Chapter 155 The Last Offering

Chapter 155 The Last Offering
VISCA -

Frost thickened along the old border road, causing the horses to pick their way carefully over slick stone and hardened mud.
Visca rode with the map braced against his thigh and the reins gathered tight in his gloved hand. The road was barely visible now that winter had pushed pine needles, and dead leaves over it. Roots pushed through old ruts, and branches hung low enough to scrape against his cloak as they passed by. Behind him, Anahi's mare pushed close enough that her breath warmed the air of his horse's flank.
When he glanced back, he found her scanning the ground instead of watching him. Her injured hand stayed wrapped beneath her cloak, but her other hand held the reins with better control than they had just two days ago.
The road bent around a ridge, and Anahi drew in a quiet breath. Visca stopped their horses. "What is it?"
She pointed past his shoulder. "Tracks."
He dismounted and crouched where she had pointed. Adult footprints had pressed through the frost and into the mud, their edges softened by the damp cold.
Anahi slid down from her mare and crouched beside him. Her eyes followed the prints toward the ridge, then back along the road they had come from.
“They’re deeper going in,” Anahi said. “Lighter coming out.”
Visca looked closer.
She was right. The prints leading toward the chapel had sunk harder into the mud. He looked at her. "You see the chapel?"
She lifted her chin toward the trees, and through the pines a broken bell tower rose against the grey sky.
They tied the horses beneath a stand of firs and approached on foot. The chapel stood in a hollow where frost rimmed the walls and dead grass grew in brittle clumps around the foundation. Its doors hung crooked on iron hinges. The Goddess mark above the entry had been scratched until only a scarred oval remained, and Latara's symbol had been carved beneath it.
Leaves had blown through gaps in the roof and gathered along the aisle. Broken pews leaned against each other. More black thread crossed the rafters in a dark web. Candle wax coated the floor in thick lines, too fresh to be dismissed as old rot.
Anahi stepped in behind him and stopped.
Visca felt his Wolf press close enough that his teeth ached. Offerings filled the front of the chapel. Bowls of soured milk, strips of cloth, dried flowers and small bones sat next to a wooden toy horse with a missing leg. At the front, where the Goddess altar should have stood, a darker stone had been dragged into place and carved with Latara's mark.
His hand closed around the hammer, and his fingers squeezed until the leather creaked in his glove. "Start with the thread. Cut it down and keep clear of the altar."
Anahi did as he ordered.
Visca struck the altar once, hard enough to send a crack through the upper corner. The sound rolled through the chapel and shook loose dust from the rafters. He lifted the hammer again, but Anahi went still.
"Visca."
He stopped with the hammer still raised. Hearing a woman say his name, who was almost the age his daughter would have been, hit him hard. "What?" He just barely kept his voice from breaking.
She turned her head to the left side of the chapel. "Something's making noise."
Visca lowered the hammer, and the wind moved through the roof, rattling the thread she'd not yet cut. A piece of wood shifted somewhere near the wall.
"Step back."
Instead of listening, she moved closer to it slowly and lowered herself to her knees.
"Anahi!"
Her fingers brushed along the seam. "There's a hollow."
Visca reached her in three steps and caught her shoulder before she could pull it open. "It could be a trap."
She looked up at him, and the blue flecks scattered in her green eyes were bright in the light coming through the broken ceiling. "It moved."
For a moment, neither of them moved. Then a weak, wet sound came from beneath the altar.
Visca released her shoulder, and she slid her fingers into the crack and pulled. The panel resisted, then broke free with a scrape of stone against stone before stale air rose from the hollow.
Inside lay a bundle wrapped in white, with black thread wrapped around it three times. Visca's stomach clenched so hard that he nearly stepped back. Anahi reached in with both hands. Her injured palm shook as she lifted it out and pulled the cloth away from the top.
The baby's face was red from the cold, its mouth opening and closing around a cry too weak to make any noise.
Anahi made a small sound in her throat.
"Inside your cloak," Visca said. "Against your skin if possible and keep the head covered."
She tucked the child beneath her cloak with clumsy hands, her body curling around the bundle as she backed away from the altar. The baby made another thin sound, and Anahi's arms pulled it closer to her chest.
Visca turned away before the sight could take his knees from him. He braced one hand against the altar and breathed through his nose. His Wolf shoved hard against his skin, and silver burned along the edges of his vision. A living child had been placed beneath the altar, left for a dead god to consume.
His hand opened and closed around nothing. Savonnuh’s face cut through him like a knife, as his own command slid through his mind. "You will do this for our family."
He lifted the hammer. "Anahi," he said so calmly that he was surprised she'd heard him. "Outside."
She didn't argue. Her steps scraped over broken bits of ground as she hurried to the door.
Visca struck the altar until the carved mark split. He broke the hollow first, destroying the place that disgusted him most. Then he tore down the black thread and dragged the offerings into a pile near the doorway. He scraped Latara's mark until his arm burned and his breath turned raspy. Only then did he burn it all.
Smoke curled out through the broken roof as he stepped outside. Anahi stood near the horses, her cloak wrapped tightly around the baby. Her face had gone pale, but the child had stopped making the weak sound.
"Are we taking it back?" she asked.
Visca looked at the ground. The larger footprints led away from the chapel and down the western slope. A smear of blood marked the brittle grass near one of the stones, dark against the frost and grey mud.
"No," he said, and Anahi's eyes lifted to his.
"No one leaves a child to a dead god and disappears behind silence."
He mounted slowly, then waited while Anahi climbed into her saddle with the baby held close under her cloak. When her mare settled beside him, Visca turned toward the tracks.
As Anahi rode beside him with the child tucked against her chest, Visca understood that the last offering had not been left for death. It had been held in breath, in warmth, and in the stubborn little will of a child who had waited for someone to refuse to let it die.