The six black-robes moved to the pack-lizard, each taking a flat, woven basket from a pannier, each turning to guide one of the white-clad candidates down into the hollow. There each black-robe took a hooked blade from his belt and demonstrated to the candidate what was to be done: cut the lichen, so, near the ground, put the lichen, so, in the basket. The candidates knelt to the task, cutting the lichen close to the sand, placing the cut pieces into the baskets, dark scallops, winy under the sun. If they missed a single frond, the ritual masters pointed it out. The patch of lichen was a large one. The cutting took some time, and the white-clad figures slowed as they worked, until they were barely creeping by the time all was cut. The black-clad ritual masters carried the filled baskets up the slope and emptied them into the panniers, stowing the baskets there as well. The knives were sheathed at each black-belted waist, and the six black-clad ones returned to the hollow where each waited beside a candidate, head bowed, while the rest of the procession left the hollow as it had come.
One harpta remained behind. It put back its head and bellowed to its departing kindred. An answer came from multiple throats. The interchange went on for some time, until the retreating calls faded into silent distance and the single beast was reduced to a gravelly muttering. Until that moment, not one human voice had spoken, not one word had been said.
Melanie took hold of Genevieve’s hand and held it tightly.
One of the dark-clad figures uttered a command. The white-robed ones moved, uncertainly, and the command was repeated.
The white outer robes were dropped to reveal the forms of women, young women, standing uncertainly on the sand.
“Fold the robes,” said the dark-clad leader. “Place them here.”
Though the language was still strange to her, Genevieve understood the command. The robes were folded and piled neatly, leaving the women still voluminously clad, but with their heads and lower arms exposed. As one of the women turned, her veil pulled aside, showing her face. Genevieve started, only to be seized at once from both sides, Joncaster’s hand over her mouth, Melanie’s arm over her shoulders.
“You know her?” whispered Melanie.
Genevieve nodded. Joncaster took his hand away, slowly, watching her. “One of the Shah’s wives,” she whispered. The one who had spoken to her.
The women were led to the edges of the patch of lichen and evenly spaced about it.
“Kneel down,” said the black-robed leader. “Here, facing the lichen bed.”
“But,” murmured one of the women in a drugged voice. “We are supposed to go … to go … to Galul.”
Genevieve stirred again. She knew the voice. Not the Shah’s wife, but . . . someone she knew. Who could it be that she knew?
“You will go,” said the dark-robed one who had spoken. “This is your final task before going.”
They knelt down. Another of the dark-robed ones went to each of them in turn, offering a drink from a flask, which they gulped thirstily. Another black-robe wrapped a strip of dark cloth around each one’s eyes.
“We leave you now,” cried their leader. “You must not make a sound. Those who will take you to Galul are on the way. You must wait patiently. Do you understand?”
“My child,” said the familiar voice. “Please . . . my child.”
“Will go with you, woman. Now silence!”
The four nodded, barely. The men marched in place, making crunching noises with their feet. One of the women swayed and fell forward, her face in the sand. The dark-robes waited silently as the other women swayed, then fell. One of the black-robes went to the woman who had fallen first, straddled her, pulled her head back, and with one, sudden motion, cut her throat with the curved, seabone knife he had taken from his belt. He dropped her head into the sand and stood away. Blood ran in a crimson stream, down across the sand, soaking in.
By the time Genevieve lifted her horrified eyes to the others, they, too, were bleeding their life’s blood onto the sands. Somewhere among the slaughter, a baby cried.