Stalking Darkness

of the Traveler, rose up from the fountain courts of the temple and circled overhead as she was carried forth.
    Illior was also being played by a woman. She sat stiffly in her flowing white gown and serene golden mask, right palm raised to display the elaborate circular emblem that covered her palm.
    The three groups met at the center of the square to await the final contingent. Horns sounded again. A squadron of cavalry in ceremonial scarlet and black advanced from the entrance of the Temple Precinct, followed by the royal family.
    “Is that her? Is that the Queen?” Alec whispered, craning for a better look.
    “That’s her.”
    Grey-haired and solemn, Idrilain sat her charger like the warrior she was. Her golden breastplate was emblazoned with an upraised sword and the crescent of Illior; an empty scabbard hung at her side.
    With her rode the Consort Evenir, her second and much younger husband. Behind the royal couple came her sons anddaughters. Among these rode Klia, resplendent in the dress uniform of the Queen’s Horse.
    Alec’s hand rose to the silver brooch holding the ornamental cloak at his shoulder as he watched her in the distance. Until now he’d seen her only as another cheerful, mud-spattered soldier, someone who’d treated him like a comrade, never standing on ceremony. Watching her now—among her true kind and against the pageantry of the ceremony—was like seeing a stranger.
    The procession advanced at a stately pace to the steps of the temple, where Idrilain dismounted and strode up to stand opposite Old Sakor and the other priests, her consort and children behind her. From this point, the ritual proceeded in the modern tongue.
    Idrilain’s voice was clear and steady as she spread her arms and performed a chant hailing Sakor as Protector of the Hearth and the Sword of Peace.
    “Let not the darkness come upon us!” she cried at its conclusion.
    The massed crowd took up the cry, repeating it in a great voice until Valerius stepped forward and raised his staff in both hands. When the crowd quieted again, he sang the Song of Dalna, his deep, resonant voice carrying well in the open air.
    Alec knew this song well. When the crowd repeated the closing line, “The Maker has made all, and nothing can be lost in the hand of the Maker,” he joined in gladly, ignoring the glances he attracted from Kylith’s other guests.
    Astellus and Illior helped Old Sakor to his feet and the assembled priests commenced a low keen.
    “Who shall keep watch?” the priests of Sakor sang. “Who shall guard the Flame?”
    Masked Illior answered, reciting the revelation of the Afran Oracle. “So long as a daughter of Thelátimos’ line defends and rules, Skala shall never be subjugated.”
    The Queen stepped forward and was exhorted by Old Sakor to keep watch over her people through the long night and the new year to follow. Bowing solemnly, she pledged herself and her generations to the guardianship of Skala and was given the Sword of Gërilain and a large firepot. When she turned, holding both aloft, the crowd erupted into cheers of assent.
    The last of the day’s light was fading from the western sky as two priests led out a black bull. Handing the firepot to Phoria, Idrilain raised the sword in her right hand and placed her left on the animal’s brow, pressing gently as she spoke the ritual greeting.
    The bull snorted and twisted its neck, nicking the edge of her mantle with the tip of one horn.
    A restless murmur rippled through the crowd like wind across a barley field; an unwilling victim was a poor omen.
    The animal showed no further sign of resistance, however, as the priests pulled its head back and Idrilain slashed its throat. Dark blood spurted out, steaming in the cold air, and the animal collapsed without a struggle. Idrilain extended the blade to Old Sakor, who dipped a finger in the blood and anointed his forehead and hers.
    “Speak to your people, O Sakor!” she intoned. “You who pass away from all living things and return renewed. What is your prophecy?”
    “Let’s see what they’ve come up with this year,” someone murmured.
    “You mean it’s not real?” Alec whispered to Seregil, rather shocked.
    Seregil gave him a hint of the crooked smile. “Yes and no. Divinations are gathered for months from all the major temples around Skala. They vary in form from year to year, but they’re generally quite supportive of current policy.”
    Standing before the Aegis, Sakor faced the