Lies of Descent

by Troy Carrol Bucher

  Pai’le grunted but did not object. She felt him staring at her as he worked, but she would not give him the satisfaction of looking back or acknowledging his words.

  Let him continue to puzzle over me. She withdrew the crystals and tumbled them absently in her hand, one over the other. One day, I will show him that I am beneath no one.

  Blood from the thorn prick welled on her thumb and smeared across her forefinger. Each turn of the crystals brought them closer. Focused on Pai’le, she didn’t notice them grow warmer in her hand. Blood smeared the inside of her middle finger. Soon after, it trickled to her palm—blood and crystal met.

  A deafening pop reverberated in Nola’s ears, and she gasped. The pressure was gone, replaced by a rush of fire that slammed into the very core of her being. It coursed through her chest and lungs, running down her legs until she felt its burn from the hair on her head to the tips of her toes. The muscles of her body contracted, and she arched backward to the ground, arms pulled in with her hands locked into fists above her. Her jaw clenched so tightly she thought her teeth would break. Her legs remained bent, as they had been when she’d sat down, so that she now lay frozen on her back, limbs seized in the air above her, like an upside-down beetle. The vines and trees above her flickered with mesmerizing speed between the world she knew and one of radiant light.

  She could not move, could not speak, could not draw breath—so strong were the energies that filled her—and she could not call to Ky’lem. The bond with him remained, but the power swept it to the farthest edge of her awareness. She fought against the onrush, trying to reach him, mentally screaming for help. It was as useless as trying to swim upstream in the great river. She could not feel anything beyond the flow of energy that threatened to drown her.

  The crystals in her fist shone with power, like a full moon on a cloudless night—power left by the okulu’tan for her and her alone. It wanted her, and to her amazement, she wanted it. Hesitantly, instead of fighting it, she opened herself to the crystals. Energy came pouring into her in a torrential flood, warm and soothing, as if the initial shock and pain had been from her resistance alone.

  The crystals had wanted this all along—to be connected to her, to be a part of her, to be used. It felt magnificent. She swallowed it in until she thought she would explode into a million pieces, and still she wanted more. All the fear she’d felt since leaving her home was replaced with the glorious strength of the energy that suffused her. If she could have moved, she would have danced with joy.

  She pulled at the energy, trying to get more of it inside her. The world dimmed. The sound of trees cracking and falling reached her. Around her the tall grass withered and died. Her hunger for more killed every living thing around her. A gust of wind swept over her, whipping at the dead grass before moving off in a whirlwind over the river.

  Stop, asha. You will kill us both!

  She didn’t care if the power washed her away or burned her from the world as it had the old okulu’tan. It felt magnificent. She pulled in more.

  Ky’lem appeared beside her, and his left hand locked around her wrist. He pried at her fingers, trying to get at the crystals.

  No! These are mine! She shoved the energy toward him. It roared through the bond.

  Ky’lem staggered backward, holding his head.

  You must let go! He moved toward her once more.

  No! Her mental scream buffeted him, but he kept on moving.

  She would not allow him to come between her and the power that bathed her. Nola pushed more energy into her second shove. It was easier this time—like learning to exhale in a different way. Ky’lem flew backward through the air. He landed awkwardly on one shoulder among the reeds of the bank and tumbled into the river.

  He would not stop her. She pulled more of the energy into herself. It was all she ever needed. It’s his fault if he’s hurt. I told him no.

  A thick tree limb struck her hand. She heard the crack of bones and was vaguely aware of the pain, but it was like recalling a faint memory with little meaning. The power knitted the bones back together. Her fist remained locked around the crystals.

  Pai’le raised the limb for another blow.

  I will show him that I am more than a simple asha. Not holding back, she threw twice the energy at the big warrior as she’d done with Ky’lem. Energy crackled around her, but to her disbelief, nothing happened. The energy puffed out like a cloud and dissipated between them. She would not stop Pai’le’s next swing.

  Time stretched. The limb swung toward her at a snail’s pace. Pai’le hadn’t aimed the blow at her hand this time, but at her head. She tried to move but could not.

  She willed herself out of the way—anywhere to escape the blow. She groped at the energy, pushing and pulling without knowing what to do.

  She tore frantically at the air in desperation, tearing holes in the fabric of the world around her. Light blinded her from beyond the damage. Picking a tear at random, she dove into the blinding light, leaving her body just before the tree limb struck her temple.

  Chapter 23

  Riam’s arm itched, although “itched” did not describe the sensation very well. The feeling was more of a tingle that no amount of rubbing or scratching would satisfy. Standing in the center of a crowded city street, he rubbed the glyph on his forearm for the hundredth time, even though it was a useless gesture. He’d rubbed at it all morning, and all he’d succeeded in doing was making the skin red and irritated. The swirling black lines that wrapped around his forearm meant nothing to him, and the mere fact that a glyph marked his arm made no sense at all. By Gairen’s words, it had to have been placed there by a Draegoran, but when, and why for that matter, had it been done? There hadn’t been a Draegoran on the barge, and the last thing he remembered was the warmth of a campfire and the odd couple wrapping him in a blanket. Everything since then, right up until this morning, was a contorted blur of lights and sounds that made his head hurt. He was in Parthusal, he knew that much—to either side of him, two- and three-story buildings lined the street as far as he could see—but that knowledge didn’t clear up any of his confusion. It only made it worse.

  “Get that mess, boy,” Pekol told him, the man’s deep, hoarse voice a mismatch to his thin, wiry frame. His small size, however, did nothing to make the command less fearsome. Although small for an adult, there was an air of dispassionate viciousness to his calm orders. It reminded Riam of his grandfather’s quiet voice. The dangerous one he used when he’d gone beyond rage.

  Mistaking Riam’s lack of response for confusion, Pekol pointed a callused hand toward a small pile of refuse pushed against the wall on the far side of the cobblestone street. “A good churp doesn’t wait for his raker to point things out for him.”

  Riam had been with Pekol for most of the morning, cleaning the city streets and dumping chamber pots down holes that were spaced irregularly along the narrow lanes. He’d thought of running away, but fear and confusion kept him from bolting—for now anyway. He was biding his time, looking for the right moment and sorting things out.

  He didn’t know the city, and the endless crowds of people and stone buildings terrified him nearly as much as Pekol. Even now, as he stood lost in thought, people flowed around him, as if he were no more than a stone in the road or a post that had been there forever. Nobody paid attention to him unless he bumped into them. Even then, they only moved around him or told him to mind his way. He had the feeling that if he collapsed on the street, he’d starve to death long before anyone would help, and that included Pekol.

  He’d only been in the sprawling madness for a single morning, but already he felt more alone than he’d ever been. Even after Gairen killed his grandfather and dragged him from his home, he hadn’t felt like this. The feeling was almost as bad as losing his uncle, and the worst part about it all was Loral’s betrayal.

  He balled his hands into fists. What a fool she’d mad
e of him, pretending to like him, making him think she cared. He tried to tell himself it didn’t matter, but deep down, in the marrow of his bones, it hurt. With Nola, there’d been no choice, he’d been stuck with her, but Loral was different. They’d gone through the Esharii attack together, and she’d been there for him when Gairen died.

  And then there was Tannon. He didn’t know if Tannon was involved with this mix-up, but Riam would make him pay for throwing the swords into the river . . . and for taking Loral away from him.

  “Stop woolgathering and get moving.” Pekol cuffed the side of Riam’s head with the back of his hand. “I want to be done with my lanes ’fore dark.”

  Riam worked his way through the crowd, rubbing the side of his head and doing his best to stay out of people’s way. Behind him, Pekol grunted as he lifted the arms of the cart. The metal-shod wheels creaked and bumped over the stones, following him toward the refuse.

  When Pekol made it across the street, Riam loaded the rubbish—mostly rotten food and a torn, greasy blanket that smelled like a dead screet left in the sun. Riam coughed and would have vomited from the smell if there’d been anything in his stomach. Instead he dry-heaved painfully. His eyes watered. Flies buzzed around him. He swatted one away that landed on his lip and threatened to crawl into his mouth. Sweat ran down his back where he knelt, doubled over against a rough wall trying to catch his breath.

  “Horrid stuff, but you’ll get used to it.”

  Riam tilted his head enough to glare at the man.

  Pekol let out a cackle that turned into a cough. “People are vile, boy, and rich or poor, their throwings stink the same. Get that stuff in the cart and be done with it.”

  Riam lifted the blanket gingerly and animal shit fell out, landing on his foot. At least, he hoped it came from an animal. He kicked it away into the street with disgust.

  “Going to have to pick that up. District warden sees we left it and it won’t go well for either of us, and I can guarantee you’ll get twice the thumping I do.”

  If I see this district warden and explain things, you’ll be the only one getting thumped!

  Despite his brave thoughts, Riam did as told and used a corner of the blanket to pick up the feces and carry it at arm’s length to the nearest piss hole on the street.

  “Good boy,” Pekol said with satisfaction. “We’re going to do fine. Not like Doby. Kept trying to run away. Had to keep him chained to the cart. Then he plain gave up and refused to work. Finally, had to have a warden spike him. You do as I say, though, and you’ll make it through your punishment—they only gave you two years.”

  Riam spun around at the words. “Two years? Punishment?”

  “That’s what the glyph on your arm says. Two years for stealing. Been a raker long enough to know how to read the symbols. Once your time is up, it’ll come off and you’re free to do as you like.”

  Riam stood up straight. “Steal? I didn’t steal anything!”

  Pekol cackled again. The sound was as disturbing as his voice—a grating, painful sound that hurt the listener as much as it hurt the little man. Riam imagined something tearing loose inside Pekol’s throat whenever he heard it. The cackle faded to its usual sickly cough.

  “You all say that at first,” Pekol said when the coughing subsided, “but there’s no use denying it. Only a Draegoran can put that mark on your arm, and they don’t do it without reading your thoughts. You’re lucky I needed a new churp today. You’d have ended up rowing a boat or laying stone, or worse, if I’d left you in the cage.”

  Looking at Pekol, Riam didn’t think anything could be worse. How did I end up here for stealing? Tannon couldn’t have arranged all this from the barge. Although his memories were missing, he knew he hadn’t stolen anything—he’d never taken anything that didn’t belong to him in his entire life. He concentrated, trying to remember more. He caught a sliver of a memory, the old woman rubbing his thigh. The image made him shiver and didn’t help. There was simply nothing there to explain waking up at sunrise, half delirious and starving, in a cell full of dirty faces.

  When he’d regained enough of his wits to focus on the world around him at dawn, a threadbare shirt and a worn-out pair of breeches had replaced his gray clothing. The first boy he’d spoken to, one older than him with a broken, jagged tooth, had knocked him to the ground and split his lip.

  “Your food is mine, understand?” the boy told him.

  The others in the cage were even less friendly, so Riam crawled to a corner and kept to himself until Pekol arrived with a pock-faced man holding a ring of keys. Both men stood at the door to the cell until everyone lined up facing them.

  Pekol had walked down the row, looking them up and down, and paused when he’d come to Riam. Even though Pekol’s scraggly haired face and protruding underbite reminded Riam of an angry dog, at the time, he’d seemed like Sollus himself come down to save him.

  “What happened to your lip?” Pekol had asked.

  Riam had glanced toward the large boy who’d hit him. He wasn’t stupid. “I fell,” he said, loud enough for all to hear.

  That was the first time he’d heard the cackle. “He’ll do,” Pekol told the pock-faced man after regaining his breath.

  He’d been with Pekol cleaning filth off the streets the remainder of the morning.

  “The cart’s nearly full. We’ll finish Grantor’s Street and head to the Raker’s Square before going to the pit.”

  “Peke!” a soot-stained boy no older than Riam called. “Got a barrel of ash in back of the shop. I’ll give you a fresh loaf of bread if you’ll get it, so I don’t have to drag it around to the street.”

  “Your master will take a switch to you if he knows you’re giving away bread to save you on your chores.”

  “He won’t find out. He’s at the market and won’t be back for at least a glass.”

  “Sorry, Jami, load’s almost full. You’ll have to wait till tomorrow.” There was satisfaction in Pekol’s voice. He enjoyed telling the boy no.

  “Aw, come on, Peke. Supposed to have it out before you came. I’ll get switched for sure if it’s still here when he gets back.”

  Pekol rubbed at the motley stubble of his chin, making the boy wait, and then smiled good-naturedly.

  Jami’s shoulders sagged in relief.

  “No,” Pekol said. “I’ll not do it.”

  “Come on,” Jami pleaded, his whole body jerking with a small tantrum. “Two loaves, then—the ones with olives baked inside and a cup of cider.” He glanced down the street nervously. His voice went up an octave. “It has to be gone before Master Silva gets back.”

  Pekol made a show of looking at the cart, as if weighing whether or not he had room. “Don’t think—”

  “Please!” There was real fear behind the boy’s desperation.

  Riam watched Pekol through the exchange. This wasn’t playful banter. The spark in Pekol’s eyes hadn’t been there before. He enjoyed making Jami squirm.

  “Please, Peke,” Jami begged.

  “All right.” Pekol leaned forward, his underbite pushing the jagged row of bottom teeth out in front of his top lip. “But you’ll owe me a favor when I need one.”

  “Thanks, Peke.”

  “Say it.”

  “Say what?”

  “Say that you’ll owe me a favor.” He said the words slowly, savoring them.

  Jami licked his lips. He glanced down the street again.

  Pekol folded his arms and stood firm. He knew he had the boy right where he wanted him.

  There was a long, silent moment. Jami clearly didn’t like the idea of owing Pekol anything. Riam didn’t blame him.

  “Right. You’re on your own.” Pekol lifted the handles on the cart.

  “Fine. Fine. I’ll owe you a favor.”

  The front of the cart came back down with a thump. “No complaints and n
o questions.”

  “No complaints, but you have to hurry.”

  “Make some room,” he told Riam. “We’ll load the barrel and bring it back empty.”

  The three of them struggled with the heavy barrel, but they managed to get it into the cart without spilling too much ash. Pekol made Riam use his hands to collect up what spilled on the street. When they were done, Pekol withdrew a wooden-handled knife from his belt. He used it to cut one of the loaves Jami brought in half. He kept the larger half for himself, along with the other full loaf and the cider, and gave Riam the smaller end.

  Riam devoured it so fast he didn’t taste it. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was. His stomach growled at him, wanting more. How long has it been since I ate? That was another problem with running away—no food and no money. Finding this district warden seemed like the best way to straighten things out.

  “Thought you could use that,” Pekol said after finishing off the cider.

  “Thank you,” Riam said.

  “Save your thanks. You can’t work if you’re too weak to move, but understand this, I’ll beat you as soon as feed you if it means getting my streets done faster. Best you keep that in mind.” He grabbed the handles again. “Get behind and push. It’ll be heavy with the ash loaded. We’ll go straight to the square and then to the pit. Have to make two runs today.”

  Raker’s Square turned out to be a large, open lot surrounded by crumbling half-walls that were a patchwork of brick and mortar from repairs over the years. Entire sections were missing or lying in heaps. Tall weeds grew among the scattered bricks. Inside, the square was anything but abandoned. Carts, some two-wheeled like Pekol’s, and some four, the size of small wagons, were arranged haphazardly wherever there was an open spot. Smoke rose from several small fires where pots and kettles hung over open flames. Men and women gathered around the pots, and the sounds of their conversations filled the air.

  “Anything worth trading?” a dark-skinned man wearing a robe asked Pekol. Of all the people in the square, the man stood out like a maston in a garden. Besides his dark skin and long robe, he was clean and walked as if he owned everything in sight.