Lies of Descent

by Troy Carrol Bucher

  Something else occurred to Riam—the man who’d released the wasps in the timber yard had worn the same charm. That’s where he’d seen it before. What exactly is the Church of Man, and what is Stick’s connection to it? The world felt like a big bag of puzzle pieces with none that fit together.

  Bortha caught up to him. “Come on. We haven’t much time. Someone else is looking for you.”

  * * *

  —

  Riam and Bortha hurried back to the inn. Serina lounged against the table in the kitchen gnawing on a rib she held between both hands. She wore a soft, white shirt that buttoned down the front and was too large for her small frame—a man’s shirt—yet it still clung to her body in a way that made Riam’s heart speed up. The bottoms of her breeches were unbuttoned from her calves to her knees. Grease and flakes of meat surrounded her lips, but this did nothing to detract from her beauty. If anything, it made her more attractive.

  Where did that come from? He’d never had those thoughts about Loral. Of course, Loral didn’t have breasts like Serina, and she’d certainly never shown them to him. Riam fanned himself with his good hand. It’d suddenly become very hot in the inn.

  Serina slid up onto the table and crossed her legs. Her toenails were a dark orange. Riam had never seen painted toenails before. They made her feet look nice. He wished he had shoes to hide his own dirt-stained feet.

  What is wrong with me? He had more important things to think about than how Serina looked.

  “Serina, can you go somewhere else to eat? I need to speak with Riam.”

  She lowered the rib from her mouth. “Why?” She licked grease from her finger.

  “Because, for one thing, I need to talk to the boy about something I don’t want you involved in, and two, because I’m afraid he won’t hear a thing I say while you’re here for him to gawk at.”

  Riam groaned. I’m not gawking.

  “Really?” Serina said. She turned her large brown eyes toward Riam and opened and closed them slowly while continuing to lick at her fingers. Her long, purple-tinged eyelashes floated up and down seductively.

  Riam felt his face flush.

  She laughed.

  Great. Now she’s laughing at me.

  “Serina, please.”

  “Fine, but I don’t see why I have to leave. I already know you’re helping the churp.” She jumped down, nimble as a cat, and padded out of the kitchen.

  “Let me see the charm,” Bortha said as soon as she left.

  “You think it belonged to Stick?”

  Bortha held it up before him. “I don’t think so. I think it’s a different one. See the sliver of yellow?”

  Riam nodded.

  “It seems larger than the one Stick wore.” He handed it back to Riam.

  “What’s it for?”

  “Members of the Church of Man wear it. It represents the eye of a Fallen.”

  “But I thought the Church of Man didn’t worship the Fallen?”

  “They don’t. The eye is supposed to represent that the Fallen serve us now, not the other way around, or some such.”

  “That doesn’t make sense,” Riam said.

  “When it comes to the Church, nothing makes sense.” The creak of a floorboard came from the hall beyond the kitchen. Bortha tilted his head. “Come on, we’ll talk while we take care of the stalls. I was serious about that, and Serina can’t listen in on us there.”

  When they left the inn, Bortha continued from where he’d been interrupted. “The Church would kill all the Draegorans if they could. Then we’d be on the wrong end of several thousand Esharii blades with an Arillian army right behind them, and neither of them would have to do a thing because the Covenant would tear itself apart before they arrived. They would just march in and sweep up the pieces. I’m no fan of the Draegorans, but I’m smart enough to know that we need them in the grand scheme of things.”

  Bortha handed Riam a shovel and moved the wheelbarrow in front of a stall. It didn’t take much time for them to clean the first stall and add fresh straw. Bortha did most of the work.

  “Listen, Riam. I didn’t bring you out here for a lesson on the Church. Helping you is becoming too dangerous. There’s a Draegoran looking for you. He came by the inn this morning. Described you pretty well and asked when ‘the boy who cleans the stables’ would return. I stayed out of sight and let my wife do the talking. She’s never seen you, so she couldn’t lie to him. I caught a glimpse when he left. I’ve never seen him before, so I don’t think he’s a district warden here in the city, but he was high-ranking. Any idea who he is?”

  Riam was clueless. Who would be looking for me? Maybe someone from the island, after they’d found out I’d gone missing from the boat. Was it the Wolf Sadal mentioned? He shook his head. “I’ve no idea.”

  “I think it’s about time you told me who you are.”

  Riam looked away, pretending to find a place for the shovel. “No one,” he said. He placed the shovel against the stall door.

  Bortha leaned back on his heels. His face tightened, giving it the same hard look as when he’d stared down Pekol.

  Riam swallowed and took a deep breath. Despite the warning from the cooks, he owed Bortha. The man had risked his own welfare to help. The least he could do was tell him the truth. “You were right. I have the blood—you guessed that already. The one who tested me turned out to be my uncle. The Esharii killed him.”

  It became easier once he started, and it felt good to let free everything he’d been holding back. He told Bortha about the outpost and the attack by the Esharii, about his trip down the river and being pushed off the boat, and about his rescue by the strange couple who’d drugged him.

  “The last thing I remember was them warming me by a fire and then I woke up in the cell with the glyph on my arm. After that, you know the rest. Pekol bought me out of the cell.”

  Bortha continued to stare at him, waiting for more.

  Riam swallowed. “Well, you probably know that Draegorans are linked to their swords and that they draw power from them. I somehow took control of one of my uncle’s swords—something no one’s supposed to be able to do. Ever since then, I’ve been able to do things, but it’s hard because I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m just sort of stumbling through, figuring things out, and it drains me when I try anything because I don’t have the sword.”

  “What kinds of things?”

  “Not much. I mean, I can see things differently, like the spirit inside people, and today I learned that I can make it so that everything slows down around me.”

  “And that’s everything?”

  “Well . . . I think I sort of caused an explosion when an okulu’tan attacked us with his magic. Oh, and I ran down two Esharii with my horse, but that wasn’t magic. Like I said, I’m still trying to figure it all out.”

  “And the sword?”

  “It went into the river with me. I can still feel it, sort of, but I’m not sure where it is exactly. It seems to have moved and gone farther away. I think there is a limit to how far away I can sense it, and it’s right near the edge.”

  Bortha raised his eyebrows questioningly.

  “That’s all of it. I’m not important—just another recruit for the regiments.” That was it. He’d told Bortha everything, even though he’d been told not to, but he had to trust someone.

  Bortha let out a short nervous laugh. “Most men never see an Esharii, and you’ve come face-to-face with them and survived. That alone makes you intriguing. Your abilities, however . . . those make you dangerous.”

  “I’m not dangerous. I can barely walk.”

  “For now, but I know one thing. Nobody likes the threat of someone stronger coming along behind them. I don’t know everything a Draegoran can do with his magic, but if you can do powerful things that no one else can at your age, I promise you, you’re a threat.
And you’re underestimating yourself. Anyone who can fight an okulu’tan with magic is someone to be feared.”

  “I don’t want to be feared. I want what my uncle wanted for me, to go to the island and to become a Draegoran and help people, but I’m not doing that until I know the truth about Stick.” He didn’t tell him he had another goal now. I couldn’t live with myself if I escaped and allowed another churp to take my place . . . and Pekol will get another if I’m gone.

  Bortha rubbed at his chin and pursed his lips for a time. “Then you have quite the problem,” he said finally, “and I’m afraid I can no longer help you if you won’t take my advice and leave.”

  Riam sighed. He didn’t even get angry. I should have known the man would betray me, like everyone else.

  Chapter 35

  “You have to leave,” Bortha said, “and never return.”

  They were back in the kitchen. Not a glass earlier, the smell of grease and herbs, the hint of lye used for cleaning, and the faint traces of Serina’s perfume that hung in the air had all been part of something special—something warm and caring. With a single phrase Bortha had severed his connection to the only place he felt safe.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I needed to know why the Draegoran was looking for you. Now I know. He’ll have no interest in the inn or me once you’re gone.” He took an apron off a peg and slipped it on.

  “But what about Stick? What about Pekol?”

  Bortha would not meet his eyes. He pulled utensils from a basin and shook off the excess water before hanging them in their places on a rack that dangled from the ceiling. He used more force than he needed to, and they banged and clattered as he hung them. “Stick is probably on his way to the Green Isles, and after I do the job with Pekol, we’ll be square again. That leaves only the Draegorans and you. I have no intention of putting my nose into that snake den, when all that needs to be done is for you to leave.”

  “But you said you would help.”

  “I am helping. Anyone else would have minded their own business or asked the Draegorans if there was a reward or, worse, let Pekol grind you to nothing in the first place.” He wiped a hand on his apron and pulled a small pouch from his pocket. He tossed it to Riam. “There’s thirty copper dregs inside. That’s enough to buy a horse and get you a long way away from Parthusal or to buy a berth on a ship headed for Arillia. I don’t want to know which you choose. Either way, you leave the city tonight and you don’t look back. Forget the island. Nothing good comes from getting involved with those demons. If I had a son on the island and a daughter working Maiden’s Fare, I’d rescue the son first.”

  Riam pushed his chest out, holding his ground and refusing to give in to Bortha’s suggestions. “I told you, I’m not going anywhere till I know Stick is safe, and I’m going to get rid of Pekol.”

  “Grow up, boy.” He threw a ladle down on the counter. It bounced off and along the floor. “Do you really think a twelve-year-old is going to stop that bastard?”

  “You could help,” Riam whispered.

  “Dammit, boy. I’ll deal with Pekol in my own time.”

  Riam could go straight to the island. Forget the sword, forget Pekol, forget everything, and become a Draegoran. The exact advice Gairen had given him. “Think of nothing else but becoming a Draegoran if you want to survive.” Perhaps it’s time I listen.

  Riam stretched the fingers of his left hand wide. Surely the damage could be fixed on the island. It might be the only place it could be fixed. The Draegorans there were far more powerful than a twelve-year-old boy who didn’t know what he was doing.

  And Bortha was wrong about the Draegorans. Not all of them were bad. He had a chance to become one and prove it. He wouldn’t waste it by running away and hiding, but he had to find out the truth about Stick and stop Pekol first. What sort of Draegoran would I be if I began my training by ignoring an evil that deserves to be stopped?

  The purse sat heavy in his good hand, the leather stiff and clean—a new pouch. Bortha had planned for this before coming to get him. He recognized the gift for what it was—the innkeeper’s way of easing his own guilt. He threw the purse onto the butcher-block table. It slid to a stop near the edge. “Keep it. You’re not responsible for me. I am.”

  Riam stomped out the door, trying to look more confident than he felt.

  He made it to the stable gate. He didn’t open it. Instead, he stopped in front of it. An iron latch held the wooden gate closed. Once he flipped it open, he was truly on his own. Maybe Bortha is right. Maybe I’ve been fooling myself, thinking I can stop Pekol. A pair of hay hooks and a pitchfork hung on the rough rock wall. There were empty pegs for the rake and shovel they’d left by the stalls. The hammered metal of the hooks cast long shadows down the wall. An idea formed—one that didn’t involve using the knife against Pekol. He already knew he couldn’t stab the man in cold blood. He raised his head and pulled the gate open. He knew what he had to do.

  “Wait,” Bortha called. “At least take this.” He came toward Riam holding a different purse out in front of him. It was oiled and stained from use.

  Riam shook his head no. He wouldn’t let the innkeeper buy him off.

  “It’s only a few dregs and the charm. If it was Stick’s, which I don’t think it was, he’d want you to have it. The money is for the work in the stables. You’ve earned it. Take it and buy new clothes. Whatever you decide, you can’t do it in those rags.”

  Riam wanted to walk away again, to walk out the gate without the money and never look back, but the innkeeper was right. He needed the money. He’d pay the man back one day. He reached out slowly, fighting his pride.

  “Don’t come back to the inn.” Bortha didn’t let go of the money until Riam nodded his agreement.

  He should have thanked Bortha—the man had done more for him than anyone else in the city, and he had a wife and an inn to worry about—but Riam couldn’t do it. He couldn’t get past the thought that the innkeeper had a duty to do more, that everyone around him had the duty to do more than walk blindly by those who suffered.

  He took the purse and strode out the gate without another word. He didn’t have much time until dark.

  * * *

  —

  “Out of my shop, beggar,” the narrow-faced tailor said.

  “I’m not a beggar,” Riam replied. He was lucky to find the tailor still open this close to sundown. The shop sat in an area that was far more expensive than he would have liked, but at least it was in a narrow alley and free from passersby. More importantly, it sat far enough from Pekol’s lanes that Riam wouldn’t be recognized. And it had one more advantage. Riam had asked around. The district wardens used the shop.

  The tailor leaned over the counter and looked at Riam’s stained trousers and bare feet. The blackened eyes likely didn’t help his appearance. “And I’m the high landowner of the city. Get out before I take a rod to you. I don’t help beggars or churps.”

  Riam kept the muscles of his face tight. He couldn’t let the man know the truth of his guess. He placed a silver dreg on the counter. It made a crisp clacking sound on the wood.

  The tailor rubbed at a thick mustache with a finger. “So you’re a thief, then,” he said, “and hiding the wardens’ brand under a sling. Money’s no good here if you’re marked.”

  “There’s not a glyph on my arm,” Riam said. He had no desire to show the man the stitches and cuts with no way to explain them without suspicion. He placed a second dreg on the counter . . . clack.

  The tailor glanced past Riam to the empty shop, as if the front door might open at any moment and reveal a trap.

  “I’m running away. My grandfather likes to hurt me. I need proper clothing—breeches, a tunic, and a pair of sandals.” Riam placed a third dreg on the counter. “That’s more than enough.”

  It surprised Riam how easy it was to mislead the man. Someh
ow lies were easier when they were half-truths.

  “No shoes here. You’ll have to go to a cobbler.”

  “I’m sure you’ve an apprentice who could get them. I don’t have a lot of time.” Riam pretended to look around nervously, as if scared. Under the circumstances, it wasn’t difficult.

  The tailor watched, expecting Riam to place another dreg on the counter.

  Riam kept his good hand at his side, two more dregs hidden in his palm. He wanted to appear desperate, but not too desperate. The amount of money on the counter was already a fortune for what he was asking.

  The tailor glanced at the dregs on the counter again. “I suppose I could measure your foot and have her find a pair, but they won’t be new.”

  “As long as they fit and everything’s ready tomorrow at this time.”

  “Tomorrow? Not possible. I’m far too busy to . . .”

  Riam pressed a fourth dreg on the counter.

  The tone of the tailor’s voice softened as soon as the coin appeared next to the others on the wood. “Well, I suppose I wouldn’t be showing the Fallen’s charity if I didn’t help a boy in danger.”

  Riam coughed into his hand. “There’s one more thing. I need them to be the grays the Draegorans buy for recruits.”

  * * *

  —

  “You have to do it, Jami. I’m the only chance you have to get out from under Pekol. Once he has it in for someone, he never lets them go—ever. He’ll wait years for his revenge if he has to,” Riam said.

  They stood in back of the bakery, in the shadows near a corner of the building where there were no windows, so they wouldn’t be overheard. The secluded spot smelled of wet flour and smoldering wood. A fine coat of ash packed the cracks between the cobblestones.

  Jami rubbed at his forehead. “It was only a charm.”

  “It’s not the charm he cares about. It’s control . . . and revenge against anyone who slights him. Look at Doby and Stick. He killed Doby because he lost control over him, and I’m afraid it might be too late for Stick. There are others he’s hurt. I’ve helped him clean up his handiwork.”