belt and took from it a small chalk ball. He gave it to Neel who carried it to Hirac.
The ball, no larger than an eye, was the token carved at the birth of a child which was destroyed when the child became an adult; until then it was the possessor of the child’s spirit. If the child died the ball could be ground into dust, and the dust mixed with water or milk and then drunk so that the spirit would pass to another body. If the child vanished, snatched by the spirits or by an Outfolk hunting party seeking slaves, then the ball might be buried by a temple post so that the gods would offer the missing child protection.
Hirac took the ball, rubbed it in his groin, and then held it high in the air towards the moon. ‘Lahanna!’ he cried. ‘We bring you a gift! We give you Camaban, son of Hengall, son of Lock!’ He threw the ball onto the grass beyond the grave. Camaban smiled again, and for a moment it looked as though he might lurch forward and pick it up, but Gilan whispered at him to be still and the boy obeyed.
Hirac stepped over the grave. ‘Camaban,’ he shouted, ‘son of Hengall, son of Lock, I give you to Lahanna! Your flesh will be her flesh, your blood her blood and your spirit her spirit. Camaban, son of Hengall, son of Lock, I cast you from the tribe into the company of the goddess. I destroy you!’ And with those words he raised the Kill-Child high over his head.
‘No!’ a frightened voice called, and the whole astonished tribe looked to see that it was Saban who had spoken. The boy seemed aghast himself, for he placed a hand over his mouth, but his distress was plain. Camaban was his half-brother. ‘No,’ he whispered behind his hand, ‘please, no!’
Hengall scowled, but Galeth put a comforting arm on Saban’s shoulder. ‘It has to happen,’ Galeth whispered to the boy.
‘He’s my brother,’ Saban protested.
‘It has to happen,’ Galeth insisted.
‘Quiet!’ Hengall growled, and Lengar, who had been sullen ever since his loss of face the previous morning, smiled to see that his younger brother was also out of favour with their father.
‘Camaban,’ Hirac shouted, ‘son of Hengall, son of Lock, I give you to Lahanna!’ Annoyed by Saban’s interruption, he brought the great bone club down so that its ochred end smashed the chalk ball into fragments. He pounded the fragments into dust, and the watching crowd moaned as Camaban’s spirit was thus obliterated. Lengar grinned, while Hengall’s face showed nothing. Galeth flinched and Saban was weeping, but there was nothing they could do. This was business for the gods and for the priests.
‘What is the boy’s name?’ Hirac demanded.
‘He has no name,’ Gilan responded.
‘Who is his father?’ Hirac asked.
‘He has no father,’ Gilan said.
‘What is his tribe?’
‘He has no tribe,’ Gilan intoned. ‘He does not exist.’
Hirac stared into Camaban’s green eyes. He did not see a boy, for the boy was already dead, his life-spirit shattered and crushed into white dust. ‘Kneel,’ he ordered.
The youth obediently knelt. To some of the tribe it seemed odd that such a tall youth was to be killed by the aurochs’ bone, but, other than Saban, few in Ratharryn regretted Camaban’s death. Cripples brought ill luck, so cripples were better dead, to which end Hirac raised the Kill-Child high above his head, looked once at Lahanna then down to Camaban. The high priest tensed to give the killing blow, but never gave it. He was motionless, and there was a sudden horror on Hirac’s face, and the horror was compounded because at that moment a rift opened in the clouds covering Slaol and a beam of sunlight lanced into the temple. A raven settled on one of the tallest poles and called loudly.
The Kill-Child quivered in Hirac’s hands, but he could not bring it down.
‘Kill it,’ Gilan whispered, ‘kill it!’ But Gilan was standing behind Camaban and he could not see what Hirac could see. Hirac was staring down at Camaban who had stuck out his tongue and on the tongue were two slivers of gold. Outfolk gold. Slaol’s gold.
The raven called again and Hirac looked up at the bird, wondering what its presence portended.
Camaban tucked the gold pieces back into his cheek, wet a finger and dabbed it into the powdered chalk of his soul. ‘Slaol will be angry if you kill me,’ he said to Hirac without stuttering, then he licked the chalk off his finger. He collected more, assembling his shattered spirit and eating it.
‘Kill it!’ Neel screamed.
‘Kill it!’ Hengall echoed.
‘Kill it!’ Lengar called.
‘Kill it!’ the crowd shouted.
But Hirac could not move. Camaban ate more chalk, then looked up at the priest. ‘Slaol commands you to spare me,’ he said very calmly, still without any stutter.
Hirac stepped back, almost into the grave, and let the Kill-Child fall. ‘The goddess,’ he announced hoarsely, ‘has rejected the sacrifice.’
The crowd wailed. Saban, his eyes full of tears, was laughing.
And the crooked child went free.
There was fear in Ratharryn after the failed sacrifice for there were few omens worse than a god rejecting a gift. Hirac would not say why he had refused to kill the child, only that he had been given a sign, then he took himself to his hut where his wives claimed he was suffering from a fever, and two nights later those same wives wailed in the darkness because the high priest was dead. They blamed Camaban, saying the cripple had cursed Hirac, but Gilan, who was now Ratharryn’s oldest priest, claimed that it had been a nonsense trying to kill a child marked with Lahanna’s sign. Hirac had only himself to blame, Gilan said, for Hirac had woefully mistranslated the message of the gods. The gold had gone to the Old Temple and that was surely a sign that Slaol wanted the temple remade. Hengall listened to Gilan, who was a cheerful, efficient man, but distrusted because of his admiration for Cathallo. ‘In Cathallo,’ Gilan urged Hengall, ‘they have one great temple for all the gods and it has served them well. We should do the same.’
‘Temples cost treasure,’ Hengall said gloomily.
‘Ignore the gods,’ Gilan retorted, ‘and what will all the gold, bronze and amber in the world do for you?’
Gilan wanted to be high priest, but age alone would not give him that honour. A sign was needed from the gods and all the priests were seeking signs before, together, they would choose one of their number to succeed Hirac. Yet all the signs seemed bad for in the days following the failed sacrifice the warriors of Cathallo became ever bolder in their forays into Ratharryn’s territory. Day after day Hengall heard of stolen cattle and pigs, and Lengar argued that the war drum should be sounded and a band of spearmen sent north to intercept the raiders, but Hengall still shied away from war. Instead of sending spears he sent Gilan to talk with Cathallo’s rulers, though everyone knew that really meant talking to Sannas, the terrifying sorceress. Cathallo might have a chief, it might have great war-leaders, but Sannas ruled there, and many in Hengall’s tribe feared that she had put some curse on Ratharryn. Why else had the sacrifice failed?
The omens became worse. A child drowned in the river, an otter tore apart a dozen fish-traps, a viper was seen in Arryn and Mai’s temple, and Hengall’s new wife miscarried. Grey bands of rain swept from the west. Gilan returned from Cathallo, spoke with Hengall, then walked north again; the tribe wondered what news the priest had brought and what answer Hengall had returned to Cathallo, but the chief said nothing and the folk of Ratharryn went on with their work. There were pots to be made, flints to be dug, hides to tan, pigs to herd, cattle to milk, water to fetch, buildings to repair, willow fish-traps to be woven and boats