—
Draden sat alone in his tent, exhausted. Parchment, pen, and ink waited before him, his letter unfinished. He was unsure what, if anything, to say about the day’s events. Such topics were neither fitting nor pleasant, and Kara knew well enough what war entailed. He wished he could speak to her, hear her voice, feel her hand on his. The plainsfolk had killed and raided since before he was born, but for the first time he was unsure of himself in his duty.
He finished his note, saying little save that he longed to return home and that he loved her, and placed the note with the other messages and reports to be taken by couriers the next day.
He stared at the scroll case on his table; orders from Halkoriv, brought during the evening. He had not yet opened the case.
He had been ordered against taking prisoners before, but those had been other armies, not villages or whole tribes. Halkoriv wanted the plainsfolk destroyed, that much he understood. They were murderers who had been at war with the Cheduna for centuries. But the children as well?
He turned his mind to Revik and hoped that he would be found soon. While he had grown colder and more distant, Draden felt that something remained of their old friendship, at least as much of one as Revik was capable of having. He wondered, not for the first time, what in his past troubled Revik so. He had asked once, when they were still children, but Revik had seemed reluctant to speak of it. When pressed, he had answered “I sometimes feel I am someone else. That I am watching… something else act as if it is me.” He had not explained or spoken of the feeling again. Draden wondered if it was the sorcery, the power Revik commanded. Such power must be a burden.
Something also worried Draden about the plainsfolk that had taken Revik. They were men like any other—Draden knew that—but if that were true, they could not have beaten Revik. He wondered if that was why Halkoriv feared them.
—
In the dark of the tent, Revik waited. His hand was going numb in Haaph’ahin’s grip. He was too weak to do anything but watch the old Huumphar’s eyelids twitch and flicker.
Haaph’ahin looked up, eyes opening wide as the glow faded from them. “You… you are not he…” he gasped, his voice weak, his breath short.
Revik started—the old man had not moved or spoken for an hour. “What? Not who?” he asked despite himself.
Haaph’ahin stared through him. “You are not Revik Lasivar. You are not Lasivar’s son. I knew it. I could see none of him in you, nor of Hera.” His eyes were wide. He babbled and stumbled to his feet, lurching one way and the next. “You were stripped of your power—that could not happen, not if you were really him… it’s not possible…”
Haaph’ahin looked at Revik again, and his eyes filled with tears. “For nothing… they died for nothing. You’re no one.” He looked broken, a feeble old man, lost and alone.
“What are you blubbering about? I know who I am.” He was not sure enough of what was going on to make any further response, nor did he care what the old man said. He knew his own power and his destiny. As soon as he was well, he would finish what he had started and, when Halkoriv died, take his rightful place as King of Feriven.
Haaph’ahin continued to mutter and cast about with his eyes, now ignoring Revik. “…not possible. I saw it, saw him take you—Halkoriv’s chosen…” He whirled about and grabbed Revik’s tunic, shaking him and shouting. “Who are you? Where is Lasivar’s son? I let them die for him, not you!”
Taken aback by the sudden assault, Revik cried out as the old man shook and struck him. Fury roiled up inside him. Without thought, he released his restraint as he always did. He felt nothing, then the chill dark wended through his body. He shoved Haaph’ahin hard with one arm and felt the old man lift off the ground. He collided with a support pole on the opposite side of the small tent. It buckled and shook the tent and there was a sudden swell of shouting from outside.
Revik was unprepared for the exertion. His breath came short as a group of plainsfolk poured in to restrain him and retrieve Haaph’ahin. A warrior a few years Revik’s elder, his skin marred by welts and scars, shouted incomprehensibly and held a bone-handled knife to Revik’s throat. Others tended to the old man, who was still shouting, now in his own language and in a state of hysterics. He choked back tears and jabbed a finger at Revik. The others looked at him in horror and shock and shouted louder.
—
Ahi’rea rushed into the tent along with the others. “It’s not him!” Haaph’ahin cried. “He’s just Halkoriv’s pawn! A sorcerous monster sent to kill us! He’s no one!” The Huumphar were flabbergasted. By now all of them had learned that their prisoner was their prophesied savior. Through the flurry of questions and shouts, Ahi’rea called for silence and soon quieted the group.
Haaph’ahin slumped to the ground and at Ahi’rea’s urging, calmed himself and explained.
“Some twenty-five winters ago, I saw Lasivar for the last time. Many believed he had died when he fought Halkoriv’s champion at the Cliffs of Shurguun, but I and a few others knew that he had gone into the North to hide. From there, he coordinated the war from afar, only venturing out himself in times of need. When my Sight showed me that he had been discovered, we met and I told him what I had Seen: that his family would be found and his son, Revik, would be taken by Halkoriv. The boy would be molded as Halkoriv’s weapon. With Lasivar’s powers of Storm and Hera’s Self and Sight, combined with Halkoriv’s dark magic, he would be a terrible force indeed. I urged Lasivar to hide his son. He agreed, and it was then that Hera prophesied that her child would come to lead us against Halkoriv.
“But Halkoriv took the child anyway. He sent his men into The Gharv and they took him. Still I held out for hope that, one day, he would return to lead the Huumphar.
“A few weeks ago, as Ruun’daruun planned the raids on the southern garrisons, I had a vision. The storm gathering to the South would bring our destruction, unless we could meet it. I knew that Lasivar’s son would finally come to us, to destroy us. If we captured him, I thought we could teach him, show him the truth, and he would fight against Halkoriv. That is why I let the plans go forward.” He paused, tears tracing glimmering lines down his face. “I knew many would die. I knew many would lose someone they loved. But I thought that if we captured Lasivar, it would be a worthy loss.
“But something went wrong—this man is not Lasivar. He bears his name, he serves Halkoriv with dark sorcery, but he is not the true son of Lasivar and Hera.” Haaph’ahin’s voice broke and he choked, weeping. “I am a fool. My visions have brought only death. He is no one, and my Sight has failed!”
The Huumphar looked on in silence. Haaph’ahin always knew death approached before it arrived, and he was a pillar of strength and leadership for the Huumphar. None had ever seen him so. Some began to shake in silent sobs with him.
For a short time, the Huumphar had dared to believe that they had a new chance of victory, that the son of great heroes would soon realize his true place and save them.
Now they saw in their prisoner their end; a foul warrior without lineage, the last of many threats, the one that would bury them all.
—Ten—
The day passed in fearful quiet. Ahi’rea felt each of the Huumphar, alone with his or her thoughts. Some planned to leave after the Sendings, others to fight to the last, but all knew their end was near at hand.
Their warriors were dying. Their children grew weaker and sicker, if they were born alive at all. Game had grown scarce and traders were not to be found in their lands any longer. Where before the Huumphar had dreamed of one day wandering the plains unhindered, as their ancestors had, it seemed now they would live out their days in hiding until their kind died out. Stories of Lasivar’s son coming to lead them had embodied those dreams, even if they were only stories. Now, with those tales shattered by the truth, they had nothing.
Ahi’rea was sick with fury and anguish. Her father had let people die on the strength of a vision, a vision that proved false. He knew full well that t
he future was in motion, was never certain. He had often told her that her practicality and doubt were what kept her Sight from improving. Now, she was too bitter and broken to feel vindicated, and tradition would not allow her to chastise him.
Sorrow threatened to overwhelm her, but it would have to wait, for the Sending ceremonies for the fallen could not. The prisoner’s future would have to be decided, but he could wait, too. If he dies during the move, she thought, so much the better.
—
Revik was left alone, his solitude only interrupted when he was brought food and water. He thought about making an escape, but even the idea of standing sent waves of dizziness through him. His power would not answer his call again. He worried again that this time he had lost it forever.
That worry, and the old man’s words, gnawed at him, and the darkness of the rank and filthy tent closed in around him once more.
One of Revik’s earliest clear memories was being told by Halkoriv of his father, Koren Lasivar. He was told of his honor and valor, of his hope to see Feriven whole and at peace. Years in Cunabrel’s prison had erased his parents’ memory, but the idea of them was important. They had been heroes, martyrs even, killed by traitorous Cunabrel despite their loyalty and vision.
Another thing confused Revik. The old man had spoken of the Sight, of sorcery. Revik recalled the blazing eyes of the plainsfolk girl as she had severed him from his power. Surely Halkoriv would have known about sorcery amongst the plainsfolk, but he had said all other lines with the gift had been wiped out. So, either Halkoriv had not known, and his power had failed him, or he had been lying. Neither was a palatable thought. If Halkoriv had lied about that, what else had he withheld? What other lies had he crafted?
Revik tried not to think about it. He recalled from his lessons that a certain amount of deceit was expected from a good leader. The populace, and even trusted allies, need not know everything. Besides, not just anyone can learn of sorcery. Ancestry must provide the spark. He told himself that the idea that he was not Lasivar’s son was ludicrous.
Revik was not comforted and doubt robbed him of rest. He held up a palm, willing the inky tendrils to appear. They did not. What if he had merely been imbued with power, as Halkoriv had done before to some of his servants? The girl had somehow severed his power—could that be the explanation? He felt panic and fear for the first time in years—fear that the old plainsfolk man was right.
Revik was about to close his hand when he noticed a faint shimmer above his palm: a hole in the world, darker than the shadowy tent, darker than anything, darker than nothing. It was still there. He concentrated harder and the shimmer resolved itself into black, lashing shapes. They were faint and weak, but still they wound and writhed above his hand. Sweat beaded on his brow, but once more Revik felt calm and assured. His power was not gone, only suppressed.
He waited through the day and night, resting and, upon waking, calling up the icy, ephemeral tendrils over and over as if flexing an injured limb. Their touch comforted him, restoring their weight and pressure in his mind. They almost seemed to whisper to him: whispers of strength, whispers of power. It had found its way back.
—
The Huumphar broke camp after a long and quiet night. Their future was bleak. The one prophesied to save them was a fraud, their ranks were decimated, and the southern army approached with a vanguard of fire. Tak’la was pleased to be moving again, regardless.
Ahi’rea and Ruun’daruun led the tribe, making haste for the Monument. They turned toward the rising sun, heading along invisible, age-old paths through the plains known only by memory and feeling. Tak’la knew that if they were slow, they might be ambushed during the important ceremony. Their prisoner was surrounded by warriors and was made to jog along himself. He exhibited surprising vigor for one who had been so injured. Tak’la made a note of it, but otherwise ignored him.
Haaph’ahin was slower than usual. He was quiet and made it clear that he would prefer to be left alone with his thoughts. He lingered at the back of the group, keeping pace despite his age. Those who could not run were unheard of among the Huumphar.
Though he had been present for most of the discussions the previous day, something troubled Tak’la. Most of the others were distraught and he had felt it would be improper to interrupt them in their mourning. However, he worried over the elder of his adopted tribe.
He approached Haaph’ahin, slowing his pace until the old man caught up with him. “Greetings, honored Elder,” Tak’la said, settling into pace beside Haaph’ahin. “I am Tak’la. It seems you are troubled.” He smiled, hoping his deference would excuse his lack of a proper introduction by another tribesman.
The elder had not yet spoken to the youth from a lost tribe, though Tak’la had run with them for two years. The death-touched rarely spoke unless spoken to. Tak’la noticed Haaph’ahin scowling, looking at their feet. He took only one stride to cover two of the elder’s. Haaph’ahin snorted. “Age is a terrible thing, Tak’la Death-touched. The body and mind begin to fail just as you think you are beginning to master them.” He huffed along for a few strides without speaking. Tak’la kept pace. “I would prefer not to be bothered,” Haaph’ahin finally said.
Tak’la noticed Ken’hra ahead, giving him a look over her shoulder. Tak’la raised an eyebrow at her and addressed Haaph’ahin again. “Of course, Elder. Elder, I have a question.”
Ken’hra glared. Haaph’ahin seemed about to laugh, but maintained his composure. He looked over, as if reevaluating Tak'la. His scowl was blunted by the beginnings of a smile. “What of mourning, boy? You do not feel the need to keep silence like the others?”
“No Elder,” Tak’la answered. “They call me death-touched—my tribe is gone, my people lost.” The plains faded, past events fleeting before his eyes. “I died with them, they say. My Sending has been performed. I have more in common with those lost than those yet alive.”
“You have no tears? No pain? Would your silence not honor them?”
“Few will speak to me,” Tak’la answered, “So I am often silent. And I will save my tears. Rather than tears, I offer the lost my resolve, as I am already dead.”
Haaph’ahin ran in silence for a moment. “Many see a tragedy here, Tak’la Death-touched. We lost many warriors and friends to capture the wrong man. In addition, it is my fault. I could have stopped the raid, but the Sight failed me.”
“That is my question, Elder. If he,” Tak’la pointed his spear at Revik, “is not Lasivar, then who is he?”
Haaph’ahin sighed. “I do not know. I Saw a story like my vision of Lasivar. He came from the North and was imprisoned and corrupted by Halkoriv. He learned sorcery, but he doesn’t have the spark. Lasivar would—Hera, his mother, had the Sight and the Self, and his father had skill in the Storm.”
“So this spark—if he does not have it, how did he learn sorcery?”
“Halkoriv. And Sitis,” Haaph’ahin answered, “the Ravenous Spirit. It rides him. Even still…” He lapsed into silence.
Sorcery was a mystery to Tak’la. He had only seen it from Ahi’rea, Haaph’ahin, and his own dead tribe’s seer, Kiil’ana. He had heard of Sight and Self, and Lasivar’s power of Storm was in all the old tales. He had never heard of Sitis. Tak’la decided to change his line of questioning, though he burned to know what Sitis was.
“Then… where is the real Lasivar?”
Haaph’ahin’s eyes widened and he looked over at Tak’la in surprise. “A fine question… I had been too caught up in all the troubles to even wonder. He… he must be elsewhere, if he lives. Hidden. Well done, boy,” he trailed off. Tak’la noticed the old man’s pace quicken.
“Can’t you use the Sight to find him?” Tak’la moved a little faster to keep up.
Haaph’ahin shook his head. “It does not work like that. I may dream it, or perhaps if I had something of his… or if I knew him. Or…” He looked up at Revik, eyes narrowing. “I am sorry, Tak’la,” he looked down at the ground, brow furrowing. “I
really must think. We will talk more later.”
Tak’la almost asked another question, but thought better of it. He left the old man to run in silence, drawing ahead of him again. Sitis. The word felt dangerous and heavy and quiet in his mind, like the footstep of a predator in the dark.
—
The Monument rose out of the plains, a steep rocky hill in the midst of a flat and featureless land. The top was flat and paved with huge, flawless stones. The Huumphar did not know who had brought the stones there, or why. A dozen stony ridges, waist-high, jutted up and radiated from the center of the platform. Around the its edge, the remains of black marble arches, walls, and doorways stood like jagged teeth, reaching into the darkening sky. Toppled columns and broken bits of marble littered the hilltop. Hardy, gnarled bushes the color of ash had worked their way up through the stones and cracks. Now, near the end of their bloom, their deep crimson flowers had begun to drop their petals. As they approached and the sun set behind the Huumphar, casting its last rays into the east, the hilltop lit blood-red.
They made camp on the northern side of the hill’s base. The Huumphar marveled at Revik, who, though injured, had kept up with their pace throughout the day. Ahi’rea stared at him as he sat, arms bound, being given water by one of the warriors assigned to guard him.
Two days ago he looked as if he would die. Father said he had no spark, but without command of the Self, he should barely be able to walk, let alone run like us. She noticed Haaph’ahin watching the prisoner as well. Shaking her head, she moved off through the camp, observing the others as they tended to their needs. A few older women were returning with skins full of water from a spring nearby. Others were gathering roots and wild plants to eat. Several of the warriors had gone for a short hunt since they had seen no game during the day. Few expected them to be successful.
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