Lies of Descent

by Troy Carrol Bucher

  “Anybody know this man?” Gairen asked the men around him. He knelt beside the body of the teamster who’d released the deadly insects. The workers looked back and forth from one to another. None knew him.

  “Thought maybe he was a new hire by another mill. He was here and loaded when I arrived,” said a teamster. “There are nine different mills. Drivers come and go, so we don’t always know each other.”

  “Who loaded his wain?”

  “That woulda been Theril.” The foreman pointed to the third body in the row of the dead. “Wasps got him.” Riam recognized the bloated face of the man in the floppy hat who’d waved to him.

  “Theril wouldn’t have missed the hollowed-out logs,” the foreman said.

  Gairen made a thorough search. He stripped the dead man of clothing and examined both the body and the clothes. There were large red welts, easily the size of plums, scattered over the man’s pale corpse. The body had a few scars, but nothing of note. His dark hair was cut short, but not in a way that would make him stand out in a crowd. His only possession was a small blue-and-white charm held by a chain around his neck. Gairen tore it free and shoved it in his pocket.

  Riam looked away in embarrassment as the dead man’s private parts flopped around when Gairen turned him over and back while checking him. Many of the men did the same. When Gairen finished, he tossed the dead man’s breeches onto the body irreverently, like piling up refuse.

  These were the first bodies Riam had ever seen other than his grandfather. He thought it should bother him more than it did, but aside from the uncanny stillness he found disturbing, he wasn’t sick or scared. In fact, he was intrigued. He could almost feel the energy seeping out of them. He glanced down at the blade in his hand. Somehow, he knew that if he so much as scratched one of the bodies, the blade would draw out whatever essence remained. The thought raised his pulse and made the hair on his arms tingle.

  “Anyone check the wain?” Gairen asked. He deftly used the dead man’s shirt to take the sword away from Riam. He slid it into its sheath and then wrapped the shirt around the pommel. The men around them were all shaking their heads no. None of them had been willing to go near the wain with the possibility of more wasps inside the logs.

  Gairen moved his search there and climbed up to the driver’s bench. “Logs have been split, hollowed, and then put back together. Used clay caps to cover the ends.” He tossed down a piece of the hardened clay.

  The foreman caught it. “Then they had to have been brought in on the wagon, too fragile for rolling it about and loading. Means Theril wasn’t involved. I’m glad. He was good man.”

  “Like to know how they got the wasps in there,” a teamster said.

  “Smoke maybe, like with bees,” the foreman answered.

  “Or at night. They go dormant at night,” another worker added.

  “Brave men to do that job. I’ve never seen them that big.”

  The foreman turned the clay piece back and forth in his hand. “Crazy is more like it.”

  “Can’t imagine doing something like that at night. Think of the size the nest would have to be.”

  Riam shivered at the idea of collecting the massive wasps in the dark.

  “They were after you, and they knew you’d be coming through the yard,” said the foreman.

  “I know.” Gairen climbed down from the wain.

  They remained until the logs could be unloaded and taken apart to ensure there were no more of the creatures left inside. The foreman thanked Gairen for that and for saving several of his men’s lives.

  Riam knew why the man thanked Gairen; he’d risked his life to save the workmen after protecting him, but if he and Gairen hadn’t come through the yard, then all of the foreman’s men would still be alive. Either the man chose to overlook this, or he hadn’t thought of it yet. Riam believed it to be the first, but then wondered why this didn’t bother the man. He didn’t understand adults sometimes.

  Riam was surprised when Gairen told him they were still going into Hath.

  “Running back to the outpost won’t solve anything, and we’d still need to go into town.”

  As they left, two men added the limp form of the teamster who’d been stung on the leg to the row of bodies on the dock.

  * * *

  —

  Hidden among the wide leaves of an old softwood tree on the other side of the river, the last remaining wasp clung to a limb stretched out over the water. The insect’s hooked feet held on to the gnarled bark, and its mandibles opened and closed mechanically, chewing at the air. It tilted its head left, then right, staring malevolently at the workers. It was a long way from its nest, but these were the creatures that had torn open its home and taken its queen. Its small, black antennae twitched with desire. It wanted to fly across the river and sting them. It wanted to kill them. The black wings against its yellow body sprung out, but it didn’t take to the air. The okulu’tan controlling its mind wouldn’t let it.

  Steads away, out on the edge of the plains, the Esharii spirit-walker sat inside his tent, eyes closed, watching the Draegoran and the boy through the insect. A single wasp, the queen, was tied with string and suspended half submerged in a golden bowl of water on his lap. Not just any water, but sacred water from the Najalii, the lake of life in the center of the Esharii homelands. The okulu’tan held the bowl cupped in his hands with his thumbs curved over the edge and in the water. Red-and-yellow streaks of light darted through the water between the man and the insect. The light’s reflection off the bowl’s surface gave the water a forbidding glow.

  The okulu’tan opened his eyes, revealing red pupils that shone nearly as bright as the golden bowl in his hands. Sitting in a half circle before him were three Esharii warriors. Two of them were anxious, he could tell by their breathing and the thin film of sweat on their striped face paint, but they said nothing and waited for him to speak. They knew the dangers of disturbing him while he used his power.

  The largest was Pai’le, the warleader of the band of Ti’yak warriors who had escorted him over the mountains. Like most men with great strength, he was impulsive, believing that his strength made him right.

  Next to Pai’le sat Ky’lem, the warrior’s disfigured second-in-command. The jagged scars on the left side of the tribesman’s face and his torn ear fooled many into thinking he was simply a fierce fighter. While it was true that there were few who could best him in wrestling or with a knife, his true strength lay in his thoughts. There were none who could outsmart him, and what made him remarkable was that he preferred to use his mind before fighting. It might have been better if he was in charge, but the okulu’tan had other plans for the scar-faced warrior.

  The last tribesman was his pachna, and the leader of his bodyguards. Like all his bodyguards, his face was unpainted, marking him as chae’lon—of no tribe. The warrior had served him faithfully for many years, even though it meant that as chae’lon he could keep no wives.

  The three sat cross-legged, their wide-swept Arillian blades next to them, on colorful rugs used to floor the tent.

  “The old Draegoran still lives. He sent the younger one and the boy you failed to capture in his place,” the okulu’tan said.

  “They’re dead?” Pai’le asked.

  “No, the trap failed. The Church of Man’s agent stirred the creatures up too much, making them difficult to control. I couldn’t bring them all to bear on the gray demon, and he fought them off. The boy, however, is of more interest. He was stung several times and should have died, but I believe he used the gray demon’s blade to save himself. He is quite strong.”

  “And the Church’s agent?”

  “Dead. He could not be allowed to survive the attack.”

  “So, both of the gray men still live.” The big Esharii grinned. “More honor for my men when we kill them.” He was eager to redeem himself for failing to capture the boy and kil
l the young Draegoran out on the plains.

  “This is not about revenge or honor, Pai’le. I want the children, especially this boy.” The okulu’tan pushed the wasp under the water with his thumb, squashing it against the bottom of the bowl. Energy flashed through the water like lightning in a thundercloud. He brought the bowl to his lips and tilted his head back, swallowing the sacred water. Then he closed his eyes and placed the queen between his molars with two fingers. He didn’t want to use the power this way. It was dangerous and hastened the madness, but the way events were falling into place could change everything he’d planned before coming over the mountains.

  He had to know the truth, and that meant searching the memories his mind kept locked away to protect itself, memories from traveling the ways. One could not see the infinite possibilities of the future and remain sane in this world, so the mind of a spirit-walker blocked them out, but they were there, deep in the recesses of the spirit. The spirit knew which were important, and day-by-day, piece-by-piece, the memories he needed to save his people slipped through. It was a dangerous balance. Too many memories, and he would be lost and confused, unable to tell the difference between what “was” and what “could be.” Too few memories, and he would be unable to guide the other okulu’tan. Using the magic to force those memories was not something he wanted to do. It hurried the madness that would one day take him, but he had to know the truth. In all his memories of the future, he’d never seen this boy among the Draegorans. He had to know why. He bit down, crushing the wasp. Power surged through his body, and he clawed through the hidden spaces of his soul for answers.

  When the power left him and his mind returned to the world, he opened his eyes. The three warriors still sat patiently before him, waiting for his commands.

  “We attack the outpost tonight. Capture the boy and the other children. The gray demons must not be allowed to possess him.” He didn’t want to think about what would happen if they were unsuccessful. He reached out and took hold of Pai’le’s chin. He squeezed it firmly, sending enough power through his fingers to jolt the big warrior’s heart. “You must not fail this time.” There was but one small chance to save his people if the boy escaped them, and it would cost the okulu’tan his life.

  “We will take the children and kill the gray demons,” Pai’le said in a matter-of-fact tone, as if it were already done.

  The okulu’tan let go of Pai’le’s face. Despite the big leader’s boasts, there was a strong chance the attack would fail. He must make plans for that. The boy twisted the possibilities around him, making the future unpredictable, but there was a second path leading to the salvation of his people, and he already possessed the catalyst he needed to force his people to follow it.

  He turned to his left. At the far edge of the tent sat the girl they’d stolen from the young gray demon. She sat blindfolded and gagged, with her hands and feet tied in front of her. She could not understand their words, but she twisted her head this way and that, listening intently. Oh, yes, he had plans for this one—plans that did not involve Pai’le or his pachna.

  “Leave me. All but you, Ky’lem.”

  Back on the tree, the wasp vibrated and shook. Free to kill the humans, the wasp dropped from the limb, attempting to take flight, but its body was changing. Its wings would not respond, and it tumbled toward the water, shrinking until it was no more than a finger’s width across. The wasp landed in the river, too small to make a splash, only a small ring that spread outward on the surface. What little intelligence the creature had gained was now gone. It kicked and squirmed in the water, trying to break free. There was something it needed to do, but it couldn’t remember what. A large, rainbow-colored fish rose to the surface and snapped up the insect, swallowing it before diving back down to deeper water.

  Chapter 9

  It was still morning when Riam and Gairen stepped through the carved wooden arch that marked the outskirts of Hath. The events of the morning pressed heavily on Riam, but at least he could think of something besides the wasps and the dead men on the loading dock. He never wanted to see another wasp again, and for as long as he lived, he would hate the creatures even if they were small. Gairen hadn’t said a word to him since leaving the timber yard, and the silence left many unanswered questions in Riam’s mind. Most of all, he worried that Gairen was angry with him.

  Riam hoped he wasn’t. As far as he knew, he’d done nothing wrong. He’d somehow taken control of one of Gairen’s swords—maybe even “linked” with it, as Gairen put it. Yet he’d done it to save himself, not to try and steal the sword. For Fallen’s sake, he’d give it back if Gairen would just show him how.

  “I didn’t mean . . .” He started to say as much.

  “Not here,” Gairen said.

  “But—”

  “I said, not here.” Gairen quickened his pace.

  Riam sighed. The discussion would have to wait.

  The silence gave Riam the chance to take in the town. Hath was very different from the towns on the plains. Besides the forest that surrounded it, it was larger, with rock-paved streets instead of dirt, and with buildings that were short and squat, built with logs instead of milled lumber. There were no pictures out front to show him what each building held within. Instead, signs carved with curious symbols and flowing lines hung over the doorways. There were no porches either, only short overhangs to keep the rain off the doors. It wasn’t crowded this early, but a few people were out moving along the streets or preparing to open their shops.

  “The buildings are so different here,” Riam said. “How do you know what’s inside each one? There are just a bunch of squiggles over the doors.” He felt dumb asking the question, but he wanted Gairen to talk about something—anything to make things like they were before the timber yard.

  There was a long pause, but thankfully Gairen answered. “We’re in Yaden now. Customs are different, and it’s cheaper to build with logs. Trees are scarce out on the plains, so wood has to be hauled in from here or Thae. A wainload of lumber builds more than a wainload of logs and is easier to haul. Here, rough logs are plentiful and cheaper than milled boards.” He gave Riam a sympathetic half smile. “As for the ‘squiggles,’ those are words. Another failure of your grandfather, but you’ll learn to read when you get to the island.”

  The buildings and the words—though he was dubious about them truly being words—weren’t the only differences to the towns on the plains. The men they passed were bulkier with fairer skin, almost as pale as the Esharii. Many had hair that was light-colored or red like the stable boy in Steading Rock. Light hair was rare back home, and Riam had the uneasy feeling that everyone was staring at him until he noticed a few others with hair as black as his.

  Two girls, close to an age where they would be called women, walked down the street toward them. It wasn’t their hair that Riam noticed. Their skirts came down to just above the knees, and they wore sandals that laced up above their calves. The girls on the plains wore full dresses unless they were riding or working; then they wore breeches. None of them wore dresses this short. He blushed and pretended to read a sign when the girls caught him staring. Both gave him odd looks when they passed, and Riam found his head swiveling around to catch a glimpse of their calves.

  He whipped his head back around when one almost caught him staring.

  “Bit young for that, aren’t you?” Gairen said.

  Riam’s face reddened. He wasn’t looking at them in that way.

  Gairen stopped at one of the log buildings. He tried the metal handle, and when he found it locked, pounded on the door several times.

  “Not open yet,” a voice called from inside.

  He pounded on the door again.

  “I said, ‘Not open yet!’”

  Gairen’s fists opened and closed and his body tensed. He looked ready to kick the door in.

  Riam slid a step back, out of the way. He’d never seen Gair
en acting short or flustered, and he didn’t want to be the target if it came to that.

  Gairen took a deep breath and exhaled through his nose before knocking on the door so politely it was scarier than if he’d pounded on it.

  “Are you deaf? We’re not open.” The voice grew louder, and the sound of keys rattling came from the other side of the door. It opened a crack. “If you come back . . .” the voice trailed off as the door opened the rest of the way, exposing a short man with sharp, squinty eyes and a close-cut beard. “My apologies.” The man’s tone was friendlier, but he wore the forced smile of one accustomed to serving others. He flinched when he looked at Riam.

  “I need clothes and shoes for the boy, and I have the payment for the others you’ve already outfitted.”

  The man kept glancing at Riam. “Is he injured? Does he need a bandage?”

  Riam touched his face. Dried blood and wasp guts flaked away from his cheek. He felt fine, but between his clothes and the blood, he must look like he’d wrestled a marcat before sleeping in a nest of screets. No wonder the girls gave him such peculiar looks.

  “No. Had some trouble on the way here, but it’s mostly superficial.”

  “Super-what?”

  Gairen ignored the question. “We’re headed to the baths after we finish here. He’ll be fine once he’s cleaned up.” Gairen took out the pouch of coins and shook it. “Can we get started?”

  If the man’s grin had been faked before, it was real now. Just like back home, nothing made a tradesman more sincere than the sound of rattling coins.

  “Well, I’m sure you know best. Come in, come in, and we’ll get the boy some clothes to replace those rags.” He stepped out of the way and motioned them inside with a sweeping bow. His voice slipped into the comfortable role of a shopkeeper who’d been at his work for years. “Same as always? Two shirts, one long-sleeved and one short, two pair of trousers, a pair of sandals, and a pair of boots?”