“Their names were Alain and Darrek. They were on their way to market when they ran across me on the road.” Memories rose unbidden of awakening beneath the dirt the attackers had thrown over him and the bodies. His horror as he gasped for breath, struggled to dig himself out, feeling the bodies of the others beneath him, the stench of their already rotting corpses invading his nostrils.
The world above had been dark, strange and much like the story of El he’d been told as a child. He’d run, driven by the fear the men would be back, pain and madness at his heels. He’d run and prayed and prayed until he knew El would not save him, until he knew there were no gods, only fear and anguish. He’d run until the blood loss drove him down and he didn’t move again.
“They thought I was dead, at first, but when they checked on me, they realized I wasn’t. Alain wrapped me in her shawl, and her husband turned the wagon around and took me to their home. They told me later they knew immediately what I was. The clothes, the shoes and the wounds on my back told them.”
Alain had regaled him with the story often, always with a look of wonder on her face. Barren herself, the wounded boy had seemed to her a gift from the gods. It hadn’t mattered he wasn’t of her own kind, though it did to him.
“They cleaned my wounds and cut off the jagged edges as best they could. Luckily I was unconscious through all this, with a raging fever.”
Tears rose in Zelene’s eyes and silently made their way down her face. Maybe this hadn’t been such a good idea. But now that he’d started, he was finding it difficult to stop.
“They cared for me as best they could, getting me to drink a little and keeping my wounds clean. I woke up after a couple of days.” He wouldn’t tell her of the terror he’d felt as he realized he was trapped in a Lander home, how all the tales he’d heard about them from others had crowded around him, insisting they were true despite all his father had tried to teach him. He would be eaten, he would be flailed alive, his eyes placed in jars until they rotted away.
He’d screamed when one of them tried to touch him, too horrified to try to understand Alain’s attempt to soothe him. He bit Darrek when the latter tried to keep him from leaving the bed. He only stopped because his body gave out on him and he’d not been able to try it again.
He’d understood a word here and there as his rescuers conferred in whispers, making sure to block the way to the door. They finally decided to leave him be for a while and left. After they were gone, he tried to get off the bed again. He was able to make it to the floor, but that was as far as he got.
When he’d awakened later, he was once more in the bed, warm covers around him. Alain sat nearby on a chair, watching him. How dare they keep him a prisoner? He had glared at her with all the defiance he could muster, mostly because it helped keep back the fear. Why were they waiting so long to eat him? Why didn’t they just kill him? Then he would be able to join his father and the others.
But it was not to be.
“They taught me their language while I healed, adding to what I’d already learned of it here.”
Though he had only listened, never speaking, wanting the knowledge for the edge it would give him but not wanting them to know he was learning. Every kindness, every deed, was met with stubborn resistance. Only when his nightmares wracked him would he show himself vulnerable and cling to Alain until sleep took him again.
They should have left him where they’d found him. They should have gutted him and left him for the animals. He shouldn’t have been allowed to live.
“They also taught me about surviving off the land, how to cultivate and grow things.” As soon as he’d been well enough, the first thing he’d done was escape. Without experience or knowledge of the area, he’d wandered off only to end up lost, hungry and alone. When his legs finally gave out, he was grateful, thinking he would soon join his father after all.
But Darrek found him, tracked him down to bring him back. To force him to live despite whatever plans Torren had for himself. He never did understand why the man had bothered.
“They kept me alive and safe.” Despite his deep-seated intentions otherwise.
“I’m glad they were there for you. I knew El would look after you if He was able.”
Torren felt his shoulders twinge, not agreeing in the least.
“He spared you, and I’m sure He also guided you to find the Vassal so you could finish your father’s task.” Her voice was full of joy. “And in so doing, He brought you back to me.”
Torren dared say nothing.
“Come, let us give our thanks to Him together.” Zelene took his cold hand. He didn’t resist as she led the way, though he didn’t want to do this. She took him into the interior of the house, paintings and pottery he passed flashing in his memories, then to the centermost room—to the El-at.
The circular area, open to the sky, contained a lush and carefully groomed garden. This was the way most of the chapels to El were set up, not like the closed-off room at the embassy. In the center, El’s symbol sat on a tall pedestal. Torren had spent many hours here, tending the garden, praying, laughing with his parents. He crushed the memories as thoroughly and violently as he could.
Leaving her sandals at the door, Zelene entered the garden and knelt before the golden icon, pulling him down beside her.
Trying to distract himself as she prayed, he wondered what his foster parents would have made of the temple and the other buildings and art of the island. Darrek had pressed him more than once about taking him to the city to one of the embassies so he could be reunited with his real family, but Torren had wanted anything but. Alain was more than happy for it, though she would have supported him if he decided to return.
Once he had begun his travels and joined up with Sal’s group, he’d sent gifts and money back to them but visited infrequently. He knew they would have preferred otherwise, yet he couldn’t find it in himself to go more often. His mixed feelings about their saving his life wouldn’t allow it. Still, he’d felt pain when he heard of Darrek’s death, and a deep ache as Alain followed not long after.
He’d given up on having a family, yet here he was home again, a mother he’d all but forgotten kneeling beside him.
When Zelene finally raised her head, she glanced over at him and smiled. “I’m so glad you’re back.” A little color flushed her cheeks. “When Aen awakens again, then everything will be perfect.”
He helped her to her feet, saying nothing, knowing once Larana awakened, if ever, he would be on his way once more.
“Lii moved in with me once her husband passed on. She’s been a great help.” Zelene stared at the tiled floor as she led the way back. “After you and your father were lost, I didn’t do too well for a time. But with El’s support, I finally decided to push past the loss and to do what I could to promote El’s will and your father’s good works. So, I followed in Lar’s footsteps until I was worthy and could take his place on the council.” Her fine-boned hand sought his. “Things have been hard for everyone for some time. The spirit of our people suffered a terrible blow when Aen was taken. It was made worse by the loss of your father and the others. It’s been very trying.” Her expression brightened as they reached an uncomfortably familiar doorway. “Do you remember this place? It’s your old room. I thought you might want to see it.”
She pulled aside the curtain over the doorway so he could step inside.
Diffused sunlight filtered in through small windows and revealed a room frozen in time. Torren felt his breath catch at his throat as the hard familiarity of the scene washed over him, making him dizzy.
Before him, looking as fresh as when it’d been originally painted, was the mural on the back wall of two stags clashing in battle over a prospective mate. He had begged his father to commission it for him, astounded by the power and brazen stubbornness he’d seen when watching a real pair battling near one of the high mountain outposts of the Chosen. The blue-eyed stare from the larger buck sent a chill down his spine as it followed him abou
t the room—a piece of artistry by the painter which had always amused him, until now.
Tearing his eyes away from the mural, he found his small bed still sat in the middle of the room, his clothes chest at its head. His carved toy figures of Lander monsters were neatly stacked in a corner. His loop, his paints, study scrolls and all the other things that had defined him were there just as he’d left them all those years ago. A half-finished vase kept vigil over it all from the top of a small potter’s wheel. He’d meant for it to be a gift for the new Aen, if his efforts were deemed worthy; but the child was taken before he’d been able to get it just right.
Torren took a step back, a sudden shudder racking through him. It was as if he’d never left, as if the boy he’d been would be coming back—though the one who’d loved this room and all these things was long, long dead. That boy died when he’d watched his father’s blood pour from his mouth, the end of a sword protruding from his abdomen. That boy died when he survived while everyone else lay dead.
“Torren?” Zelene was at his side, an anxious expression on her face.
Bitterness and other less welcome emotions flushed through him. He closed his eyes, trying desperately to center himself. None of this meant anything. It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter at all.
“I’m all right.” Abruptly, he pulled away from her, away from her concern—concern for someone who no longer existed. He half-staggered back out into the hall. How could Mallean have left him here? Why had he allowed this? He needed to get out.
“Torren!”
The panic in his mother’s voice so closely mirrored his own it brought him to a stop. She hovered beside him, not quite daring to touch him. He could see the pain in her eyes at the thought she’d inadvertently hurt him. There’d already been so much pain.
He reached for her, his eyes and throat aching, trying hard not to notice that his hands were shaking. “I’m sorry. It’s just been a long day, and there’ve been so many surprises.”
“No, the fault is mine. I wasn’t thinking.” Her eyes wouldn’t meet his. “All of this has been hardest on you. Tell me what would be best.”
He stared at her, sensing she was prepared to let him go if it was what he wanted. And though it was, he just couldn’t bring himself to add to her misery.
“Why…why don’t we sit out in the sorium. It…it seemed comfortable there. Maybe we could talk.”
Zelene gazed into his face, her eyes filled with gratitude. “Yes, yes, let’s do that.”
They moved to one of the outer areas of the house, where several reclining chairs were set out for relaxation. He took one but didn’t lean back, too tense at the moment to even pretend to relax. His mother didn’t sit at all.
The silence grew heavy.
Torren shifted in his seat, feeling even more uncomfortable. He fished for something to say, anything to break the tension from before. “I–I noticed the Chosen seemed more armed than I remember.”
“Yes!” Zelene sounded grateful for the distraction. “After Aen’s disappearance and that of your father’s search party, no one knew what might happen next. We all felt very exposed, and many thought it a way to relieve the people’s fear.” She paced before him. “El had always warned us of potential danger through the Vassal. Now there was no one to give us his word, no way for him to communicate with us. Some felt taking up arms would prove we were more self-reliant, that this was all a test for us. I disagree, but I can’t say it hasn’t helped some deal with our loss.
“Still, it sometimes feels as if we’ve sacrificed something else because of it, and in no way has it truly helped Aen in the end.” She stopped and turned to look at her son. “Torren, are you…are you here to try and help? Is this why you changed your mind and came back to us?”
He glanced away, unsure how she would take his answer. “Micca thought I might be able to do something. He thought I might be able to find out what happened and help fix it.”
“Because you know the Landers,” she guessed.
He nodded slowly, not wanting to explain.
“If anyone can help, I’m sure it’s you.” Her voice picked up animated excitement. “El works through you. He guided you to Aen so you could bring her back to us. I know He will guide you now to help save her.”
He sighed, the faith in her words making him ache. There was no divine guidance here. “How was it the capital was over Caeldanage at this time of year? Wasn’t it early?”
Zelene at last sat on the chair next to his. “Yes, it was early. And we stayed a lot longer than usual.”
He stared at her, a prickling in the back of his neck. “Do you know why?”
She nodded. “After all our years of prayer, El was finally able to send us a sign by indirect means. The councilors and ambassadors used what contacts they had amongst the Landers and asked them to keep watch for certain signs in exchange for “favors.” One of them finally stumbled unto something, though just about everyone else had given up hope.”
“Oh? Information came from a Lander?”
Zelene nodded. “Seemingly, yes. I don’t think anyone specific was named, but we were told they’d seen her and they were making preparations to retrieve her for us.”
“And on just this, the island’s path was changed and all of you went there?” He was having a hard time believing this.
“Valerian wouldn’t have informed the council if he hadn’t been certain the information could be trusted,” Zelene stated. “So, you can imagine the council’s delight when it ended up that it was you, a Chosen, rather than a Lander who actually brought Aen back to us.”
He frowned. So, she’d been expected. But how could anyone in the council have gotten wind she was coming back? Surely, those men in black hadn’t been planning to give her back to the Chosen. Had they? It made no sense. Or did it?
He shook his head, not liking the path his thoughts were taking. He decided to change topics yet again. “My uncle’s name was Vennel?”
A touch of joy flashed across Zelene’s face. “Yes! That’s right.”
They spent the next while talking about people Torren could barely remember, his mother eagerly trying to help him rekindle what memories she could. She told him of her own life and Lii’s but didn’t ask about his life as a Lander. He didn’t volunteer the information, and her not asking suited him just fine.
He finally could feel himself starting to relax as night descended outside. Zelene lit a couple of braziers to give them a little light just before Lii appeared with dinner.
Engulfed by aromas half-remembered as she set the dishes down, he listened as his aunt picked up where his mother had left off and filled him in on general doings of the Chosen—who the promising artists were that year, the astounding pottery coming from one of the other islands, which Lander areas seemed to be coveting what types of their work and feathers. She even went into some detail as to some of the plans some were bandying about to properly welcome Aen back during the celebration of El’s return to the First Mother in a few moons’ time.
He let the chatter wash over him, reveling more than he would have expected in the meal. As Lii had recalled, he did love valmion tarts. She seemed to get no end of pleasure as she watched him reach for another.
“Torren, what are Landers like? Are all the stories true?”
His aunt’s innocent questions gave him pause. He hesitated a long moment before answering.
“In most things, I’d say they’re really the same as the Chosen. They laugh; they cry; they love. Some actually have quite a sense of humor.” He looked down at his plate. “Their lives are harder. Their choices more limited, though a few places prosper as well as the Chosen do. I don’t know if it’s because their lives are more difficult or because of the things some of them fear, but Landers seem to possess some emotions that are darker than the Chosen’s. Still, I believe there are things we could learn from them.”
He looked up to find his aunt staring at him wide-eyed, as if not having expected what he’d just
said.
“Tell us more.”
Much to his own astonishment, he did, encouraged by questions from his aunt and mother. Another couple of hours passed by before he was even aware of it.
“Why, I never.” Lii slowly shook her head, as if having trouble assimilating all he had said. “Oh, it’s late. I guess we’ve kept you talking, haven’t we? Should I bring some clean linen to your old room?”
Torren stiffened, not liking the idea of returning to those memories again.
“We have a guestroom, if you’d prefer that instead,” Zelene quickly suggested.
He slowly shook his head. “My things are at the Vassal’s house. Until matters get resolved, it might be best if I stayed there.” He saw Lii frown, not understanding his meaning; and he realized his blunder. His aunt didn’t know about Larana’s true condition.
Zelene pressed on, not giving her a chance to ask what he meant. “If you have time, could we count on your joining us for lunch tomorrow?”
“Of course.” He tried to say this with as much enthusiasm as he could muster. “It’s a promise.”
Both women’s faces lit up at his response. He stood to go.
Zelene and Lii rose to their feet as well.
“It’s been wonderful to have you home again, my son.”
Both gave him heartfelt hugs; and he returned them, his heart at odds with itself. “It’s…it’s been good to see the two of you, as well. Goodnight.”
“I’ll be sure to make some more tarts for you tomorrow!”
Torren half-smiled at the promise. “I’ll be looking forward to it.”
With this said, he walked through the sheer curtain leading to the exterior of the house. The deepening night’s breeze caught him as he moved briskly down the steps, and it felt good against his warm face. He’d survived the evening, despite his misgivings. And though he knew sooner or later questions would be asked he didn’t want to answer, he wasn’t as unhappy at the situation as he had thought he would be.
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