Lies of Descent

by Troy Carrol Bucher

  At a farmhouse he tore a section of cloth from a shirt on a clothesline to bind the cut from Pekol’s knife and used the rest to make a new sling. No one saw him take it, but he was no thief, despite what the glyph on his arm had indicated. He left a few dregs for the owner to find and threw the old sling in a ditch. It didn’t take long before blood seeped through the new one, but there was little he could do about it.

  The wound was a small price to pay to rid the world of Pekol. He had no regrets—the raker deserved his fate—but his actions weighed heavily on his thoughts.

  No matter Stick’s fate at the hands of Warden Hearst, at least his fellow churp had been avenged. Although it didn’t solve anything, it brought some measure of justice and completeness to the loss. If Riam ever visited the Green Isles, he’d find Stick’s mother and tell her the fate of her son and that Stick had planned to return home to make amends.

  He used a different gate to enter the city. The guards were curious about his injury, but they waved him through after he paid the fee and told them he’d come to the city to find a mediker. From there, he made his way to the bakery. If he were smart, he’d go straight to the island by way of the tailor. If it wasn’t for the money from Pekol, he would have, but he owed Master Silva for the olives, and he couldn’t leave the debt unpaid.

  He came up the alley to the back door of Master Silva’s shop. The soot-stained tiles made him pause. He’d almost killed Jami here. That had never been his intention, but the power, when it came, fueled his desire to fight. No, fight wasn’t the right word. The power wanted him to kill. It’d been the same on Maiden’s Fare with Pekol and at the pit when he’d held the hook in his hand. At first, he’d thought it was simply his anger, but the more he thought about it, the more he knew that there was something more going on. That scared him. Was this desire what made the Wolves so dangerous? He remembered the timber yard, when he’d wanted to touch the blade to the dead body. He swore the events were connected, but once again, all the answers were on the island.

  “Riam! You’re alive,” Jami said through a window. He disappeared, and a moment later the back door to the shop banged open. “I thought sure you were a goner and that Peke would return alone.”

  “Pekol won’t be coming back,” Riam said.

  “It’s done, then?” Master Silva said from the doorway.

  Riam nodded. “I can’t stay long, but I didn’t want to leave without paying for the olives. I know there was nothing wrong with them.” Riam dug through Pekol’s purse. “Twenty dregs for the olives, that’s what you said. I’m sorry I couldn’t bring the barrel back.”

  “For Fallen’s sake, don’t worry about the money or the barrel. Doby was a good boy, despite what he’d done to earn his sentence. So was Stick. Having a glyph on your arm isn’t meant to be a death sentence. Supposed to do your time, learn your lesson, and move on. People like Pekol have twisted it all around.”

  “No, take it,” Riam said, shoving the money into Master Silva’s hand. “I won’t be needing it. I don’t mean to be rude, but I need to be going. I don’t want to put you in any danger.”

  Master Silva took hold of Riam’s wrist. “That’s fresh blood on your sling. You don’t need to be going anywhere until someone’s had a look at it.”

  “Pekol cut me pretty good, but I can’t stay. The district warden is looking for me, and maybe a few other Draegorans along with him. If any of them find you helping me . . . well, I don’t know what will happen, but it won’t be good.”

  “I know about that. A Draegoran came by after you left for the pit asking questions. It wasn’t Warden Hearst, and I didn’t recognize him, but he was high-ranking. I’m guessing there’s more going on than the fight between you and Pekol.”

  “I have to go. He might return.”

  “Bah. I’ve already answered his questions. He won’t be coming back, but we’ll keep you here behind the shop to be safe.” He turned to Jami. “Go and fetch a mediker. The old one Bortha uses. He knows how to keep his mouth shut.” He passed Jami a few of the coins Riam had given him. “Pay whatever he requires to hurry and keep quiet about it.”

  Jami dashed off down the alley.

  “Sit down on the bench. I’m going to lock the front door.”

  Riam didn’t want to explain the old injuries or how he’d removed the glyph. Jami and Master Silva were kind people. The less they knew, the better it would be for them. He looked in Pekol’s purse. A good thirty dregs remained inside. He pulled out five more and placed them on the bench—more than enough for wasting the mediker’s time.

  He wished he could stay and say good-bye. It was ironic that of all the people he’d encountered since being tested, Pekol had been the only person he’d actually said those words to.

  Riam used Grantor’s Street to leave the bakery. Despite the risk, it provided the quickest way to the tailor’s shop. He needn’t have worried. This late in the afternoon, the streets were filled, and it was easy to scurry along the edge of the crowd. With the rags he wore, people went out of their way to avoid him.

  A shopkeeper sweeping the steps to his store recognized Riam. He looked at his chamber pot and frowned. “Where’s Peke?” he asked.

  “He’ll be late today. He had to make an extra run to the pit because of the baker down the street.” Riam waved back the way he’d come and kept moving before the man could ask more questions.

  True to their bargain, the tailor had Riam’s clothes and sandals ready.

  “Draegorans see you in these and you’re sure to get their attention.”

  “I’m counting on it,” Riam said.

  “Thought you said you was running away.”

  “I am, but you have to run somewhere to leave another place behind.”

  “Hope you know what you’re doing.”

  “Me, too.” Riam dug into the purse and handed the man an extra dreg. “Thank you for the clothes. Where’s the closest mediker and a place to get a meal and a bath?”

  * * *

  —

  After a bowl of stewed meat and scrubbing himself twice in a tub, Riam felt whole again. It was amazing the difference a few bites of food and a bath could make. He smiled halfheartedly at that. Gairen had used almost the exact same words after the fight with the wasps. He’d been right. The bath washed away the smell and filth of Pekol and of being a churp.

  Instead, he smelled like marigold and sage from the ointment the mediker sold him. The woman had sewn his arm up without a word about his injuries once Riam paid her enough for her service and for the salve she said to use twice a day for a tenday. All Riam had to do now was figure out how to get on a boat to the island without the Wolves finding him.

  “Late, aren’t ya?” the young woman who took the empty bowl from his table said. She was pale with freckles and a slightly upturned nose, and her hair was haphazardly tied back. Thin, stray locks stuck out in all directions.

  “Excuse me?” Riam said.

  “I asked if you were late. The tests were done more’n two months ago.”

  “I’m from Nesh. It took a while to get here.”

  She snorted. “I’ll say.”

  “I got lost.”

  “You travel all that way by yourself?” She seemed impressed.

  “Not all the way, but I was for the hardest part.”

  “Well, I’m sure they’ll still take you once you get to the pier.”

  Riam sat up straight. “The pier?”

  “The one reserved for the Draegorans. You can’t miss it. It’s the big stone one with an iron gate and Draegorans milling about.” She winked at him.

  Is it that simple? After everything that’s happened, all I have to do is show up at a pier?

  “Thank you.” Riam jumped up from the table and dug an extra dreg from his purse.

  “What’s this for?” she asked.

  Riam shrugged
. “Taking the time to talk to me.”

  She tucked it away. “Wish everyone gave me extra.”

  Riam paused at the door. “Ummm . . .” He held his hands up, pointing questioningly down the street both ways.

  She laughed. “Keep to this street all the way to the end, then turn left on the coast road. You won’t miss it.”

  “Thanks.”

  It was farther than he thought it would be, but he enjoyed the walk. He hadn’t seen much of Parthusal, and now that he was free, it seemed as if he were seeing the city for the first time. He passed rows of houses, some small and packed close together and others large with high walls and gates. There were fountains and statues, and gardens, bakeries, and open markets. Colorful awnings shaded the entrances to shops, and the smells changed with every step, from grilled meats to exotic perfumes. Even the crowd felt different—no longer oppressive and uncaring. People smiled at him or called to him to look at trinkets and goods. City guards took notice of his gray clothing and nodded in respect.

  All in all, his newfound freedom gave him a sense of wonder and awe he hadn’t felt before. The city really was a magnificent place, and that was without catching a glimpse of the keep or the Temple of Sollus he’d heard about from the other churps. He chuckled at the memory of going into town with his grandfather. It had always been something special. Now, it would be like going back to the pit. Well, maybe not that bad. Home didn’t quite smell like the pit, and he wouldn’t mind seeing Magistrate Ferrick again.

  A hand grabbed his arm roughly. “Well, if it isn’t our missing recruit. I’ve been looking for you.”

  Hearst’s voice nearly made Riam wet himself. He yelled out and tried to tear free, but Hearst squeezed his arm hard enough to make Riam stand up on his tiptoes.

  “None of that, boy.” Hearst jerked Riam forward, maintaining his hold and walking Riam down the street like a puppet. “I’m not going to hurt you unless you make me.” He looked at Riam’s clothing, noticing the grays for the first time. “It seems you were already headed to the island. Well, I’m here to help you along.”

  How did Hearst find me so quickly? In a city this large, it couldn’t have been dumb luck.

  “You’re a surprising young man,” Hearst said. “I thought you’d be long gone from the city once I found Pekol at the bottom of the pit, but I double-checked the inn to be sure. Bortha had to be persuaded to let me read his thoughts.

  “That was an impressive piece of work you did on Pekol, by the way. He was a ruthless little bastard, but he had his uses. Maybe I’ll have Bortha take his place. That’ll set a nice example for the rest of the district.”

  Riam didn’t respond. He wasn’t sure if Hearst really meant the last part about Bortha or if the man meant to break his spirit. Hearst seemed a lot like Pekol in this regard—ready to do things for spite if he knew they would hurt.

  They came to the coast road. Docks stretched out from the land’s end like fingers. The smell of fish hung in the damp air, and gulls squawked from perches atop roofs and beams. Hearst turned them to the right.

  “The pier is the other way,” Riam said.

  “Too many eyes from the other regiments there.”

  Whatever the Wolves wanted with him, it wouldn’t be good. He searched for a means to escape but saw nothing that would help. Not a soul on the road would interfere with a Draegoran escorting a child in gray. He had Bortha’s knife, but he held little faith that it and whatever power he could summon would do him any good against the strength of a full Draegoran. He was caught, and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.

  The crowd parted ahead of them, and Riam’s mouth fell open. There in the middle of the street stood Master Iwynd. A small leather pack sat beside him. The people around the Draegoran gave him a wide berth, forming an empty pocket on the busy road. Hearst yanked Riam to a stop.

  Riam sagged with relief. They hadn’t parted on the best of terms, but Master Iwynd was a still a welcome sight.

  “You’re going in the wrong direction, Hearst. The recruits go by way of the pier.”

  “I have my orders,” Hearst said.

  “As do I,” Iwynd said. He drew the same longknife Riam had seen him carry back at the outpost.

  Traffic halted, with the people around them backing away to give them more space. By the wide eyes of the crowd, a fight between Draegorans was not something they were used to seeing.

  Hearst licked his lips. “The boy—”

  Master Iwynd leaped forward. Hearst let go of Riam’s arm and attempted to draw his sword. It didn’t clear the scabbard before Master Iwynd buried his longknife in the warden’s chest.

  Master Iwynd grabbed a fistful of Hearst’s clothes and pulled him close. “Just so you know, the boy is Jonim’s son.”

  Hearst’s eyes widened. He snarled and shook.

  Iwynd twisted the knife and shoved it harder against Hearst’s chest before letting go.

  Hearst’s legs gave out, and he slid off the blade to the ground.

  A woman screamed and dropped the package she carried.

  Master Iwynd scanned the crowd. As if he’d issued a command, people went back about their business.

  Hearst’s body withered and darkened.

  Master Iwynd tsked his tongue and shook his head. “Always draw your weapon when your opponent does, especially when you know he’s faster than you.”

  Riam swallowed. “Yes, sir.”

  “Get his sword. We don’t have much time. He’s not the only one looking for you. The district is crawling with Wolves.” He retrieved his pack and threw it over a shoulder.

  Riam looked for something to wrap around the blade to keep from touching it, like Gairen had done back in the timber yard. Seeing nothing, he pulled his sleeve down over his hand and reached for the sword.

  “You don’t need to do that. It’s safe. Once a Draegoran dies, the crystal goes dormant.”

  Riam still avoided touching it and used his sleeve to slide the blade back down in its scabbard. He unbuckled the belt and tugged it from beneath Hearst’s body. He ignored the stares of the people who passed by. “Why are you here?” Riam asked.

  “You’d rather I was back in Hath?”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “I know, but there will be time for conversation later. I told Hearst the truth. I have orders from your grandfather, and we’ve a ship to catch.”

  His grandfather? What is Master Iwynd talking about? The man is dead.

  Chapter 40

  Ky’lem’s head lay in Ni’ola’s lap. The rings from his beard filled a bowl by his side, and Ni’ola combed through the rough, wavy hair with her fingers, applying mint-scented oil. There was an unusual fondness to the gesture, like a mother caring for an injured child, yet it was he who was the elder, not her.

  In his old life, Ky’lem had experienced a similar scene every sundown—lying in a longhut much larger than this one with his wives and daughters unwinding the rings from his beard and oiling the hair before sleep. Ni’ola’s hands felt both similar and different. In her touch was the innocence of his oldest daughter, Mi’lae, the strength of his firstwife, Tsi’shan, and the awe and wonder of his youngest daughter, Chy, who was not yet old enough to take her mother’s surname.

  What bizarre dream have I entered? He’d certainly never expected an outcome such as this when he joined the warband to go north over the mountains. He’d expected to gain stature in the tribe—maybe another wife. But this was no dream, and his wives were no longer his to claim. He was a pachna now, serving a spirit-walker unlike any who’d touched the sacred lake before her.

  Ky’lem reached up and grasped Ni’ola’s wrist, as if to confirm this reality. He rubbed his thumb over the scar that ran the length of her forearm—proof of her abilities. He felt the roughness of the scar compared to the rest of her dark skin and the hard lump from the
crystal that allowed her to use the magic.

  “Li’sun says you will not die, as long as I keep you strong until your spirit has recovered,” she said in a hoarse voice. Dark circles hung beneath her eyes. She’d held him, cradled in her arms, for more than a day and a night—only leaving to relieve herself or retrieve food, and even for those necessities, she’d balked at being gone from his side.

  Her red pupils brightened, and a surge of warmth passed through his body. She was in nearly as bad a shape as he was, but she was determined to keep giving him her strength.

  “Enough. Leave me be.” He knew how tired she was, and he didn’t want her to drain what little strength she’d regained. He sat up, and Ni’ola used the opportunity to check the moss-caked wound from Jal’kun’s knife. He pushed her hand away. “I’ve been stabbed many times, some worse than this, and survived.” It wasn’t true. An injury such as this would have meant a long, painful death if she hadn’t repaired the damage to his insides.

  The warmth faded, and her hands moved to the back of his shoulders, examining the older wounds, the ones left by the mergols.

  “They remain clean and cool to the touch. There is no swelling below the surface,” she said.

  Mergols were filthy animals, and their talons carried the rot with them. Even with the wounds closed by magic, they needed watching. “More scars to match the ones on my face,” he said, pointing to his cheek and torn ear.

  “I like the scars. They make you look fearsome.” Ni’ola massaged at the knots in his muscles. “A servant once told me that scars are there to remind us who we are and what we’ve been through, and you have been through much.”

  “They only remind me that I’m getting too old and slow to get out of the way of things that wish me dead.”

  She pushed his head to the side playfully. “Too old and slow? What other warrior carries the skins of three Draegorans from a single raid?”