The Unfettered Child

by Michael C Sahd

  “I’m looking for Najima,” she said.

  Omar gaped at her as though she had lost her mind, then he pointed to the sun. “She’s right there, behind the clouds, but don’t look directly at her. Her brightness will hurt your eyes.”

  “The sun?” she asked. Omar nodded, and Samara said, “My grandmother said the sun was the greatest of the gods.”

  As they returned home, Samara heard Heyam call out from the front of the wagons, “Halt the train!” The carriages slowed, and Samara gripped the porch rails of Varisha’s cart. Omar paused, his attention on the commotion at the front of the train.

  “Come on,” he said and walked toward the gathering Khaliji.

  Uncertainly, Samara followed him to the front, but the two of them lagged back when they saw strangers standing across the road, holding weapons. Heyam climbed off the cart to talk to the men. Others also began climbing out of their carriages to see why they had stopped.

  Varisha came out of her wagon, and when she spotted Samara and Omar, she said, “Hey you two. I wonder what’s going on. We don’t normally stop for other travelers.” She tied a curved blade to her waist, then grabbed the children’s hands. Together, they followed the crowd. Samara noticed that Varisha wasn’t the only one who had armed herself.

  “. . . completely destroyed, I tell you. Nothing left but a pile of rubble. After destroying the temple of Samawi, the little demon came out and started killing people mercilessly, with great domes of fire. We were lucky to get out of Shaqraa alive.” The speaker’s wide eyes encompassed the group, daring anyone to challenge his words.

  When Samara realized what he was talking about, she stepped behind Varisha’s skirts. The older woman paid no attention to her; she was busy listening to the tale. She had heard the story before, of course, but never from a man who had witnessed the terrible event first-hand.

  After the man finished telling Heyam his story, he continued, saying, “It’s good you’re going west. We passed your troupe before, but we hurried past you. We spent some time in Al-Gibot, but then decided to head to the coast. We have family in Ostreim, and there’s plenty of work in the city. However, we turned back when we found travelers murdered by the roadside with nothing left to their names except the clothes on their backs. We assumed bandits. We were going to wait till nightfall to move forward under the cover of Alqamar.”

  Samara peeked behind the man and saw the young girl she had tried to console after she had accidently killed so many people in the village. Her eyes were dull, her brown hair tied loosely behind her head in a ponytail. She sat on a horse staring down at her hands, paying no attention to the crowd at all.

  The man finished telling his tale, and Heyam yelled out, “Let’s set up here for the night. We’ll discuss what to do.” Then he asked the man, “Would you like to stay with us, friend? We have food and can offer you a place for the night.”

  Looking down the road, the man licked his lips and said, “We wanted to leave tonight.” Samara fidgeted uncomfortably, hoping they would decline his offer. If they stayed, they might recognize her. She felt particularly concerned about the little girl, one of the few people left alive from Shaqraa who she had interacted closely with. How could the spirits be so cruel?

  “You’ve already been traveling many days. Stay with us tonight, and then you can cross with us. You look exhausted. There are many of us. Too many for a few bandits to harass,” Heyam said. Then, to reassure the man, he continued, “We have a healer with us.”

  After a moment of consideration, the man said, “Yes, I think you’re right. We’ll stay for the night. Thank you, my friend.” Hearing them accept Heyam’s invitation, Samara retreated from the crowd, her heart pounding in her chest. She ran to Varisha’s wagon and charged inside, then jumped onto Omar’s bed and cried into her arms.

  Almost as soon as she lay down, Omar slipped in behind her. “What’s wrong, Samara?” he asked, sitting on the bed next to her.

  “I-I do not . . . feel well,” Samara lied.

  “Should I go fetch Badr Al’din?” Omar asked.

  “No!” Samara said quickly. Wiping the tears off with her arms, she sat up. “I’m fine.”

  Why are you crying? Illtud asked.

  Some people from that temple I accidently destroyed are here, Samara replied.

  We should leave before those people see you, Illtud said.

  “Why are you crying?” Omar asked, inadvertently echoing Illtud. He shifted onto his knees.

  I don’t want to leave, Samara responded to Illtud. Then she told Omar, “I’m not.”

  Omar glanced at her skeptically. “Yes, you are.” He wiped a tear from the corner of one of her eyes.

  If they see you, it will be bad. We can do better on— Illtud began, but Samara cut him off.

  Having learned enough of the Havallan culture, she had devised a plan. She said, “I want to heal. Do you think I can if I . . . promise to Najima?”

  “You mean Samawi, to become a cleric?” Omar asked, and she nodded. Smiling at her, Omar said, “I’m sure you could.”

  Samara crawled out of the bed. “I wear . . .” She wiped her hand across her nose and mouth, miming a veil, then continued, “Like Ghazal?”

  “You want to wear a veil?” Omar said, jumping out of the bed. He walked over to his mother’s cabinet and pulled out a sky-blue veil that matched Samara’s outfit. He came over and wrapped it around her head, hiding the girl’s nose and mouth. “You’re too young for a veil, but okay.”

  Samara went to her drawer and pulled out a mirror that Varisha had given her. The only thing showing on her face was her midnight eyes. She didn’t think the strangers would recognize her with this on, if they didn’t get close.

  Together, the children left the wagon. The adults were busy setting up camp. Heyam, Ghazal, Badr, the man, and his family sat around a fire, talking. Omar headed that way, but Samara caught his sleeve and pulled him toward Varisha.

  When Varisha saw Samara, she smiled. “What’s this?”

  Omar answered for her. “Samara has decided to become a cleric.”

  Varisha chuckled. “I see. You’re devoting yourself to Samawi?” She sliced up a root for dinner as she talked.

  “Yes,” Samara responded, grabbing some roots from a tub to hand to Varisha. She started scraping the outer skin off the roots before passing them on. Omar picked up the slices and put them into a pot of water.

  “Thank you. Aren’t you going to finish your lessons with Badr Al’din today?” Varisha asked.

  “He gave us the day off,” Samara said, passing her a peeled root.

  Taking the root and chopping it up, Varisha said, “Ah, well, that should give you two plenty of time for play. Thank you again for helping me.”

  “You’re welcome,” the two children said together.

  After giving Varisha a quick hug, they ran off into the woods to play. When they got far enough out, Samara felt more comfortable and uncovered her face. Omar gave her a funny look and said, “Female clerics aren’t supposed to remove their veils around boys.”

  Sticking her tongue out at him, she removed the rest of the veil, wrapping it around her neck like a scarf, and pulled her black hair out from underneath. “Why not?” she asked.

  “Because men aren’t supposed to see them and desire them, but I guess it’s alright, since you’re still a little kid.” Samara smiled at him, but he was scanning the woods. “Let’s climb that tree,” he said, pointing at a crooked pine that reached out of the ground at an angle, twisting its gnarled trunk around another tree, then snaking away at an upward angle.

  After testing the tree’s stability, Omar climbed up, and Samara followed his lead. As they climbed, she asked, “Why does Varisha not . . . wear . . . the veil?” indicating the veil across her neck.

  “Because she’s not a cleric. She only wears them during certain dances or performances.” The trees had a small, flat area where they crossed, and Omar settled onto it.

  “So Ghazal is a cl
eric too?” Samara asked, struggling up the tree.

  “Ghazal?” he said, incredulously. “No! She doesn’t need to wear the veil. She only does it because of her strong devotion to Heyam and to Samawi.”

  Sighing, Samara said, “This is very confusing. Is your mom not devoted to your father?”

  Frowning at Samara, Omar said, “My mother loves my father, but he isn’t a Khaliji, so they didn’t marry. Besides, it’s an old tradition that married women wear the veil. Only older women and clerics do it.”

  Samara couldn’t imagine growing up without her father. “Where is your father?” she asked, hesitantly. She hadn’t wanted to broach the subject before, because she had been afraid of offending her friend. As she struggled for purchase on the tree, Omar reached down and clasped her wrist, helping her up the rest of the way. Growing up on the plains, she was not as good of a climber as Omar was.

  “He lives in Sunat Kabisa. Mother told me he’s a guard for Emperor Khalil,” Omar said proudly. Then he glanced away, frowning. “When we were last there, he was too busy to come see me.”

  “I’m sorry,” Samara said, climbing up to share his seat. The small, flat area had collected a great deal of dirt, and some grass made a carpet for the two to sit on. Leaning against the opposite trunk from Omar, she asked, “What is Sun . . . Sunat Kabisa?”

  Omar’s eyes lit up. “It’s a great city.” He emphasized the size by swinging his arms wide. “It’s the capital of the Havallan Empire. You can see all kinds of wonders there. The great Emperor Havelle has his castle there.”

  “Great?” Samara said, wrinkling her nose in disgust. “He kills people.”

  “What?” Omar sounded incredulous. “Who did he kill?”

  Knowing she shouldn’t talk about Illtud, she answered vaguely. “Um, the family of a . . . person I know,” Samara said, turning her head away.

  “I don’t believe it. Emperor Havelle is great and merciful,” Omar said, crossing his arms smugly.

  She wanted to argue with him, but she was having enough difficulty with the language. How could he believe that about Havelle? Illtud had told her what had happened; it was horrible. The Khaliji must not know. That was the only possible explanation—she would have to ask Illtud later.

  When Samara failed to argue, Omar slouched against the tree. “Are you really going to cross the ocean to where the elves are?”

  It was Samara’s turn to brighten. Nodding, she said, “My father and mother are there . . . safe.” Smiling, she stared up into the pine canopy.

  “It’s well known in the west that elves raid people’s towns and villages and kidnap them, too. They’re never heard from again.”

  “A friend tells me Father and Mother are safe,” she insisted. “If elves hurt Mother or Father, Father will . . .” She punched her palm, grinding her knuckles into her other hand as if smashing an invisible bug. “He is . . .” She slapped her bicep while flexing her muscle.

  “But the elves have magic,” Omar said, his eyebrows creased with concern.

  “I know,” Samara said, her mood darkening. She had promised Illtud that she wouldn’t show the Khaliji the extent of her magic, but Omar was her friend. Perhaps one of the few friends she had left. She put her finger up and said, “Watch, I will help him.” Allowing the magic to flow into her body, she contemplated what to show him. She thought it best if she cast an ice shard.

  Holding her palm out, she formed a ball of ice that increased in size, inches above her hand. Before she could finish the spell, however, Omar said, “Hold on.” He leaned over a little, gazing down the side of the tree, and shouted, “Hey down there. You want to play with us?”

  Samara peeked down behind her, and when she saw the brown ponytail, she quickly turned away, eyes wide with fear. Her spell dissipated as soon as she stopped concentrating on it. The small ball of ice dropped onto the tree and shattered.

  When Omar saw the fear on her face, he asked, “Hey, what’s wrong, Samara? It’s just that new girl.”

  “Um—” Samara said. Thinking quickly, she wrapped the veil around her head.

  Omar wrinkled his nose and said, “You only need to wear that around men.”

  If the girl recognized Samara, she would be in trouble and have to leave. Casting her eyes around, hoping to see something to help the situation, she thought up an excuse. “Um . . . her father . . . might . . . come.” She looked down and saw that the girl was walking toward them. “And I need to wear it around you.”

  Omar shrugged and started climbing down the tree. Samara almost reached down to stop him but hesitated. Making sure the veil stayed in place, she decided to follow at a slower pace. Leaping the last few feet off the tree, Omar landed in a crouch. “Hello,” he said, slapping dirt off his knees.

  Samara stepped onto the soft ground and fixed her veil. Not wanting to turn around, she stared at her feet. She couldn’t keep her back to them forever, so after taking a deep breath and holding it in, she allowed herself to turn around. She heard the girl say hello, but it was very quiet. The girl gazed at the ground, shyly. Samara released her breath in a sigh, but she didn’t fully relax yet.

  “My father told me to go play,” the little girl said. Samara could barely hear her mumbling.

  “You’re just in time,” Omar said, his voice reflecting his excitement. “Samara was about to show me some magic.”

  Gasping, Samara almost screamed, “No!” She said, instead, “I-It . . . it is nothing.” The thumping of her heart climbed into her throat. Shaking, she thought she might vomit. Her forehead glistened with sweat. “I-I . . .”

  The girl started to look up at her, but Samara quickly turned around.

  “What are you doing?” Omar asked, incredulously. Samara wanted to respond, but instead, she bounded into the woods.

  “Samara? . . . Wait!” Omar yelled after her. His footsteps pounded behind her, gaining on her. She leaped over roots and rocks as she ran, the trunks of the trees blurring through her tears. Omar’s voice chased after her, pleading for her to come back.

  Without warning, Omar came out in front of her, and she bowled into him. The two of them stumbled to the ground together. She got back up with just a few scratches and bruises, then Omar had an arm around her shoulders. She kept her face hidden, crying into her hands, while Omar persistently asked, “Samara, are you okay?”

  She cried for a time, as Omar comforted her. When she stopped, the woods were starting to darken, and rain splashed through the branches. She was soaking wet, and cold. She had no idea how long she had stood there crying in Omar’s arms, but it must have been a while, and Omar had just held her. Peeking at him now, she saw concern written all over his face.

  She was about to apologize when they heard a scream echo through the woods, not far from the tree they had climbed. Through the trees, they could see the little girl being hefted up onto the shoulders of a stout man dressed in ragged leather armor. Two other filthy men were advancing toward them. Omar paled and said, “Run!”

  Chapter 19: Revelation

  Orin sat on a stump, gazing down into the woods. Hunched over, his elbows resting on his knees, he swung a mallet between his legs like a pendulum. He sighed deeply, his mood hanging around him like a black storm.

  In contrast, the sun shined down on the forest through a cloudless sky. Birds were singing, and the only ice and snow left were the glaciers that inhabited the mountains through all four seasons. Summer had completely woken, and the mountains reveled in the warmth.

  The mountain village that had adopted the refugees from his tribe carried the cheery demeanor of the season. The playful screams of children rolled down from behind him, along with the chatter of the village adults.

  Irritated, Orin almost stood up to take a walk alone in the woods. Instead, he sighed another heavy sigh and continued to sulk. He wanted to get away from these people. He liked them well enough, but the black storm that surrounded him tarnished everything.

  A forge burned nearby, ready for him to s
tart working. Brahun, the mountain chief, had permitted Orin to fire it up after he woke from his coma. The blacksmith had hoped he could lose himself in his work, but he felt lost without his Natalia and Samara. He wished he had been allowed to die.

  The laughter of a young girl rose above the clamor. His eyes widened briefly; his Samara laughed like that. A faint glimmer of hope fluttered up from his stomach, through his chest, then out into the air on another sigh as he realized how unlikely that was.

  He looked at the forge and his vision blurred. It hardly seemed that long ago that his daughter had skipped around him while he worked at the forge.

  Cursing, he stood and tossed his hammer, more forcefully than he had intended, into the ground, smashing a pot of coal. He ignored the mess and started down the hill, passing the homes that Nikolai had practically erected by himself.

  He followed a foot trail down into the forest. Nikolai was out there, hunting. Accalia had told him that the boy had been disappearing on his own almost every day now, sometimes for days at a time. He had not returned since Orin had woken the day before.

  The blacksmith liked his nephew and was very proud of him. He hoped the boy wasn’t suffering—disappearing to get away from everyone. Even though Accalia assured him that Nikolai was happy, he worried.

  When he had woken in a hut that he didn’t recognize, he had almost panicked, but Accalia had been by his side. He had been so confused and disoriented that it had taken her some time before he had calmed down.

  After he had relaxed, Accalia had explained to him the deal Nikolai had made with the mountain folk, and the extraordinary leadership role that he had slipped into.

  She had also told him how close Orin had been to death, and that if it hadn’t been for the Havallan priestess, Samara, he would have died.