Progeny (The Children of the White Lions)

by Kaelin, R. T.

  Sabine glanced at the group around the fire and, with a touch of embarrassment, said, “Not tonight, dear.”

  A bit more emphatically, Helene said, “Sing me my song, please.”

  Kenders smothered an amused smile.

  Shaking her head, Sabine smiled—a true smile—and began to sing in a soft, soothing tone.

  Five notes into the song, and Kenders was in awe. Sabine’s singing was stunning.

  Beautiful.

  Melodious.

  Soothing.

  Her voice put every playman Kenders had ever heard to shame. She, Nikalys, and even Broedi stared, enthralled by the private performance.

  After a few repetitions of Happy Times at the Fair, Helene was sound asleep. Sabine moved her sister to a one blanket and covered her with another, both of which she had taken from their ruined home. For a minute, she sat there, stroking her younger sister’s hair, still softly humming. Once Helene was in a deep sleep, Sabine let the song fade away and turned back to the rest of them. The creased lines on her face betrayed her true anxiety.

  Without preamble, she asked, “What does all of that mean?” It was obvious she was referring to Broedi’s displays with the Strands. “Is Helene alright? Will she be safe?”

  Kenders glanced at Broedi, curious to hear his answer.

  After letting out a long sigh, the hillman asked, “What do you know of the Strands?”

  Sabine stared at him, her expression cold and blank.

  “The Strands?”

  Kenders sighed herself. This sounded familiar.

  Thus began Broedi’s explanation of magic to Sabine. He spoke of weaving, the nine types of Strands, how different people could be strong with some and weak with others, how some people were born with the ability and others did not discover it until later in life. Sabine never spoke a word, listening with a healthy amount of respect. When Broedi was finished, Sabine sat still for a moment, absorbing everything. Finally, she peered at Broedi.

  “So…you are saying that because Helene is able to see these ‘Strands’ so clearly, she will be able to ‘weave’ them?”

  “Yes,” rumbled Broedi. “With training, she can.”

  “Is there any way to make it go away?” asked Sabine, the worry in her voice clear.

  A moment passed before Broedi turned his gaze on Kenders “Uora? Perhaps you should answer that question.”

  With raised eyebrows, Kenders said, “Me?”

  Broedi nodded, silent, and held her gaze. Sabine turned to stare at her, too.

  Glancing at Sabine, Kenders saw a young woman—only a couple years older than she was—worried about the same things over which she had agonized. Magic may be a gift, but it was a burden, too. Before Kenders could say anything, however, Nikalys surprised her by speaking first.

  “Sabine, I know you are afraid for your sister.” He turned his gaze to Kenders. “Trust me, I know what that’s like.” Looking back to Sabine, he said, “When we were growing up, our parents would tell us that magic is like a spade. You can use it to grow food or smash in a man’s head. The spade, however, remains a spade. It is a tool. A tool that relies on its wielder to choose its purpose.”

  “A farmer can drop a spade if they want to,” muttered Sabine.

  “Magic is a part of you,” said Nikalys. “It is a part of Helene. Accept it and move forward.”

  Kenders knew he was speaking to her as much as he was to Sabine.

  Nikalys shifted his gaze to Helene’s sleeping form. “She seems like a wondrous and sweet soul.” He peered back to Sabine. “And as long as she has you to keep an eye over her and raise her right, she will be fine. You both will.”

  A quiet moment or two passed, broken by a soft rumble from Broedi.

  “Well said, uori.”

  Kenders stared at her brother and smiled, appreciating his words. She might doubt her destiny as a mage, but Nikalys was embracing it for her.

  Entirely unaware of the moment between the siblings, Sabine shook her head and protested, “But magic is outlawed.”

  “So?” rumbled Broedi. “Are all laws just?”

  Sabine stared at the hillman. “Just or not, it is the law. I doubt I will be able to argue the merits of the ‘law’ as the Constables drag Helene away from me. I can’t risk taking her around other people. They will take her from me.” A cold fire flashed in her eyes. “And then I’ll be alone.”

  This entire exchange was eerily familiar. Kenders looked to Nikalys and found him peering at Sabine, the narrowed eyes and slight frown on his face an indication that he was thinking the same thing. At least, that is what Kenders thought he was pondering. Upon further inspection, she was not so sure.

  Broedi spoke a few heartbeats later, softly rumbling, “Then come south with us.”

  Kenders turned her head and gaped at the hillman, stunned that he would suggest such a thing.

  “He’s right,” muttered Nikalys a moment later. ”You should come with us.”

  Wondering if both her brother and the White Lion had gone mad, Kenders asked, “Pardon me, but is that wise?” The list of reasons why it was not was long, none of which she could share in front of Sabine.

  Broedi gazed at Kenders and said, “Of the sour choices before us, this is the sweetest.”

  “How do you figure?” demanded Kenders.

  Again, Nikalys answered a question put to her. “As I see it, Sabine has three choices.” Lifting his hand, he extended a lone finger. “One: she can stay here, at this ruined house and farm, waiting for bandits to return.” A second finger joined the first. “Two: she can take Helene to a city and have no coin, no family, and a constant threat hanging over them that the Constables will discover them as mages.” He extended a third finger. “Three: they can come along with someone who might be able to offer a safer place to live their life.” His eyes glinted in the firelight as he peered at Kenders. “Sound familiar?”

  Kenders still felt as if she should protest, but she did not. Nikalys had made his point well. Very well.

  Sabine asked carefully, “Safer place?” Her eyes betrayed a glimmer of hope as she glanced at the faces around the fire. “What do you mean? Where is it?”

  Pointing to Broedi, Nikalys said, “Ask him. But don’t expect an answer.”

  Suspicion returned to Sabine’s face as she turned a cautious eye toward Broedi.

  “Where is this safer place?”

  The hillman sat very still, his gaze fixed on Sabine’s face. After a few quiet breaths, he asked, “You do not trust me, do you?”

  Without hesitation, Sabine said, “Not at all.”

  Broedi sighed, placed his now-extinguished pipe in his mouth, and rumbled, “We head south, through the Blackbark Forest, to a hold on Storm Island.”

  Shocked, Kenders glared at Broedi.

  “We’ve been asking you that for over a week!”

  “And I said I would tell you when you the time was right. Now is that time. I do not have time to earn her trust as I did yours.” Peering at Sabine, he asked, “Had I not told you where we are going, would you have considered coming with us?”

  Sabine shook her head.

  “Absolutely not.”

  Broedi looked back to Kenders, wearing an expression as though that settled the matter. Kenders pressed her lips together and sighed. Sometimes Broedi could be maddening.

  Nikalys asked, “Does that mean you are coming, then?”

  “I haven’t decided yet,” muttered Sabine.

  Nikalys was quiet for a moment, his gaze drifting over to where Helene lay sleeping, her tiny snores drowned out by Jak’s louder ones.

  “The two of you are not safe here.”

  Sabine closed her eyes and sighed, “I know.”

  “Or in any city where—”

  Eyes shooting open, Sabine snapped, “I know!”

  Nikalys froze for several heartbeats, then dropped his gaze to the fire and wisely remained silent. Everyone stayed quiet while waiting for Sabine’s decision.

&
nbsp; Broedi reached into his pouch and withdrew his pouch of smoking-leaf. With nothing else to do, Kenders watched him pack the pipe again and light it with a tiny Weave of Fire concentrated over the bowl. The leaf’s sweet smoke drifted through the air.

  She studied the hillman, wondering about the Blackbark Forest and Storm Island he had mentioned. She had never heard of either. Then again, she had never heard of much of anything beyond Yellow Mud or Smithshill. Broedi could have said they were heading to White Moon and she would have had a better idea of what to expect.

  After what seemed a longer time than it probably was, Sabine sighed and looked to Nikalys and Broedi.

  “You’re right. Both of you. It is the sweetest among the sour. If you will have us, we will go with you.” She glanced down at the sleeping form of Helene, adding, “I’ll do whatever I can to keep her safe.”

  “A wise choice, uora,” rumbled Broedi. “Your dedication to your iskoa is admirable.”

  Sabine looked back to Broedi an, ignoring the compliment, asked, “But why Storm Island? What makes it safer than any other place?”

  Kenders turned to stare at Broedi and said with purpose, “What an excellent question. Why, Broedi?”

  “I’d like to know, too,” said Nikalys.

  Broedi puffed on his pipe while staring at each one of them in turn. Ending on Sabine, a slight smile touched his lips. “You should have asked that before you said you were coming.”

  Despite herself, Kenders smiled. A soft chuckle slipped from Nikalys. Sabine, however, remained stone-faced.

  Rising from the ground, he stood tall, stretched, and announced, “I will check the area nearby to ensure our safety. The rest of you should sleep.” He motioned toward Jak, lying off to the side of the fire. “We ride as soon as he wakes.”

  As he turned north, heading back up the hill, Sabine looked between Nikalys and Kenders.

  “He didn’t answer my question.”

  Kenders’ smile widened a fraction.

  “Sabine, dear, if you’re going to be traveling with us, you had better get used to it.”

  Sabine frowned, staring after the retreating hillman. Kenders would have bet good coin she was rethinking her decision.

  Chapter 43: West

  28th of the Turn of Sutri

  Jhaell lifted his gaze from his horse’s mane and sighed.

  Before him, verdant fields undulated in a light breeze, the waves of grass rippling across the sun-soaked land, the dirt way upon which Jhaell’s horse trod cutting a russet ribbon through the endless green. Near a rogue clump of oaks, the tan roofline of a rustic house stood against the vast wilderness. Overhead, white clouds climbed upon one another, tumbling and rolling across the sky.

  Jhaell stared at the scene, but did not see it. The same frown that had rested upon his face for days on end turned downward a fraction further. He felt defeated, desperate, and—despite the fifty blue and gold-clad soldiers trailing him—very alone.

  For days now, he had been heading west simply because he had no idea what else to do. He forced the soldiers to march day and night, driving them to the point of exhaustion. Were he to look over his shoulder, he could assume at least a dozen men would be slumped over, asleep on their horse. It was a wonder they did not slide from their saddles.

  He had been in this backward country for over a week now, yet there had been no sign of the Progeny. None. A tiny ember of hope smoldered inside him that this was all a massive misunderstanding. That he was chasing phantoms. That these events were some sort of terrible, cruel coincidence. Perhaps the real Progeny were elsewhere in the world. Perhaps Tandyr would not hold him responsible.

  With a long and deep sigh, Jhaell shut his eyes. He was fooling himself. And he knew it.

  The thudding of a horse’s hooves yanked him from his piteous reverie. The beast drew beside Jhaell and slowed to keep pace. A man—most likely the Southern Arm’ sergeant—cleared his throat.

  Jhaell ignored the soldier.

  The man cleared his throat again.

  Jhaell did not react. He did not want to talk.

  In a quiet, hesitant tone, the man murmured, “Sir?”

  Simmering inside, Jhaell opened his eyes, turned his head, and glared at the man. It was the sergeant indeed.

  “What?!”

  Shrinking under Jhaell’s withering stare, Sergeant Rowe was quiet for a moment managing to say, “Ah…Fenidar, sir, I would respectfully remind you—again, sir—that some of the horses are nearly lame. The men will go until you order us to stop, but soon, we’ll be walking on foot.”

  Twisting in his saddle, Jhaell examined the soldiers behind him. The beasts did look ragged, even more so than the men. If horses started falling, they would never catch their prey. Assuming the Progeny even came this way.

  When he had split the soldiers, Jhaell had chosen the westerly route based on what he knew was happening in the Borderlands. It seemed logical the Progeny might head there. With each plodding step of his horse, he regretted his choice.

  “Fenidar?” prompted the sergeant. “May we rest or not?”

  Jhaell turned to face forward again, barely glancing at the man as he did. He tilted his head back and eyed the sky. Mu’s orb hung low. Early dusk was not far away.

  “Can they not hold out until sunset, sergeant?”

  The sergeant paused a moment before answering.

  “They are exhausted, sir. They need rest.”

  Jhaell squeezed his eyes shut, drew in a deep breath, and mumbled, “I should have never gone to Yellow Mud…”

  The sergeant leaned over.

  “Pardon, sir?”

  Jhaell ignored the man, too busy blaming himself for everything that had led him here.

  Had he not tried to impress Tandyr, had he not reacted rashly while standing on that bluff, had he not done a half-dozen other things without prior thought, then he would not be here. Most likely, he would be sitting in the library at Immylla, reading, searching, and seeking for some mention of what Tandyr sought.

  That was Jhaell’s purpose.

  That was what he was good at doing.

  That was what would reunite him with Syra again.

  Feeling the tiny, dark crinkling of Void he opened his eyes and stared down at his bag. Someone was writing to him, the first time in three days. Looking up at the soldier, he said, “Tell the men to make camp. We will stay the night but leave before the sun rises, understand?”

  Relief spread over the man’s face.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Drawing reins across his horse’s neck, the sergeant rode away, shouting orders to halt and set up the tents. The soldiers gave a weary, almost-mocking cheer. Jhaell did not appreciate their tone.

  After stopping himself, he dismounted and walked away, leaving his horse unattended in the road. Someone would come and see to the beast.

  He moved to the roadside and sat to wait for the soldiers to stake his tent. Reaching into his bag, he pulled out the parchments and shuffled through them. Finding the one with writing, he placed it on top and read. It was from a nobleman of the duchies loyal to Tandyr.

  Baron Morus was an advisor in the court of Duke Rholeb, the sovereign of the Marshlands, and had proven adept at both providing information as well as gently guiding the duke’s decisions in advantageous directions. The baron’s missive reported that even more refugees were coming from the west, bringing with them tales of countless Sudashians in the Borderlands. Duke Rholeb had dispatched yet another rider to Duke Vanson in Gobas to see if assistance was required. Knowing that Duke Rholeb would never hear a reply triggered a slight smile to spread over Jhaell’s wide lips.

  The baron also wrote that he had managed to send the soldiers Jhaell had requested. A patrol of Marshlands’ Reed Men was heading east in Jhaell’s direction, along this very road. He inquired as to why Jhaell needed them and expressed surprise that the saeljul was even in the duchies.

  Jhaell dismissed the message with a simple Weave of Air and watched th
e writing disappear, the black letters fading from the parchment. He slipped the parchments back in his bag without writing back. There was no good answer to the baron’s question. A message that included, ‘I tried to kill the Progeny, but instead, I think I let them loose, and now I cannot find them’ would not help his situation.

  He glanced up to see if the soldiers had his tent ready. They did not. The men were slogging about, moving slowly, and truly exhausted. Sighing, he dropped his head and stared at the ground.

  “Beelvra…”

  While he was at a lost as to what he should do, he knew with certainty what he could not do. His time at Immylla was finished, his prolonged absence at the Academy long past the point where he could explain it away. Distinguished One Hovathil had probably already set in motion the requisite process to terminate his position.

  Jhaell still wondered what had become of the tomble mainlander and the stolen letter. At least twice a day, he considered porting to Redstone and speaking with Duke Everett to determine if it was a danger to their efforts, but he never did. The man would turn Jhaell straight over to Tandyr to further his own position.

  Jhaell ran his elongated fingers through his hair and sighed.

  Perhaps he should simply tell Tandyr what he had done. Perhaps the god would allow him to serve in another way. Jhaell could certainly help with the advance in the Borderlands. The Sudashian mages were crude with the Strands. The thought of being surrounded by oligurts, mongrels, and razorfiends was more than unpleasant, but he would do what was necessary.

  Jhaell lifted his head and stared at the tired soldiers, watching them stumble about in a daze. If he managed to stumble on the Progeny, these exhausted men would be of little use to him. Perhaps he should visit Tandyr’s army and attempt to arrange something with one of the demon captains. Sudashians, while vile creatures, were more resilient than these men were.

  He thought the idea through and realized it was his best option. As soon as he could, he would port west and find the nearest Sudashian camp. They should litter the Borderlands now. It would not be hard to find one.

  He also decided to visit the agent Tandyr had in the Southlands tonight. If the Progeny had headed that way, there was a small chance some sort of rumor had made its way through the land. Jhaell silently chastised himself for not having given the woman one of the parchments.