“Brenda
Alba,” the man said, “Do you accept the offer of membership into the Society of
the Sepulchral Autarch?” He looked down at her. She wasn’t sure if he was
reluctant to say the words or if he was genuinely void of emotion.
“I do,” she said. She wasn’t sure if she was
supposed to say yes instead. Or
maybe, I accept.
“Step forward,” the woman said, “And give us
an offering of life.”
The procedures of the ceremony had not been
explained to Bren, and she suddenly wished they had been, before she’d said
that she accepted the offer of invitation.
Bren did as she was told. She ascended the
stairs that led up to the platform and stood before them. At this range, Bren
had no trouble in recognizing her eleventh grade English teacher, Mr.
Blackwell. “I know you,” she said.
His expression changed slightly to one of
disapproval, and he shook his head ever so slightly. He was trying to say keep quiet and Bren knew it, but she
smiled again. He turned and picked up a basin from the top of the coffin that
Bren had not seen before.
The woman held a sharp needle in her hand.
“It’s just a little blood,” the English
teacher said, looking at her face, “A drop or two.”
Was I
making a face? Bren
thought. She wasn’t sure. She didn’t think the thought made her squeamish. Even
with its popular associations, she didn’t think blood had any real binding
abilities.
But there was still the chance that
something they were doing was going to tie her to the organization in a way
that was more permanent than she was comfortable with. The whole situation was
starting to get to her. She was in a room full of people that potentially
possessed umbral talents. Some could undoubtedly kill at impulse. If the
binding failed, or if anyone divined her true reason for joining, there was no
telling what they might do.
Bren only felt the casual comfort that at
least there was no one who could read her thoughts present in the room. At least this isn’t a Bricklayer ceremony.
“Your hand, please,” the woman said. She
extended her own.
Bren offered hers up. There wasn’t anything
Bren could do, short of running from the room. But she wasn’t afraid. She
decided that if things went south, she could find a way out. She always had.
The woman guided her hand over the pewter bowl that Blackwell held, and then
pricked Bren’s pointer finger.
She squeezed a drop of blood out, and let go
of Bren’s hand. So much easier than Bren had been expecting. Her sigh of relief
sounded colossal.
The blood began to spit and burn like oil on
a stove as it hit the basin. Steam rose. Bren moved herself to step back, but
the woman placed her hand on her back to keep her there.
The blood began to bubble, growing in size
within the basin. From the center, a stalk appeared, growing upwards. The top
of it spread and unfolded. She saw it resolve into the shape of a flower,
liquid but still. The blood ceased its boil and the blood red flower
solidified.
“God of none,” Blackwell said in a voice too
quiet for the audience to hear, “All is done.”
“God of all,” the woman agreed, “Far to
fall.”
Was it good? Bren wanted desperately to ask,
but she couldn’t stop staring at it. Did other things grow for other people?
“Brenda Alba has accepted the ritual, and
completed it,” Blackwell said. He held the bowl up. This time, there was an
interruption in the rhythm of the audience. Only for an instant. “The flower
that was promised has come.”
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