Page 9 of Moon Chosen

“Yes, Caretaker,” he’d replied, instantly averting his gaze and refocusing his thoughts inward.

Even then—even when Dead Eye had barely known more than sixteen winters—he’d believed the God had a plan for him. Believed it. Known it. Never doubted it. Yes, the People were suffering. No, Dead Eye did not understand why. He didn’t understand why the Reaper, the beautiful, ferocious God of the People, allowed death and disease among them. He didn’t understand why their God told them to flay the skin from the living Others so that the People might heal their own shedding skin and absorb the Others’ power, and yet the People still sickened, shed their skin, and died.

But Dead Eye had planned on understanding that very day.

The God would accept his sacrifice, and then She would answer him, and he would be eternally in Her service.

A youngling ran past him, clutching a tiny gutted creature to his naked chest as he wept brokenly.

“His sacrifice was not accepted! The God is not pleased!” The lead Watcher’s high, reedy voice came from the balcony.

With a jolt, Dead Eye had realized he was the only youngling left in the chamber. His gaze flew to the balcony as he cradled his sacrifice close to him, praying his instincts had served him well—that he had chosen wisely when he’d spent days trapping and then rejecting all except the pure white pigeon that rested in his hands.

“Caretaker, present the next youngling!” The lead Watcher stepped into the chamber, standing before the huge glassless windows that separated the room from the balcony on which the enormous statue of the Reaper perched, looking out from Her Temple and beckoning Her People to come to Her.

“I present Dead Eye,” his Caretaker said. Then she stepped aside, allowing him to walk the rest of the length of the chamber alone.

When he reached the lead Watcher, she turned and together they walked out to the sacred balcony.

Though he now knew the statue was just dead metal, and the God an empty shell, Dead Eye would never forget the first time he approached the Reaper. As always, metal pots arranged in a semicircle around Her were filled with fire, illuminating Her, warming Her. Dead Eye had stared up at Her, taking in the magnificence of Her presence.

She was everything a God should be—strong, terrifying, beautiful. Her immortal skin was made of metal that glistened seductively in the firelight. She was taller than ten men and more magnificent than any woman Dead Eye had ever beheld. She knelt above the entrance to Her Temple. With one hand She reached down, calling Her People to Her. With the other hand She held aloft the trident—the deadly three-pronged flaying knife with which She gifted Her people after the Time of Fire.

“What sacrifice have you brought our God?” the Watcher had asked him.

Just as Dead Eye had practiced, he said, “I offer this creature’s spirit to our God, the Reaper, and its body to our God’s chosen servants, Her Watchers.” Ritualistically, Dead Eye offered the pure white pigeon to the old woman as he bowed deeply.

“Yes, this might do. Come to the pit.” The lead Watcher had gestured for Dead Eye to follow her to the largest of the metal fire pits. It was directly in front of the God. Around it, other Watchers, all ancient crones, hovered greedily, licking their lips and whispering among themselves.

Dead Eye shivered in remembrance of the stale smell that had wafted from them and of their rheumy, restless eyes.

The old woman had lifted the ceremonial trident and slit the struggling bird’s belly, from crotch to chin so that it had looked like a beautiful scarlet flower had blossomed from its body. Blood had spewed so high and fierce that a few drops had actually touched the skin of the statue.

“Ah! It is a sign of the God’s pleasure with this youngling!” the old woman had croaked, holding the bleeding, twitching bird aloft. “What role would you take among the People?”

“I would carry Her mark, and be a Harvester,” Dead Eye had said. He remembered with pride that his voice hadn’t broken and that he had stood proud and tall before the old women and the statue that dwarfed them all.

“So be it!” The Watcher had nodded to the other women. They’d surged forward, grabbing Dead Eye’s arms. With surprising strength, they’d pulled him off his feet and pinned him to the floor of the balcony, arms spread. Then the crone had pulled a small trident from the God’s fire pit. The deadly metal of its triple-edged blade had glowed like fresh blood. With a flourish, the Watcher lifted the weapon, asked for their God’s blessing, and then knelt beside him. “From great pain comes great knowledge. As you are accepted into the service of the Reaper, you may ask Her one question—and the God will answer.” Then she pressed the burning blades against the skin of Dead Eye’s forearm.

He hadn’t flinched. He hadn’t cried out. He’d stared eagerly up at the face of the God and asked his one question.

“What must I do to make the People strong again?”

Dead Eye’s fingers found the raised, trident-shaped scar. He stroked it as what happened next replayed through his memory.

Nothing.

The God had not spoken.

Dead Eye lay there, ignoring the blazing pain in his arm, waiting for the God’s mighty voice to fill his mind.

“She answers Dead Eye!” the crone had suddenly shouted as she stood, holding up the trident that was covered with his blood and seared skin. “She accepts him!”

“I heard Her speak! She accepts him!” cried another of the old women.

“She spoke! She accepted him!” cried another.

“Behold!” the lead Watcher shouted, still brandishing the smoking trident. “He is no longer a youngling! He is Dead Eye, one of the God’s Harvesters!”