King Callie: Callie's Saga, Book One

by B Lynch

  Porthan stood there, breathing heavily; from the way that he stared at the fallen child, Kells wagered that he was stunned by what had happened. He looked to the side, towards Kells and the Chief, with confusion. “Help your sister!” Kells shouted. Porthan obeyed, and ran towards Ibhaen and the other girl, who were grappling in the far corner of the kalwa. The taller girl had the upper hand over Ibhaen, with height and reach, but she was thrown off balance once Porthan jumped on her back. Her grip on Ibhaen loosened - enough for Kells’ daughter to strike the girl in the stomach, right below the ribs. The girl doubled over in pain; Ibhaen kicked her legs out from under her, and sent her to the ground with a thud. Porthan grunted, but did not let go. His grip only tightened.

  The other Erimeni girl struggled to get up, but Porthan had braced his arms around her neck, making it difficult for her to breathe. Kells turned to the chief. “Stop this, before she’s hurt,” Kells said. “Porthan doesn’t know what he’s doing. He won’t know when to let go.”

  The chief stood up, and raised his voice. “Stop!” he yelled, in Erimeni. But Porthan and Ibhaen didn’t know it. Kells stepped over the ropes, and into the kalwa itself. He was at once concerned and delighted; his children had far exceeded his expectations. But if Porthan didn’t stop the chokehold, the girl would die - and that would be on his conscience for a long time.

  “Stop! Porthan, let go of her!” he shouted to them. Porthan stiffened by instinct, loosened his grip, and slid off the girl’s back. Ibhaen, who had backed up, bent down and offered a hand to the other girl; the girl accepted, and let Ibhaen help her stand up. Porthan ran to the boy, who had started to get up, but was woozy. He refused Porthan’s help. All turned to face Kells, and the Chief.

  “Translate to your children for me,” the chief said. “You have fought far better than I expected. Your attacks were undisciplined, but you have what is essential to every warrior. You will not run from a fight. You will pick yourself up. Your father’s blood is strong in you.”

  “You’ve done well, he says,” Kells told his children. “You have a warrior’s spirit.”

  “And so… we welcome you with open arms,” the chief said, spreading his arms wide. “Welcome to the Ashta-Erimeni.”

  Kells was relieved to see he didn’t need to translate the next words; Ibhaen and Porthan rushed towards the edge of the square, stepped over the ropes that blocked it off, and all but tackled their father. Seeing their wounds - Ibhaen’s cut lip, swelling eye, and the bruise on her cheek, as well as Porthan’s bloody nose, and the red that trailed down his face - gave him a sense of horror. He pulled them tighter together, knowing what his own wounds had been like at their age. It had hardly seemed so bad then… but he had been raised a warrior. They were not.

  “I’m very proud of both of you right now.” he said. “You fought well.”

  “Will we be fighting again?” Porthan asked, a little worried, but Kells sensed a little excitement in his voice - an eagerness he himself once had, and still did, much as he kept it buried.

  “Yes,” Kells said. “But not like this, not soon. They’ll teach you to fight. But that’s for another day. Because of you, we have a home now,” he said. “This is our new home. We never have to go back to Barra.” Not that we had the choice.

  “Good,” Ibhaen said. She squeezed her father tighter. “I don’t want to go back.”

  There will be no going back, Kells thought; it would be hard for them to adjust. But with the Erimeni, he could begin to live the life he wanted - not the one he’d needed to. And as long as he had Porthan and Ibhaen, he needed little else. “Neither do I,” Kells said. “Not when I have the bravest children in the world with me.” He did not want to think of how Ostre felt, and with luck, he never would again.

  The chief tapped him on the shoulder. “Congratulations,” he said, as Kells turned to face him. “We will need to make you all new clothes, Rawa. And give your children new names. You must leave all parts of your old life behind.”

  “Do not give them new names yet,” Kells said, nervous. “Let them think, for a week or two. They must have time to be used to the new settings.”

  “Of course,” the Chief said, with a nod. “Tonight, we’ll have a feast to welcome you.”

  Kells looked about, at the encampment - at their new home. Their new family. They had somewhere they belonged now - they would have new clothes, new purposes, and new friends. But changing his children’s names? That, he did not know if he could do. Porthan was Porthan. Ibhaen was Ibhaen. They could be brought up in the traditions, and yet, if someone were to ask them thirty years hence if they were Porthan or Ibhaen, he knew they would answer to it. It was not so easy to forget who one was, deep down. And to sever that last bond between them and their mother… he wasn’t sure if he could do that. He had already asked them to fight for him, and they did. That was enough, for now.

  “What are you thinking about?” Porthan asked, looking up at him.

  “Nothing,” Kells said. “I’m happy that we have a home.” He glanced around, to see the tents and small buildings that outlined the town, like robed monks, leaning together to battle the cold of winter. The lightly browned faces that were like his father’s, and distantly mirrored in his children’s. There was fresh air, mixed with the noxious scents of tanning racks. But most of all, there was no Ostre. No Caliandra. Barra was off in the distance, marked by the far end of Nemi’s Fist, and he’d never need to go back.

  This was always how it was meant to be, he thought for himself, smiling as he held his children close.

  EPILOGUE

  Royth felt the hot sun warm his newly shaved head, and found it strange. He had not yet become used to the lack of weight, and ran his fingers over it, to feel the sensation of a thousand’s thousand little hairs bristle at his touch. It’d been some years since it’d been so short, and his head had a curious lightness to it. He’d left his locks with Mother Swallow, to keep himself disguised - dark-skinned men such as he were not commonplace, but he had no scars to speak of, and his long, inter-woven locks were one of his few distinguishing features. Away they went, and painfully, of course; it was the smartest move he could make, before he entered another great city.

  At Mother Swallow’s behest, he and Sage had made a change of clothes. No longer did he appear to be a citizen of Barra, with dull blues and greys; he’d adopted more colorful merchant’s clothing, with shimmering greens that paired well with his dark, even-toned skin. Sage, too, left her Kersikki maid’s clothing behind, but chose Erimeni-inspired women’s garb that had come into fashion for mercenaries; billowing pants, leather boots, a slim-cut shirt, and a vest. Royth would pose as a traveling merchant, and she his bodyguard.

  Sage welcomed the arrangement, and they’d left within the day - with a bare supply of goods, which would take them to the Silenian Capital, traveling papers, money, and easily concealed daggers, similar to what Sage had in her possession at the castle. The heat came shortly after, and enveloped them; Royth found it both familiar and unwelcome, like a drunken uncle.

  He wiped sweat off his brow, and looked over at Sage. Her red hair hid beneath a stitched wig of dark brown hair, which hung loose and free. She wiped sweat from her brow, but was distracted by something in the distance; billowing clouds of smoke, and dancing flames.

  “Flassome,” she said, as she gazed at a far-off forest.

  He recognized the word - his Ariaci was cobwebbed, and caked with dust, but it was simple enough to recall. “Summer fires?” he asked, in Barrish.

  “Haven’t seen ‘em in ages. I was up in Kersik for the past four years; the only fires they had were torches and lamps, and trees struck by lightning… it’s a good omen, I think.”

  He remembered something like them from his youth; when lightning would strike the nearby savannah, and it’d be engulfed in flames. He’d never thought them as a welcome portent, though. “How so?”

  “You’re starting over, aren’t you?” she said. “That’s the same. A new begin
ning.”

  “It seems too destructive to me,” Royth said. “And it ignores the past.”

  “Of course,” Sage said. “Burns everything to ash. But that’ll make it easier for new trees to grow. Just like us. We cut down the big and the old, to make way for the new.”

  “We also cut down the new, to keep the big and old in power,” Royth said, with a glare. “Fire burns both ways.”

  Sage shrugged. “True,” she said. “And we burn for money. I don’t think fire was ever so mercenary, do you?”

  “No, but sometimes, I wish it was,” he said.

  It was then that a connection had formed in his mind; an odd one. When he’d seen the future, where Valric was king, it was filled with death and fire. Caliandra’s was a place of peace and strength. Such things were part of a cycle; fire begat death, and death begat birth. And the Peacebringer - it picked the best king for the age.

  But did it always, he wondered? Or did the axe pick simply who was next in line, who would have been king afterwards... who would have been the best king for that time, and that purpose?

  A new and sickening thought occurred to him. Perhaps Caliandra was not the best king for the time; perhaps she was the best king to follow Valric. Valric’s age would’ve been suited to his vicious temperament… not Caliandra’s. Which meant Royth had extinguished the cleansing fire, before it had the chance to burn - and that whatever it would have burned, needed to be brought to ashes for Caliandra’s age to have a chance. And in his haste, he had robbed her of it; stolen it without a thought, thinking himself a martyr for her cause.

  He had set up a builder to lead a kingdom that needed a warrior. “Kembo is cruel,” Royth said to himself, cursing his luck, cursing his rashness, cursing every bit of love in his heart for the Feors. He’d saved them from nothing; he’d only made it worse. “Very cruel, indeed.”

  It takes a village to raise a child. It takes a slightly larger village to make a book, no matter what the front of it tells you.

  First and foremost in my mind, heart, and thanks are my parents, Raymond and Corinne Lynch, and my dear sister, Lauren, who supported and encouraged me through the lengthy process of writing this book. Without driven, accomplished women like my mother and my sister helping to shape my life, I wouldn’t have had the inspiration, the passion, or the grounding to see it through. And without my father passing on his love of reading, I wouldn’t have had a place to start.

  Secondary thanks also go to my sister: Thank you for being my cheerleader, my beta reader, for re-naming the resident hunk, and in ways both great and small, for contributing to Callie herself. So much about this book is owed to you, it’s not even funny. Thank you, for helping me contribute to making the world suck less.

  Major thanks to Carol Gyzander, and Liz Flood, whose collective suggestions and support in great part helped to ensure that this book kicked ass - to Liz, for her valuable perspectives on art, passion, and creativity, her editorial insights, and general inappropriateness; to Carol, for her persistence, excellent suggestions, and camaraderie in the word mines. More major thanks to Sue Engelke and Tiffany Walsh, for being my first big non-family member fans, and to Jessie Kalick, for encouraging me to give Callie some friends.

  Thanks to my friends, who supported me and kept me sane; Branson Belchie II, Jeff Williams, Rajiv Miller, Asia Hoe, Ciara Taylor, Janice Lai (for additional naming help, all hail King Crutchlow - I mean, Rionn), Sidney Montoya, Ben Kahan, Patrick Perry, Bree Rubin, Colin Chapin, Ami Bogin, Andi Wrede, Jesahel Cantarell, Megan Mascrenhas, Matthew Parente, Brad Olalde, Carol Gyzander, Christine Dietzl, Hannah Courtright, Jim Foley, Jessica Leigh, Rachel Stowers-Coleman, Tom Fulgione, Jared Skolnick, Lauren DiGiovine, and Deck Hurley (the Josske before there was a Josske).

  To my Beta readers: You guys kick ass. Brian Lam, Nicole Benkert, Uncle Bruce, Cousin Lacey, and Caitlin Kriner - thanks so much for the gift of your time. Getting a shout-out back here isn’t enough.

  Last but not least, special shout outs to the cover artist Sina Kazra, who so perfectly visualized Caliandra and made her real (to me, at least); to Kam Imam, who consistently pushed me to do better with kick-ass edits and suggestions; to Ari Pramagioulis, for the awesome cover design; to my home base, Cool Beans in Oradell, NJ, and the Tuesday night Cool Beans Crew; and to the /r/FantasyWriters community.

  It may take a large village to make a book, but it only takes one person to read it. Thank you greatly for the gift of your time; I hope it’s been well spent.

  (Even if you pirated it.)

  Want to be on the inside track? Sign up for my monthly newsletter, get a free 12,000 word short story, and be the first to know when Book 2 is going to hit digital shelves - along with chapter teasers, a cover preview, AND sneak peeks at my next self-published fantasy series, Spellstealers!

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