Summary

Nembe, a priestess, saves the life of the King of Huq's son through a dangerous and forbidden ritual, and in exchange, she offers her life to the Goddess of the Underworld but cleverly substitutes her rival, Pravet, to fulfill the death debt.

Abstract

In the story "Sacrifice," Nembe, a skilled priestess, performs a harrowing ritual to heal the King of Huq's ailing son by removing poisonous cysts from his body without leaving a wound. The successful healing comes with a heavy price demanded by Haran, the Goddess of the Underworld, who claims the life Nembe saved as her own. To fulfill her pledge to the goddess, Nembe orchestrates her own apparent drowning, only to cheat death by substituting her rival, Pravet, who is bound and set adrift on the river. Nembe's clever plan is executed with the help of her loyal servant, Esset, and results in her becoming a servant to the goddess in place of dying, while Pravet meets her demise.

Opinions

The author portrays Nembe as a resourceful and brave character who is willing to sacrifice herself for the greater good but also smart enough to find a way to outwit death.
The narrative conveys a sense of awe and respect for the ancient rituals and the power of the gods, particularly in the detailed description of the healing ritual and the subsequent appearance of the Goddess of the Underworld.
There is an underlying tension between the priestesses, Nembe and Pravet, which suggests a rivalry that goes beyond their differing religious affiliations, hinting at personal animosity.
The story reflects on the theme of the cost of magic, implying that every act of magic, especially one that defies death, comes with a significant and often personal price.
The crowd's acceptance of Nembe's "sacrifice" indicates a societal expectation for public displays of penance, reinforcing the cultural significance of the priestesses' roles and the gods' will in the world of the story.

Sacrifice

A priestess always pays her dues

Image public domain, taken from the British Library

Sunrise at the High Altar, I’m up to my elbows in goat entrails. There’s no arguing with the bloodied mess of intestines.

Esset approaches, apron stained with the blood of seven goats, face stained with tears as if I’m already dead.

‘Nembe.’ He speaks my name in sorrow.

At noon, I’m summoned to the King of Huq’s apartments.

His son lies twisted in pain beneath the canopy of his bed. Slaves fan him with ostrich feathers. The priestesses of Thaal beat drums and light incense to mask the smell of death. My rival, Pravet of Thaal, eyes me with hatred.

Esset holds a bronze bowl of oil. I dip my fingers into the liquid, lay them on the boy’s swollen stomach. I close my eyes.

I slip my hands deep inside the boy’s flesh. The gods are masterful in their creation. A soft shell and softer insides, easy to manipulate. The human spirit clings to the body, fights to the last.

One by one, I pull out poisonous cysts. Esset takes them from me.

The last one removed, I pull my hands out. There’s no blood, no wound. The pain in the boy’s face eases. He falls into healing slumber.

We burn the cysts on a brazier. The air thickens. In terror the others back away; shadow smoke solidifies.

There’s always a price for magic.

‘The boy was mine, Nembe of the Temple.’ Haran, Goddess of the Underworld, is a terrible sight.

I bow my head. ‘Death you shall receive, Great One. I pledge you my life.’

Behind the smoke, Pravet smiles satisfaction through her fear.

At sunset, the citizens of Huq stand on the river bank to watch me drown.

I’m dressed in a simple padded robe, hair cinched tight across my skull in plaits, no jewellery or adornment. Why waste gold when it’s a life the Goddess demands.

I lay on my back as Esset instructed me, plaits fanned out on the water. The river carries me quickly out to its centre, too far to strike for the banks.

Far enough from the crowds, I discard my robe. I fight the current to raise the deflated bladders Esset tied to my body to the surface.

Seven goats, seven bladders.

One by one, I fill them with precious breath.

I’m exhausted but they buoy me up.

At last, ahead of me, a single rower paddles a skiff frantically against the flow.

Esset.

I summon the last of my flagging strength and swim to meet him. He flounders me into the flat bottomed boat and onto the unconscious body of Priestess Pravet.

At moonrise, we light the summoning fire on the riverbank, as far from Huq as we could row that evening.

The goddess of death appears in the smoke. ‘Trickery, Nembe?’

‘You have your life, goddess,’ I nudge Pravet’s prone form with my foot. ‘I pledge you mine in service instead of in death.’

She stays long enough to watch Pravet’s bound body carried away on the moonlit waters.

More fantasy fiction by Alex Kilcannon:

Fool’s Gold

Never trust a thief

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