Lies of Descent

by Troy Carrol Bucher

  A guilty look crossed Jami’s face, and he didn’t argue that Stick might still be alive. He knew something—maybe it wasn’t about Stick, but it was something that worried him. If he had anything to do with Stick’s disappearance, Riam would never forgive him.

  “But if you fail, he’ll make you talk, and he’ll know I was in on it.”

  “If I fail, I’ll go into the pit, and he won’t know a thing.”

  “He’ll suspect something. He emptied the barrel two days ago.”

  “It’s just a barrel. Nothing unusual about that. Besides, he’ll be too tired to think of anything by the time we arrive at the shop. You don’t even have to see him. All you have to do is make sure it’s full and out front when we come by—”

  “But there’s hardly anything in it!”

  “—and it has to be full of something he can’t sell. I need it to be heavy so that he’s worn out from hauling it around all day.”

  Jami raised his hands in the air in protest. “What am I going to put in it?”

  “You’ll figure it out. You’d better, if you want to be free of Pekol.”

  Riam felt a little guilty. Pekol might actually let the incident go, but there was no way to tell for sure. He decided to push Jami a little further. “And don’t forget about Master Silva.”

  “What?”

  “Pekol might forgive you for the charm, but he won’t forgive him for facing him down. What will you do if Pekol goes after him?”

  Jami let out a wailing groan. “This is all my fault. If I’d done my chores like I was supposed to, I never would have owed Pekol a favor. I never would have helped him with—” His eyes opened wide, and he clamped his mouth shut.

  He’d been about to say Stick. Riam knew it. He grabbed Jami by the shoulders. “Helped him with what?”

  “You were injured . . . he needed help with . . . a body.”

  Riam closed his eyes.

  “I think he wanted me to see it—to scare me.”

  The muscles in Riam’s jaw tensed. Anger welled up inside him, speeding his heart.

  “It was like he was showing it off— Ow! You’re hurting me.” He tried to shake off Riam’s hand.

  Riam squeezed tighter and brought his face in close to Jami’s. “Yet you still took the charm and helped him dispose of the body.” The fire inside him grew, the same as it had with Pekol on the street. This time, Gairen’s voice didn’t stop him. He shook the small apprentice hard enough to rattle his teeth. “What is wrong with everyone in this city? No one cares about anyone.” He let go with his good hand and grabbed the knife from the sling.

  Jami squirmed to get away.

  Riam held him in a firm grip with his numb hand. The familiar orange glow manifested itself inside Riam’s vision, outlining Jami’s body and exposing the flow of life within the apprentice.

  “You helped get rid of Stick, someone you knew. You’re as guilty as Pekol.” Riam brought the knife up. He couldn’t think of anything except making Jami pay for what he’d done.

  “Stick?” Jami said from behind his hands. “It wasn’t Stick. It was a woman!”

  “What?” The anger melted away. What am I doing? He dropped the knife and it clattered to the stones. He let go of Jami.

  The apprentice collapsed to the ground, tears running down his cheeks. “I didn’t do nothing wrong. All I did was help him remove the body of a woman to pay off my debt. It’s part of what rakers do,” he sobbed. “It was just some woman.”

  “Then where’d the charm come from?”

  “I don’t know. It was in the cart when he came to get me. He laughed when I asked for it and said I could have it.”

  Riam’s stomach heaved. He didn’t know how far he would have gone if Jami hadn’t spoken up. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled.

  “It was terrible, Riam. Her face caved in and her teeth broken. Who would do such a thing?”

  Riam knew exactly who. He picked up the knife. Nothing would stop him tomorrow.

  * * *

  —

  It began raining a glass after dark—a downpour that flooded the cobblestone streets. Riam huddled under an eave near the cart. It did little good. No matter which way he turned, the wind splattered rain in his face. The alley turned into a river.

  The rain continued to pound him as the deluge grew, bringing the water’s edge closer. Soon he would be sleeping in it.

  “This is stupid,” he said to himself. There has to be a better place to wait out the rain. The awning across the street called to him. The shopkeeper would never know.

  He limped his way out of the alley and across the empty street. Crates lined the wall beneath the awning. He found a narrow gap and slid between two. There was enough space behind them to turn sideways and squeeze into a sitting position with his shoulder against the wall. It was cramped, but at least it was out of sight and out of the rain. He leaned his head against the wood and shivered.

  Sometime later, the splatter of footsteps woke him. The rain still fell, echoing off the roof of the porch. He pulled his legs in tighter. While no one had ever said a word to him sleeping in the cart or walking back from the inn, he didn’t want to be caught lying in front of a store like a beggar.

  The footsteps stopped short of the alley. He peered from behind the crates. In the dim light that filtered from upstairs windows he could make out a figure at the mouth of the alley. It wasn’t Pekol. Riam knew the hunch of his shoulders like the back of his hand after so many days following him down the streets. It wasn’t Bortha either.

  Something long and narrow caught the light. Is it the Draegoran from the inn? He pulled his legs in closer.

  The man disappeared into the darkness of the alley. Whoever it was, they were definitely looking for him. There’s no other reason for anyone to go down the alley in a storm at this time of night.

  Riam pressed himself in tighter behind the crates. He still had the knife with him, but it would be of little use. He slid it out of the sling anyway. He’d wrapped the leather thong from the charm around the metal handle, and his grip on the knife was so tight that the charm bit into his hand.

  The sound of footsteps splashing came again. They stopped directly in front of the porch where he hid.

  Riam didn’t risk another look. His mind screamed at him to run, even though it made no sense. If he crawled out, he’d be caught. He closed his eyes, straining to listen. Nothing—only the rain drumming on the wood above him and the splatter of it hitting the street. What is the Draegoran doing?

  He felt something push at the edge of his awareness—similar to the okulu’tan but softer. This time, he didn’t fight back. Instead, he pressed himself harder against the wood, willing himself to be unseen. He thought of the water on the street, flowing around objects in its path. Let it go around me like the rainwater. He tightened the muscles of his body, as if he could squeeze himself smaller. I am a raindrop the air moves around but does not penetrate. He felt the Draegoran’s power wash past him, searching and probing.

  The muscles around his eyes hurt from closing them so tight. Time slowed. Each raindrop on the roof above pounded like a drum. The pressure around him grew stronger. He held his breath, afraid that if he didn’t, he would be discovered. His muscles burned.

  The probing ceased, and the splash of footsteps returned and then faded. Riam waited until he couldn’t hear the Draegoran’s steps anymore. Then he waited a bit longer for good measure. At last he relaxed and sagged against the crates, panting and trembling. The rain tapered off.

  One more day and he would be gone. It would all be over, one way or another.

  Chapter 36

  “Kyden Verros?”

  Verros opened his eyes. No trace of morning light penetrated the window. Which meant very good news . . . or very bad. He sat up and rubbed at the corners of his eyes with his knuckles. “Well, out with it, Roshan.
What has you plodding into my room in the middle of Faen’s darkness?”

  A flare of light followed a metallic rasp, and the glow of a lantern chased long shadows up Roshan’s face. “You said to inform you the instant we found the boy.”

  Verros twisted left and right, loosening his muscles in his morning ritual. His knees and back hurt with the pain of age whenever he woke, but it would fade once up and moving. Pushing himself to his feet, he grabbed a wide belt off the back of a chair and wrapped it around his waist. Once secure, he slipped his knife out from behind his pillow. He brushed his fingers softly over the crystal in the pommel. The slightest trickle of heat flowed up his arm and into his chest. He shivered. While there were many things the power could be used for—such as warming his body against the chill morning air—reversing the consequences of aging was regrettably not one of them.

  Sensing nothing out of the ordinary across the web of his regiment, he stuffed the knife into his belt and yanked his robe from Roshan’s outstretched hand. “We have him, then? Where? Out with it.” He pulled the robe over his head. Sometimes, he hated the way Roshan waited for him to ask questions before speaking. The man could bat an arrow out of the air with a sword, but somehow that speed didn’t transfer to speech.

  “Not yet. A message came from the city. Warden Hearst thinks he’s found the boy among the churps. Says he’ll gain possession of the boy soon and know for sure.”

  “Among the churps? How, by the Fallen, could that have happened?”

  Roshan shrugged.

  “Well, it doesn’t matter what trouble the boy’s gotten himself into—” Verros froze with the robe half buttoned. Hearst wasn’t the type of man you assigned to a delicate mission. He ran the Red District for a reason. He was an enforcer, and good at it. Few broke the law or failed to pay taxes after they saw his work. “He knows I want the boy whole, doesn’t he?”

  “He knows, but it is Hearst.”

  Verros turned on him. “Roshan . . .” he said in annoyance.

  Where others wilted under his temper, the big arms-master stood like a rock. “He knows better than to defy you, but if he figures out who the child is, there’ll be blood. There’s no way he’ll be gentle with Jonim’s whelp. Not after what happened on the ship. It’s been ten years, but Hearst will never forget the death of every member of his taulin.”

  “He’ll join them at the bottom of the ocean if he damages the boy permanently.” Verros shoved the last wooden toggle through its hole on the robe. Am I the only one who understands the significance of what the boy can do? While many of his predecessors had been just as determined, none had held the vision to see what must be done—to plan out steps years in advance. And now Sollus had given him the final tool he needed to take control of everything, to return the Covenant to its former strength, and to put all those dirt-grubbing landowners back in their place—not only those rebelling in Mirlond, but all of them.

  “There is something else. Another piece of news.”

  Again Roshan made him wait until asked. The man was exasperating. “And what news is that?”

  “Master Iwynd disappeared from the outpost at Hath more than a tenday ago. Our man says he doesn’t know where he went, but he packed all of his belongings, including that stupid arrow he keeps. Wherever he’s going, he doesn’t plan on returning.”

  “The council appoints that position. Iwynd may be the Owl’s arms-master, but they’ll take offense at him abandoning his duties—not that those idiots will do anything about it.”

  “He could be in the city already, or he could be steads away, searching along the river. There’s a lot of ground between here and Hath,” Roshan said.

  Verros didn’t doubt for an instant that Iwynd was already in Parthusal. “He’s here, and that means Thalle plans on training new recruits again, or at least one new recruit. Which means he knows the boy is Jonim’s son even without the letter we intercepted.” I won’t let Thalle have him. If the boy entered the Owl’s training grounds, it would take an all-out assault to pry him loose. He wasn’t ready for an open war. At least not yet—not until he had complete control of the council and the other kydens. If Thalle knows what the boy can do, he’ll risk everything to stop me from getting my hands on him. How can I use this against him? There has to be an angle.

  “Should I send the taulin waiting with the ship to reinforce Hearst? If Iwynd is in the city, I doubt it will take him long to find the boy. Hearst won’t stand a chance alone against Iwynd . . .” Roshan thumbed his sword. “. . . or I could take more men into the city myself.”

  Verros knew where Roshan was going. “Not a chance.”

  Roshan stiffened. “If you don’t think I can—”

  “Oh, stuff your pride. It’s not a question of if you can kill him. I need you here in case it becomes necessary to move against the Owls, not traipsing around the city trying to prove you are the deadliest man alive with a sword.”

  “It’s not my pride I’m worried about. It is our men. I’m not keen on losing a single Wolf to the Owls—even if it is Hearst.”

  To someone who didn’t know Roshan, the arms-master would have appeared as undisturbed and centered as always, but Verros knew the man like he knew himself. There was a slight lift to his chin when was angry, and he blinked more. Roshan’s eyes were fluttering like he walked in a sandstorm. He boiled beneath that calm facade at being held back and at the thought of losing Hearst needlessly. Verros didn’t want to lose Hearst either, but Hearst’s death would serve them well.

  “Calm yourself. I don’t like the thought of losing a senior warden, but Hearst is on his own. If he returns with the boy, then no harm done and we have what we want. If Iwynd is in the city and kills Hearst, then we have our reason to move against Thalle. No one will believe the Owl’s arms-master is acting without his kyden’s orders . . . and if he kills Hearst, then I’m more than justified in taking my grievance to the sand of the arena.

  “But I was wrong about one thing. You will go to the city. Take a half-troop and don’t let a ship depart unless you have personally searched it. Capture the boy. Iwynd, too, if he kills Hearst. We need the boy, and if Iwynd doesn’t return, his kyden, as his first line commander, will have to answer for his crime. But for Fallen’s sake, don’t kill him. If the death glyph appears next to his name on the rolls, the council may decide that justice has already been served.

  “Instead, he must simply disappear. Once we have the boy and I’ve eliminated Thalle in the arena, then you can do whatever you want with Iwynd.”

  Kyden Verros rolled his shoulders and stretched to the side. Removing Thalle and Iwynd would all but eliminate the Owls as a threat, and I’ll be that much closer to turning my attention on the Stonebreakers. The thought made his back hurt a little less. The idea that he might lose in the arena never occurred to him. Sollus was on his side.

  Eisha Ryn was an immense warrior with an iron will and the strength of a maston. When Parron sent him to gather men for the final battle, he traveled the north, subduing the wild tribes one after another, defeating each of the chiefs in single combat.

  When the last tribe bent to his command, he gathered them all and hammered them into a single force that helped tip the balance in Parron’s favor.

  After the battle, when the land was scorched and sown with all the hatred Tomu possessed until it could sustain no living thing, Eisha Ryn led the remainder of his tribesmen across the ocean with the rest of the survivors of Draegora.

  For his part in the battle, he’d been entrusted to carry the most precious treasure of the Draegoran people, but when the survivors landed, Eisha turned his ships south and was never seen again.

  Though no one remembers the treasure, the Draegorans have never forgiven Eisha’s people.

  —Kyden Deedre’s Study of the Tribes

  Chapter 37

  Strapped on her back to a pair of crossed logs, her arms s
tretched out from her sides, Ni’ola floated on the Najalii. Water-soaked ropes dug into her wrists and ankles, but they kept her from sliding off the cross beneath her and into the depths below. Blood trickled down her forearms where they’d drilled into the bone to place the tan’tari. The crystals must touch the marrow, where the blood is produced, for the strongest joining to the spirit. The thought came from a distant memory, and when she tried to recall more, its origin scattered like a wisp of smoke.

  The crystals would not help her predicament either. The okulu’tan had drained every bit of power they possessed before embedding them beneath her skin, and to her distress, they’d left the incisions open. The only thing that might help was the lake below. She felt a vast concentration of power within the water. With it, she could close the wounds in an instant, but whenever she tried to draw that strength into her tan’tari, she could not penetrate the surface of the water. She’d tried to reach it a dozen times before giving up. She simply didn’t have enough strength to break through the barrier. Is this the test? If so, I’ve already failed.

  Above her, a swath of bright stars went from horizon to horizon across a cloudless sky. There was no moon. This was Faen’s night, and not even a sliver of Sollus would make an appearance in the sky. Beneath her, the lake hummed with a power she could feel but could not reach. The sound of the okulu’tan chanting in a deep, slow rhythm came from the bank. If not for the pain of being tied to logs and having her arms sliced open like a gutted fish, it would’ve been peaceful.

  Ni’ola’s mind, however, was anything but peaceful. She’d known her body had changed, but she hadn’t known how drastically until viewing her reflection at the village. She looked to be about eighteen, if not older, and her face had thinned so much that she looked more like her mother than the girl she’d been only days ago.