswore an oath,” Krista snarls, her hands twisting fiercely within her restraints. She can feel flesh tugging and breaking against the coarse rope, but it doesn't matter.

“Foolish girl,” the High Priest sneers, and Krista knows what he’s thinking. Women don’t swear their own oaths. Nothing so important can be entrusted to a female’s judgment. “If you won’t accept a civilized husband, then you can try your luck with the savages.”

“I did try the savages,” Krista fires back. “And I sliced one of them in the face.” For a moment, she thinks the priest might hit her. She can tell that he would like to, but he isn’t supposed to sully himself with violence, so he gathers himself to his full height and extends a trembling hand toward the assembly.

“Bring the satchel.”

One of Krista’s sisters creeps forward, holding the small bag in front of her like a shield against Krista's wrath. What does she think Krista will do to her? This is Emmaline, the quietest and most responsible of the Patriarch’s children. She probably volunteered to pack Krista’s things, feeling that it was her final duty to an elder sister. She’ll have packed thoughtfully, with an emphasis on necessities. There will be food, a canteen, a flint and steel, and a tinderbox. Perhaps there will even be a change of clothes. Carefully, so carefully that it hurts, Emmaline lowers the strap over Krista’s head, determined not to catch the dreaded exile’s eye.

For Emmaline's sake, Krista tries to stall her violent shudders until they're done, but Emmaline can probably still feel the violence in her. “Thank you, Em.”

The girl’s full lips thin, but she backpedals without a word, her head bowed and her eyes hidden. Krista can feel her pulling away like a scab tearing free of its wound.

“The Gods have witnessed your sins,” the High Priest intones, “and now your life is theirs.” He draws a blade from beneath his vestments—the same one Krista used to defend herself from the man who fancied himself her husband because he paid for her—and wrenches the sharpened edge through her bindings. His soft, unpracticed fingers wobble clumsily around the weapon. “I forfeit you to their justice. Go. And do not return to us.”

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