Progeny (The Children of the White Lions)

by Kaelin, R. T.

  She huffed and shook her head. She had seen it a hundred times growing up and still never understood how the pair could make up like this. No words. Nothing. Just some backslapping.

  When her brothers stopped pounding each other, Nikalys turned to Broedi. The hillman sat still, studying Nikalys, pipe smoke drifting from his nose and lips. Crossing his arms, Nikalys spoke, his tone firm. “I want to be clear. I don’t trust you, Broedi. Especially after whatever happened at the cliff.”

  Kenders winced. She had been hoping Nikalys might offer an apology for his sullenness.

  The hillman pulled the pipe from his teeth. “You will trust me one day, uori.”

  The muscles in Nikalys’ neck and jaw rippled. “I doubt that.”

  “Nik?” muttered Kenders. “Be civil.”

  He glanced at her, pressed his lips together, and turned back to Broedi. “But I am willing to listen to what you have to say.”

  The hillman nodded once and said, “Ask any question you like, uori, and I will answer what I can.” Indicating the area before the log, he added, “Please, sit.”

  The three settled before Broedi; Jak with his back against the trunk of a young oak, Kenders next to him, and Nikalys beside her. Once seated on the soft bed of leaves and pine needles, Kenders stared up at Broedi. For a brief moment, she felt like they were children again at a Leisure Time festival, gathered by a bonfire to wait for their father to tell a story.

  Moments of silence passed.

  A pair of squirrels chattered back and forth in the trees above.

  Eventually, Broedi pulled his pipe from his lips. “For me to answer a question, one must be asked first.”

  Jak spoke at once, startling her. “Are you sure I’m not their brother?

  Looking to Jak, Broedi rumbled, “Quite sure, uori.”

  “Why are you sure?” pressed Jak.

  “Because when Aryn and Eliza left, they only had two children.” He looked at Nikalys. “A young boy with brown hair and brown eyes,”—he shifted his gaze to Kenders —“and a girl with hair the color of straw and eyes that changed colors with the sun and shade.” He stared at Jak and gave a slight, reassuring smile. “They did not have an elder son with black hair. You may assume that your parents were truly your parents.”

  “You said ‘when Aryn and Eliza left,’” noted Kenders “Left from where?”

  With an apologetic tilt of his head, Broedi said, “That, I will not tell you tonight, uora.”

  “You said you would answer our questions.”

  “Much like strange berries in the wilderness, some of my answers are safe, some are not. For now, that answer is not.”

  Kenders frowned, disappointed that her first inquiry was going unanswered.

  Silence returned to their little glade. The crackle and pop of the fire and the sizzling of the roasting birds filled the quiet.

  Nikalys ended it by muttering, “So our blood parents were White Lions?”

  Kenders glanced at her brother. He was certainly going straight to the heart of the matter.

  Nodding, Broedi rumbled, “They were.”

  Incredulous, Nikalys said, “That’s madness.”

  “Why?”

  Kenders answered for Nikalys, saying the obvious. “Because the White Lions are a myth, a playman’s tale.”

  A smile—larger than normal—spread over Broedi’s lips. “Did I not caution you about dismissing that which you believe to be myth?”

  Nikalys muttered, “This is different.”

  “Why, uori?”

  Glowering at the hillman, Nikalys snapped, “This isn’t a nice story about where hillmen came from. You are asking us to believe that we are the children of White Lions!”

  Broedi held Nikalys’ gaze for a long moment. With a sigh, he twisted around and stared back to the fire. Looking back to them, he asked, “Perhaps one of you could grab the pheasants? I am hungry, and I have a feeling this will take some time.”

  Jak hopped up, ran over to the fire, and grabbed their meal. He brought back the five spits, handing one to each of them, keeping one for himself, and sticking the fifth upright in the soft dirt underneath the needle and leaf covering.

  Broedi placed his pipe on the log beside him with care and took a large bite of the roasted bird. Kenders went to eat hers, but had to halt before biting down as the bird was much too hot. She wondered how Broedi had not burned his mouth.

  After swallowing, Broedi nodded at Jak and said, “When I spoke with your kaveli, he shared with me the ‘myth’ of the White Lions as you know it. And I must say, whichever playman shared the saga in Yellow Mud should return every last coin he took for telling the tale.”

  Looking from face to face, he said in a purposeful, deliberate tone, “The White Lions are real. And unlike what you have heard, none ‘went mad’ and killed those poor souls at Carinius. The god of Deception crafted that entire situation. Unfortunately, none of us knew who he or she was until it was too late.” He frowned and muttered, “Which is more or less the entire problem with the Cabal.”

  Kenders’ eyebrows drew together. Something Broedi had just said did not make sense.

  In an instant, her mind dashed over every moment spent with Broedi since the giant lynx had leapt over the fingerprick thicket.

  His stories.

  His reticence to talk of the past.

  His knowledge of all things magic.

  Eyes wide, her gaze locked onto the necklace hanging from his neck: a white stone carved in the shape of a lion’s head.

  “Bless the gods…”

  Broedi’s brown eyes turned to her.

  With pure, unfiltered awe, she muttered, “You’re one of them, aren’t you? You’re a White Lion…”

  The hillman gazed at her for a long moment. With a sigh and resignation in his voice, he rumbled, “I had not meant for that to be known yet.”

  Stunned silence swallowed the camp.

  She glanced over at her brothers and found them both gaping at Broedi, holding their spits and roasted pheasants before them, untouched. Off in the distance, a lone wolf howled, shocking them all back into the moment.

  Nikalys lowered his bird and mumbled, “Well, that explains quite a bit.”

  Kenders agreed. Turning her head to glare at Jak, she demanded, “Why in the Nine Hells didn’t you tell me that?”

  Without ever taking his eyes from Broedi, he said, “Because he never told me that rather important detail.”

  “I told you only what was necessary to get you to cooperate, uori,” said Broedi. “Nothing more. It was for the best.”

  Jak scowled. He did not look satisfied with the answer. Kenders did not blame him.

  Broedi put down his pheasant, jabbing the stick into the ground and leaving the roasted bird perched beside him. Kenders almost tossed hers in the leaves and needles. She no longer had an appetite. Nevertheless, she jammed her stick in the dirt, too.

  Peering down at the three of them, Broedi said, “I will tell you the true story of the White Lions—not something that has been retold a thousand times by a thousand playmen who make their coin by embellishing the truth or leaving it out altogether. Knowing the true history will make the rest of what I must tell you easier to accept.”

  He reached behind the log and grabbed the waterskin. Uncapping it, he took a long drink. After closing the skin, he picked up his pipe, checked that it was still alight, and drew a long puff.

  Letting a long stream of smoke seep from his lips, he rumbled, “When I was much younger, I lived in the northern Red Peaks, near the river the men of the lowlands called Clearwater, for it ran from the crystalline snows of the mountains, clean and pure, down the slopes and into the plains below.”

  “Aki-mahet were part of the duchy, yet we kept to ourselves. For much of my life there, things were good. Game was plentiful, our farms were bountiful, and life was peaceful.”

  A wistful smile touched his lips and spread into his eyes. It disappeared rapidly as he continued.


  “An adventurous few of our tribe chose to live among the men in the plains. They would occasionally come and visit those of us who remained in the hills, bringing with them stories of the world below. Their tales were how we first heard about the warmongering of Duke Alistair and his invasion of the Northlands and Foothills. But as the war had not yet touched us in the mountains, we did not care much what happened. That all changed in one night.”

  He paused and the thick muscles along his neck twitched. His pipe hung in his hand, forgotten. When he resumed, his voice was hard and cold.

  “They came with torches ablaze. They took the husbands and elder sons, demanding they fight for the duke’s army. Had I not been away on a nighttime hunt, I would have been taken as well. The children and women they left behind told unbelievable stories of twisted, monstrous men covered with horns, snouts, hooves, and other hideous deformities. I did not believe them, so I followed the tracks to see for myself and to try to help free those who were taken. When I came upon their camp in the woods, I saw that they were indeed demon-men, and they were doing something to my people. They were—” he grimaced “—forcing them to drink their blood. Black, thick blood that smelled of rotting things and burning flesh.”

  He twisted up his nose as though he could still smell it. “Fury gripped me.” His voice burned. “Even though it would mean certain death for me, I made ready to help my people. I prepared myself to meet Maeana, was but a moment from charging when I felt a softness graze the back of my leg. Fearful that I had been discovered, I spun around and found a kisa standing behind me.”

  Kenders did not want to interrupt, but she had to. “Pardon me? Kisa?”

  “Forgive me. Lynx.”

  Kenders nodded her understanding.

  Broedi drew another puff on his pipe, exhaled a stream of smoke, saying, “Kisa are important to aki-mahet, revered as nature’s guardian. This kisa sat very still, his eyes fixed on me. We stared at one another for a long moment before he turned and walked away from me, away from the demons and my people. After a few steps, he looked back to me. I sensed that he was my guide, calling me to follow, and so I did. I left my people behind.”

  He paused a moment, closed his eyes, and muttered, “I still hear their cries in my dreams.”

  Beneath the sympathy Kenders felt for Broedi bubbled the troubling thought that her nightmares might continue for the rest of her life, too.

  Broedi opened his eyes and continued speaking. “For weeks, the kisa led me west over the mountains, farther than I had ever been from home. We traveled through country with green grasses, majestic trees, brilliant flowers, sweet fruits, and more game than I had ever seen. It was a blessed land. He shared his kills with me and I came to think of my companion as a friend. Eventually, he led me to a great city.”

  He shook his head in wonderment. “I had never seen so many buildings before. And none so tall and richly made. White marble. Sparkling glass.” He smiled and looked at Kenders. “I suppose I must have looked as you did when you saw Smithshill, uora.”

  Kenders smiled back and Broedi resumed his tale. “The kisa led me into the city and through streets filled with a people unlike I had ever seen. Their skin was pale and their eyes all white. They were taller and thinner than the men I had known of the plains, yet still shorter than I was.”

  Nikalys spoke up, asking, “Are you claiming divina are not myth, either?”

  “I am claiming nothing. I am telling you they are not.”

  “Truly?”

  “Truly,” rumbled Broedi. “At the time, I was as surprised as you are now. More so, actually.”

  “Where were you?” asked Kenders. “Where had the kisa led you?”

  "I was almost to that point in my tale, uora. My friend brought me through the city, across a great plaza, and to a great stone building topped with a crystal dome. A single divina stood alone on the steps, waiting for me. In a voice echoing with the power of its master, it said, ‘Welcome to the Seat of Nelnora. You have been chosen, Broedikurja Kynsipitka.’”

  “Hold a moment,” interjected Jak. “Your name isn’t just ‘Broedi?’”

  “It is only a part of my given name. Many of my friends would later call me Broedi as they had difficulty with my full name. I continue to use it as it reminds me of happier times.”

  Kenders tried to run his full name over her lips and found she had already forgotten how he had pronounced it. She liked Broedi better as well.

  After another quick puff on his pipe, the hillman continued. “I, along with seven others from the Oaken Duchies, had been brought to this city, to Nelnora’s temple. Each of us had been chosen by one of eight Celystiela. Thonda had chosen me.” His gaze shifted between Nikalys and Kenders as he said, “Horum chose your father, a captain in the Northlands’ army. Gaena chose your mother, a servant from the Colonial Duchy across the Sea of Kings.”

  “The eight of us were brought before the Assembly of the Nine, Celystiela who had chosen to lend aid to the duchies. They shared with us that the soul behind the invasion, the one responsible for the Red Peaks’ demonic army, was the god of Chaos who, at the time, was a divina known as Norasim.”

  “We were given a choice. We could return to our lives as they had been, or we could accept their charge and oppose the evil being wrought against countless innocents.” He lifted a single eyebrow. “Given such a choice, how do you say ‘no?’”

  In the past whenever Kenders had heard this story—never with so many details as now—it had seemed a nice tale, something a playman would recite for the evening saga after some juggling and singing. To learn that it was not myth, but rather history, chilled her to the bone. She pulled her dress closer around her, wishing they were on the other side of the log and closer to the fire.

  “We were each touched by the Celystiela who had chosen us and given our individual gifts. I found myself with the ability not only to weave some of the Strands, but also to take the shape of nearly any beast I saw. I became Broedikurja Kynsipitka, Thonda’s Great Hunter. The first shape I took was that of the kisa, to honor my feline friend who had led me to the Assembly. It remains my favorite to this day.”

  Kenders asked quietly, “What exactly did Horum and Gaena do to our parents?”

  Nikalys shot her a dark look. She did not understand why until she thought about her choice of words. She quickly amended her question. “I mean our blood parents.”

  Broedi glanced between them for a moment before answering.

  “Horum granted Aryn incredible athletic ability. His strength and speed was astonishing. He could move short distances at will, faster than the eye could see.” Shifting his gaze to rest on Nikalys only, he rumbled, “It seems that at least part of that, in its raw form, has passed through his blood and into yours, uori.”

  Nikalys dropped his eyes to the forest floor but said nothing.

  After a moment, Broedi turned to regard Kenders.

  “Your mother was given a great gift by Gaena, perhaps the greatest granted to any of us. While Eliza already had the natural talent to touch some of the Strands on her own, Gaena’s gift allowed her to do things that no known mortal could.”

  The hillman leaned forward, his eyes alive.

  “Understand this. Those rare few who can weave are able to touch only a few types of Strands. Perhaps Will and Fire only. Or Water, Charge, and Fire. And even if one can touch different Strands, their ability to wield each varies. A mage might be a master with Water, yet barely sense Life or Stone. Most mages can touch two or three kinds.” Pointing to his chest, he said, “I can sense and use six. But, Eliza…” He shook his head and a proud smile spread over his lips. “Eliza could touch all of the Strands. All nine.”

  Broedi paused as if to let the momentous information register with them.

  Kenders supposed it was as impressive as he made it sound, yet her knowledge of magic was so basic that it was like telling a person who could not hear how skilled a prize flutist was. She forced a look of solemn awe on her fa
ce anyway since Broedi seemed to be waiting for a reaction before continuing. “Once we had our gifts from the Celystiela who chose us, Sarphia touched us all, granting us long life. Save for a quick and mortal wound, we were to live far beyond our normal years.”

  Kenders was surprised to find herself suddenly filled with a sense of hope. Staring up at Broedi, she asked, “Does that mean our blood parents are still alive?” She was careful to qualify them this time. She did not want Nikalys glaring at her again.

  Broedi drew himself up, sitting tall on the log, sucked in a long breath, and released it slowly. His eyebrows drew together as he answered, his voice soft and deep. “I do not know, uora. I have not seen them since they left with you fifteen years ago. I can only hope they are.”

  “Why did they give us up?” asked Nikalys abruptly. “Did they not want us?”

  Kenders glanced at him, wondering if the questions meant that he accepted Broedi’s tale as truth.

  Broedi’s gaze snapped to Nikalys. “Never think that, uori. Never! Your parents loved you very much. They gave you up in order to protect you.”

  “From what exactly?” demanded Nikalys.

  Lifting a hand, Broedi rumbled, “If you let me continue, I will explain.”

  As the White Lion took a puff of his pipe, Kenders glanced at Jak. He smiled at her and reached over to pat her arm in silent support.

  Blowing out a stream of smoke, Broedi fixed his gaze on the three of them and said, “After the Assembly had finished with us, we were taken to where the remnants of the Northlands’ army were gathered. Your father told his superiors in the army what had happened, who we were, and that the Celystiela had offered to help.”

  An amused smile spread over his lips. “As you might imagine, they did not believe our tale. So, the eight of us offered to confront a nearby force of Norasim’s army. Some brave men and women from the Milvia Barony aided us that day, and we quickly dispatched a small group of demons. It was from that skirmish we earned our name, the ‘White Lions,’ for the black and white crest of the Milvia baron under which we marched.”