Vassal of El

by Gloria Oliver

  “Do you know about the birthmarks on your back?”

  Larana nodded slowly, appearing confused. When Torren only stared at her and said nothing else, she finally managed to speak. “Yes, I know about them. I don’t really know what they look like, but…”

  He nodded. Wondering why he was doing this, he picked up a stick from the ground and drew two equal but opposite images on the muddied ground. “This is what they look like.”

  Larana stepped tentatively forward to take a look. “They seem so big.” Eyes wide, she glanced up at him. “Would–would you show me? On my back?”

  He felt himself turn cold and then warm again. Reminding himself she knew nothing about any of this, he gave in to her request. “Turn around.”

  She did as he bid her, removing her mud-stained vest and revealing her torn dress. Torren swallowed hard as the twin birthmarks came into view. With a shaking hand he was grateful she couldn’t see, he reached out with a finger and slowly traced their patterns for her.

  Once he was done, Larana spun around and stared at him, a strange look on her face. He could make nothing of it, was only barely aware of it as he stared at his own hand, thinking of what he’d just touched, and tried to pull his thoughts together.

  “Are they…do they mean something?” Her eyes searched his face, as if she already held an inkling of what was coming.

  He nodded, half-turning away. “Do you remember the things I told you about El and the Chosen?”

  “Yes.”

  Torren glued his gaze to the ground. “Well, there was another gift El gave His people I didn’t tell you about.” He paused to glance in her direction. “He gave them His Vassal.”

  “A vassal? I don’t understand.”

  He fought for the right words, part of him insisting he must tell her while another wished he didn’t have to try at all. “El’s Vassal—he or she is the Chosen’s ruler, their spiritual guide. There has always been one, for when one dies another is born to replace him.” His voice grew quiet. “The Vassal has gifts the Chosen don’t, but he also has no wings. Instead, El’s mark is on him so there won’t be any doubts of who the Vassal is. These marks reside in the same place where his wings would have been were he just a Chosen.”

  “Oh?”

  “Marks the same as yours.”

  Larana sank to the ground. “But…how?”

  “El’s Vassal is the Chosen’s most sacred possession. He or she is their link to El. The Vassal proves El is with them and knows of their travails.” His throat felt dry. “After the sudden death almost fifteen years ago of the last Vassal, a new one was born—a baby girl. She’d not been at the Capital long before she disappeared, stolen by the grubs—or so it is said.”

  For the first time, he turned to look at her, his eyes locking with hers. “It would seem the reason those men are so eager to get hold of you is because they believe you to be the long-lost Vassal of the Chosen.”

  Larana looked away, her face a mass of uncertainty and disbelief. “Do you…do you believe I am this person?”

  He forced himself not to turn away, though he wanted nothing more. “Yes.”

  She stared at her dirty hands on her lap. “But—”

  “Yes.”

  She glanced up at the force in the one word and slowly shook her head.

  “It can’t be!” Some of the intensity she’d displayed when he’d returned for her at the inn flared then left again. “It’s just a fluke. My birthmarks only resemble the Vassal’s.”

  Her eyes begged him to agree.

  Torren only stood, his face set. “It’s you. There’s no mistake.” He knew this to the bottom of his soul. No matter how it made him feel. “And that’s why we’re going back to Caeldanage. The Chosen are there, and they will want you back.”

  Larana hugged her legs to her chest, looking suddenly small and alone. “You–you didn’t know. Not until you saw my back. And then, and then you…Why? Is there something more to being a Vassal? Something evil?”

  He turned his back to her and retrieved his pack. “No. There’s nothing evil about the Vassal. I told you before—the problem is mine. It has nothing to do with you.” He glanced back at her and saw the open confusion on her face. “You’d better eat now. We have a long way to travel today.”

  Nodding, she ate hungrily. Torren amazed himself by almost smiling. Her ravenous appetite was a definite sign she was doing better.

  He set a slow, easy pace, making sure to stop for rest often. He made no conversation, and Larana seemed to be too absorbed by her own thoughts to mind. He thought it just as well. The Chosen on the floating island or those at the embassy would tell her all she needed to know.

  Around mid-afternoon, they ran across a trickling stream overflowing its banks because of the large amount of rain. Too small to hold fish, it was still fresh and good for bathing.

  “We’ll make camp here. And since we still have a few hours of light, I’ll go scavenge us something for dinner while you clean up.” He glanced over at her. “If you’re of a mind, you might clean our clothes as well.”

  “Leave it to me,” Larana responded eagerly. She took his pack when he offered it, her face brightening at having something to do.

  “I won’t be gone too long,” he told her then turned to follow the stream. He’d already walked out of sight when it occurred to him he’d just asked the Vassal of El to do manual labor.

  His heart skipped a beat even as he half-smiled. Though he was sure to the core of his being Larana was the one, it seemed a part of him still thought of her only as the young farmer’s daughter. It only served to reinforce the fact he had no right to blame her for anything.

  It wasn’t long before he found what he was looking for—fresh animal tracks leading to the water. Catching game was out of the question—it would be too time-consuming, and it wasn’t safe to build a fire—but by finding the trail he could track back to where the animals dug for roots or pilfered nuts and some of this fare would supplement their dwindling supplies nicely.

  Once he had collected enough to satisfy him, he returned to the stream and bathed. As the sun moved to hide behind the horizon, he reached their camp with an armful of roots and a few berries. When Larana spotted him, she jumped to her feet, the relief obvious on her face.

  Their laundered clothes hung neatly from several low-hanging branches, drying. She was clean, as well, her hair washed and retied in its usual thick braid. Her face and arms were free of mud, and she looked almost pretty. And he’d found her—he’d been the one. Or, to be more precise, he amended a moment later, she’d found him.

  “These should be safe to eat,” he said, showing her his bounty. “I’ve already washed them.”

  She gave him a thankful smile for his efforts, and he felt strangely grateful to her in return. They quickly divided the spoils and, after supplementing them with some dried fish from his pack, ate in silence as the light in the forest slowly bled away.

  “Torren?” Larana called, her voice meek.

  “Yes?”

  “What will happen to me?”

  He pulled the blankets from where she’d hung them to dry, mulling her question even as he felt a frown mar his brow. “Nothing will happen to you. You’ll just be reunited with your people. You’ll be protected, pampered. You’ll get to travel on the twenty islands, happy and safe. You’ll help the Chosen lead the best lives they can.”

  He glanced in her direction; and though her face was now clouded by shadows, he could see she was pondering his words.

  “I can’t imagine it.” She shook her head. “I’m a farm girl. I’ve never been anywhere, seen any wonders. I’m not wise. I’m clumsy. I don’t even know anything about the Chosen”

  “You’ll do fine,” he told her. “There’ll be people there to help you through it all. And there’ll be one other bright side in it for you.”

  “What?”

  He felt a pang in his chest as he gave her a gift she could not have considered. “You’ll get to
meet your parents, your brothers, your sisters—your family. Your real family. You’ll once more have a place to belong.”

  “Oh.” Her features cascaded through a number of emotions as she realized the ramifications of what he had just said. “Oh!”

  “Goodnight.” He tossed her a blanket and lay down on his own, filled with bittersweet amusement.

  Over the next several days, Torren guided them south. They avoided roads or towns except for a couple of times when he left Larana hidden and on her own to buy needed provisions. They continued not to light any fires at night; but since the evenings weren’t overly cold, this gave them little trouble.

  Larana became a whirlwind of both excitement and worry whenever the floating island appeared through the trees in the sky as they came closer to Caeldanage. She asked many questions about the Flyers, but he told her little. It didn’t stop her from asking more though.

  As the tree line dropped off, the city became a beacon in the distance. Torren stayed in the fields, seeking what shelter they could find amidst the maturing crops.

  Eventually, they came abreast of the city’s towering walls and the island floating arrogantly above it. As they approached, he didn’t hide anymore, only too aware of the eyes on top of the walls and what they might make of such odd behavior. He’d been able to buy some cloaks to make up for the ones they’d lost, which helped give them some anonymity.

  Following the wall, they headed for the highway. As they drew near to it, he stopped; and they sat up against the wall. “We’ll wait here till it’s almost dark and the gates are about to close. We should be able to lose ourselves in the dark once we get inside if we’re somehow spotted.”

  Larana stared at him, looking worried. “You think some of them are still here?”

  He shrugged. “There’s no way to know, but they’ve gone through an awful lot of trouble so far. Luckily, they don’t know what we look like, or at least not well. And our coloring is close enough most people will assume we’re related and not give us much thought.”

  She nodded, trying to appear calm, the rapid tapping of her fingers on her knees betraying her true feelings.

  “Don’t worry, in a few hours time, you’ll be safe.”

  A couple of hours later Torren stiffened as the floating island’s shadow drifted over them. He would deliver the Vassal to them, but he was doing it for her, not for them. He could have definitely done without coming back here again.

  As the sun sank in the horizon, he stood and signaled Larana to do the same. Making sure their hoods were in place, they started off toward the highway and the gate.

  “Hunch over a little and cough as we go in. If you look ill, it’ll explain why your hood is up even though it’s not cold.”

  Larana nodded, falling slightly behind, and did as he asked. He stopped at the gate as the guards were getting set to shut it and let her catch up. He put his arm around her shoulders as if helping to support her as they made their way inside.

  No one bothered them as they entered and barely spared them a glance. He looked straight ahead so he wouldn’t attract attention and led Larana off in the direction of the apothecary’s quarter. As soon as the two of them were out of sight of the gate, he pulled her into a dark doorway and waited, his hand on the hilt of his concealed sword.

  Larana stuck close to him, and inhaled sharply as a man appeared from the direction they’d come, glancing about as if looking for someone. Torren tensed, ready for trouble, though he expected none. The man, not spotting them in their dark niche, ran down the street in the direction they were likely to have gone, his soft-soled boots making as little noise as possible. As soon as he vanished, Torren took Larana’s hand in his and got a jolt of her trepidation.

  Sticking to the shadows, he took a different way into the interior of the city. The floating island’s towering presence and the shadows it cast made the way quite easy, almost as if it knew the Vassal was on her way back home.

  Most shops were dark as they crossed the city, only the windows in the upper living areas showing any light. Taverns and inns were lively, snatches of conversation, music and laughter spilling out onto the streets. Several of the temples dispersed throughout were lit brightly from within, as if shunning the dark presence of El’s people above. Prayers could be heard drifting in the wind from the temple of Valem.

  Torren felt a faint shiver scurry down his back and wondered if those inside were wishing ill to the Chosen—or, more specifically, to the Vassal. Though Valem’s people had never done anything directly to the Chosen, aside from Valem’s own actions against El, he knew they didn’t look upon each other kindly.

  Which part of the empire one was in also determined how hostile the relationship between the Flyers and Valem’s followers was. He had heard of several instances where religious influence was used toward governing bodies to try to get them to curtail associations with the Chosen, even when this wouldn’t be in their best interest. Fear was a great motivator.

  To everyone’s good fortune, a god of fear and death wasn’t usually a popular figure; so his followers were few. Torren was sure most of the stories about what they did behind their dark walls and the slashed and burned effigies of the Chosen they were supposed to indulge in were no more than unsubstantiated rumors.

  Still, the Chosen’s supremacy in the air and seeming immunity from the laws and restrictions of Landers and their countries hadn’t made them popular in many eyes. If not for the fact the Landers had yet to find an easier, more cost-effective way to transport large or heavy goods to other places, things might have been more strained.

  Aside from the gods, magic was hard to gather and even harder to use. The possibility of replicating El’s feats of the islands and the flying ships was beyond imagining. But magic was not the only way. Down in the southern states he’d heard of attempts to replicate the wings of birds for the use of man through science. Torren was sure nothing they came up with, however, would ever compare to the feeling of having the real thing.

  Apart from their progress being slow and the need to hide and wait several times as people or guards crossed their path, they encountered no problems in their travels through the city’s streets. Their circuitous path finally took them into the richer part of the city. Shop fronts were less evident, and the homes that stood in their place flaunted gates and walled-off gardens. Street lighting grew more common, making it harder for them to stay out of sight.

  Torren slowed as he led them up a small hill toward a multistoried residence. The entire estate was walled; the entrance sporting a metal gate as well as two thick, reinforced doors—almost like a fortress. A large gilded symbol of a pair of wings adorned the doors, leaving no doubt as to who resided there.

  During his many forays through the familiar city, he had only crossed this way once, yet the embassy’s location was burned forever into his memory. Never in all his years had he believed he’d willingly come to these doors again.

  Glancing back at Larana and seeing in her face the same nervousness he felt, he reached over with suddenly moist palms past the bars of the gate to pull on the cord of the summoning bell. He flinched, the clanging sound from the bell echoing loudly in the empty street. Larana stepped in close, scanning their surroundings as if expecting men to leap at them from the shadows.

  After what felt like an interminable amount of time, part of which he spent considering whether he should ring the bell again, heavy footsteps came from the other side of the gate. Torren placed himself in front of the cloaked girl, wanting to keep her out of sight. His breathing sounded heavy in his ears, and his heart pounded hard inside his chest as he heard unseen bolts being thrown. Moments later, the left door opened a crack, letting a shaft of light fall over them.

  He blinked, not bothering to cover his eyes, for the first time in more than half his lifetime standing face-to-face with a Chosen.

  “State your business.” The lightly accented request came from a man close to Torren’s height. He wore a silver helm wi
th a nose guard that sported several plumes on the top and hid most of his face. He wore a chest piece made to look more like a bare-chested man than armor, and protective pieces covered his thighs and legs. He stood in profile at the door, his wings swept back, the hilt of his short sword well in evidence. Torren knew from the color of the guard’s armor he held rank.

  His tongue lay thickly in his mouth, but he pushed himself to speak even as the guard’s blue eyes studied him up and down. “I must speak with the ambassador.”

  “It’s after hours. The embassy is closed,” stated the guard impatiently. “Come back tomorrow.”

  Torren forced himself to try again, though a part of him wanted desperately to latch on to the given excuse. “I realize that, but circumstances warrant I see him now.”

  The guard eyed him with suspicion. “And what dealings of a Lander might be so pressing?” He sounded increasingly annoyed.

  Torren used the only thing he had. Anything less was likely to get the door slammed in his face. “I have information on the Vassal.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The guard froze, his eyes widening, moving intently from him to the half-seen cloaked form behind him. “Wait.”

  He closed the door, and they heard the bar drop back into place.

  Once his footsteps receded, Larana whispered. “Do you think they’ll see us?”

  “Of course.” But in reality, he wasn’t so sure. As the minutes ticked by, he felt more and more exposed in the open, too-quiet street.

  If those pursuing them possessed the faintest inkling he might know who Larana was, they could have the area around the embassy watched and grab them off the street, leaving the Flyers none the wiser. They’d be fools not to at least have the approach to the place kept under observation. They might have been able to sneak past in the cover of darkness, but if they were forced to come back tomorrow there was no way they would be missed.

  “To–Torren, tell me more about El, about the Chosen.” Nervous fear coated her every word. He knew only too well how she felt.