by Alec Hutson
While the enmity between the farmers and fisherfolk was usually confined to hard looks and muttered words, their children held no qualms about open conflict. A lone child found in enemy territory would be taunted and chased, and perhaps even beaten if tensions between the two were running particularly high at that time. Keilan knew his friendship with Sella was a rarity, but it had happened because they were both outcasts within their communities, he because of his mother and she due to her eyes, which were considered unlucky, a curse by some vengeful spirit.
Lost in his thoughts Keilan tripped over an upraised root and went sprawling onto the moss and soft loam of the forest floor. Brushing dirt from his face he glanced up just as Sella vanished in a flash of golden hair through the thicket ahead.
Sighing at his clumsiness Keilan stumbled to his feet and followed, crashing through the tangle where she had disappeared and pushing into the clearing beyond.
“Sella! Sella, wait . . .” the words died in his throat.
They were not alone. Sella stood a ways off, head down so that her hair obscured her face. She shuffled her feet and did not look up.
Leaning against a tree was Keilan’s cousin Malik, the son of his Uncle Davin, and flanking him were Fen and Tharin, two other boys from the village. Malik was only a few months older than him, but he overtopped Keilan by a head and weighed at least two or three stones more. He looked very different from his father – where Davin was thin and crooked and burnt brown by endless hours at sea, Malik was broad and fat, with sloping shoulders, his skin a pasty white. He grinned when he saw Keilan’s surprise, showing where his two front-teeth had been knocked out.
“Now give me,” Sella said into the silence. Keilan noticed that her hands were balled into fists.
“Give you what, grub?” Malik shared a smirk with Fen, pulling something from his belt. It looked like a doll whittled from wood, crudely painted. Malik stroked its straw hair in mock tenderness.
“Give me Esmi! You promised!” Sella cried, her voice cracking.
Malik snorted a laugh and tossed the doll at her feet. Sella made no move to pick it up, and Keilan could see that she was shaking.
“Why are you here?” Keilan asked, taking a step back as Malik pushed himself from the tree.
“Wanted to talk to you,” his cousin said, strolling closer. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”
“Been busy helping my da.”
Malik stopped a dozen paces away, hooked his thumbs into his belt and whistled. “Yeah, you’re a big fisherman now. You must be pretty happy you got out on a boat before I did.”
“I never even thought about that.”
Malik’s piggish black eyes narrowed. “I did. And it don’t strike me as being very fair, what with you being only half-fisherman. Half-fisherman and half-whore.”
“Me and my da caught more fish than yours did yesterday.”
Malik reached down and scooped up a rock. “Heard about that. Da says that’s because you’re like your ma. That you do some spell and all the fish go swim over to your boat. And then my da and his da and his da,” Malik pointed to the others with him, “don’t have anything to sell to that ugly old fishmonger, and we get hit when our das come home and our mas ask why there’s no money.” He glanced over at his friends. “Now does that sound fair to you two?”
“Don’t sound fair at all,” Fen said, staring hard at Keilan. There was a fresh bruise darkening his freckled cheek.
“What we gonna do about this, Mal?” Tharin said softly. Of all the boys in the village, Tharin made Keilan the most uneasy. He’d never caught him smiling or laughing, except when hurting others, and his gray eyes were always strangely empty, almost lifeless. He’d seen the same look in the eyes of the shark his father had brought up the day before.
“Me? I think we should beat him raw.”
A coldness settled over Keilan. He thought about running, about turning and dashing through the woods back to the village, barricading himself in his house and waiting for his da to return. But when he looked at his cousin and his friends he didn’t see the children he’d grown up with; instead, he saw their fathers, the men who had taken his mother. He felt himself tense, but not to flee.
Malik seemed to notice this, and something like uncertainty flitted across his face. Then his expression hardened.
“You know, my da told me that the only thing worse than a whore is a witch. A whore dirties her own body, but a witch dirties the world itself. The way I see it, though, your ma was both a witch and a whore, so that’s got to be worse, right? Isn’t that right?” Malik stepped closer, hefting the rock in his hand. “Ain’t that right?” he screamed, rearing back.
Keilan ducked as the rock whistled past his head, and then had only a moment to brace himself before Malik’s bulk slammed into him. They fell in a tangle, knocking the breath from Keilan, and blows hammered his stomach and chest. The bigger boy tried to pin him, but Keilan managed to squirm out of his grasp and throw his fist out blindly. He hit something soft and Malik squealed in pain and rolled away holding his face, shouting out curses. Keilan scrambled to his feet, steadying himself against the trunk of a tree, his heartbeat loud in his ears. Fen rushed over and helped Malik stand as blood spurted from between his fingers.
“You broke my nose! I’ll kill you!”
Ignoring the pain in his ribs, Keilan reached down and picked up a fallen branch, a hard length of old wood. There was a rage in him, and he stalked forward toward the two boys. Their eyes widened in sudden fear as he lunged closer, swinging the branch hard. Fen raised his arm to try and ward away the blow, but the force of it nearly knocked him over, and he shrieked loudly, clutching his shoulder and stumbling backward. The second swing caught Malik in the head, and he fell like a sack of grain, his legs suddenly boneless.
Then Tharin was between them, iron glinting in his hand. “Careful, careful,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. He handled the boning knife with an easy familiarity.
Keilan stepped away, holding Tharin’s blank gaze. His grip on the wood was suddenly slick with sweat.
Grimacing in pain Fen helped the dazed Malik find his feet. He flashed Keilan a look of hate and fear as he led his cousin into the woods, and they vanished quickly, the sounds of their blundering through the underbrush fading.
Tharin lingered, expressionless. Then a smile slowly spread across his face. “I’ll see you again,” he murmured, and turned and sauntered into the trees.
Keilan stayed standing in the clearing, breathing heavily, his grip on the length of wood white-knuckled, until a light touch on his arm made him jump. He whirled around and found Sella, her face miserable. In her other hand she clutched the little wooden doll tightly to her chest.
“Kay . . .” she said softly, “I’m sorry.”
Keilan blinked, as if seeing her for the first time. He was surprised to find that the anger he had expected to feel from her betrayal wasn’t there, and he managed to force a little smile. She tentatively returned it, her mismatched eyes starting to water.
“Hey there, don’t cry,” Keilan said, wiping away a tear as it trickled down her cheek. “I’m all right.”
She sniffled loudly, even as her smile widened. “You beat them good.”
“I guess I did.” Keilan dropped the branch and gently prodded his aching ribs, wincing. “Maybe I’ll be a mighty warrior yet.”
“I think you’re already a mighty warrior,” she said, so seriously that Keilan couldn’t hold back a little burst of laughter, which only made the pain worse.
“Ha, ouch, thanks.”
“Should we . . . should we go back to the village? Will they be waiting for you?”
Keilan shrugged. “I’m not scared of them. Yes, back to the village.”
“Okay.” Sella moved next to him so he could lean against her, which he really didn’t need, but the attempt to help was so e
arnest that he allowed her to bear a little of his weight.
“So,” he said as they passed into the trees, “tell me about Esmi.”
“Mam Ru gave her to me,” Sella explained during their walk back to the village, guiding Keilan with exaggerated care around where a tangle of roots had squirmed onto the path. “Said Esmi’s really old. Used to belong to her own daughter; she died of the weeping a long time ago. I brought her some nightswort I found in the woods, and she said I looked so lonely these days, what with you gone, that she rummaged around and pulled out Esmi, gave her a spit of paint and some new hair, and said I didn’t have to be alone no more.”
Keilan held out his hand, and after a moment’s hesitation Sella passed him the doll. It was carefully made of hard, pale wood, with clever interlocking joints that still moved smoothly despite the doll’s evident age.
“I think Malik must’ve seen your da leave this morning without you,” Sella continued, taking back Esmi. “Then he went lookin’ for me. I was picking daisies for my ma and suddenly I looked up, and he was there with those two big ugly aurochs, Tharin and what’s-his-name, ah, Fen. He took Esmi from me and said I got to go bring you to the rocks if I wanted her back. Said he’d smash her to bits if I told anyone. I was worried what they were going to do to you when we got there, but I couldn’t go back to Mam Ru and tell her that her daughter’s doll was gone.”
Keilan patted her arm reassuringly. They had passed out of the small forest as they talked and now waded across a field of scratchy, knee-high grass. A flock of dark birds hidden in the scrub rose into the air around them, screeching. Keilan watched as they dwindled into the distance, becoming a line of ink scrawled against the gray sky.
“Well, Esmi’s back and Malik has a bloody nose so I think everything worked out pretty well. I . . .” He trailed off, squinting ahead at their village. Something was happening there. Between a few of the dirt-walled and reed-thatched huts he could see a crowd had gathered around the rock at the village’s heart.
“Mendicant,” Sella said, shielding her eyes from the sun.
“Your eyes are better than mine. What do you see?”
“There’s a man with black hair up on the Speaker’s rock, dressed all in white. He’s waving his arms around something fierce. You wanna go see?”
Keilan gingerly touched his ribs. The pain had already started fading to a dull ache. Nothing broken, at least. “Yeah.”
Most of the village seemed to have come out to hear the mendicant preach. Men too old to help on the fishing boats had set aside their tzalik boards and mugs of grog to listen, many with sour expressions that spoke eloquently enough as to what they thought about this interloping eastern god. More excited were the children that clustered around the base of the rock, hoping for one of the Tractate’s many stories about warring heroes, crafty demons, and wicked sorcerers. Then there were the village’s women, hovering on the edge of the square as if feeling guilty about not attending to their chores. Their expressions were guarded, lacking the open hostility of the elders or the unrestrained exuberance of the young, but Keilan saw more than a few amulets bearing the red-gold sunburst of Ama.
The mendicant was almost a boy himself, maybe just a few years older than Keilan. His white robes were spotless, the only color coming from the shimmering gold bands than hemmed his sleeves and hood. Around his neck a copper disc flashed like the sun itself when it caught the light. He was just finishing a story, almost dancing up on the rock as he acted out some argument or battle. The children let out a collective gasp as he finished the tale by throwing up his hands and praising Ama.
Once, a few years ago, a group of the more traditional villagers had expelled a wandering mendicant from the village, sending him scurrying back to Chale bruised and terrified. A few days later the mendicant had returned, accompanied by a dozen warriors from the local temple, who had arrayed themselves around the rock and stood silently with their hands on their swords as the cleric preached. When one of the braver fishermen had loudly cursed Ama two of the warriors had strode across the square and struck him down with the hilts of their swords. There hadn’t been an attempt to stop the mendicants from telling tales of their shining god since then.
The youthful cleric took a swig from his water skin and addressed the children seated in the dirt before him. “Tell me, little ones, which holy story should we remember next?”
A chorus of requests went up. “Jenna and her cloak of gold!” “Pellus Wyrm-Tamer and the father of dragons!” “The ship of lost children!”
The mendicant held out his hands to beg for quiet. “Ah, I think you all know these stories better than I do!” He pointed at a small boy seated close to him, Seven-Finger Soman’s youngest son, Gevin. “You, child, what story would bring the light of Ama into your heart?”
“I wanna hear about the Pure,” Gevin mumbled, concentrating on the ground while he pulled on some of the few tenacious blades of grass that had managed to survive in the well-trodden square.
“Aye, the Pure! The Pure!” echoed some of the other children, and the mendicant smiled indulgently.
“The Pure it is, then,” he said, spreading his arms wide and drawing himself up taller. The children quieted, staring at the cleric with wide, expectant eyes.
“I know this story!” whispered Sella, tugging on Keilan’s sleeve.
“Everyone knows this one,” he hissed back, “I doubt there’s a more famous tale in the world.”
The sun vanished behind a bank of swift-moving clouds, casting the square into shadow. He was a true showman, Keilan decided, as the mendicant seized this moment to start speaking, his voice heavy with dramatic power. The children muttered and shifted, glancing excitedly at each other.
“Long before the Sundering, before the black ice swallowed the north, before the Star Towers shattered and fell, before even the waters of this sea lapped upon the shores of these lands, holy Menekar shined like a beacon, casting far and wide the light of blessed Ama. From his alabaster throne the emperor sent forth his legions, and the princes and chieftains of the cities on the plains knelt in submission, welcoming Ama’s blazing presence into their hearts. For we are all His servants, as the Tractate teaches us, all His children, and it is the emperor’s holy task to bring His light to every nation, every people.” The mendicant stretched wide his arms, encompassing the watching children.
“But the souls of men are not pure. Within us all a spark from the Void smolders, a remnant from the beginning of time, when Ama hammered the world from the darkness. This spark makes us more than the beasts – some scholars say it is even what makes us pale shadows of Ama himself – but it also allows for us to perform the most terrible, unholy acts. The Void is hunger incarnate, you see, and so within every man this spark is constantly gnawing, always unsatisfied. Dominion, wealth, the trappings of power – all men desire these things, but to seize them is meaningless, and as empty as the air.
“There arose, during the Second Age, a new breed of man. Creatures of hunger, children of the Void, removed from Ama’s sheltering radiance. They had discovered how to mine the spark inside themselves, how to coax power from that tenuous thread connecting them to the dark beyond. Sorcery slid like water beading upon a strand of spider’s silk, from the endless Void and across unknowable distances, into the bodies of men. And thus the Warlock Kings of Menekar rose, in all their terrible glory.
“The emperor was cast down, then hung broken above the Melichan Gate. The legions, led by treacherous men, swore their swords in service to their new masters. The mendicants and satraps who remained loyal to the old ways were slain in terrible fashion, their heads festooning the walls of the holy city. Ama, the tyrants proclaimed, had gifted them with sorcery; their power was a mark of His favor.
“But that was a lie, and upon His golden throne Ama grieved, turning away from the wickedness of His children. A world He had given them, fashioned from the terrible e
mptiness, a refuge from the darkness, and they had betrayed Him, ushering the Void into His creation.
“Darkness fell upon the world. It was a time of war and plague, hunger and fear. The Warlock Kings commanded terrible powers, but they knew only avarice and refused to waste their sorcery helping those they deemed little more than chattel. In the countryside the crops failed. Babes were drowned at birth, lest their deaths be long and withering. The weeping arose then, and fathers laid their children in the ground, wiping clean tiny cheeks stained by bloody tears. Locusts covered the land, and unquiet spirits wandered the plains, howling and raging at the follies of their descendants.
“Into this time of evil a child was born. It is said that a mendicant found the baby in the charred remains of a village, surrounded by the burnt bodies of his kin. Raiders had torched the town, but the flames had not touched a hair on his golden head, and in wonderment the mendicant returned with him to his lonely monastery in the foothills of the Bones, the child swaddled in his own spare robes. Tethys they named him, ‘The Unburnt’ in one of the first tongues, though the meaning of that word would change in later years. They raised him in the old ways, free of the taint of the new, corrupt faith that held sway in the cities. His feats awed them: by his tenth birthday he could recite the Tractate, by his fourteenth he was said to be able to wash disease from a body like the great healers of old. Villagers brought to him their sick, asked for his blessing, begged for him to settle their disputes. His fame spread, until even in distant Menekar his name was heard.