Elea led him to her own quarters that had once been the laird’s and helped him choose appropriate raiment for the day. Waiting behind the door, she took his arm and allowed him to escort her outside. She squinted as she looked in the large courtyard. It was full. Around the edge were villagers of all ages and trades. In the center stood nearly one hundred guards, their bright green uniforms contrasting with the dark fabrics and poor clothes of the villagers. As Elea stepped down the six steps to the courtyard, the crowd opened a way for her and Gerard.
It wasn’t hard for her to find the strapping blacksmith, even though today he was wearing a fine smock. She stopped walking a few inches shy of him and released Gerard’s arm. The blacksmith bowed and she returned his salute with a nod.
“Do you have the knives, Father Munro?”
The blacksmith opened a small burlap bag and inside were iron switchblades, no bigger than an inch. He closed the bag and offered it to her. Elea shook her head and held up her hand.
“They are perfect,” she said, turning to the guards that watched her warily. “Any guard who will take a blade and make a blood oath to me will be granted their freedom and given a share in the new and prosperous Yakura we will build. Those who will not swear an oath to me will be imprisoned for their protection and the safety of my people.
“But remember, if you choose to give me your oath, you will be bound until you die to fulfill it. If you break your oath, you will not have a place in the realms of the three Eternal Kingdoms when you die. You will dwell for all the eternities in the lowest of the seven purgatories . . . the place reserved for traitors and oath breakers.”
Her words were met with absolute silence, but she could discern the soldiers’ emotions. Some were angry. Some were scared. A few excited. Others resentful. She was glad to have the strong Kaulish captain by her side.
Elea’s soul felt as bright as the sun, but Nora’s soul itched worse than ever inside of her as if trying to get out. “Father Munro, please give every man who wishes to pledge their oath a blade.”
The blacksmith opened his bag and offered it to a guard in the front row. He was young and tall, with tawny skin. Probably not more than eighteen. He hesitated before placing his hand into the bag and taking one of the blades. The next guard did not hesitate; he grabbed a blade so quickly that he sliced his finger. Elea watched the red blood pool around the scrape as guard after guard each took a blade.
“No,” a guard in the second row said.
A few crowd members gasped and Elea’s breath caught. This guard was a thick man, with a scarred face and a shock of red hair.
“I’m not making no oath to a witch.” He spat on the ground. “Laird Lochdon will come, and he will kill all of you worthless serfs. Every last man, woman, and child.”
“That’s enough!” Elea yelled. “Gag him and take him to the dungeon.”
The head groom and four other men seized the scarred guard. He struggled against them, kicking with his feet and yelling, “Death to witches! Women weren’t meant to rule! It’s unnatural.”
But without a weapon, he was no match for them. The head groom, Father Camran, stuffed a rag inside the man’s mouth and finally, he was silent. Elea watched them forcibly drag him from the green courtyard and into a section of the castle she had not yet visited. It must be where the guards’ quarters were, and beneath them, the dungeon.
She shook her head and felt her violet hair move across her back. She was trying to shake his words from her mind. Words she’d heard her father say so many times.She was only a girl. Too weak in body and mind to rule. Her violet hair meant nothing. Elea wasn’t strong enough or smart enough. She was wasting her time believing in old wives’ tales that she was someone special. Someone important.
“Would anyone else like to refuse?”
Three other men raised their hands.
“Take them to the dungeons,” she said. “But treat them well. They are still children of Màthair.”
As they were led away, the courtyard filled with the whispers and rumblings of hundreds of conversations. She watched the blacksmith distribute the blades to the remaining guards and then came back to her side.
Elea lifted her hand in the air and the crowd became silent again. “You will take the blade and run it lightly across your palm through your lifelines. For this is a lifetime commitment. But there is no need to do more than scratch the surface until blood rises to the skin.”
Holding her breath, she watched the first young guard who had hesitated to take the blade from the blacksmith. He did not hesitate now; he ran the little switch blade down the center of his palm and then held up his bloody hand. One by one, the guards each held up their red hands.
She raised her hand once more. “I give my blood oath of loyalty to break the soul.”
They repeated the words after her.
“That I will defend Queen Eleanora from enemies within and without.”
The blood from their palms began to run down their hands and onto their clean and bright green uniforms.
“This I do by the power of Màthair.”
When they repeated her words, Elea’s heart felt on fire. These men believed in her. They would follow her and they would protect her.
“By the power of Màthair!” Father Munro yelled.
And then everyone in the crowd raised their right fist and echoed, “By the power of Màthair!”