2. The Famine of Flesh
Chapter 2
The Famine of Flesh
12 YEARS LATER
A grand meeting of the plain-folk and the gentry took place in the hall of Celestine’s father. The day was one of spring, though the horizon showed signs of autumn fast approaching. For two days travelers had arrived.
Celestine hadn’t slept since she woke the night prior. It had been halfway between midnight and dawn, and it was common she woke. She always felt someone watching her. When she had looked over to the mirror in her chamber, framed in white swooping wood, it felt like there were eyes behind it. Lust barreled through her body, and as she heard the guard outside her door, she slid one hand between her legs and watched the shadow of his boots. She stifled her moans with a hand in her mouth, but not well. As her cries grew in intensity, the slickness of her quim and her fingers, she saw the shadow of boots shifting. When she came, it was to the fantasy of those boots turning around and opening the door. Catching her. The guard replacing her hand with his own.
She lay exhausted afterwards. When she wasn’t here, she traveled around the Painted Realm. The warring of the seasons did not stop her. It was her duty to tend to the land, to help the suffering of the realm. From almost the time her mother died, women had slept in locked rooms. There were barely any left. Birthrates had plummeted for almost two decades, and pestilence and famine and flooding was incessant.
It wouldn’t be long until she too, could not travel. Even with her guards, too many men stared at her. In some towns it was too dangerous outright. Several banners had warlords leading groups of men. They would lay siege to towns for a single woman, carrying her off, selling the right to the key to her locked door for a fortune.
The world was ending, and the touch of a man was what she both feared and desired.
She pushed herself up from the bed and walked over to the mirror, watching her own body in it. Her hand crept down to her gown.
Will I be forever unseen? Are you the only eyes that will lie upon this protected flesh of mine?
There was no answer. There never was.
A grand meeting of the plain-folk and the gentry took place in the hall of Celestine’s father. The day was one of spring, though the horizon showed signs of autumn fast approaching. For two days travelers had arrived, and she had played the dutiful daughter of the host. No one dared bring their daughters, they were left under lock and key, those that remained.
Lords came from all over, men who ruled fiefdoms of wheat, of sea trade, of horseflesh. Their banners of the twelve colors streamed not so proudly as they passed within the gates. Mirrortower, her home, had one singular income. One sacred duty and sin.
They oversaw the Tithing. They were the staging ground for the flesh that fed the Seasons. When she had been a young girl, she had seen two hundred maidens carried away to that strange place. None ever returned from that portal to the other world. From Calendar.
In the great hall, everyone gathered around. Celestine stood next to her father, her hand on his shoulder. His other side was bare, for her mother had passed many years ago. It was bittersweet to see this many men, supposed rulers of their banners, for each wore a forlorn look. Several glanced at her repeatedly. It was said that for every woman alive in the Painted Realm, there were ten men.
It was time for the Aspiration. It was time to send the young women to Calendar.
The problem was they had none.
“There are so few left,” Duke Scalehall of the Red Banner said. “We risk the wrath of the Seasons with such a paltry offering. Twelve demigods hunger for flesh and we provide only famine.”
It was Count Suncrown of the Yellow Banners who countered, “Their greed has grown too much. Why send anything? They send us nothing. Not sun nor harvest nor sewing of seeds, not enough time to do anything. Let them starve and slay one another. Let a Season of winter or spring reign supreme, and we can at least learn to survive it.”
Many agreed with him. The voices of over forty landed men rang around the once great hall.
Celestine moved and served, filling cups with ale so watered down it could not quench sorrow nor anger.
“Maidens are kept under lock and key, while other lords barter them. They give nothing to Tithing,” the Chieftain of Willowort spoke. “Why should we send daughters we have saved, while others whore them?”
More rounds of agreement came. Celestine’s father, Lord Mirrortower the Unbannered shook his head at the head of the table.
“Let us send the Forgotten back. They were good enough to be hunted. Perhaps they could be hunted again?” The Earlman of Everstar spoke.
“You would send the bones that fall from the beast’s mouth back to them, thinking to slake their hunger?” Sir Harold Skye, of the Blue Banners scoffed.
The table broke out into more and more argument. More shouts. Someone threw a cup, and a knife was drawn.
Celestine stood back, watching the bickering of men deciding the fate of not just all women, but the entire realm. Men who seemed to know so little of both.
A cruel voice slithered out. The Earlman of Whitehall, of the White Banners fixed his eyes upon Celestine.
“In my realm, we have kept the noose from men’s necks, and their lust well sated. We still have maidens for the tithing.”
“The rumors of your land are horrid,” Sir Skye spat the words.
Whitehall continued, his eyes dancing around the curves under Celestine’s dress. She felt such coldness from the winterlander.Like she was a beast being weighed for purchase. Or slaughter.
“We have put the Forgotten to work in the stocks and houses of leisure.”
“We call them the Silent,” Celestine spoke. She hadn’t meant to, but the fire in her chest demanded it. “They are not Forgotten in our lands, sir.”
Before she could
“You defile sacred women,” Sir Scalehall answered him. To draw his wrath was ire, for none knew warfare and martial prowess more than the Red Banners. “You are sacrilege.”
Whitehall shrugged. “A maiden’s mouth holds no crest. It is the law in our land. The breaking of a crest will have you hanging. But in the mornings and the markets, you can hear the gags of maidens upon men’s flesh. Their cocks shadow around the whimpering girls, or plunge into the useless Forgotten.”As he spoke the terrible name for the women that survived Calendar, he stared at Celestine again.
Gasps went around the table. It was an affirmation of the darkest rumor.
“The crest stays intact. The men are sated and work in the seasons as they change. It is survival.” Whitehall sipped his wine.
“It is heresy and filth!” Lord Scalehall shouted.
Whitehall smirked, his eyes dancing to the lords. “Let us not forget some of your banners I have seen in my lands, great lords. To sate your own needs. I am Lord of Tears that flow from maiden’s eyes as they cough and slop. But I have a boon to offer. I have one hundred maidens with their crests intact. You all need to just pay the price.”
With that, silence reigned. Celestine wondered how such a gathering of women, and the power to protect them, had occurred. But as hope floated inside her, she swallowed the bitterness of the truth. Those poor women were subservient to the whims of men in that banner, their very life tasting of usage.
Celestine looked at her father, his stern bearing, his graying beard and the rod of office gripped tightly in his hand. She had seen that rod knock a man stone dead for an effrontery in his hall, or a hand that dared stray so close to her.
“Your price?” Chief Hivewell, of the Amber Banners broke the cursed silence.
Whitehall smiled. What he offered might turn the tide. It might sate the Seasons at Calendar so their war would cease. “A tithing of flesh, for Whitehall. The first daughter of every home will be sent to us. We will abide by the age of consent, but they will serve when of age, and we will handle the flesh tithing yearly. You all seek to go back to the old ways, when one season followed one another. We must deal in reality. We must appease the Lords of the Seasons. A woman holds no crest in her mouth, nor her rear. The Forgotten are a commodity, not a sacred burden.”
Celestine felt her stomach fall away from her. It was true sickness; the world Whitehall painted. A world where women were staked to tables and stockades. Where your chore work was thrown down and you were to kneel and gag upon men until their seed filled your mouth. It was a world of salt and tears.
But it was a world.
One she saw the men around the table considering it. What was better, a dead daughter or one who wished she was? Men would choose one, women would know there was little difference between either.
Lord Scalehall and Lord Skye of the Red and Blue banners rose and flashed long daggers from each of their belts. Celestine felt the strangest gratitude when they did. Men who believed the world shouldn’t fall to such darkness. That it was better to perish than turn into beasts.
“You confirmation proves you, Whitehall, but your boastfulness condemns you,” Scalehall spat.
Celestine watched Lord Skye’s eyes flash with bitter hatred.The long dagger was gripped in his hand. Blue Banners were a free ranging people who were said to love horseflesh and the sky and their great plains of green grass more than any amount of gold. There was no land ownership beyond a man’s home. All could camp under the stars and wander.
“We do not suffer these men who steal a woman’s crest. In my lands we break the burglar’s tool, and if a man seeks to steal a crest with his cock, we geld him like a stallion.” Skye stared the White Banner down.
“Is that so?” Whitehall grinned. “Your land will be empty soon. Surely Lord Skye, you of all people should know that mares are meant to be ridden. Saddles are for the rider.”
“You’re a creature, not a man, Whitehall.” Lord Skye walked towards Whitehall, his blade glinting with the light of the hearth. “Let me do you the honor of removing that which confuses you so.”
“Enough,” Lord Mirrortower commanded.“We will not permit our species to fall into darkness, nor depravity.” His eyes went to the High Mage of Blackdawn Tower, both sorcerer and holder of his people’s banner. “Your locks, your engravings, have served the realm, Astir. But I will no longer live in a world where daughters and wives are to be locked away because of lawlessness. Nor will I see us answer hardship with depravity, nor slavery.”
Thank you, father. At least we step into extinction with our heads held high.
Whitehall shrugged. “Then humanity ends.”
“Let it end, then,” Mirrortower said gravely. “Better to die than become devils and thieves of joy for all women.”
Celestine walked forward and placed her hand on her father’s shoulder. He continued, “We have but fourteen maidens brought for this Tithing. For the bride hunt of the Seasons.”
“Such a number will draw their ire.” Suncrown shook his head.
“I agree,” Lord Mirrortower said. “Though one woman is enough for one man, these are not men. These are faceless demigods who rule their own plane, yet wreak havoc upon ours like ripples in a pond. They control the wind and the snow, the soil and the sun. I see my daughter Celestine bringing hope to all in your realms. We should take her lead. Does she not chop wood one morning in autumn, and the next day sew seed among your folk? Her hands shear the sheep in spring and read stories to your children in winter two days hence.”
“All know, the brightness and hope your daughter brings our realms,” Lord Scalehall spoke, “and not all of us have to lock away our daughters and wives. She brings peace where she goes.”
“She is magic.” The mage of the black banner raised a glass. “She travels to my lands through winter and autumn. The children flock to her for her stories.”
“There is no greater maiden in all the realm,” Lord Hivewell agreed. “Though I have a long line of suitors for her that grow after every visit.”
“None braver.” her father touched her hand and looked at her. “Hers is the courage of hope. Of rightfulness. Long have I tended marriage requests and dowries and offers for her hand from each of you.”
Celestine blushed a bit. Her father, though he had never said it, knew that if he married her to a son of any of these lords, it would be seen as favoritism.
“Aye,” the Brown lord said, his bearskin about his shoulders and tattoos all along his muscled form. “And wars any of us would wage for her hand. She is a light in the darkness. For her heart is purer than fallen snow.”
“She knows and tends to all your realms, bringing help and succor, bringing labor and medicine. They say my lands are unbannered. But my daughter is the true painted realm. She has taught me more than I her, and for that reason, all women in my lands decide their own destinies. In my lands, women choose. That is what my daughter taught me. And I have decided… that she will decide.”
There had to be some mistake. If her stomach had fallen before, it now ran from the hall on horseback. She turned to stare at the number of faces around the table. These same men spoke of the brightness within her, but they didn’t know. They knew only what she did for them, not the sadness and loneliness she felt.
Never had she worn grand dresses. Her hands were rough from the plow and her lap sometimes was stained with the blood of the wounded in these men’s pitch battles. The solitude of her own bed felt like a banishment, and her chastity was born of duty.
Her entire life had been a service to fixing the folly of men, and the anger of the Seasons. By what writ and warrant did faceless gods control their skies? She did not resent her life of service, but she watched her own wishes and desires frozen away, so thick was the ice she couldn’t even peer within to see what may lie inside.
But Celestine also knew she was no grand hero, nor pure hearted. She felt lust. She felt jealousy when seeing finer things. There was anger, and more than anything she felt a bleakness and melancholy each morning, as if she were a candle burning too fiercely. It was through helping others, ignoring herself, that she could breathe.
I was born with such bleakness. I’d rather have been frozen in my mother’s arms than bear this dying world without her.
“Lords,” Celestine said to the table, looking at each of them. Even Whitehall, even the leaders of the Scarlet realm who looked more like fiends than men. She saw the nobility in Skye, the greed in Suncrown, the honor and soldierly order in Scalehall the Red Banner. She saw the girth in the midriff of the Amber lord and the lusty aggression in the bear skinned man of Brown.
“Long have I tended to your twelve realms, your daughters, your sons. I have chopped wood in the morning and burned it all the next day for a sudden winter. I have seen your sons die in their cradle from the cold. From starvation. I have seen the wombs of our daughters and lands grow barren from starvation and famine.”
Celestine smiled at her father, but her eyes filled with tears.Try as she might, the lump wouldn’t settle down in her throat.
“I never wanted to serve any of your realms. But the people needed help. I tended to my childhood friend this last week who was set upon by a pack of men. Some say they were ruffians. Others say they were landed men.”
Many cleared their throats as eyes went around the table.
“Each of you would take me as a bride. Though I am not the fairest, nor stoutest, nor slimmest. You say I am brightness, I am your Painted Realm, and you have ruined me. But each of you would take me as a bride.” Celestine looked up and set her jaw. “Do we send fourteen women to die, or live in harmony, or depraved death? How many souls do we send to Calendar, that place we cannot reach, to demigods who don’t hear our prayers? Do we sell our souls and saddle women as animals like Whitehall wants? All roads lead to ruin.”
“This is true, Lady Celestine.” Scalehall spoke. “But the Tithing leaves tomorrow. Whom do we put upon the carriages to Calendar? Who faces the Seasons? Even when we have attempted to send emissaries, the guards from Calendar do not permit them. The Seasons demand to be fed, nothing else.”
“We should fill it with fighting men,” growled Brown. “And slay these Lords.”
Celestine held up her hand. “You cannot kill winter, nor summer. Nor any Season.”
Astris of the Black Banners leaned forward. “Then what do we do, Lady Celestine? Whom do we send?” His skin was a sickly gold pallor and his eyes glowed with witchlight.
“You send me,” Celestine whispered. “I will be a bride for all the Seasons.”
Her father shut his eyes, knowing that this would be her choice. The men erupted into argument.
Blackdawn held up his hand to quiet them. “Only a Season might kill another, if that is even possible. If they choose her as a bride, we may have stability. Perhaps they might even see how their conflict has ruined this world.”
“We may have eternal winter,” the Brown Bannered lord growled.
“Or spring,” Suncrown said.
“Or nothing,” a noble of scarlet spoke, his eyes black like coal freshly burned. “If they kill all who travel there.”
Lord Mirrortower rose and placed his hands on the table. “Celestine has decided, and so it will be. She will go to Calendar alone. She will both relay and be the message. Our final one.”
Fear flooded her veins, but there was elation as well. No matter what happened when those strange guards took her to Calendar, the place no man could find, and whose influence no one could escape, the world would change.
“This will be the final Tithing,” her father declared. “None after this. If I am to lose that which is most precious to me in the entire world, that is the price of it.”
Several noblemen objected loudly. Then her father slammed his rod of office onto the ground. His eyes tear-filled, his voice held the darkness of a battlefield under a falling sun. “If Celestine does not sate their wants, I will see the Seasons starve. Too long have our people suffered for the whims of these demigods.”
“So be it,” Astris of the Black Banner agreed. “If their guards come next year, my mages will rip their souls from their bodies.”
“It will be our end,” a nobleman said.
“Tomorrow is my end,” her father spoke. “And a year and a day from now, these Seasons will taste the famine they have heaped upon us. Any who attempts to enter my lands after tomorrow to pay the Tithing should prepare for war. For if they do not slay me and my men, I will burn their very banner from this earth.”
Celestine held back her own tears. To watch her father’s heart, cleave itself in two before her eyes was too much.
All lords rose around the table and went to her, each taking the turn to kneel and kiss her hand. Even Whitehall, who smirked and murmured something crude that she didn’t deign to hear it.
“Thank you, my lady,” Scalehall said.
“We wish you good fortune.”
And so on.
As all men do who create a mess, they left it in the hands of a woman. Some left in shame, some left in indifference, some swore to honor her and defend her father’s decree. She embraced her father for a long time, and he wept into her shoulder, harder than even when her mother had died.
“You are my world,” he croaked. “The light of my life. Please come back to me someday. If you don’t, I’ll find a way to Calendar.”
“You have been a wonderful father” she murmured into his shoulder.
“Were that true, I would’ve found a way to make the world for you.”
Celestine dried her eyes and smiled at her father. He would be alone now, truly. “I must go, father. I know it. I just know it. Do not fall into sorrow or grief for me, for I love you greatly. Find a wife, find my friend, and look after her. In a year, I swear, you can break the keys of all women locked away. Men will toil in the fields and forest and streams and seas once again.”
Her father hugged her.
That night, Celestine walked in a daze. She had grown up in Mirrortower. But now, she felt so little time left. Word traveled fast. Everywhere she went, her people gave her boons of food and wine, of blankets to keep her warm, but she refused them all. They needed it. But their generosity steeled her.
Where she was going, she would either have everything, or need nothing in the grave.
In the dark hours, Celestine tended to the Silent. Maybe it was a way to prove they weren’t forgotten, as Whitehall had deemed them. She knew deeply she had to see them. The women who sat silently and stared at nothing, whether in melancholy or madness or the darkest sanity of knowing what had happened to them.
The people of the Painted Realm would sometimes say she asked them what happened. That they finally spoke to her. That they warned her. Some would say they had not been selected by the Seasons, and that profound rejection was what stole their voice.
But Celestine did no such thing.
She sat and tended to them, dressing and bathing and feeding them with gentle hands. The lone bride for the final Tithing spent her final night with the women who had come back from Calendar, and even if they would have spoken their secrets to her, she did not ask.
For she believed women could own anything.
Especially their own secrets.