The Valley of Ten Crescents Series (Box Set: Books 1-3)

by Tristan J. Tarwater

  “You all know what is at stake. We must all do our parts. Strength from Within,” his father concluded. He smiled broadly and except for the silver in his hair and the wrinkles at his eyes, Darix Cartaskin seemed the same young man Dershik remembered from his boyhood. He himself felt like a little boy, playing underfoot while the adults carried on their business. How long would he be forced under the table? As the old men came together to talk about less serious matters, Dershik slipped out of the room, needing fresh air.

  “Derry!” His brother called after him, chasing him down the hall. There were servants in the halls, swapping the tapestries on the walls for the newer ones. They featured the maned bear of the house with the silver fish in its mouth. Dershik wanted to rip them all down, but he concentrated on ignoring Ceric and made for the stairs.

  “Derry!” Ceric called again, louder. Dershik ducked into the staircase and took a step down before finally Ceric caught up, panting and tired.

  “Don’t call me that any more!” Dershik snapped. He felt the tension in his jaw, the anger in him grow. “We’re not children anymore. And I’m through with you.”

  “What? Why?!” Ceric called, following him down the steps. Dershik growled and spun around, grabbing his brother by his robes. He slammed him against the wall and pinned him there.

  “You hem chewer, you knew father meant to get Cira out of here and put you at the head of the temple. Like you could ever lead anyone. Like I need you.”

  “Der-ick” Ceric croaked. It almost sounded funny, except his face was terrified and his skin was changing colors. He tried to speak but couldn’t, Dershik crushing his throat with his arm. He just flailed his arms at his sides. Dershik held him there a breath longer than he would have liked to before he released him, watching as he gasped for air.

  Faster than thought, Ceric punched Dershik so hard he almost fell down the stairs. “You stupid fapper, you don’t get it. I have to stay here. To be by them. I need them.” It sounded like a plea, like it was begging. But it just made Dershik more angry.

  “I hate you. You’re just as bad as our father, keeping secrets from me, sneaking about and taking everything people give to you, just piling it up for yourself! Chew Her Hems, you greedy slave!”

  “If the world wasn’t run by asses like you and father, I could take for myself!” Ceric shouted, his face red, his eyes shining with anger and tears.

  “Well, take this,” Dershik spat, making an obscene gesture at him. “I hope you die as miserable as I am now, and as lonely. To Her Hems with you.” Dershik tried to ignore the look of anguish on Ceric’s face, but even when he turned and walked away from him he saw it, the pain, how lonely he felt. He tried to push it out of his mind and he remembered words he had said as a younger man, a less angry man. “We have enough to deal with as it is, we don’t need to fight each other.” And what had he just done? He considered going back to Ceric and begging for his forgiveness, but if Ceric said the wrong thing he might blow up at him again. Worse, Dershik could run into their father and he didn’t want to see him, not now.

  Dershik walked through the keep, ignoring the greetings of anyone he came across. Through the kitchen, under the overhang, past the clucking chickens and the herb gardens. The stable was open of course. Ripple had been put out to pasture now, retired, and Eddy waited to be saddled and ridden, the blue roan stallion already pawing at the ground. Dershik shooed the servants away and saddled the horse himself, leading the snuffling beast out toward the gardens that lay to the north of the keep.

  Servants shouted as he galloped the horse through the field, trampling the ornamental flowers. Dershik just laughed and whooped, standing in his stirrups and shouting encouragement to the beast. He rode the horse till they reached the woods, still in eyesight of the keep but far enough away they couldn’t see him. There was a small stream here he knew of and so he tied the horse up close to drink, pulling out the food he had taken from the kitchen and shoved in the saddlebag. There were a few carrots there for the horse and Dershik handed them over, scratching the horse on the cheeks as it snorted with happiness.

  Dershik was about to sit down and enjoy his stolen food when something caught his eye. He blinked, wondering if the failing light was playing a trick on him, but he scrambled up from the ground and walked over.

  A large tree about as wide as his torso, off the path but close enough to the stream he could find it. It was unremarkable except for the fact that close to its base, it was hollow. Big enough to hide a few things. Dershik put his hand inside. A pack would easily fit in here. A set of boots. And the stream could be followed. The recent memory of the accusations he made to his brother still stung. And he knew their father was serious about going through with his fashioning of a Throne instead of a Seat. The tree was here, as well as a way out. Dershik could give one more thing to his brother, especially if it meant taking away from the Baron who would take from them all.

  “You seem to be in a better mood,” Jerila said one evening. They ate supper in their room and Dershik held Deril in the crook of his arm. Dershik brought a spoon of stew to his mouth, the baby waving his arms at the food in acknowledgment.

  “Maybe because the weather’s getting better. I like the summer,” Dershik said. A chubby hand smacked him on the cheek, scratching his beard. Dershik looked down into the dark blue eyes, sticking his tongue out at Deril, who cooed. “You’ll like the summer too,” he said to the babe. “Maybe you can go swimming. Or just play in the garden and eat all of Gia’s herbs, you’d like that.”

  “He shouldn’t be eating herbs,” Jerila laughed, reaching over the table. Dershik set down his spoon and held the baby under his armpits, handing him over. “Only milk for little Deril, right?” Jerila cradled the baby in one arm, quickly bringing the baby to her breast so they could both eat at the same time. “Is Ceric back from Whitfield yet?”

  “He should be back at the end of the phase,” Dershik said, managing to keep the annoyance out of his voice. She asked him every day the last two phases. That and the constant reminder his brother had someone to love him wore at him. Ceric had been called back for testing and his father was paranoid they might assign his brother to another church. Dershik was worried as well, but he managed to put on a nonchalant face, which seemed to make his father more worried. Dershik thought about the clothes hidden under the tree, the cards lying on the nightstand. “Jerila,” he said, taking a sip of his wine. “Do you love my brother?”

  Jerila looked up with a start, a slight blush coloring her cheeks. She nodded, a small gesture barely moving her head, her eyes set on his. “Of course I do. You know this.” Jerila stared down at the baby after she said it.

  “Would you do anything for him?” Dershik asked. He sat back in his chair and waited for her reaction and response. She must have started thinking about what that might entail exactly, because she looked down to the table, her eyes moving back and forth as she searched over scenarios in her mind. Jerila sat up straight in her chair, shifting the baby in her arms.

  “Yes, I would. And I am.” She wasn’t accusing Dershik of anything, nor did he fault her for anything. Her father had decided an alliance with the Baron would be best cemented by willing his mines to his grandson and not his daughter. If she was complicit, so was he.

  “You are good for him, you know that,” Dershik mused. He pushed his grains around his plate with his spoon, wondering what was being cooked in the kitchen right now. “You remember what he was like, as a boy. So nervous. Now he’s more sure of himself, more ambitious.”

  “More melancholy,” she said. Jerila moved the baby to her lap and patted him on the back. She looked at Dershik, tilting her head to the side. “And what about you? I remember you when you were young. You’ve changed as well.”

  “Taller, stronger,” he offered. “And I eat bloodroot now, I couldn’t stand it when I was little.”

  “That’s not what I meant,” she laughed. The baby burped loudly. Dershik watched as she held the baby to her, t
he little boy moving his head around to look about the room. Jerila put a diaper on her shoulder to soak anything the baby might spit up and looked to Dershik again. “You used to be so…you loved everything, you were so enthusiastic. You used to love playing, ‘Lead the Party.’ I remember you used to say, ‘When I’m Baron, we’ll have honeybread for breakfast, not porridge,’ or other things.”

  “I was a child,” he huffed. “These are the kinds of things children do.”

  “Everyone looked up to you,” she said. “Ceric most of all.”

  “Even after I locked him in the tunnel on the second floor,” Dershik sighed, remembering. “I told him if he would just come with me, he would be safe. There were books in there, old ones I wanted him to see.” Dershik shook his head, the memory old but still clear. He remembered grabbing Ceric by the shoulders and throwing him into the small space, holding the door closed with his back while Ceric pounded and screamed, his voice muffled by the wood between them.

  “He was scared of the dark for a long time after that,” Jerila said. Now she sounded as if she was chastising him.

  “Jerila,” he said, standing up from his seat. “Would you believe me if I said…I do love my brother? And I do care for you. And Deril.” He gripped the back of his chair, his knuckles turning white as he thought of what to say. “And anything I do? It’s not just for selfish reasons. I am not a selfish person.” They stared at each other for a breath. He thought Jerila would say something but she didn’t. He wasn’t sure if she agreed with him or not but he knew what was true. Dershik grabbed his cloak from the peg beside the door and left. He had lamp oil to store in the abandoned stable.

  It was difficult to pick the person who would be his stand in, to realize his options. This part of the plan was the hardest. If he was to fake his own death, there would have to be a body, and obviously not his own. Bodies took hours to burn down to bones, so a pile of bones would look suspicious. He would need flesh. Dershik listened and asked questions of the servants he gambled with. Most had families, loved ones also working in the keep, people he had grown up with. But rumors were going around about one of the newer servants. A lamp keeper everyone called Fil had been jailed in the Tyeskin territory for violent behavior. He was quiet and kept to himself though he did frequent the card and dice games wherever they were held around the keep. Fil did like to drink and gamble. And he was of a height and build with Dershik, which sealed his fate.

  The day Dershik decided to enact his plan he finally went to see Cira. His mind went back and forth, regarding the wisdom of his decision, but if he followed through he would never see her again. His feet seemed heavy as he walked to the temple, memories he had made with her playing through his mind, conversations they’d shared. Dershik remembered all the disappointment he had revealed to her, all the secrets of his heart and how he held back these last few years. He wondered if she would miss him once she thought he was dead. Would she cry? But then he began thinking about the real man who would die and it turned his thoughts away from phantom pity. He took a deep breath before he put his hand on the door and pushed it open.

  Cira was praying in the pew, her hands over her heart, head bowed. Dershik walked as quietly as he could, running his hand over the smooth wood of the benches. He sat down beside her on the bench, the pew creaking in a familiar way. Her eyes fluttered open and she let her hands drop as she looked toward him.

  “I’d say I’m sorry to disturb you, but I’m not,” he said. Dershik smiled wolfishly at her and she rolled her eyes eyes, rising from her seat. “What were you praying for?” he asked. His hand draped across the back of the bench, one leg crossed over a knee.

  “I was praying for myself, actually,” she said, folding her hands in front of her. Her long robes dragged along the floor but never seemed to get dirty. Maybe because they were grey. He thought about what it implied, the larger connotations of the grey garb and the priestesses. His own brother wore family colors under his priestly robes. He wondered what Cira wore.

  “I thought I might do the same,” he said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small blue coin. “Would you please get out the devotional incense?” He stood and placed the coin on the altar, the sound muffled against the fabric covering the sacred space.

  Cira turned to go but she stopped. “Which incense would be appropriate for your devotion?” she asked. She stepped behind the altar and lifted up the altar cloth hiding the tools they used for services. The chalice still sat on the altar, alabaster white with the whirls and designs accented with gold paint. How many times had he dipped his fingers into this chalice?

  “I think I could use some encouragement right now.” He left it at that. Cira just eyed him before she pulled out a box and opened it with a key she wore tied to her wrist, pulling out the lamp and the small vial of the appropriate oil. She poured a few drops before she put the lamp on a stand, lighting it with a match. The oil in the lamp burned and the scent of rich woods and night blooming flowers wafted through the temple.

  Dershik thought of the dagger in his boot, the lamp oil in the stable, the hollow under the tree. The hole he would leave when he was gone, that he hoped Ceric would be able to fill. Even if his brother wasn’t the Baron, he could still be with Jerila. And with Dershik gone, would his father’s plan to usurp the Church and become a king hold? It was an act of defiance against his father, leaving, the only one that would stick. Dershik’s protests were worthless to his father. The idea of killing a man rose in his mind and the scent of the devotional incense seemed too heavy in his nose, almost suffocating. Would Fil be missed? They would assume Fil killed him, wouldn’t they? In a drunken rage, if it made any difference. They’d bury Fil’s body in Derk’s grave, beside his mother. He wondered if his father would cry at his wake or if he would immediately start making new plans.

  “Do you need prayer, Dershik?” Cira asked finally, interrupting his dark thoughts. Dershik jerked his head toward her before staring back at the floor, shaking his head.

  “No,” he sighed. He put his hands on his thighs and stood up, walking over to her. Dershik took both her hands in his, their eyes meeting. His heart thumped in his chest but when he leaned over, he kissed her on the cheek. It was a kiss full of restraint. His mouth lingered on the side of her face and when he pulled his lips off of her skin, he rested his forehead on her temple, smelling the unique scent of her skin and hair, feeling her hands gripping his.

  Then she kissed him on the mouth. Dershik pulled away from her but still held her hands in his, not sure if he should let go. He looked toward the door and then back to her, biting his bottom lip in anticipation. The look on her face told him she wanted more than a kiss. Dershik remembered the night in his room when he had chased her away, too drunk to make good decisions. He was sober now and tomorrow, he would be gone. Would sleeping with Cira make leaving more difficult or easier? They both looked to the door, not surprised to find they were still alone. Dershik took her in his arms and kissed her, letting her pull him out of the temple through the side door. They walked through the shadow of the keep, the sun already setting. Cira led him into her room and locked the door behind him, throwing him down onto the bed.

  When they were done, Dershik watched as she dressed quickly, pulling on her skirts and robes over her pale skin. She had a birthmark on her stomach he had never seen before, and he sat up in her bed, realizing he’d probably never see it again. Not unless he came back to her room before tomorrow night. Cira smiled at him as she plaited her thick, dark hair with long, slender fingers. Before he got too comfortable in the bed he was up, looking for his clothes.

  As he walked back to the keep he thought not about Cira but tomorrow night and what he would have to do. A part of him wondered if having Cira would make life more bearable at the keep, and what it would mean for Jerila. Priestesses were allowed to take as lovers whomever they wished and did occasionally marry but he and Cira could obviously never be. And when his father found out, he would send Cira away sooner r
ather than later.

  Dershik knew what he wanted. He had to put all this behind him and move forward. But first, there would have to be blood. Blood and fire.

  Dershik sat in the abandoned stable, holding his breath. Fil sat across from him, eyes barely open. The cards were strewn on straw-littered ground and the pitcher of spirits he had brought was empty. The lamp gave off a feeble light, low and hidden behind a barrel. Fil had come easily enough, already in his cups when Dershik had put the question to him and offering something he didn’t think Fil would refuse. He’d brought up a bottle of ten year old barley wine from the stores, an excellent vintage noted for being subtle with its fruit and smooth in the mouth. It probably helped Dershik drugged it with a sleeping aid given to him by the midwife to help him through the night and through Deril’s evening wakings. Dershik preferred to walk off his anxiety and so he mixed the herbs into the wine. It was a waste of the wine. Fil had drank all of it.

  The man leaned in his chair, his eyes rolling back in his head before he keeled over, too drunk and drugged to stay upright. He landed on the floor with a thump that seemed too loud and Dershik waited to see if he had roused him. Instead a low snore emitted from the man’s nose, his mouth open.

  Dershik had to kill him. This was the body which would be buried in his grave, the body his family would mourn and watch over till the next new moon. But he couldn’t burn him alive. Dershik took up a rock in his hand and stood over the man, as if waiting for him to wake up and fight back or at least scream. But his eyes were closed. Maybe he had broken his neck falling off the stool. Dershik shook his head and brought his hand to his hair, pulling at it. He snored. Fil was alive.

  The rock was large and bulky but he wrapped his hand around it and knelt at Fil’s side. His mouth was dry as parchment, and sweat popped on his forehead, despite the coolness of the night. Fil just lay there, unmoving except for his chest. Dershik couldn’t help but reach out with his free hand and poke him, to see if he could get a reaction. The man just breathed. Dershik licked his lips and moved Fil’s head so it lay against the ground, giving him a clear shot at his temple.