The Journey of the Marked (The Miyran Heir Book 1)

by Rebecca P. McCray

  “And they have much to give,” agreed Kalangia. “On another note, Rinald, the father of the fair child, Prizene, visited the palace two days ago, seeking information on the whereabouts of his daughter.”

  “Did he?” Isabelle asked with raised eyebrows.

  “It seems his job as head of commerce kept him from seeing his daughter during the week. He discovered she was missing only after several days.”

  “The poor man,” Isabelle murmured. “The signs you mentioned in the square advertising for Prizene and Tip’s arrest — he must have assumed his daughter bore the mark.”

  Kalangia nodded sadly.

  Isabelle added, “He must be devastated! It was hard enough to say goodbye to Eros. I can’t imagine the despair I would have felt had he left suddenly without my knowledge. What did the Lady tell him?”

  “He met with Virsos, the Lady’s attendant, a strong warrior,” Kalangia explained. “She provided him with confirmation that Prizene was marked. She also told him of the recovery of the Plinte girl’s body and her funeral to be held in Banston.”

  Isabelle smiled, “Very clever of her. Then he likely is making the journey to Banston to pay his respects … and at the same time he will seek news of his daughter.”

  Kalangia nodded. “Presumably. Virsos believes he’ll attend.”

  “Then we’ll find him and share the news we possess. Do you believe others that touched Eros’s life will be there?”

  “Possibly. The undergrounder, Ampal, will inevitably attend the funeral of his sister. The Liputs are less likely, given they tend to hide in their village. There was a Hurfen boy that assisted Eros and the others in the western part of the city. He plans to attend, according to Anyamae. If we are able to introduce him to the undergrounders, the Lady would be most pleased.”

  “Happy to help,” Anthony chimed in. “Why this Hurfen boy in particular?”

  “He shows unusual courage for a Hurfen,” Kalangia explained. “The Tyrnotts kidnapped his sister years ago and he wants to protect others. The Lady was most impressed with his conviction.” After a moment, he turned to Isabelle. “You have grown quiet. Why?”

  She looked at him and shrugged. “Given all her responsibilities, the ability of Anyamae to influence such small events always amazes me. There is little she doesn’t know.”

  “True,” Kalangia agreed, “though she is selective as to the knowledge she shares and the actions she takes. Each must find his or her own way.”

  Isabelle furrowed her brow. “Has she asked you to ferry such information before?”

  “Never.”

  As they each contemplated the unusual situation, Anthony prepared the transport for landing. It was early evening when they arrived on the outskirts of Banston. Isabelle carried the cage holding Kalangia in bird-form and Anthony carried their bags. As the sun rested low in the sky, a light pink colored the backdrop of Banston. Dome-shaped buildings peppered the landscape, becoming more crowded near the center of the village. People bustled throughout the town, including a variety of species, though Plintes naturally outnumbered the others by far. They walked to the center of town to the largest inn where Anthony had reserved a double room. The frazzled innkeeper asked their names and after a few minutes escorted them to their room.

  “Has it been busy?” Anthony asked him as they made their way.

  “Busy?” The innkeeper whistled, puffing out his cheeks in a show of exhaustion. “That’s an understatement. More people arrive every day for the funeral. A tent camp has been pitched at the edge of town to accommodate all the visitors. We stocked sufficient food here at the inn for our guests. The whole town pitched in to provide food for the rest. Much to do before the funeral begins. Luckily all the visitors are helping with preparations in any way they can. Canopies, music, speeches, seating must all be arranged.” He slowed down, then turned to face them. “Most of the time, you know, the marked dead are never recovered. Honoring Ishta like this is our way of honoring all those before her.” Tears sprang to his eyes as he added, “Those like my nephew. He worked here as a boy, until the mark appeared on his sixteenth birthday. He fought powerfully. We thought he would survive, though no one has heard from him since he left two years ago.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Isabelle said softly.

  Anthony nodded. “We honor him, too.”

  The man bowed his head, then turned and continued to the room. The room was a dome-shaped hut separated into three spaces, which included two bedrooms and a bathroom. They entered a small alcove from which a door led to each side. The simple furnishings were somewhat sparse and lacked personality, yet were sufficient for the days they would remain in Banston. A door at the back of each room led to a shared bath, which was small but clean. They settled into the rooms and, as the long journey had tired them all, they bid each other goodnight and turned in for the evening.

  Isabelle tossed in bed, unable to sleep. Lady Anyamae was acting strangely. During Isabelle’s short rotation at the palace, she had never encountered a Sharmuse, though she certainly knew of them. Why was Anyamae determined to ensure Isabelle received the message Kalangia carried? There must be something more to this. Perhaps she would learn the answer when she found the others she was to seek at the funeral. Tomorrow could not come soon enough.

  Chapter 46

  As the air transport continued its route, Jurf’s stomach began to churn. How would he know when to exit the transport? Was Banston the only stop? Would there be an announcement? And what would he do once he arrived in Banston? He fiddled with the strap on his bag and constantly turned his head from side to side, debating what to do. Perhaps he should walk to the front of the transport and ask the conductor. He disliked the thought of being singled out as naive, though missing his stop would definitely be the greater catastrophe. He drew in a shaky breath and started to stand when the man next to him spoke.

  “What’s your name?” the man asked.

  Jurf looked at the man, realizing that his constant fidgeting had likely disturbed the man’s concentration. “I apologize. I ... I haven’t ridden a transport before and, well, I’m not sure where to exit.” He glanced nervously at his hands and then looked back at the man. Tip was the only other Liput Jurf had met, but this man resembled an older version of Tip. Something about the man’s nose looked like Tip’s. Then he remembered that the man had asked his name. “Jurf. My name is Jurf. And yours?”

  “Tren,” the man replied. He held Jurf’s gaze for a moment. “Where are you going?”

  “Banston.” Jurf decided to stick with his cover story. “My uncle asked me to buy tools for our neighborhood and thought the experience of the Plinte funeral would be good for me.” He laughed a little at this, though with less conviction than when he previously had told the tale. The man didn’t respond immediately. Maybe he recognized the story as a lie. Jurf twisted the strap of his bag around his finger and bit his lower lip.

  Tren beamed and slapped Jurf on the leg. “You’re in luck, Jurf. I’m also going to Banston for the funeral. We can go together. I understand they’ve arranged a tent village for the visitors. They expect many to help with preparations for the funeral, of course. I’m sure we can find a job for both of us to do.”

  Jurf expelled a sigh of relief. “Thank you. I appreciate the help.” Then he blurted, “You’re Liput, right?” Tren looked at him with eyebrows raised. He shouldn’t have asked. How would he know what a Liput looked like if he hadn’t met one? And where would he have met one? They rarely travel to the city. He tried to keep his voice casual. Don’t mention Tip, don’t mention Tip.

  He turned to Tren and the words tumbled out, “I remember meeting some Liputs last fall after the great harvest. I was buying produce for the diner where I work.” He rushed on, “The colored tips of your hair made me think you might be Liput. Though perhaps I’m mistaken. I apologize for asking.” He waved his hand to dismiss the question and bit his tongue to keep from saying anything else. Even to a Liput, admitting he assisted marked on
es was dangerous. He needed to use caution when speaking with anyone. What had he gotten himself into? The man was staring at him. Jurf flicked his eyes away and then looked back to the man.

  Tren stared at him a moment longer. “Yes, I’m Liput. We do sell produce to many of the diners and restaurants in the city. Very likely you purchased from one of our stalls.” Tren patted Jurf on the shoulder, then resumed his watch out the window, effectively ending the conversation.

  They rode in silence for the remainder of the journey. After many stops and just as the sun begin to set, Tren motioned to Jurf that the next stop would be Banston. Apparently, Banston was the end of the route. Identifying the correct stop would have been simple, since signs were posted on the station platforms. Jurf was pleased to have made a friend, though. He accompanied Tren to the tent camp for visitors and waited in line for an opportunity to speak with the Plinte coordinating the sleeping arrangements. As a result of the large number of visitors, the coordinator suggested that Tren and Jurf share a tent. After a brief discussion, they agreed that shared accommodations would be suitable. They obtained a tent number and found their tent after asking directions from a few other visitors. It was small with two sleeping covers, towels, and a lamp. They lit the lamp and replaced the cover atop it. They wrestled with the latches holding the tent flaps open until they finally loosened.

  Jurf’s stomach started growling. His mother had packed a little food for his journey, but he had eaten a good portion of it already on the transport. He dug into his bag to see what he had left. He pulled out a couple pieces of fruit. Hopefully he could find a job tomorrow that would provide meals. He bit his lip as he looked across the tent at Tren, who was organizing his sleeping roll, then he held out one piece of fruit. “I only have two pieces of fruit left, but you’re welcome to have one.”

  Tren stopped what he was doing and turned to face Jurf. “Very kind of you, Jurf, but not necessary. I overheard a couple of other travelers and apparently the Plintes have prepared food for everyone. Let’s go find someone we can ask about it.” He extinguished the lamp and picked up an electric torch, motioning for Jurf to follow him.

  Jurf said a silent thank you for finding Tren. He placed the fruit back in his bag and followed him.

  Once outside, they tied the flaps shut and, using the electric torch, walked back in the direction of the check-in station. The Plinte who coordinated tents was still there and pointed them in the direction of the dining area. After they walked a short distance, Jurf noticed a concentration of lights ahead. With every step, the dull roar of conversation grew louder and more distinct.

  “There must be a lot of people,” Jurf said to Tren.

  “Certainly sounds like it. Do you smell that?”

  Jurf did indeed and it made his mouth water. “Yes. I’m really hungry.”

  He picked up his pace and Tren did the same. They slowed down as they neared the open field. Jurf was amazed at the number of people. There were hundreds, which surprised him, given the late hour. The area was lit with a combination of large electric lights on stands, which produced dim light, as well as dozens of low blazing pit fires. People were scattered in groups all across the field, laughing and eating. He followed Tren toward the food lines, hoping he didn’t need much money to pay for the food. As the remaining coins from the money Prizene had given him were few, he needed them to last. He watched Tren pick up a plate and start adding food. He glanced around, noting that there was no one nearby to collect money. Was it really free? Quite possibly, since the Plintes were more generous than anyone in the city. Still, Jurf was too embarrassed to ask. He grabbed a plate and tried not to take too much food, but it all looked so good that he couldn’t help himself. After selecting a variety of different dishes, many of which he had never seen, he followed Tren to an open space on the grass near one of the fires. The food tasted as good as it smelled.

  *******

  Tren watched Jurf while he ate. The boy must be half starved, considering the huge quantity of food on his plate. He wasn’t sure the poor lad was even chewing. Jurf reminded him so much of Tip — a bit awkward and naive. Yes, Jurf was definitely holding something back on the transport, but Tren would wait for the right opportunity to find out what it was. Despite having half the quantity of food Jurf had dished on his plate, they both finished eating about the same time. The sun had set long ago and Tren was tired from the day’s journey.

  He placed his hand on Jurf’s knee. “I’m going to turn in now. You’re welcome to stay.”

  “No, I’m really tired, too. Plus, I want to be ready to help tomorrow.”

  Tren smiled. Jurf was a good kid. “Let’s go, then. I think they’re collecting plates and utensils over there.” He pointed toward a group of volunteers with large containers in front of them.

  After handing their dishes and utensils to the washers, they started the walk back to the tent village. While people had greeted them pleasantly, Tren registered the shock on many faces. He guessed they were surprised to see a Liput in the village or perhaps a Liput with a Hurfen. His eyes twinkled as he stole a glance at Jurf — an unusual pair, indeed. As they reached the edge of the field, Tren noticed a wooden structure, somewhat resembling a tree, erected at the edge of the village. He steered Jurf toward it out of curiosity.

  Several Plintes sat on stumps around the structure, carving small, round discs. Tiny lit candles decorated the structure and were placed behind each round disc, illuminating them. As he neared the structure, a Plinte man finished his carving, stood, and placed the disc on a shelf on the tree. Then the man picked up a tiny candle, lit it, and placed it behind the disc. The man bowed his head momentarily, then walked into the village.

  Tren and Jurf studied the discs on the structure. Each disc portrayed a crudely carved image of a face. Tren scanned the two men and one woman sitting around the tree to find one of the men, an old Plinte man, looking up at him. Tren asked, “What is this?”

  “The Tree of Remembrance,” the old man replied. “One disc for every individual killed by someone else’s hand.” The old man stood and pointed to one disc. “This one I carved for my eldest son. He joined Anyamae’s warriors at the age of twenty during the Graelith battles and was killed two months later.” He pointed to another and continued, “And this one is for my nephew, marked at age sixteen and never heard from again.” He looked down at the disc in his hand. “And this one is for my granddaughter, whose funeral you have come to attend. Thank you for honoring her.” He placed the disc on the tree, then lit a small candle and placed it behind the disc.

  Tren surveyed the tree and the hundreds of discs already placed there. His mouth dropped open as reality dawned on him. The Liputs thrived because of the sacrifice of others. Hundreds of Plinte children had been lost defending the Lady and the citizens of Zolei, all to protect those like the Liputs. The untold number of lost children and grieving families humbled him and brought tears to his eyes.

  The old man watched Tren and said knowingly, “You have experienced the death of a child?”

  Tren simply nodded. “My three sons were marked. We often take for granted the sacrifice your children have made for us. Until now, I never truly understood. I resented the fact my children were marked, but now, seeing all those you’ve lost, I feel proud my sons were chosen. Maybe, just maybe, they’ll make a difference.”

  The old man inquired, “Have your sons survived?”

  With tears running down his cheeks, Tren looked at the old man. “My oldest son perished not two days after he was marked. Word never reached us about our second son. We still have hope he survived, as little news filters to Kentish. We received confirmation my youngest son at least made it to the city.” Whenever speaking of Tip, Tren habitually held back key pieces of information. “But we don’t know whether he still lives.” Tren wiped a tear from his cheek.

  The old man placed his hand on Tren’s shoulder. “Wait here.” The man returned to the stump and began carving another disc.

  T
ren looked at the tree again and then turned to Jurf. What an odd expression the boy wore. Yes, he seemed shocked by news of Tren’s sons, but there was something else in his expression. Tren would have to find time to speak to him alone tomorrow. For now he returned his attention on the old man.

  The man motioned to a young Plinte boy nearby to come closer and whispered something in his ear. The boy raced toward the village, only to return a short time later with a small container. When the old man finished carving, he opened the container and dipped the tip of his knife into the substance. He then dabbed the tip of the knife in several places on the disc. Finished, he wiped his knife clean and returned it to his side. After blowing on the disc, he studied his work. He returned to Tren’s side and handed him the disc.

  Tren gave a quick bow to the man, then looked at the disc with curiosity. The image on the disc portrayed a full-faced boy with a thick mass of hair on his head, the end of each strand a bright green. The man placed his hand on Tren’s arm and said, “No man should bear the weight of three marked sons. Lady Anyamae has a special plan for your sons. I am certain of that. Tonight and for the length of the event, we shall honor your fallen son with ours.” He nudged Tren toward the center of the tree.

  Tren wiped his face as he stood before the tree. He selected an empty space to the left of the center and placed the disc in honor of Trul. After picking up a small candle, he lit it and placed it behind the disc. He bowed his head, remembering his eldest son — how frightened he had been to leave home as the councilmen forced him through the barrier … and his face, frozen in terror when his lifeless body was returned two days later. Tren turned to Jurf to see Jurf’s head bowed, as well as the head of the old man. He thanked the man for his tribute.