Lies of Descent

by Troy Carrol Bucher

  Ky’lem was up and in front of her in an instant, although how he managed it was a miracle. His knees trembled, and he appeared ready to collapse at the merest breeze, but he was there, shielding her with his fragile body. He did not hold his sword—thank the Fallen— for to do so here would have meant death.

  Ky’lem, no. He will not attempt to hurt me . . . yet. Jal’kun might be the one behind the attacks against them, but she could not be certain. There were many who looked as angry as the young okulu’tan. Either way, he would not attack her without Li’sun’s permission.

  “This discussion is not for your pachna,” Li’sun said. “He will leave us now.”

  “Not while that one has the knife, I won’t.” Ky’lem pointed toward Jal’kun.

  I told you. He will not harm me. “Go. Leave us!” she commanded Ky’lem.

  Surprise and a trace of defiance came back to her along the bond and beneath that pain. Not from the wounds, but from her words. She’d hurt him with her sharp rebuke.

  If they truly want me dead, you could not stop them. Your remaining will only serve against us in their eyes. They must believe I control my pachna. It will add weight to their decision. They were not exactly words that went across the bonds—closer to feelings—but he would understand them.

  You will never control me! Ky’lem thought sharply. His response surprised her.

  Ky’lem was as intolerant as the okulu’tan around her, even after their time bonded together. Taking a deep breath, she formed her thoughts and feelings carefully. We will never be as other okulu’tan and their pachnas, Ky’lem. I do not seek to command you, but I ask that you leave. It will make our position stronger.

  Grumbling to himself, he nodded.

  “You may go, Ky’lem,” she said loud enough for all to hear. “He will need assistance,” she told Li’sun.

  She cringed at the response that came from Ky’lem. There was no guarantee the okulu’tan would not kill them both, and if she must sacrifice Ky’lem’s pride to prevent their deaths, so be it. She could pay for her words later.

  “Of course.” Li’sun’s eyes glazed over for an instant.

  Two plain-faced warriors arrived in moments and took Ky’lem by the arms. He tried to shake their hands away at first, but he couldn’t have gone ten steps without their support. She felt his shame at needing their assistance. Men . . . too proud for their own good.

  You fought two mergols, Draegorans, and a living corpse to get us here, Ky’lem. Wear your injuries with honor. None will doubt your strength.

  Nothing came back to her along the bond, but he relaxed. Hopefully, it would temper his anger for the way she’d spoken, although she doubted it.

  The okulu’tan milled angrily while they waited for the warriors to be gone, but as soon as the warriors were out of earshot, they began arguing among themselves once more.

  Li’sun let them go for a time, giving them a chance to expend some of their anger. “Enough!” Li’sun called. “I would like to hear her story. The ga’ginga that attacks before it knows what it hunts dies young.” He turned on Jal’kun. “You will put the knife away. If you cannot control yourself, I will send you away with the pachna.”

  Jal’kun’s upper lip curled back as if he would defy Li’sun. Ni’ola smiled innocently at him. His fingers whitened on the handle, but he jammed it back into the sheath at his side and held up his palms. “Let the half-breed have her say before she dies. It will change nothing.” His words were colder than the mountains. The man would attack her at the first opportunity that presented itself, even if they let her live. She must always be ready.

  Li’sun glared at Jal’kun a moment before returning his attention to Ni’ola. “Like all spirit-walkers who’ve traveled the ways, Ri’jarra was unpredictable, and he lived a very solitary life. When he last spoke to us, he said he must go over the mountains. He said nothing about an asha’han or his death.” He sat down, crossing his legs in front of her. “Tell us everything that has happened, beginning with how you came to be with Ri’jarra. Spare no detail.”

  It was hard to separate the Nola parts of her life from the influence of Ni’ola and the fragments of the futures she remembered. Her life prior to being captured was so trivial and distant, seemingly unimportant. She had no desire to speak of it, but she had no choice. Li’sun must know all, including the memories of her other lives. She took a deep breath. “I was called Nola, and I come from Nesh—the area you call Hansha’tal north of the mountains. My father was a landowner and a trader. My mother was the daughter of an Arillian merchant . . .”

  Ni’ola told them of her journey, of being tested by the Draegoran and her days with Riam. She didn’t like thinking about her time with Riam—she’d acted nervous and foolish—so she skipped that part and told them about the Draegoran killing the Esharii warriors under the moon’s light and of being captured. She hated to speak of the attack. At the time, she’d wanted the Draegoran to kill them, but now it made her sad for the loss of the tribesmen. She told the truth of her feelings, though, and several of the okulu’tan gave her angry stares.

  From there, she told them everything about her time with Ky’lem and Pai’le, and she told them of the final night with Ri’jarra, when he called her to the pool. They had her repeat the words the old spirit-walker had spoken to her before bonding her to Ky’lem. She did not tell them about the final orders to Ky’lem or the creature in the cave. No good would come from telling them about the first, and they would not believe one of their own had already attacked her and Ky’lem—not once, but twice.

  When she talked of Pai’le hitting her and the light she’d escaped into, they asked her many questions. She remembered little from the dreams. She knew there had been hundreds—maybe even thousands—but she could not remember any one in particular. What memories she had came in random thoughts that seemed unrelated to the dreams, such as the knowledge of how to take the mergol’s oya’sha and how to heal Ky’lem.

  “She is lying!” Jal’kun shouted when she finished. He leaped to his feet, the knife back in his hand.

  “She speaks the truth,” Li’sun said. “I sense no deception in her words, although she hasn’t told us everything.”

  “I agree,” another okulu’tan said. His face bore the wrinkles of many years. “She has walked the ways and seen the paths of all life. We cannot kill her and waste Parron’s gift, especially when Ri’jarra named her his ent’lai.” There were several nods of agreement.

  Ent’lai—successor or follower. Ni’ola wanted to laugh. One lesson did not make for much of a successor.

  “. . . but she is also an asha’han and a foreigner. To train her is forbidden by the edicts,” the elderly okulu’tan added. There were far more who agreed with this last sentiment.

  “I agree. An asha’han cannot be trained,” one yelled.

  “There is no place for her here!”

  With the last, the arguments among them broke out again.

  “There is only one solution,” Li’sun said. He looked around deliberately at the other okulu’tan, waiting for them to quiet and listen. “The edicts are clear. She cannot be trained to become an okulu’tan, but they do not say an asha’han may not be an okulu’tan. She will be tested. Tonight. With no training. If it is Sollus’s will, she will become one of us. If it is not his desire, her oya’sha will feed Parron’s return.”

  Jal’kun pointed his knife threateningly at Li’sun. “You are twisting Eisha’s words and defiling the edicts.”

  Li’sun looked pointedly at the knife. “You push too far, Jal’kun. Are you challenging me?” His eyebrows lifted with the question. “Will any second that challenge?” He turned slowly, staring the others down. None moved or said a word.

  He returned his gaze to Jal’kun. “Why do you fear this asha’han, Jal’kun? Is there something you are not telling us?” He took a step forward. Ni’ola could feel the power
building in Li’sun. “You mistake my open mind and trust in Sollus for weakness.”

  Sweat beaded on Jal’kun’s forehead, but he made no move toward Li’sun, nor did he attempt to draw any power to himself.

  The wrinkled okulu’tan moved between the two. “Many here agree with Jal’kun, Li’sun. Even I desire to spill the asha’han’s blood into the lake, but Ri’jarra saw much that he did not tell us. If it is Sollus’s will that this asha’han replace him, so be it. I will follow Parron’s decision if she is tested and survives. Who are we to quibble over what the edicts mean?”

  There were nods of assent around the group, but here and there Ni’ola saw those who bit their tongues despite the disagreement plain on their faces. Those she would need to mark and watch.

  “I still say she is a spy.” Jal’kun looked to the others for support, but none spoke up. “You are all weak old men!” he yelled in frustration. With an undulating cry the young okulu’tan pulled the knife back behind his ear, preparing to throw.

  “Jal’kun, no!” Li’sun yelled.

  Ni’ola tried to back away, but firm hands continued to hold her shoulders, preventing her from moving.

  Jal’kun’s hand snapped forward and the blade streaked through the air, burying itself in the ground between Ni’ola’s legs with a loud thunk.

  “Soon,” the young okulu’tan said. He stalked away.

  “Jal’kun is young, and his blood is hot,” Li’sun said, as if this were the only explanation needed.

  “What will happen to me at this test?” Ni’ola asked, staring at the blade still protruding from the ground between her thighs. None of the memories she could recall told her anything about the test.

  “You will know Parron and fight for the privilege of your life and the honor of serving him,” the wrinkled okulu’tan answered. “Many spend years training for this day and still fail, but if this is truly what Sollus desires, you will survive somehow.” The old one followed the words with a crazed, toothless grin that did little to ease Nola’s concerns over her fate with the spirit-takers.

  The city of Mirl was breathtaking, with narrow spires that reached up to the heavens from a myriad of multicolored temples. Truly beloved by the gods, the city stood as the jewel of Draegora and its spires defied the laws of nature.

  When the dark ones returned and the gods fell, the fragile towers could no longer stand without the power of their deities. In the dark hours of the morning, thousands perished when the city collapsed into ruin.

  Only one tower remained. Built by man, it was a weak imitation of the others’ greatness, but on that day, it became a symbol of man’s ascension and a symbol of his true freedom.

  —The Prescripts of the Church of Man

  Chapter 32

  Riam was back at the outpost. Around him, buildings burned, and in every direction Harol’s regulars died. The Esharii outnumbered them, and their heavy Arillian blades cut the men down like defenseless children. With no resistance, they fell by the dozens—faces smashed, heads split, and bodies ripped open. Waves of blood soaked the soil. Harol died last. He stared at Riam with an idiot’s grin while a sword severed his head from his shoulders. The head rolled along the ground, and when it came to rest in the dirt at Riam’s feet, it held his grandfather’s face.

  The Esharii turned on Riam, forming a circle of painted faces around him that provided no path to safety. A fearsome tribesman with a scarred, unpainted face and part of his ear missing stepped forward, leaving a gap in the ring of tribesmen. He raised his sword. The flames of the burning buildings reflected off the blade, making it appear to glow with a light of its own. It was Riam’s turn to die. By his feet, his grandfather’s head laughed.

  The unpainted Esharii held the blade high, prepared to strike, but waiting.

  A woman stepped through the gap in the circle.

  “Nola?” Riam said, recognizing her in the aged face of the woman.

  “Kill him,” she told the plain-faced Esharii.

  The blade came down.

  Riam threw his arm up to shield himself, useless though it would be against the two-handed sword. The blade smashed into his forearm, cutting through tendon and bone. Blood washed over his face—

  He woke from the nightmare, sopping wet. Serina stood above him, wearing only a short silk robe and holding an empty pitcher in her hand. “You were thrashing and yelling. It disturbed my client.”

  Riam sputtered water from his mouth and wiped his eyes clear.

  “Let me see your arm.” She bent over him and a breast slipped partially free from the confines of her robe, the circle around the nipple pink against the smooth, white skin. She looked down at it and then back at Riam, but she didn’t bother to cover it up.

  He turned his face away.

  “Oh, what’s the matter, you don’t like it?” She pulled the robe open, exposing the other breast.

  Riam’s face flushed with heat. He did his best not to look, but with her leaning over him, it was impossible not see her exposed chest. He didn’t think to close his eyes.

  Serina giggled.

  “Please,” Riam croaked.

  “Serina, leave the boy alone,” Bortha said, coming into the room.

  “What? I was only taking his mind off the injuries. It seems to have worked.” She winked at Riam. “It’s not like I would touch him. He’s too young for that.”

  “Why don’t you get him food? I’m sure he’s hungry after sleeping so long.”

  “Get it yourself. I’m not one of your empty-headed serving girls, and I have a client waiting for me to return.”

  “Serina . . .”

  “Fine.” She stood up tall and pulled the robe closed with feigned regalness.

  Riam watched the way her hips moved as she strode away. He was breathing harder than when he woke from the nightmare.

  “That woman has a wicked sense of humor, but her voice is as pure as honey when she sings. Brings a crowd every night—well, her voice and the chance to sleep with her.” There was a wistful hint to his voice. “My wife hates her.” He turned back to Riam. “How’s the arm doing?”

  Riam held it out and found it wrapped in bandages from shoulder to wrist. Blood seeped through, and his hand was swollen and discolored. He opened and closed his fingers. There was no pain. In fact, he didn’t feel anything. He touched the back of his bruised wrist. It was like touching someone else. He felt nothing.

  “What happened?” Riam said.

  “I was about to ask you the same question. I found you unconscious and bleeding from more than a dozen wounds.”

  Riam closed his eyes and used his strange inner sight to examine the arm. He couldn’t see or feel anything with his mind either. The arm didn’t exist. “It’s gone!” he exclaimed.

  “The glyph? Yes, it’s gone. Your arm was sliced up pretty bad—used up all the gut I owned and had to buy more to finish stitching you up. At first, when I saw the blood, I thought you’d tried to cut it out. Saw a man try that once, but Draegorans aren’t fools. It killed him before it was half done.”

  “I didn’t cut it out.”

  “I know—which explains why you’re still alive. I locked the door when I went to the market and there wasn’t a knife in the room. I heard the screams all the way from there, by the way. Wouldn’t be surprised if everyone in this section of the city heard them. Mind telling me what happened? For the life of me, I can’t figure how you did it.”

  Riam remembered the warning from the cooks. He clamped his mouth shut.

  “That’s all I get for saving you and stitching you up, a closed mouth?”

  Bortha was right. Riam owed him more. He chose his words carefully. “Thank you for all you’ve done, but I’m not sure myself.” It wasn’t much, but it wasn’t a complete lie. He really didn’t know what he’d done exactly, and although he trusted Bortha, he wasn’t sure it
was safe to tell him more.

  “That’s not much to guess on, but I suppose we all have secrets. Well, no matter how you did it, you’ll have to leave the city. Pekol sees your arm like that and he’ll drag you straight to the district warden. The Draegorans will rip out your memories to find the answer, right before they kill you. A secret like that is dangerous, and not only from them. I know more than a few men who’d pull out your fingernails to learn how you removed the glyph.”

  “What about Stick?”

  “He can slip away a few days after you’re gone. There’s no law holding him here.”

  “I’m not leaving unless he leaves with me,” Riam said.

  “Don’t be stupid. Best thing to do is to get you away from Pekol. Without the glyph, there’s nothing to stop you from leaving, and there’s no need to give Pekol an excuse to have you tortured and killed.”

  “Like the guard.”

  Bortha squinted and cocked his head. “The guard?”

  “The guard at the gate—the one who caught Pekol smuggling years ago. He was killed by a Draegoran.”

  “What’s that have to do with Pekol?”

  “He gave Pekol a hard time at the gate, and I heard Pekol say it was about time ‘somebody took care of him.’ Before Pekol beat me, we picked up his body. He’d been drained by a Draegoran.”

  “You’re sure it was him?”

  Riam pictured the dried corpse on the street and the pouch of torgana leaves on the ground. “It was him.”

  Bortha pinched at his mustache. “That doesn’t prove he had anything to do with it, and even if he did, it doesn’t change things, except to make it more urgent for you to get out of the city. You have to leave, preferably tonight.”

  Riam wasn’t going to run. He’d had a lot of time to think about what he was going to do before removing the glyph. Despite everything that had happened, he still wanted to be like his uncle Gairen. It wasn’t to get revenge. It was to do what was right for others who couldn’t do right for themselves. That was what he’d truly learned from his uncle.