Lies of Descent

by Troy Carrol Bucher

  The moon was up, and Scrape was by himself, practicing with his weapons. He held his sword in one hand and a wicked knife that curved like a talon in the other as he twisted and turned, fighting invisible opponents. He was more agile than his size suggested. He would spin and jump, launching kicks and punches between thrusts and slashes of the sword. The knife he held reversed, running along the side of his forearm, and he used it to block imaginary blows. He was covered in sweat by the time he stopped and waved at his bedding with the sword.

  Nola placed the bag next to his blanket and moved back to her own. She’d slept soundly the first few nights with the Esharii, worn out from the long rides, but as she adapted to the routine, she found it difficult to sleep. Soon they would be over the mountains, and then she’d never get to go home. She would spend the rest of her life with these people. It wasn’t right. She didn’t want to go with them. She wished they’d taken Riam instead of her. She knew that wasn’t true, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. She flopped down on the blanket.

  Much later, Nola lay awake, staring at the stars. She wanted to cry. She was scared and alone, but she kept her jaw locked and breathed deeply, fighting it. Only the occasional tear escaped, sliding from the corner of her eye down to the leather of the makeshift pillow.

  She heard soft footsteps and quickly wiped the tears away. Closing her eyes, she pretended to sleep, hoping the tribesman hadn’t spied her crying. I didn’t make any noise. Please let him keep walking.

  The footsteps stopped next to her, then a hand touched her shoulder. Nola covered her face and curled into a ball. Any moment and the blow would come. She held her breath.

  Nothing happened. She peered between her fingers and saw a plain-faced tribesman kneeling over her. The tribesman put a finger to his lips, motioning for her to keep silent, before beckoning her to follow. Nola was confused. Nearby, Scrape’s blankets were empty. No one else was awake that she could see, but that didn’t mean much in the dim moonlight—there were never fewer than three or four sentries around the camp.

  She wasn’t sure what to do. Scrape always stood his watch early in the morning, never in the middle of the night. If he’d gone to relieve himself and returned to find her missing, she didn’t know what he would do, but it wouldn’t be good.

  The plain-faced Esharii beckoned her a second time. “Asha, come,” he whispered just loud enough for her to hear. He scanned around the camp quickly and waved at her again. “Must hurry. They come.” His accent was thick.

  Who is Asha? Who is coming? Nola looked at Scrape’s empty blanket again. Her mouth was dry, and she licked her lips. She didn’t know what to do.

  The plain-faced tribesman grunted softly in frustration and strode back toward her. He was angry. This was the Esharii she’d come to know. She closed her eyes tight, bracing for the blow. She should have followed his orders the moment he spoke them. You did what the tribesmen wanted, and you did it without hesitating. He’d tricked her with his polite manner.

  But he didn’t hit her. Instead, she felt him next to her, his hot breath on her ear. “You want life, you come now. Soon too late.”

  Too late for what?

  The plain-faced tribesman didn’t give her any more time to think about it. He pulled her up, and she stumbled to her feet. She tried to jerk away, but he held her firmly by the arm and marched her beside him. She thought briefly of yelling out to wake the tribesmen around her but decided against it.

  The man led her to the second camp, but he sped up instead of stopping. They moved past the small tent. The Esharii who normally guarded it were missing. The tent door flapped in the breeze.

  He led her down a small hill until they reached the bottom of a dry wash. It was darker here. The hills and shrubs created long shadows that hid more than she could see, and it was difficult for her to keep pace. The tribesman followed the wadi, his steps crunching on the small stones of the wash bed. Soon they would be out of earshot of the camp.

  Nola stopped. Her heart thumped hard in her chest. What if he wants me for something else . . . something bad? She should’ve stayed in the camp. Her mother had warned her about men—how some might try and “take her” if they got her alone. She didn’t want to go any farther with the plain-faced tribesman.

  As if sensing her fear, the man spoke. “Not long, asha,” he called over his shoulder. “Okulu’tan waits.” He didn’t stop. Soon she would lose him in the darkness.

  Why is the okulu’tan waiting for me? Nola touched the stitches on her forehead again. The old Esharii had sewn the wound shut. He wouldn’t do that if he was going to hurt me—would he? She looked back up the hill and then down the wadi once more. Scrape would have returned to camp by now. She couldn’t return alone without getting punished.

  “Fallen’s mercy,” she whispered and hurried after the tribesman.

  Chapter 17

  Nola fell twice trying to catch up with the plain-faced warrior, jarring her wrists and banging her side painfully against the rocks. Nothing felt broken, but her hip hurt and would be bruised. In a short time, the wash bed widened and leveled off; while it was still dark, it was easier going. Then, with a splash, she stepped in a puddle of water that was hidden in a shadow. It was muddy and cold.

  She was so preoccupied with shaking the mud from her sandal that she almost didn’t notice the firelight flickering on the embankment ahead of her. Whatever they were doing out here in the middle of the night, she was about to find out. Her steps were hesitant as she walked around the final bend.

  It wasn’t firelight. She stood before a glowing pool of water. Kneeling in the shallow water with his bare, wrinkled torso above the surface was the okulu’tan. Next to the water, sitting cross-legged in the sand, sat Scrape. Nola’s heart fluttered in panic.

  Scrape looked at her quizzically a moment before jumping to his feet and shouting in the rough Esharii language. Nola attempted to back up, but another plain-faced Esharii was behind her. His hands clamped down on her shoulders, preventing her from escaping.

  She’d never seen Scrape truly angry before, and she was glad. He drew his sword and waved it in the air, accenting his words with thrusts that matched each yell. Five plain-faced Esharii scurried into the light, surrounding Scrape, swords also drawn. There was no fear on the scarred warrior’s face. If anything, he looked prepared to kill all five.

  The okulu’tan put a hand out and spoke. “Hosla’an durak,” he said calmly. “Kallum en braun’eum,” he added, and the plain-faced tribesmen reluctantly backed away. They didn’t go far. Remaining at the edge of the water’s light, they kept their weapons drawn.

  The old Esharii turned his attention to Scrape. “Mish ta’al durak!” he commanded sharply.

  The harsh words ended Scrape’s rant in an instant. He threw his sword to the sand in disgust and sat back down. His eyes burned in the glow of the light.

  The okulu’tan waved Nola forward. “There’s nothing to fear. Come.”

  The scratchy voice gave her no comfort, but there was no sense in disobeying. She tried to convince herself of this as she pushed herself a step at a time closer to the water. Scrape’s hands were clenched into fists on his lap, and the muscles of his jaw stood out below his scars. She was careful to move to a spot outside his reach.

  “Ky’lem is surprised to see you here. It’s not . . . what he expected, and he is not pleased. He is a smart man, though, and he will soon realize that it is a foolish thing to not accept a path that is already beneath your feet.”

  Nola swallowed. Saying Scrape wasn’t pleased was an understatement. She was pretty sure he wanted to hack someone to death with his sword, and she didn’t think he’d be very particular about who it was.

  “Sit,” the okulu’tan said and motioned to the sand next to Scrape.

  Nola looked at the spot, but she didn’t move. She didn’t want to get within reach of Scrape, or Ky’lem as the okulu’
tan had named him, or whatever he was called.

  “Sit, asha. He will never be able to harm you.”

  She wasn’t sure she believed him. Keeping her eyes on Scrape, Nola slid closer and sat down.

  The okulu’tan smiled at her, but it was a sad smile—the kind Lemara, her family’s house servant, sometimes gave her when she thought no one was looking. At least the old okulu’tan still had all his teeth. Many of the old men back in Steading Rock had none, and the pink, toothless gums made her queasy whenever they spoke to her.

  The okulu’tan reached out toward her. Nola’s instincts were to pull away, but she held herself firm. A wet, wrinkled hand brushed her cheek.

  “A dark-skinned asha—young and fragile and not of the people. Sollus has played a good joke on me . . . but he asks even more of Ky’lem.” He chuckled.

  Nola had no idea what the old man was talking about.

  “I have traveled the ways for the final time. Farther than I have ever gone before. Too far, actually, but I had no choice.” The words were wistful and far away. “Everything I’ve worked toward may come to nothing—all because of two ga’ginga pups, you and the boy we did not take.” He sighed. “So much wasted because I could not see far enough ahead. But not all paths are closed. Only mine.” The old okulu’tan stared off into the darkness. “But the child sings with Parron’s light. Do you see him? He blazes like the sun. He will serve the people.”

  His words made no sense. Is the old man insane?

  “Jalla estana asha’inda em hara, Ky’lem. Asha’inda em karii. Pim’ta dem’coranta,” the okulu’tan said softly.

  Scrape stiffened.

  The okulu’tan cocked his head to the side, listening. “The gray demons come. I can hear them on the wind, like the rush of a fire, consuming everything in its path. They will kill most of the warriors, but a few will escape through the pass. They will see Esharii lands once more. I had hoped it would be more.”

  The Draegorans were coming! A flicker of hope gathered in Nola’s chest. They would rescue her.

  The old okulu’tan grabbed her chin and brought his face to hers. His red eyes bored into her. “If I warn the warriors, they will break camp and ride, but they will all die trapped in a canyon not far from here. It is a terrible burden to walk the ways. Who do you save? Who do you let die? Which memories are true, and which follow a path that has already failed?”

  Suddenly it dawned on her. He was talking about seeing the future. If she’d known the future, she never would have been captured. She wouldn’t even be here.

  “Scrape, as you call him in your thoughts, he will survive. That’s what he’s so angry about. He would rather die than face the task I have set before him.” The okulu’tan laughed again in a mad chuckle. “You don’t see the humor in this, but you will.”

  There was no doubt in Nola’s mind now. The okulu’tan was crazy.

  The old man pulled her face closer. He spoke rapidly, almost too fast for her to follow. “The big man, Pai’le, the one who leads the warriors, if his first action during the attack is to run to the horses, he will die. If he attacks the first gray demon he sees, he will live, but another will die in his place. Should I tell him and spare his life in favor of the other warrior?”

  Nola didn’t like this conversation. Why can’t they let me go and let everyone live in peace?

  The okulu’tan shook her painfully. “Answer me, asha. Should I tell him?”

  Fine. The big man was cruel. “No. Let him die,” she said.

  “Ah, good. A choice.” He let go of her chin. “But what if I tell you that should the big man die, your father will also die, and if the other lives, he will cause the deaths of hundreds of your people, many of them children like you? Now what would you do?”

  Nola was horrified. She didn’t want her father to die, but she didn’t want hundreds of others to die either. Her eyes watered. “How can I make a choice like that?”

  “But you must choose, because now you know the two possibilities. Simply doing nothing is a choice in itself. There is no running away from it once you have seen a path among the ways.” He shook her head by the chin. “Now choose! Do you let him live to save your father, or do you let him die to save hundreds of others?

  “I’ll make it easy for you. What if all the people in your tribe will die? What if all the people north of the mountains will die? Do you save your father anyway, or do you let him perish?”

  Tears ran down Nola’s face. Why is he asking this? She didn’t want her father to die. His red eyes held her, waiting. Finally, Nola shook her head no.

  “So, you are not so weak. Be still. The big man’s death has nothing to do with your father, but do you see the difficulty?”

  Nola nodded. Seeing the future had become much less appealing. She didn’t want to make choices like that.

  “Your future is much like the big man’s. If you return to the camp, the gray demons will rescue you and take you to their island, but you will die within three years of this night. There is a small chance you will live beyond that time, but no matter the course, if you are rescued, you will not survive to leave their cursed island.”

  “I don’t understand,” Nola said. She looked to Scrape and back at the okulu’tan.

  “The gray men take the grandchildren of Parron and train them in their ways before linking them to Tomu,” the okulu’tan explained, “but the link requires much blood and death, and not all survive. Should they rescue you, you will die, drained like a fly in the web of their deceit.” The okulu’tan paused to let the words sink in. “But there is a choice for you, asha. I can break the gray demons’ net and send you away with Ky’lem. You will become an okulu’tan like me—the first asha’han to be trained as one. It will be a great honor.

  “Yet it will also be a painful life, filled with losses you cannot imagine, but it is life nonetheless, and it will have a purpose. What more can anyone, even an asha, ask for than this? The decision, however, is up to you. I cannot force you. I can only place the path beneath your feet.” The old man’s eyes shone brighter than the pool he knelt in.

  What choice has he given me? Live a few years with the Draegorans or become some kind of crazy Esharii witch-woman. That isn’t much of a choice, and neither is very appealing. Why can’t things go back to the way they were? I’m only twelve, for Fallen’s sake!

  The okulu’tan leaned forward, the muscles of his face tense in the soft light.

  It was important to him that she said yes. Why? What did he gain from it?

  “Why do you want me to do it?” she asked.

  At the question, he relaxed and let go of her. “Good, asha. Hold on to that desire for the truth, and we may fix the world yet.”

  The okulu’tan yelled a command to one of the plain-faced bodyguards, then turned and spoke to Scrape in the strange Esharii language.

  She hadn’t said yes, but he seemed to know she would agree before she knew the answer herself.

  Scrape stiffened. He jumped to his feet and looked around, as if he could see beyond the walls of the wadi and through the darkness. In the distance, there was a faint yell. The okulu’tan hadn’t told Scrape about the Draegorans until now.

  “It is time. I must bond the two of you.”

  The okulu’tan spoke to Scrape once more, and the scar-faced tribesman came and took her hand, palm to palm, his rough hand dwarfing hers. It was an unexpected gesture. The Esharii didn’t seem the type to hold hands. The okulu’tan motioned them closer to the water and pushed their hands beneath the surface.

  Nola felt a slight tingle.

  Scrape drew the knife from his belt with his other hand and passed it to the okulu’tan.

  What is happening?

  Scrape squeezed her hand so hard she thought it would break. She tried to jerk her hand away, but it was like pulling against iron.

  The okulu’tan place
d the tip of the knife on the back of Scrape’s hand.

  “I am sorry for this pain,” the okulu’tan said and drove the narrow blade down through the back of Scrape’s hand. The point continued down, stabbing through skin and sliding between bones. Nola felt the skin on the back of her hand stretch, then pop as the blade pushed the final distance through both of their hands. Blood swirled in the water. Searing pain flared through her palm, and she screamed.

  The scream tapered off as the pain dulled to a throbbing agony. Nola sucked in her breath and whimpered. Sollus, it hurt. Then, beneath the agony, she felt something else. Rage. Humiliation. Anger at being bonded to an asha—a female child. Something worthless. Fit only for breeding when it grew older. Not Esharii. Not even the proper color. Pathetic.

  Nola gasped. Scrape’s feelings threatened to overwhelm her. He hadn’t been nice to her because he was a better person than the big Esharii. He’d only appeared to be nicer because she was beneath him—less than chattel. It wouldn’t make sense to be mean to her any more than it made sense to be mean to a cow or a goat that provided milk. Nola had never felt so worthless in her life. The revulsion made her look down in shame, but there was no retreating from it. It was inside her. She could feel it in her mind and in her heart—crushing her in pounding waves that washed over her body—and it was a hundred times worse than seeing it on his face.

  What have I agreed to? If all the Esharii will think so little of me . . . She couldn’t continue the thought. It was too terrible to contemplate. How will I survive among a people who think of me this way?

  Head down in shame, not wanting to live another moment, Nola grasped for anything that would give her the strength. That’s when she felt Scrape’s heart. It had a strong, steady beat. She drew on his strength, and it filled her. Her mind swelled. She no longer cared what he or any of the other Esharii thought. Her head snapped up. She wanted more. Scrape seemed to deflate in front of her. She was stronger than him.