Lies of Descent

by Troy Carrol Bucher

  Riam almost laughed at the obviousness of the feigned anger and barely kept his face straight. Compared to Gairen or the Esharii, the man was like a baby marcat growling.

  “Riam, a word if you please,” the voice of Master Iwynd called from behind him, wiping the moment of lightheartedness from his thoughts.

  Loral raised her eyebrows at Riam questioningly.

  He shrugged. “Yes, sir,” he said and turned to face the old Draegoran.

  Master Iwynd looked to have aged years in the past few days. The sags below his eyes hung lower, his glyphs appeared more faded, and his hair seemed a bit whiter. Even the owl on his neck looked tired instead of menacing, as if reflecting the old Draegoran’s state.

  “This way.” Master Iwynd led him away from the dock until they were a good distance from anyone else. He removed a long, tubular, leather case that hung over his shoulder and held it out. The end of the tube was capped and wired shut. A wax seal dangled where the ends of the wire met, preventing anyone from opening the case without breaking the seal.

  It didn’t matter. Riam could feel what was inside. It was the sword. He reached forward hesitantly and took it from the old Draegoran. He frowned. It was heavier than he expected, and he had to use both hands to hold it. The mastonhide case was thick and strong.

  “It holds both of Gairen’s swords,” Master Iwynd said, emphasizing his uncle’s name. “There are also several reports and a letter. You are to deliver this case to the master of Owl Regiment, Kyden Thalle.”

  Master Iwynd’s eyes still seemed to accuse him of something, but he wasn’t sure what. Riam hung the case over his shoulder with mixed feelings. In some ways, he wanted nothing to do with the swords, especially the one linked to him, but it was the only connection he would ever have with Gairen. The strap on the case was wide, but it dug at his shoulder. It was like the whole world was inside, weighing it down. He wanted to say something to Master Iwynd, but he didn’t know what to say.

  “Nobody else touches the case,” Master Iwynd said. “You will place it in Kyden Thalle’s hands and no other’s. If anyone tries to take it, you are to say that you are under orders from me and show them the seal on the case. You will not open it under any circumstances. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Brin told me that he warned you not to tell anyone about your bond and the events in the timber yard. Let me make it even more clear. If anyone other than Kyden Thalle finds out about the sword or opens that case, you won’t leave the island alive. Tell no one that Gairen was your uncle.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  “I hope you do. It’s your life you’re protecting. Now go and get on the barge. The others have already started boarding.”

  With a sigh, Riam walked away. Like everyone else, there were things that Master Iwynd wasn’t telling him. No one ever trusts me with the truth.

  “One more thing,” Master Iwynd called.

  Riam looked back over his shoulder at the old Draegoran.

  “I’m sorry about Gairen. He was a good man, and one of my best students. The only one better was your father. Get through your training and return here as a Draegoran, and I’ll tell you about both of them.”

  Riam stared defiantly at the old Draegoran. “But—” he began.

  “I said when you return. Until then, you won’t know enough to understand.”

  There was no arguing with his tone of voice. Riam met the man’s eyes. “Yes, sir,” he said. “When I return, but I won’t forgive you for keeping it from me.”

  Riam jogged to the barge before Master Iwynd could reply. It was a small thing, but—in a way—he’d stood up for himself. They could withhold the truth from him, but they couldn’t control him unless he let them. He would become a Draegoran, but it would be on his terms, not theirs.

  Riam was the last one to board, and Captain Karlet gave the order to shove off as soon as he cleared the plank. After he put his bag of clothes in the bin with the others, he seated himself cross-legged next to Loral with the case across his lap. Some of the other children gave him curious looks, but he said nothing.

  The men cast off unceremoniously, and the boat slid slowly away from the dock as the men pushed it out toward the center of the river with long poles. Soon the barge caught the current and started downriver. Looking back at the town of Hath, Riam could see Master Iwynd still standing where he’d left him, watching.

  It might be years before he returned to get any answers from the old Draegoran. He hoped they both lived that long.

  After the Fall, few understood why the gods abandoned them. Most knew only that the gods were gone, and that the one god who remained was powerless to help them, but the priests of Sollus knew the truth.

  The priests trained the Naleer, the nameless ones, and sent them searching Draegora for the God of Light who’d been reborn. For the child of the darkness, they sent a hundred more as assassins.

  Both groups failed, and a demon rose up from the land. His name was Tomu, strongest of the dark ones, and the land burned while the Naleer searched for the Fallen God of Light destined to oppose him.

  —Edyin’s Complete Chronicle of the Fallen

  Chapter 16

  Nola rubbed at the pink lines and puckered skin that circled her wrists after Scrape untied her. She opened and closed her hands. Imaginary needles jabbed at her fingers and palms. Usually, the tribesmen didn’t tie the thin leather straps used to bind her wrists to the saddle so tightly, but it’d been the big Esharii, the one in charge with a fat black line painted across his eyes, who’d done it this time. He always tied her wrists that way, and if she made a noise or complained, he would cinch the leather down even harder. It was one of the few times the big man looked happy, and he knew exactly how to make her the most uncomfortable without causing any lasting damage. Her hands never turned white or blue, but the feeling came and went depending on how she held them in her lap. There was never a position that didn’t make one or the other go numb.

  Scrape examined her skin and grunted in disapproval. Like most of the Esharii, Scrape’s head was shaved except for a small topknot, and the skin around his face paint was paler than the moon. He wore a narrow beard, wound into a single braid with gold-and-silver rings wrapped into the weave. He, too, was big although not nearly as big as the one in charge, but still larger than the rest and more muscled. She called him Scrape because of the scars on the side of his face and his torn ear. They reminded her of the way her knee or her elbow looked right after a bad fall, with deep gouges and rough, pitted skin that even his thick face paint couldn’t hide. Whatever created them must have been painful. Maybe he’d fallen on his face after being thrown from a horse the same as her. No matter how it happened, Scrape’s face reminded her of how lucky she was. She’d landed in soft dirt, not rock, and only suffered a single cut near her hairline, although she hadn’t felt lucky at the time.

  Nola ran her fingers along the scab on her forehead, feeling the thick stitches that jutted out. She’d screamed when the old Esharii cleaned the wound, and she’d screamed even louder when he used the bone needle to tie the wound closed. That was the only time the tribesmen had allowed her to cry without punishing her. The wound still hurt and itched. She tried not to scratch or pick at it, but touching the wound reminded her of Riam.

  At first, she’d been angry with him and the Draegoran for abandoning her, angrier than she’d been when Riam yelled at her. Later, she’d calmed down. There was nothing they could have done. One man and a boy were not going to rescue her from these savages—even if that one man was a Draegoran. She truly hoped that they’d made it to the safety of the outpost. In her dreams it was her capture that had allowed them to escape. That dream comforted her and let her believe they were alive and free because of her.

  Scrape shook the leather straps in the direction of the big Esharii. “Nune’ta en ha’ikana tol,” he mumbled
.

  “I agree. He’s a screet,” Nola said.

  He cocked his head to the right, looking at her with his eyebrows raised. The gesture stretched his scars and pulled the lines on his face into a grotesque expression. A tenday ago, it would have horrified her, but not after what she’d been through. Scrape was gentler than the first Esharii who’d been assigned to watch over her captivity. It wasn’t that Scrape was kind. He wasn’t. He’d been hard on her over the last four days, but he wasn’t cruel. Thank the Fallen the cruel one had been killed three days ago.

  Has it really been three days since the battle? Three days since they left me tied to a tree for an entire night.

  It’d been terrifying. At the time, she wasn’t sure they were coming back, and she’d feared they’d left her to die—to be eaten by wild animals. The evening had been overcast. So when the moon went down the first time, the night turned black without the light of a single star. She’d heard the grunts of an animal and the shuffle of its footsteps. Something came close enough to sniff at her leg. She’d peed herself in fear when she smelled its rotting breath and it touched her leg with a claw. She’d kicked and yelled at it to leave her alone before tearing at the ropes until she was exhausted. In the end, all she could do was sit in the dark and cry for her father to come and rescue her. She imagined him rushing out of the darkness, brandishing a torch to scare the beast away and save her, but that didn’t happen. There was no way for him to know she was in trouble. He’d sold her to the Draegoran, just like the goods he traded, and she would never see him or her mother again.

  Near dawn of that terrible night, the tribesmen had returned, but with far fewer men. The fight hadn’t gone their way, and there were several wounded with two unable to ride. Those two were left behind when the rest took her and rode south, straight toward the mountains and toward the Esharii lands beyond. They rarely stopped while there was light enough to travel. The only good thing that had come from that horrible night, besides not being eaten, was the loss of the tribesman who’d originally had charge of her. He’d been one of the two left behind. Nola hoped he’d survived long enough to fear the darkness, and she hoped that something large and scary had done more than sniff at his leg.

  Her mind drifted back to her father. How could he let the Draegoran take me away? It wasn’t the first time she’d asked herself the question. Her mother had screamed at Father after they returned home—something she’d never heard her mother do—but Father had remained a stone through it all, sitting in his rocking chair and staring at the hearth until her mother gave up and took Nola to bed with her. Even their house servant, Lemara, had dared to berate him for doing nothing. Mother held her the entire night, and when Nola woke the next morning, Father was still in the chair, still staring at the fire with her unwrapped birthday present in his hand. He rose quietly when it was time to meet the Draegoran and drove her on one of the wagons into town alone. His only words were to tell her that he loved her before hugging her one final time. Then he pried her arms from around his neck, slid the birthday present into her small bag, and passed her to Gairen. She’d watched him climb back into the wagon and snap the reins, heading for home, and she’d continued to watch him until he made the turn by the cemetery. He never looked back. As much as she wished he’d been there to rescue her, she would never forgive him.

  Satisfied that her hands were not damaged, Scrape fell into his usual camp routine, starting with his horse. He mostly left her alone for the evening, as long as she obeyed and didn’t try to run. In the morning he would tie her hands again—at least she hoped it would be him tying her hands and not the big Esharii—and they would continue toward the mountains.

  Nola couldn’t see them now, but the mountains were there somewhere, hidden by the surrounding hills. Over the past few days, the band of Esharii had climbed steadily higher. The forest had given way to rough hill country filled with shrubs and small, twisted trees, and the nights were getting colder. It wouldn’t be long before they were over those mountains. She wasn’t sure what would happen then, but she would soon find out. Nobody would be coming to save her.

  The growl from her stomach roused her from her thoughts. She was starving, but there were things that needed to be done before she would be allowed to eat. First, the horse had to be unsaddled and hobbled, and like everything else, she was expected to do it herself. It wasn’t fair. She’d grown up with servants doing these things for her, but the Esharii didn’t treat her like the landowner she’d been raised to become. The first tribesman who’d been in charge of her had made that clear between shoves and backhands that made her ears ring. He wouldn’t give her any food or water until her horse and bedding were taken care of, and if she cried, he wouldn’t give her any food at all. Nola didn’t think Scrape would treat her as badly, but she wasn’t going to take the chance. Caring for the animal wasn’t hard, and it was far better than going hungry.

  Esharii saddles were simple and light without a horn—just cut leather hide with a single cinch, a chest strap, and rope stirrups. Folded underneath the saddle was a thick blanket that served as padding. The same blanket was used for sleeping at night, and it made everyone smell like horse sweat. She didn’t think she’d ever get the sweet, musky smell out of her nose.

  After watering and leading the horse to a nearby knoll where the other horses grazed, Nola pulled the saddle and blanket off and worked to disconnect the stirrups from the saddle. Once she worked both knots through the holes in the leather, they came free. They were cleverly made so that they could also be used to hobble the horse at night. She fumbled with the ropes and then stood back to be sure they wouldn’t come off—she’d been punished for that once already and wasn’t going to let it happen again. In the fading light she could just make out the other group of Esharii, the plain-faced ones, setting up camp nearby.

  The two groups were complete opposites. Where the stripe-faced tribesmen simply found a place on the ground and threw down their blankets before eating, practicing with blades or speaking together before sleep, the ones with unpainted faces were orderly and silent. Every night they set up a small tent and spaced their blankets evenly around it, pointing out like the spokes on a wagon wheel. She counted six of the plain-faced tribesmen—there’d been ten before the battle. They never joked or laughed, and aside from going to relieve themselves, taking care of the horses, or eating, they stood guard around the tent while taking turns sleeping. Nola was reminded of a pack of guard dogs, like the ones Father used to guard the wagon trains. Only, instead of goods, the plain-faced tribesmen guarded the old spirit-walker.

  She’d had glimpses of him over the past few days, riding a pure black horse that stood out among the sorrels and paints. He always seemed to be staring right at her. Well, not exactly at her. It was more like he was looking through her, as if his unnatural red eyes saw something behind her. She could never keep from checking over her shoulder whenever he looked in her direction.

  The two groups seldom mingled or spoke to one another, but it was the lack of interaction between the groups that shouted louder than words. It reminded Nola of when Mother and Father argued. They never spoke to one another when they were angry, unless they were really angry, but the silence between them was as chilling and tense as any argument. The tension between the camps felt the same.

  Convinced the hobbles would stay on, Nola grabbed the horse blanket and saddle. She found a level spot a few paces from Scrape’s blanket and, after sweeping away the rocks with her hands and smoothing the ground as best she could, laid the blanket out flat. She pulled several handfuls of rough grass from nearby and rolled the leather saddle around the tufts to form a pillow. Then she sat down and waited for Scrape to notice she was finished.

  Her stomach growled again. She’d never been so hungry. The Esharii carried little with them, which meant that they didn’t eat much, although they did eat more now that their numbers were smaller. She’d never gone hungry at home.r />
  Home . . .

  All she wanted was to go home. The days were becoming hazy and blending together. She was tired all the time, and she wished that they would get to wherever they were going. She wanted to sleep inside, and she wanted to talk to someone who understood her words . . . and a bath. At least when she was with the Draegoran, she had Riam to talk with. At the thought of Riam, she touched her forehead reflexively, feeling at the stitches.

  “Durak!” Scrape yelled at her. He shook his head no while pointing to his forehead.

  “I wasn’t going to pick at it,” she said. “I was thinking.” She pointed at the saddlebags near his feet and brought her hand to her mouth several times. “I’m hungry, by the way.” Despite the boldness of her words she was careful to make sure her tone was submissive. They might not understand what she said, but they definitely understood how she said it.

  Scrape threw the bag toward her. She knew what was inside. The same thing they ate every day—cold mush. At least that’s what it looked like when water was added to it. It might be ground oats or wheat, but the taste was off. There were traces of color that brightened when the water was added. The reds and greens were some kind of vegetable, but she couldn’t imagine what the crunchy black-and-brown flakes were. It didn’t taste bad, a little chalky and gritty, but she’d eaten it twice a day since her capture, and she was tired of it.

  Even weary of it, however, she would eat the whole bag if they let her. She was tempted to mix a second bowl, but she knew better. No one seemed to be watching, but they were, and they would catch her if she ate a single bite more than the portion allowed. She finished the meager bowl and cleaned it out before putting it back in the bag and carrying it to Scrape.