Lies of Descent

by Troy Carrol Bucher

  Perhaps the time was right to move against the Owls. The Stonebreakers would be easy once the last of the Owls were out of the way.

  Footsteps behind Kyden Verros pulled him from his thoughts. Roshan, the regiment’s arms-master, approached. He wore a sleeveless shirt and his arms were nearly black from the numerous glyphs that covered his biceps and forearms. He stopped a few paces short of the fountain and folded those arms over his chest, waiting to be acknowledged. Roshan’s discipline was unmatched. He would stand there and remain still until the island sank before interrupting his kyden’s thoughts.

  Verros didn’t make him wait. Not today. Today marked the beginning of a new age. “Take the boy to the infirmary. Heal his hand, but not completely. It wouldn’t be much of a lesson if he didn’t carry a reminder with him.”

  “So we’ll add him to our ranks?” The arms-master did not seem pleased with the idea of training the boy.

  “Oh, yes. I want as many of this year’s recruits as you can obtain. Trade in every favor we have with the other regiments. Barter for them. Pay them gold. Promise them anything. By next year it will not matter. All the regiments will serve the Wolves in one way or another by then.”

  “I will do as you command.”

  Verros held up the case. “You read the letter?”

  “Yes, my Kyden. When the taulin brought it in this morning.”

  “Do you believe Thalle’s son, about the boy taking his sword?”

  “Warden Gairen had no reason to lie. He didn’t know the letter would end up in our hands. He certainly didn’t expect to die.”

  “We need this boy, Roshan. His ability will make it far easier to subdue the Stonebreakers once the Owls are out of the way.”

  The arms-master frowned. “We’ll find him, but it may be only his remains we find. There’s no guarantee he made it to shore.”

  “Oh, he’s alive, Roshan. I know it.” Sollus would never tease me with such a gift to merely snatch it away again. Not when my plan to bring the known world under the Covenant is so close.

  “He could be anywhere, my Kyden.”

  “I don’t think so. Where would you go if you were selected to be a Draegoran and then were thrown from a barge by someone you hated? Someone you might want revenge against?”

  “I would be on my way to Parthusal and then here, but he should have arrived already.”

  “Perhaps Roshan . . . or perhaps he was delayed.”

  “Or the Owls have him already,” Roshan grumbled.

  Verros didn’t believe that. His spies couldn’t be so inept as to miss the boy’s arrival. “No. I have a hunch he is in the city somewhere. Send word to our district wardens—one of them may have already seen the boy without knowing it—and send a taulin to each of the other regiments’ districts to search. Tell them to examine every boy who is new to the city,” Kyden Verros said. “I want him found and on his way to the island yesterday. Keep a ship ready to sail from Parthusal within a glass upon his discovery. I don’t care about the cost or who you have to kill to make it happen. He’s that important.”

  “Yes, my Kyden.” The arms-master saluted and hurried away.

  Verros wanted to call him back, to add the order to move against the Owls—but not yet. It was too soon. Once he found this boy, Riam, however . . .

  Chapter 30

  “Where’s he at! I know you have him!” Pekol yelled.

  “He’s in no shape to work today.”

  The voices came from the kitchen.

  “Oh, he’ll work today. I’ll not have my churp lounging while I do his work. I’ll have the warden slice his throat before that happens.”

  “Listen, you dumb bastard, he can’t work. You’ve seen to that. What are you going to do, haul him around in your cart?”

  “It’s none of your business what I do with him, Bortha.”

  “First it was Nemon, then Stick and Doby, now this boy—what’s happened to you, Peke?”

  “You are full of screet shit—so high and mighty—ever since you married into the inn. I’m doing what I have to in order to survive. You’re no different.”

  “That was years ago. Things have changed.”

  “Maybe for you—not for me.”

  “I never hurt children.”

  “Children? They’re not children. They’re criminals.”

  “So were we. I can’t keep watching you mutilate them because you hate yourself and what you’ve become.”

  “So stop watching. Don’t forget that I can end this little illusion of yours in a glass. All I gotta do is tell the warden and you lose your wife, the inn—everything.”

  “You wouldn’t do that. We’d both be wearing glyphs again—or dead.”

  “Don’t be so sure about that. I’ve got a deal worked out with the district warden.”

  “You wouldn’t—”

  “We still owe each other, Bortha, but back off before I forget old times.”

  “I don’t owe you anything.”

  “You gonna hand him over, or do I have to come back with the warden?”

  “Two or three days. Give him the time to heal and I won’t say another word. He’ll be useless until then anyway.”

  “No.”

  Riam grabbed his shirt from where it hung on a peg. He couldn’t let Bortha get into trouble for helping him.

  “I’ll do it.”

  It was Stick’s voice. What is he doing? My beating will be for nothing if Pekol gets his hands on Stick.

  “No!” Bortha said. “You can’t.”

  “I’ve been doing it for five years. What are a few more days? Besides, I owe Riam, and he can’t touch me now that I’m free.”

  “Deal,” Pekol said.

  The answer came too quickly. Pekol wanted to hurt Stick badly, if not outright kill him. It would not end well.

  “Don’t do it, Stick,” Bortha said.

  Riam climbed to his feet. It was harder than he thought, and he had to rest a moment before moving toward the kitchen. By the time he pushed the door open, Stick and Pekol were gone. Bortha scrubbed furiously at a table that didn’t need cleaning, his face red. He didn’t even look at Riam.

  “You can’t let Stick do this. Something bad is going to happen.”

  Bortha lifted his head and stopped scrubbing. “Stick knows what he’s doing.”

  “You don’t understand. Pekol hates him and doesn’t want him to be free.”

  “I know.”

  “Then why’d you let him go?”

  “Because Pekol is right. I owe him. If he goes to the warden, I’ll lose everything.”

  “This is all my fault,” Riam said.

  “It’s not your fault, boy. Pekol and I have a long history that isn’t finished. If it wasn’t you, it’d be something else setting it off.”

  But it is my fault. Stick is in danger because of me, and there’s nothing I can do about it. Riam pounded on the wall with his fist.

  * * *

  —

  Two and a half years—he’d be lucky to survive two and a half months. It didn’t seem like finding a Draegoran was the answer when they all seemed to wear the wolf on their neck. He needed to get himself out of this.

  Riam sat on the bunk in the storage room, scratching at the lines on his arm. He’d been there for two frustrating days. The glyph had to be the key. He had to get it off, recover Gairen’s swords, and get to the island, and he had to get Stick out of the city before Pekol killed him. How am I going to do that when I can barely walk? He closed his eyes. The faint orange line was still there, leading off into the distance toward the sword. It wasn’t where he remembered it—perhaps it’d floated downstream—but it didn’t matter. What mattered was the link. The crystal in the pommel had healed him once, when he was desperate. Well . . . he was desperate now.

  He pulled at the or
ange line, willing the sword to feed him with the same healing energy it had before. Nothing happened. He pounded his fist against the wall again. I can’t sit here doing nothing.

  “Right,” he said out loud. “If the sword won’t help me, I’ll do it myself.”

  He held his arm up and closed his eyes. He took his time, studying the threads of energy that wove around and through his forearm. He had to unravel the knot where all the threads came together—that had to be the way to remove it—but it was so complex. He braced himself for the pain and pulled one by one at the threads, trying to understand how the glyph worked. With each tug, the nagging, dull pain that ran up his arm and into his chest increased.

  After a half-glass, he hadn’t accomplished anything. The knot sat as tight as when he’d begun. He stopped touching the threads and waited till the pain eased.

  Can I just tear it out? The thought made him break into a cold sweat. What other choice do I have? Slave away until Pekol kills me? There is no other choice.

  He took a deep breath and wrapped his thoughts around the whole knot, like grabbing the center of a spiderweb—only one made of steel. He could feel each of the threads that branched out tug at his body. He pictured the ends of those threads, sunk like fishhooks in the flesh and bones of his arm. The thought of them ripping out almost made him falter. He took several long breaths, trying to calm his racing heart. His mouth was dry. He licked his lips.

  On three, then. “One . . . two . . . three!” With the final word he tore at the knot with all his strength, willing it to rip free.

  Later, he would learn his scream was heard all the way at the market, four streets from the inn.

  Chapter 31

  “I believe she can hear us.” Piercing light jabbed at Ni’ola’s eyes and surrounded the washed-out form of the speaker hovering over her. Ni’ola heard other voices, but they were muffled, and she couldn’t make out the words.

  “Don’t try and move, asha’han. You used far more oya’sha than is safe for one without the tan’tari set in their bones.” The voice spoke in the thick Esharii tongue. “It’s like staring at the sun for too long. You should have healed yourself when you were done saving your pachna, but it will pass on its own.”

  Oya’sha. “Oya” is life and “sha” is the spirit—the spirit of life that resides in all living things. The meaning came unbidden to her thoughts, and she could not explain the source.

  Ni’ola’s tongue felt wrapped in a blanket. “Ky’lem lives?” she croaked.

  “His wounds are healed, to the extent he will survive, but he is weak. You must be careful not to draw from him until he has regained his strength.”

  Thank the Fallen. She’d known what to do to save him; knowing what to do and actually doing it, however, were two vastly different things. Taking the mergol’s spirit had been the easy part. Putting Ky’lem’s torn flesh back together had required a precise control that lay beyond her unpracticed abilities. There were moments when she was sure she was doing more harm than good, but eventually she’d stopped the worst of the bleeding and closed the wounds. He would add several ugly scars to those he already wore because of her inexperience.

  As for the stranger’s other words, she wasn’t about to try and move. Her body felt as if it’d been pummeled by the mergol, and her ears rang. Even her hair hurt. In her thoughts, however, she was herself again. Well, not herself exactly. She was no longer the girl who’d been captured on the plains. She’d seen too much—remembered too many fragments of future lives—to ever be Nola again. The power of the crystals had taken what little remained of her youth and scattered it like the memories. As a result, she would forever be Ni’ola. I can live with that. I made my choice.

  “Drink this.”

  Someone grabbed her shoulders and lifted her till she sat upright. A wooden cup was thrust into her hands. She fumbled at it with numb fingers and almost dropped it, but then the hands were there again, helping her until she held it on her own. She sniffed at the cup and wrinkled her nose. It smelled like a wet dog, just as she remembered.

  “The palic smells terrible, and tastes worse, but it will help your body recover.”

  “I remember what it tastes like. I’ve made the tincture since . . .” She paused in confusion. She was about to say since she was an asha’han, but that was not right. She’d never made it before. The odd memories that bubbled up felt so real when they came, but they couldn’t be real. I’m going as crazy as the old spirit-walker.

  She braced herself and took a sip. The mixture tasted worse than she remembered—what she could only imagine as horse piss fermented in the sun. It burned her lips and mouth. Even prepared for the bitter taste, she still choked and sprayed the foul liquid out in front of her. “Give me a moment,” she said through a mouthful of fire. She tried to hand the cup back to whomever had given it to her.

  “No. You must drink,” the voice said, mistaking her pause for refusal. The cup was pushed back toward her. “You are as weak as your pachna. There is a sickness that comes with using too much of your own oya’sha. The palic will save you from a slow and painful recovery.”

  The stranger knew everything. An okulu’tan, then. They must have found her, with Ky’lem injured and the dead mergols nearby. It would be obvious to them that she’d taken one of the beast’s oya’sha. Between that and the crystals in her hand, it wouldn’t be hard to paint a picture of last night’s events. The crystals! Where are my tan’tari?

  Ni’ola ignored the proffered cup and patted down her clothing. They were not there, but they were close. She could feel them nearby. Blindly, she ran her hands over the rocks in front of her. She jerked her hands back when she felt the stranger’s legs in front of her. Of course, the okulu’tan had taken them.

  “Drink. It is much better if we do not have to force you,” the voice said.

  Ni’ola recognized the voice from a fleeting memory, Li’sun, the leader of the village and a powerful okulu’tan, but still only a spirit-taker. She couldn’t see him, but she knew the frown that would be on his face. He wore it whenever he mulled over a problem or dilemma. He would wear that face many times during their lessons. I’ve had no lessons! Or have I? She was so confused. What is happening to me? Maybe she needed the palic more than she thought. She took the cup and brought it to her lips again, careful not to smell the acrid odor. She took another sip and made herself swallow.

  “Good. Keep drinking until it is gone.”

  The pain behind her eyes and ringing in her ears eased with each sip. It didn’t taste as bad by the third and fourth—her mouth becoming as numb as her fingers. That didn’t mean it tasted good. Best not to prolong it. She tilted her head back, swallowing the last of the palic in large gulps. She held the cup out in front of her when she was done. “Thank you, Li’sun.”

  There was a gasp behind her, and several voices spoke at once.

  “She knows you, Li’sun,” one said.

  “You were right. She has traveled the ways,” a deep voice behind her said.

  “Wait!” a new voice, young and nasal, shouted. “Just because the asha’han speaks our tongue and knows Li’sun’s name doesn’t mean anything. She likely heard it while pretending to be unconscious.”

  Ni’ola’s lip curled into a sneer at the sound of the voice. Jal’kun. She should have known he would be here. She was startled at the hatred that came with the memory of the young spirit-taker’s name.

  “I am Ni’ola, Jal’kun, and I know the sacred lake, as all okulu’tan know it,” she said in the Esharii tongue. “It sits beside us in the center of Esharii lands. It is chae’lon, of no tribe, and only the okulu’tan and their pachna may reside along its shores.” The memories came unbidden and she responded to them without thought, her voice growing stronger and louder. “It is where the okulu’tan come to share knowledge and sing the songs of the Fallen, of Parron and his war against Tomu, and of the final war tha
t will be. It is here the okulu’tan learn to use their gift and pay tribute to Sollus, and it is here that Li’sun will train me as Ri’jarra intended.”

  If there were shouts before, they were nothing compared to the response to her words. I should not push them so—I need them—but hearing Jal’kun’s voice set her on edge and filled her with anger.

  “She’s an abomination!” one shouted.

  “Ri’jarra was mad, bonding a pachna to an Arillian half-breed.”

  “If she has traveled the ways, it is too late. She must be tested.”

  “Look at her eyes. It is obvious she has traveled the ways.”

  Ni’ola swiveled her head back and forth slowly, letting them look at her eyes even though she could not see them. The okulu’tan respect courage. She was fairly certain they wouldn’t kill her. In a blink the confidence melted away. What am I doing?

  As if sensing her fear, Jal’kun spoke out, his voice louder than the others, “This is Draegoran magic—one of their tricks to spy on us. We must kill her before they learn anything more of the lake.”

  It is Jal’kun who fears me. He will never be strong enough to lead, and he knows it, yet he still tries to command.

  “Yes! Kill her,” another okulu’tan agreed. “Her presence defiles Parron’s resting place.”

  Ni’ola’s vision had improved, and she could make out the rough shape of Li’sun kneeling in front of her and a few of the others behind him. They wore robes of bright colors that came down to their calves. Several of the okulu’tan waved their hands frantically with their words in heated debate. Some looked angry, others curious, and too many agreed with the nasal-voiced okulu’tan.

  “Silence!” Li’sun yelled.

  Jal’kun ignored him. He held up something long and silver—a knife. “I will do it myself.” He stepped forward.