by E. S. Maya
Stiv carefully sounded out the word. “Koh-tey-va?” He looked to Raven and Wulf for an answer. “What do you guys make of this?”
Raven took a long look and shrugged. “Couldn’t care less about some dingy old sign.”
Wulf tucked away a growing smile. “I know how you feel. I can’t read either.”
“You guys can’t read?” said Stiv, stuffing his fingers into his hair. “Don’t tell me I’m the only one who can read around here.” Raven looked away and folded her arms. Wulf fought to keep his grin from coming to bloom.
“I can read,” Safi said. She pointed at the floor. “It says Katheyva. It’s a town sign.”
“Actually,” Goggles said, “It’s pronounced Katheva. The ‘y’ is silent.”
The four of them looked at him. Goggles adjusted his eyeglasses.
“Folks must have fallen on hard times,” Stiv said, “to up and put their town sign away.”
Raven gave it a gentle kick. “What’s so special about some dingy ol’ sign?”
Stiv made a chewing motion and shook his head. “Town sign tells travelers you’re open for business. Tells them to remember where they’ve been. That way they might send others, or come back themselves someday. Folks put their signs away where there’s nothing left to offer. Not a bed for the night. Not even a place by the fire.”
Safi frowned. For the life of her, she couldn’t remember if Ashcroft had a sign or not. “Must be bad times around these parts,” she said.
“It’s bad times everywhere,” said Wulf. “And for everyone.”
“Except for Blackpoint,” Raven said.
“Except for them,” Wulf agreed.
By the time Bernold returned, Safi was chewing her lips from hunger. They hurried to the table, chain ringing between their ankles, and filled its wooden seats before the barn doors slid back open.
Minding her manners, Safi wiped her hands as clean as her skirt allowed, then folded them neatly upon the tabletop.
The farmers reappeared with five steaming bowls of stew. The grey-haired farmer set Safi’s down first. A single piece of meat took up most of the bowl’s center, looking very much like the apple bobbing game from the annual village fair. It took tremendous effort to keep herself from dunking her face in the broth.
She was, after all, in the presence of company. Her mother had taught her not to eat until all their guests were served.
Raven began spooning her stew before the bowl left the farmer’s hands, and soon they were all deep into their meals. They paused, however, when Bernold pulled out from under his arm five stubby loaves of bread.
“Anderan shortloaf!” Raven batted her eyelashes at the man. “Oh, sergeant, you shouldn’t have.”
Bernold dropped the loaves on the table in a heap. “Don’t get used to it.”
The men left the recruits to their stew, and they ate heartily under the soft glow of lanternlight. Wulf was first to take bread, and it squished soft in his hand. That called for a round of remarks both surprised and impressed. But rather than bite in, or set it to soak in stew, he broke the loaf in half and passed a piece to Raven across the table.
Raven took a shortloaf of her own, halved it, and returned the gesture.
“What’s all this then?” Stiv said, looking back and forth between the two Anderans.
Raven eyed him seriously. “Just an old habit. A city kid thing.” She looked away and shook her head. “You wouldn’t understand.”
Safi noticed Stiv gripping the edge of the old tabletop. She waited for him to continue, but he seemed at a loss for words. “Is it to check for poison?” she asked, if just to break the silence.
Wulf shot her a disdainful look. “It’s nothing like that,” he said. “It’s just a thing we do. If you’ve got bread to eat, you’ve got bread to share.”
Safi shrunk in her seat. “Even if they’re got bread, too?”
“Even then,” Wulf said.
Safi paused to stir her stew. “Even if they’re full and don’t need it?”
Wulf nodded. “If they’ll take it, sure.”
At last, Stiv seemed to catch his tongue. “What if—”
“It’s ‘cause you never know when you’ll need a bite of bread yourself,” Raven said sharply. “So you share your loaf, no matter what. So when you go hungry, there’ll be bread to eat, no matter what. Don’t have to share nothing else, but any unshod alley runt can share a half of bread. You should see how the bakeshops leave ‘em out in Serren, just begging to get taken.”
Safi nodded. Though she didn’t approve of stealing, she was all too familiar with the challenges brought about by hunger. How easier life would have been, had she a friend to share bread with every now and then.
So she took an Anderan shortloaf and broke it down the middle. Half went to Raven beside her, the other to Wulf across the table.
“I want in on this,” Stiv said, taking a loaf his own. He split it apart and gave half to Raven first.
Goggles reached for a shortloaf and paused, watching the others. Wulf gave him a nod. Then Goggles tugged each side until his loaf tore in two.
The five of them took turns passing bread. Soon, no one was sure which loaf had first belonged to who.
Safi dunked hers in her stew, then brought it to her smiling lips for a bite.
Nursing a bellyful of bread and stew, Safi sunk herself into the hay beside her fellow recruits. The straw was surprisingly comfortable, but anything would be after the meal they just ate. Wulf had set the lantern a good ten paces from the haystack, and its dim flame smothered the barn in a sleepy shade of orange.
But sleep was the last thing on their minds. Free from the threat of the Blackpoint recruiters, Stiv and Raven could hardly keep their tongues still. Safi spoke too, now and then, when the slips of silence allowed it.
Stiv spoke at lengths of his home, the Kingdom of Berrider, never lacking in hard work nor hearty meals. It was mostly farm-talk, however, and aside from the food, life didn’t sound much different from Ashcroft.
Raven seemed more a citizen of her home city than Andera itself. Serren, the doomed city, she mockingly called it. Safi hadn’t the courage to ask why.
Eventually, the conversation came to the topic of Titans. Of course Safi believed in them strongly and was pleased to find Goggles did too. Stiv thought them real, but unclimbable. Raven didn’t think they existed at all.
“Do you think they’re real, Wulf?” Safi asked. He felt so far away now, at the chain’s opposite end.
“Most people do,” Wulf replied. “In Notre they’ve got a whole library on Siege Titans.”
“Says the boy who can’t even read,” noted Raven. Safi rolled her eyes.
“But you lived in Serren your whole life,” Wulf said, ignoring the insult. “You mean to tell me you’ve never seen the Nine Stones?”
Raven sat up to look at him. “’Course I’ve seen the Nine Stones! Nobles show off their precious crown every summer, during the Ascension parade.”
Safi clutched a hand to her chest. The Nine Siegestones of the Anderan Royal Crown. She had only ever seen them on the heads side of a good silver sovereign. Oh, what she’d give to see the real thing! Not that she had much to give. Still, the thought left her smiling.
“There you have it,” Stiv said. “You’ve seen the Siegestones, so what debate is there?”
“Just ‘cause I’ve seen a bunch of pretty rocks,” Raven said, “doesn’t mean I believe in Titan tale giants.”
“Hey, Goggles,” Safi said through a smile. “Do you think Raven is right or wrong?”
It took Goggles a moment to answer. “Raven’s wrong. Siege Titans definitely exist.”
“I liked you better when you were quiet,” Raven hissed.
“My pa spent a lifetime traveling Andera,” Wulf said, guiding the topic back on course. “Met lots of people. Some of who’ve seen Titans with their own two eyes. Explain that.”
“People say all sorts’a things.” Raven snorted, then threw a fistfu
l of straw in the air. Some of it came sprinkling down on Safi’s face. “Dad stories don’t prove nothing.”
“My father told me stories too,” Safi said, brushing the straw off her chest. “He’s Abed, and no one knows Titans better. No one tells better Titan tales.”
“Maybe he lied,” Raven said. “Filled your big blonde head full of no good nonsense.”
“My father wouldn’t lie,” Safi said, raising her voice. She sat up and glared at the girl. “He told me all kinds of Titan tales. More than I can remember. Tales passed down for generations.”
“Abedi Titan tales.” Stiv chuckled warmly. “How’s about we hear one then?”
Safi felt her ears go hot. “Oh, I don’t know about that.”
“Stivvy, you read my mind.” Raven turned to face Safi. “You’re a Southerling, ain’t you?”
“I’m an Abed,” Safi corrected her, “and half at that.”
Raven put her fists to her sides, stuck out her elbows, and flapped her arms against the hay. “Buk-buk-buk-buk, bakaaw!”
“You sound like you belong in here.” Safi threw a handful of hay directly at Raven’s face. It caught her right in the mouth. The Anderan girl began to cough and spit.
“I’d like to hear a Titan tale, too” Wulf said. “What do you think, Goggles?”
“Me too,” Goggles agreed.
“Just tell us a story already!” Raven groaned, followed by more spitting.
Safi smoothed her thick skirt over her knees. “Fine. But you’ve got to keep absolutely silent while I’m telling.”
“Just not the Siege of Perridus, please,” said Stiv. “I swear I’ve heard it a thousand times.”
Safi knew that story. Hundreds of years ago, a Titan was stomping its way straight towards Berrider’s capital. The old king sent his three sons to save the city. The eldest built a massive wall, in the hope of diverting the Titan’s path. The middle-child dug a great moat, hoping the Titan would trip and fall. The youngest, without his brothers’ knowledge, evacuated all of the city’s people.
The Titan smashed the wall, climbed the moat, and kicked apart half of the city, but nobody died. In the end, they learned a city wasn’t really made up of its buildings, but it’s people. As a reward, the youngest son succeeded the throne, and later became Berrider’s greatest king.
“Not that one,” Safi agreed.
“And nothing about Emperor Tiberonius,” Wulf said.
“He climbed a Titan, had lots of babies, and died,” Raven said, then cackled. “Next story.”
“Not that one, either,” Safi said, giggling. “I’ll tell you a real Abedi Titan tale. The story of Yacoub, the greatest Titan climber who ever lived.”
“I’ve heard that one already,” Stiv said. “His name was Jacob, and he was a Berrid farmer who won riches for his village.”
“Jacob wasn’t no Berridian hick!” Raven said. “He was Anderan royalty! One of the Emperor’s own sons.”
“I heard he was an Abedi prince,” said Goggles.
“Let’s have Safi tell us,” proposed Wulf.
“Give me a second.” Safi took a deep breath. Honestly, she had chosen the story because it was the one she remembered best. It was the last tale her father had told her before he left on a climb of his own.
She closed her eyes and tried to remember the words. To remember the way her father began stories.
“This is a story from a different time, when the Anderan Empire ruled over the Northern Kingdoms, and the Abed of the south were their friendly neighbors. It truly was long ago, for Siege Titans walked the land as often as storms filled the sky.
“In those days, Titans were easier to spot than the full moon. Folks climbed Titans of many sorts, far more than the scholars of today write about. But don’t think it wasn’t just as dangerous. Men were simply braver back then. As I said, it was a different time.
“One of the climbers was a man named Yacoub. Others may have called him Jacob. Some believe he was Anderan royalty or an Abedi prince. But they believe wrong. He was common folk like you and me. He was also an Abed, and the greatest Titan Climber who ever lived.”
Safi paused to catch her breath and found the others listening. She rubbed her hands together and smiled.
“But to tell his story, I’ll have to start from the beginning.”
9
A Boy Named Yacoub
Once long ago, in a kingdom long forgotten, on a night when the wind stood eerily still, and the Titan constellations shone brightly in the evening sky, a child was born.
The folks of the village took turns visiting the new baby boy. As was tradition, they granted him many gifts of blue. Three of which were the finest:
The cobbler brought him a pair of indigo-dyed boots.
The tailor brought him a cape the color of the noontime sky.
The blacksmith brought him a dagger encrusted with azurite, agate, and aquamarine.
Lastly, the mayor came to visit. Having grown old without a wife and child, the mayor adored babies. He reached out his hand to play.
“Gaga goo,” the mayor said, in that language only babies understand.
The newborn shrieked with laughter. He put his tiny hands around the mayor’s finger and snapped it into pieces.
The mayor drew back his finger and screamed, “Yakoo-buh-buh-buh!” and sure enough did the whole village hear him.
Eventually, a barren old woman took Yacoub in—he was an orphan, by the way—as her son. She was most stern with the boy and put him hard to work. He ate suppers in the barn, and slept there too, next to the old woman’s most beloved and prized possession: a handsome red and white stallion.
For the village was horse-poor, and, being Abed, folks were far too proud to barter horses from their Anderan neighbors across the border.
Instead, the men hauled plows with their tree trunk legs and the women slung saddlebags over their broad shoulders. Parents strapped their children with bridles and reins, who pulled all manner of wagons and carts.
After that display with the mayor, it was to no one’s surprise that, by the age of thirteen, Yacoub had become the strongest child the village had ever seen.
Safiyas places an open hand against her cheek and pretends to gossip.
“Have you seen that boy? Saw him just last week, pulling a wagon all by himself.”
“Well I went and saw him splitting wood just yesterday morning! Cut it right clean, he did, like a hot knife through butter.”
“Well I saw him wrestling down a bull, just this morning, for the yearly Titan festival.”
Each night, Yacoub dreamt of climbing Titans. Most children did, for in those days finding a Titan was as easy as following its footprints outside your house. On some rare mornings, the children would look outside and see one, marching over the hills in the distance.
One day, during the Titan festival, after claiming victory in every challenge of speed and strength, and after the wine had strengthened the adults’ tongues, Yacoub overheard two women talking.
“Titan climb’s in just one week,” said the curly-haired woman.
“My husband is going,” bragged the straight-haired woman. “He’s going to return with a Siegestone, and then we’ll be rich.”
“Mine is going too,” the curly-haired woman bragged back. “When he returns, we’ll buy horses. Many, many horses.”
That night, Yacoub dreamt of many, many horses. He dreamt of the wide world beyond the village. He dreamt of holding a Siegestone in his own two hands. The Siegestone changed before his eyes, becoming fistfuls of glittering gems.
The next morning, he ran over to the largest house in the village, which belonged to the old mayor. There he begged to be allowed to join the expedition.
“You’re too young.” The old mayor said, nursing his crooked finger.
“I am brave,” Yacoub replied, “and as strong as any man in the village.”
“We haven’t a horse for you to ride,” the old mayor said, nursing his finger still.
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“For years I have pulled my mother’s wagon made for a horse,” Yacoub replied. “I will run alongside them.”
“We haven’t any climbing shoes or picks for you to use!” the old mayor barked, gripping his finger tight.
“My hands and feet are strong,” Yacoub replied. “I will climb with my fingers and toes.”
The mayor looked furious for a moment, then released his finger and sighed. “Very well.”
On the day of the climb, Yacoub put on his indigo-dyed boots, which his feet had only began to fill. He belted his gem-encrusted dagger and wrapped himself in his sky-blue cape. When he bid his adoptive mother farewell, the old woman threw her arms around his shoulders. She broke into a fit of tears, for he had been most kind to her.
“Don’t go,” she pleaded. “you’re the only family this old crone has.”
“I must go, mother,” Yacoub said, patting her head, and her gray hair felt like straw.
“I won’t make you pull the wagon ever again.”
“I must go,” Yacoub said.
“You’ll eat supper at the table, and sleep beside me in bed at night.”
“I must go.”
Then the old woman went to retrieve her beloved red and white stallion, which had been scarcely used for riding, and hadn’t pulled a single wagon in its life. She returned to Yacoub and handed him the reins, bidding him to ride well.
“I will,” Yacoub said, climbing into the saddle for the first time. “And when I return, we will be rich.”
Yacoub rode alongside the men of the village for seven days and seven nights. They followed the Titan’s footprints north, past several flattened forests and foot-shaped lakes, and into the heart of the Anderan Empire. The further they went, the deeper the footprints sank into the grass and soil.
On the seventh day, the villagers spotted the Siege Titan Helius, looming on the horizon.
Helius was a mighty Titan. He stood as tall as a mountain and his shoulders were two great cliffs. When they rode up close, Yacoub was surprised to find that the Titan’s body was covered in countless stone spikes.