[Tinuviel of Denton]

The priests of the Eye ordered that everyone in the village assemble in the square when they arrived. None of the villagers knew why. Many were suspicious of these priests. Oh, they worshipped the Eye and everything, but no one really cared all that much. It didn’t seem to have much to do with their daily lives, after all.

“People of the Eye, hear me! We go on a quest to the Southlands, to fight for the glory of the Eye and the progression of Umbar. To fight the barbarians and turn them to the true path. We require of you but one thing. A human sacrifice, to bring luck to our quest and glory to the Eye. We will give you till sunset to think on it.”

Abdul-Shihab smiled. A human sacrifice? How perfect. He approached the younger of the two priestesses. “I believe I have the perfect answer for you, Holiness. I have a daughter, eighteen years of age and unmarried. Indeed, I fear that she will never marry. Her one ambition has been to serve the Eye in whatever way she can. This would be exactly what she’s always hoped for.” All during this little speech, he was rubbing his oily hands together greedily. At last, he would be rid of Falia.

Dristi looked at this dirt-grubber with disgust. He offered someone else, rather than himself, and if he weren’t so repulsive, she’d be tempted to sacrifice him to show the villagers that to offer another was to offer oneself. But the Eye would not be pleased with such an inferior victim. A young, unmarried female, on the other hand, was promising. And from his words, the young woman did not sound willing. Even better.

“We will see.”

****

Falia, meantime, wasn’t even in the village. She was a few miles away, looking for one of the lost kids from her father’s flock, which was a boy’s job. And she was singing. And not a hymn to the Eye either. This was just a simple song of how the springtime made her feel, lighthearted and carefree.

What Falia wanted more than anything else was to be left alone. Not to raise a horde of dirty children, not to go into service to the Eye, certainly not to be married; simply to live her life without the complications of extra ties to anyone, be it family or god. And if she could continue to care for the goats and keep the young men away, she would be perfectly content.

Pity her father hated her so much.

****

When Falia returned to the village later that evening, goat in tow, she was surrounded by grim-faced men in red and black uniforms. They grabbed her and pinioned her arms. The rest of the villagers made no move to help her; they would rather remain alive. A tall woman in blood-red and black robes glided up to her and looked her over carefully. Falia had the feeling that the woman was looking for flaws, and somehow, she knew that she wanted this woman to find them. Her life depended on it. She also received the unsettling impression that this woman looked on her as no more than a thing, on a level of worth with the goat that Falia had just brought in. For the second time in her life, Falia was d*athly afraid.

Then the drums began. A steady, blood-chilling beat, designed to bring to mind a heart beating in fear. There was an altar set up in the middle of the village square, and Falia shuddered to think what it meant. There was no one who would help her, no one who could, but she called out anyway. There was no response, save a quickening of the drumbeat.

The woman beckoned to the men holding her, and they laid her almost gently on the altar. They couldn’t risk damaging the sacrifice, after all. The knife the priestess held aloft was black and discolored near the end of the blade. The red stone in the hilt gleamed dully in the light of the setting sun.

The drums quickened once again, a staccato rhythm that matched the tempo of Falia’s heart. She looked once more at the villagers, imploring them to help her…and she saw her father. He was standing off to the side, smiling a little, wicked smile that told her more than she’d ever known about him. He’d given her over to this and was enjoying it.

The drums quickened once more, and as the last light of the sun slipped under the horizon, the Red Flame plunged the knife deep into Falia’s heart. It was done.

Sevora motioned to Abdul-Shihab with the bloody knife. “Kill him.” The sort of man who could cheerfully sell his daughter into slavery or sacrifice was usually useful to the Eye, but not him. He was groveling, weak. Worthless. Such a man did not deserve to breathe the same air as the Eye’s Chosen servant.