thing was a skull.
Behind the altar, a flat wall was etched with the names of every brother there had ever been, back to the very first one whose cranium was on the altar. The inscriptions ran in panels that covered every inch of the surface, save for an unmarked stretch in the middle. This smooth portion was about six feet wide and ran the whole vertical of the marble expanse. In the midst of it, about five feet up from the floor, two thick pegs jutted out, positioned so a male could grip them and hold himself in place.
The air smelled so very familiar: damp earth and beeswax candles.
"Greetings, Brotherhood."
They all turned to the female voice.
The Scribe Virgin was a tiny figure in the far corner, her black robes hovering above the floor. Nothing of her was visible, not even her face, but from underneath the draping black folds, light spilled out like water falling.
She floated toward them, stopping in front of Wrath. "Warrior."
He bowed low. "Scribe Virgin."
She greeted each one in turn, saving Rhage for last. "Rhage, son of Tohrture."
"Scribe Virgin." He inclined his head.
"How fare you?"
"I am well." Or he would be, as soon as this was over.
"And you have been busy, have you not? Continuing to set new precedents, as is your affection. Pity they are not in laudable directions." She laughed with an edge. "Somehow, it is no surprise we ended up here with you. You are aware, are you not, that this is the first rythe ever to be exchanged within the Brotherhood?"
Not exactly, he thought. Tohr had turned down one offered by Wrath back in July.
But it wasn't like he was going to point that out to her.
"Warrior, are you prepared to accept what you have offered?"
"I am." He chose his next words very carefully, because you didn't pose a question to the Scribe Virgin. Not unless you wanted to eat your own ass. "I would beg of you that I do not hurt my brothers."
Her voice grew hard. "You are perilously close to inquiry."
"I mean no offense."
That low, soft chuckle came again.
Man, he bet she was enjoying the hell out this. She'd never liked him, although it wasn't as if he could blame her. He'd given her antipathy plenty of reasons to breed.
"You mean no offense, warrior?" The robes moved as if she were shaking her head. "On the contrary, you never hesitate to offend to get what you wish, and that has always been your problem. It is also why we have been brought here together this night." She turned away. "You have the weapon?"
Phury put down the duffel, unzipped it, and took out the tri-whip. The two-foot-long handle was made of wood and covered with brown leather that had been darkened by the sweat of many hands. Out of the rod's tip, three lengths of blackened steel chain swung in the air. At the end of each of them there was a spiked dangler, like a pinecone with barbs.
The tri-whip was an ancient, vicious weapon, but Tohr had chosen wisely. In order for the ritual to be considered successful, the brothers could spare Rhage nothing either in the type of weapon they used or the way they put it to his skin. To give leniency would be to demean the integrity of the tradition, the regret he was offering, and the chance for a true cleansing.
"So be it," she said. "Proceed to the wall, Rhage, son of Tohrture."
He went forward, climbing the stairs two at a time. As he passed the altar, he gazed at the sacred skull, watching firelight lick over the eye sockets and the long fangs. Positioning himself against the black marble, he gripped the stone pegs and felt cold smoothness on his back.
The Scribe Virgin drifted up to him and lifted her arm. Her sleeve fell back, and a glow bright as a welder's arc was revealed, the stinging light vaguely shaped like a hand. A low-level electrical hum went through him, and he felt something shift inside his torso, as if his internal organs had been rearranged.
"You may begin the ritual."
The brothers lined up, their naked bodies gleaming with strength, their faces drawn into deep grooves. Wrath took the tri-whip from Phury and came forward first. As he moved, the weapon's links chimed with the sweetness of a bird's call.
"Brother," the king said softly.
"My lord."
Rhage stared into those sunglasses as Wrath started swinging the whip in a wide circle to build momentum. A droning sound started