The Draegoran’s lips moved, but the buzzing drowned out the words. The gem pulled at Riam’s mind. There was no pain, but it frightened him more than anything he’d ever known. He would’ve bolted if not for the ladder holding him in place. He fought against the fear, willing it to go away. For a moment, the sensation ceased. Then the pommel touched his forehead, and the room exploded into light.
When it faded, the Draegoran, the magistrate, his father, all were gone. The room, normally dusty and drab, was clean and dressed with bright orange curtains and a flowery tablecloth. A young woman sat rocking a baby. Mother. She’d died when he was so young that he couldn’t remember her face, but this was her. He didn’t know how he knew, he just knew.
The room lurched and twisted. It was dark, and his father cursed. His mother huddled in a corner. Tears streaked down her face. The room twisted again. Father, Lemual, and Mother sat at dinner with an older woman. The room twisted once more. Crying and wailing. His father held the old woman by the collar of her shirt and hit her over and over. The wet smack of the blows made Riam gag. The room spun. His mother sat with a knife, her wide, glossy eyes staring into the fireplace. The wood cracked and hissed. The knife fell to the floor. Blood trickled from her outstretched fingers.
The scene changed. Lemual held the baby, telling it to be quiet. Yells came from the other room—Father, drunk and ranting. Again, it changed, and again and again. On and on it went, with each scene slipping by faster than the previous and each taking some small portion of him with it. He could no longer keep up with the images. The blur of sights and sounds made him dizzy and nauseated.
Riam needed to get away from the sword. It was draining him. He fought to break free, to come back to the present, but he wasn’t strong enough. He tried again, concentrating on moving his head away from the pommel. With a loud pop, the images ceased. The Draegoran stood before him once more. The room swayed and bobbed around him.
The Draegoran held the sword before him. A piercing, bright light radiated from the crystal. “You have the blood.” There was pride in his voice, and his eyes were wide in triumph as if finding something old that was lost.
Riam doubled over and puked on the Draegoran’s boots.
“Easy, boy. It’ll pass.” The man in gray held Riam’s shoulders, steadying him until the room stopped trying to throw him onto the floor.
Riam wiped his mouth on his sleeve and muffled an apology.
“Hold off right there,” his father said. “He’s my boy, and I won’t have—”
Pride turned to anger. The Draegoran spun back to Ingis and grabbed the old man by the throat. Lifting him out of the chair, he threw Riam’s father to the floor hard enough that he bounced on the hardwood planks. The Draegoran didn’t let up. He knelt in close and slammed the pommel of the sword against Father’s head. The gem turned from white to a bright, angry red. His father went rigid.
“Magistrate!” he yelled back over his shoulder.
Ferrick jumped, startled at the use of his title.
“You are witness to a judgment of death.”
Father’s hands came up, palms out, as if they could ward off the Draegoran’s words. “No. Wait.” He looked to Ferrick. “He can’t—”
The Draegoran turned the blade with a quick twist. It hung there, frozen for an instant, before descending.
“No! Don’t!” Father yelled.
The blade plunged into the old man’s chest, and it didn’t slow until it bit into the wooden floor with a dull thunk.
Father struggled to focus on the blade buried in his chest. There was an odd look of curiosity on his face, like he couldn’t quite grasp what had happened. “Wasn’t my fault . . . hers,” he wheezed. “Stupid whore.” He spasmed, and his head lolled to the side with his empty-glass eyes coming to rest on Riam.
Riam wanted to scream but found his throat swelled shut. He could only stare at the blood spreading across the floor. He felt the sword’s pull, soft at first, and then stronger. Father’s face puckered and wrinkled like an old apple left in the sun. The crystal was absorbing him. Not his physical body. Something indefinable from inside was being leached away, siphoned up through the blade and into the pommel of the sword. The skin darkened and shrank, tightening up like dried leather. The blood on the floor crusted over and browned.
The Draegoran tore the sword free. The weapon came away clean and gleamed in the light.
Pain and fear squeezed and burned Riam’s heart, but behind those feelings came another sensation: relief.
He’s gone. He’s really gone. He’ll never hit me again.
Riam felt ashamed and guilty for those thoughts, but he couldn’t help the release that came with them. There were so many times he’d wished his father were gone, and even a few times he’d wished him dead, although he’d never actually meant it. Regardless, his wish had come true. He dropped to his knees next to the husk that had moments earlier been a living man. “Father,” he said, “I didn’t really want you to die.” He knew there would be no response, but he needed to get the words out, to say them aloud and make them real, even if no one listened or cared.
The Draegoran sheathed the blade. From his pocket, he produced two coins and tossed them onto the table. They clacked across the surface before sliding to a stop. “Payment for the child.” Stepping over the remains, he caught Riam by the wrist and pulled him, unresisting, past the astonished magistrate.
“You killed him. You just . . . killed him. Right in front of the boy.”
The Draegoran ignored the magistrate. He dragged Riam out of the house and across the dirt yard to his horse where he tossed the boy up onto the saddle. He checked the cinch strap before untying the reins and mounting up behind.
He shifted his weight back and forth, settling himself. “You coming?” he said flatly to Ferrick.
“But . . . but . . . why?”
“Better I killed the old man while he watched than to sit here and discuss the reason in front of him. You’ll have a formal edict to post before I leave town.” He lifted the reins and paused. “Oh, and I’ll need another horse for the boy by nightfall.” The Draegoran snapped the reins, leaving Ferrick standing in the yard.
They rode down the dirt rut leading to town. When the path made a sharp turn, Riam had a last look at the only home he’d ever known. Other than Ferrick struggling to pull his bulk up onto his horse, the outside of the house looked the same as it did every other day.
Chapter 2
Davisha was broken, and Father wasn’t home to fix her.
Nola slipped the small yellow dress off the doll’s delicate body and spread it out beside her on the porch swing. She frowned at the pieces in her hands. Mother had helped her name the doll years ago, which explained why it had an Arillian name—well, that and because the wood was the color of oiled bronze, a close match to her and her mother’s skin.
Davisha was one of her oldest dolls, too, and it was the only one she owned that came from her mother’s homeland. All the ones made here in Steading Rock were carved from lighter wood or were painted in creams or whites. She’d had Davisha for nearly as long as she could remember, but she didn’t cry. She was far too old to shed tears over a doll—that’s what Mother told her.
Nola looked down the road that led away from her home, peering between the rows of nut and fruit trees, wishing her father would appear in the sea of green leaves and gray-brown trunks. He was supposed to be back tonight. He would fix the doll—he could fix anything—as long as Mother didn’t throw it out first.
She hoped he wasn’t delayed. Father traded all across the lands of the Covenant and beyond sometimes, depending on the time of year, and his return was never precise. But this time was different. Tomorrow would be her twelfth birthday, and—by chance—it would also be the day the Draegorans tested her.
Not that the test mattered. Her mother was Arillian, and the Draegorans nev
er chose Arillians. In fact, no one from Steading Rock had ever been taken for as far back as old Lemara could remember. Nola still had to go, but it didn’t make her nervous or scared. She would go in the morning and then return home for presents and sweets.
As if thoughts of Lemara summoned the old house servant, the front door swung open. “Nola, come inside. It’s time to wash up for dinner.” The white-haired woman held the door wide with one hand and waved Nola inside. She paused. “Oh, you’ve broken Davisha. Fallen’s grace, what happened, child?” The old woman left the door standing open and hurried to Nola’s side.
“She fell off the swing while I was watching for Father. He’s supposed to be back tonight.”
“Let me see her.”
Nola held the pieces tightly in her hands, afraid the woman would decide there was no saving the doll.
“Come, come, child. I won’t hurt her.”
Nola knew that. It was a doll, not a person. I’m about to be twelve, not five. I’m not a baby. To prove it to herself, she took a deep breath and placed the broken doll into the woman’s hands.
Lemara pulled the pieces close to her face. A dull, white film had thickened over the house servant’s pupils over the last few years, making her sight poor. She twisted the pieces this way and that, lining up the jagged edges. She tsked her tongue several times while she worked at it. “I don’t see why a little hoof glue won’t hold her together. She’ll have an awfully big scar, but scars aren’t such a bad thing.” Lemara reached out and tapped Nola’s nose with a bony finger. “Scars help us remember who we are and what we’ve been through.”
Nola nodded solemnly at the woman’s words, but she didn’t exactly agree. She certainly didn’t want any ugly scars or the pain that came with them.
“Pick up her dress, and we’ll take her inside. I’ll put her in the kitchen for your father to look at when he gets home, but don’t you go bothering him the moment he arrives, especially if it’s late. He’ll be tired from traveling, even if he pretends otherwise.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Dinner came and went, and they were eating dessert when the rhythmic clomp of horse hooves and the creaks and jangles of wagons and harnesses came from outside the house. Throughout the meal her mother hadn’t said a word and barely touched her food, but all thoughts of the pudding and her mother’s unusual silence were pushed aside by the sound of the wagon train returning.
“Father’s back!” Nola shouted. She jumped to her feet.
“Of course he is. Now sit back down and finish. You are a young lady now. If you want to impress your father, show him how grown up and proper you are.”
Nola frowned, but she plopped back down. Normally, she and her mother would run to the porch, play fighting and teasing one another to be the first outside—and Mother always let her win. Why the change? Is it because I’m going to be twelve or because of the testing?
“Lemara!” her mother called.
The old servant poked her head into the dining room. “Yes, Mistress Menovar?”
“Could you please prepare a plate for my husband? I’m sure he’ll be thankful after such a long time away from your kitchen.”
Nola loved the sound of her mother’s voice, especially when she was trying to sound proper. Despite her years in Nesh, she still spoke with an accent. Nola’s friends said it made her sound dumb, but to Nola, it made her exotic and special.
“Yes, ma’am. Started as soon as I heard the wagons. My vision may not be what it used to be, but I can still hear a butterfly scratching at a flower.” She winked at Nola. “I’ll have a bath drawn up after dinner as well. Can’t have him soiling clean linens with dust from the road.”
Nola finished her pudding, barely tasting it even though it was her favorite. Her foot bounced next to the chair, moving faster as time went by. She knew there were things Father had to oversee before coming inside. Wagons would need unloading into the storehouse and animals fed and stabled. He would also make sure the men who didn’t have homes nearby were situated in the bunkhouse and that the work kitchen was preparing enough food for them. But he’s been gone so long, and it’s taking forever!
It seemed like half the night went by before she heard his boots tromping across the porch.
“Father!” Her chair slid halfway across the room, and she was running to him as soon as the door opened. She threw her arms around his wide waist, not caring if her mother was angry or what she’d said about being proper. “I knew you’d be back for my birthday!”
“Hello, Kit,” he said. His rough beard rubbed the top of her head as he lifted her into the air and twirled her around in a quick spin. “By Sollus, you grow a hand every time I leave and return. You’re almost too big for me to lift!”
“You were gone so long this time.”
“I went all the way to Hammisal.” He leaned in close to her ear and his beard tickled her cheek. “That’s Arillia’s capital. You have an uncle and a grandmother there.”
“I know, Father. You tell me all the time.”
“And how is Tamuhd?” her mother said coldly. “Still trying to rob us blind?”
Father chuckled. “Your brother would take the horse and wagons in payment for ‘all the good deals’ he’s given us over the years if I let him. Four years since I saw him last, and he’s still complaining about my stealing you away and what it’s done to your mother. She is fine, by the way, though she still refuses to say your name. Instead, she asks how ‘my wife and the child’ are doing. She’s a stubborn woman.”
Mother pretended not to hear the last comments, but Nola could see the way she stiffened. Mentioning Feyza, her foreign grandmother, was never allowed. Nola didn’t know what had caused the fight between her mother and grandmother, but she suspected it had to do with marrying Father. She had no idea why that was such a bad thing. Mother and Father loved each other. That was all that mattered.
“Did you remind that backstabbing, goat-smelling thief that he still owes you for saving his life? He’d steal the boots off your feet and not even show you the courtesy of hiding them if you let him.”
Father held up his palms. “Peace. We did well, and your family treated our dealings fairly.”
“You only think you did well because that’s what he wanted you to believe. There’s no such thing as ‘fair dealings’ when it comes to trade in Arillia, especially between family members.”
“Enough, woman. I didn’t drive two horses lame hurrying home to argue about family and trade. I came for a birthday . . . and to bring this.” He pulled the pack he carried off his shoulder and withdrew a small, plainly wrapped package.
Nola clapped her hands together. “Thank you, Father!” She pulled the package from his hand and gave it a shake. It rattled softly. “What is it?”
“You’ll have to wait until tomorrow to find out.”
“Father! Please . . .” she whined. “It’s mean to show it to me and not let me open it. It’s nearly my birthday already.”
He plucked the package from her hand and held it out of reach. “Tomorrow, Kitten,” he said, using the full word instead of the usual ‘Kit’ for short as he always did when pretending to be stern.
“Perhaps she should open it tonight.” Her mother said. “What if . . .” She let the words hang instead of finishing.
Nola’s mouth fell open. Mother never bent on anything.
“Nonsense. We’ve nothing to worry about. We’ll go into town for the testing and be back by midday.” He set the package on the table. “Now, what is there to eat? I’m starving, and it smells fantastic. I haven’t had a decent meal since I left. I’d eat a maston if you put it in front of me. Sit down, Kit, and I’ll tell you all about my trip. You won’t believe what happened when we crossed the desert.”
Between mouthfuls of Lemara’s stew, Father told her about a one-armed man who played the saddest, most beautiful music he
’d ever heard, and how they’d nearly lost a wagon to bandits before his men fought them off. Then, the most amazing thing happened at an oasis. A whole band of Esharii had arrived in the middle of the night.
“I thought there would be a battle for sure, but none of them will fight near water in the desert. It’s against their rules—their edicts or some such. Never knew the swaugs had any laws, but I thank the Fallen they do, or I don’t know how many men or wagons we’d have lost. Maybe everything.
“I even spoke to one. I tell you, except for the accent and face paint, I could have been talking to a fellow landowner, not savages. It was a peculiar thing—as if raiding and killing our people for a thousand years never happened. They were willing to trade, too, but they owned little of value other than the rings in their beards. And their women . . .”
“What about their women?” Nola’s mother said.
“Easy, love. They stayed to themselves and well away from us. Palest skin you ever saw, though, and so little clothing . . .”
Mother’s eyes narrowed to slits before Father realized what he was saying.
“. . . it was shameful! Disgusting, even. Who would want skin so pale and ugly?”
“Uh-huh.”
Father quickly changed the subject. “Made a fortune in Galtare off your brother’s goods. The ivory and rope went so fast I should’ve charged double what I did, but we paid for the whole trip with half the wagons still full.” He went on about goods and market prices up and down the coast.
The rest of the time he spoke, her mother sat in silence, staring at her tea. She didn’t even say anything when Father cursed about the tariffs in Thae. Something was definitely wrong. Mother never ignored talk of money.
Nola’s thoughts drifted elsewhere when Father dove into the countless small details of the trip. She stared at the small wrapped package, imagining a jeweled necklace, then an ivory brush, a fine worked bracelet, and a silver locket—so many possibilities it drove her crazy. Her thoughts never returned to the broken doll that needed fixing or to tomorrow’s testing.
Lies of Descent Page 2