A Tale of Infidels

by Erik A Otto

  During the long ride from Pyros, Sebastian had beheld Perenna’s only flaw, if it could be called that. Her horse had stumbled on a rock and thrown her forward enough for her hair to come undone. Behind her bonnet he’d seen scarring near her eye. She’d covered it quickly and said it was a childhood injury, explaining that she’d burned herself with a Fringe device unwittingly. He could tell she was ashamed of the scars.

  She couldn’t know that her shame was lost on him. In his eyes, this only made her more perfect. Here was a former noblewoman who was as pious as any other, but what’s more, she also bore a scar of a heathen implement as a powerful talisman of the Canon of Belief.

  “Wait, aren’t we going to study together?“ Nala asked, catching wind of their separation.

  Sebastian sighed quietly. The Canons commanded that he help his companions, especially since he knew the Old Keep best, but how could he become a third-level apprentice without time to focus on his studies? He’d had little time alone on the journey from Pyros, and there were only so many hours until the exams began.

  And failure was a possibility. A painful memory of their lunch stop on the journey from Pyros asserted itself. Sebastian had asked Nala and Perenna an exam question for which he was certain of the answer. Nala wasn’t able to answer, of course, but Perenna not only answered the question correctly, proving his own answer to be lacking, but also cited pages, Canons, and narrative references from the Book without hesitation.

  At the time he could only nod solemnly, trying to hide his shame. Then, for the rest of the ride, it had fractured his confidence. Had Perenna been a savant of the faith all this time, or was she just lucky with this one response? Or worse, was he overestimating his own knowledge? Did all the other level-two apprentices have Perenna’s depth of knowledge?

  He tried to push aside his self-doubt and, as always, demurred to the teachings in the Canons. “I suggest we meet again at the first evening hour,” Sebastian offered, “in the apprentice hall.”

  Perenna was already at the clerk. She nodded her head in acknowledgment without looking back.

  Nala shrugged. “But where’s the apprentice hall?”

  Sebastian smiled and gestured toward the clerk.

  “Okay, I guess I can get directions on my own,” Nala said. Her voice held a hint of frustration. Then she spurred her horse to follow Perenna.

  Their parting left Sebastian anxious, for with his additional commitment he would be up much of the night, dissecting as much meaning and nuance as he could before the exams on the morrow.

  Chapter 2

  The Traitor

  “Up, up, up. Higher, princess,” Gwynneth commanded. “Remember, you’re a spear on the back of your horse, not a snake or a badger. Yes, now turn. Good.”

  Gwyneth just wouldn’t stop. Without any breaks, they’d ridden side by side, up and down the hedgerows, by the stream, and even through the woods as the branches lashed at her. It mattered not if a tree branch stabbed Hella in the eye, but Matteo be damned if she might slouch.

  In the tedium of these riding sessions, Hella often reflected on prior years when she was allowed to frolic with her sister and the highborn children of Pomeria. Back then they would play Thelonian apple ball between school and chores, the loser not only shamed by their peers but also later by their family’s scorn at their fruit-stained clothing.

  But there were no games today, only harsh discipline. Moreover, there was a conviction in Gwyneth that had picked up in the last week. It must have to do with Hella’s upcoming Announcement. Her parents must have asked Gwynneth to step up training in preparation.

  Gwyneth angled the two steeds along the east march toward the forest and relaxed to a softer canter. It meant they were nearing the end of the training day, after one last sprint. The sprints were the only thing she really enjoyed about riding lessons. Although today her neck and legs were unusually stiff. All she wanted to do was dismount and call Dalia to get her bath ready.

  But there was no appeasing Gwyneth, she knew. She wouldn’t relent until the training was done.

  As they approached the forest, Hella looked to see if anyone was watching them. The manicured lawns and hedgerows glimmered in the sun, as usual without any people around to enjoy them, with one exception. It appeared the guildsmen were leaving the palace in their caravan, escorted out by the Royal Guard. She squinted to see if Tasman was with the guard, but they were all too short to be him.

  The palace’s four stately Albondo oak towers also showed little activity. None of the Guardsmen were on the battlements between the distinctive array of thirteen maroon and white–painted flags. Beneath the upper palace, the windows to the common rooms were devoid of personality. One of the maids was closing the shutters, but no other profiles could be seen. Often, below the east tower, she would see her sister Aisha looking out with envy, but she’d been preoccupied with her treasury duties of late.

  Hella felt a stab of contempt after the long session—a feeling that needed to be appeased. As they approached the back of the palace, the forest runs loomed in front of them, and she saw her opportunity.

  “Hiya!” She kicked at Colfax’s flank and leaned into the corner of the first forest run. As Colfax burst forward, Hella peered behind her. She was happy to see that she’d gained a noticeable lead. “You just relax, Gwyneth,” she teased. A rare grin spread across Gwyneth’s face, and she kicked Valor’s side, taking on the challenge.

  Hella spurred Colfax hard for the first leg, knowing this was her only chance to gain the advantage. Ahead of her, the Xander River’s bubbly waters intersected the run. Here she would have to pass over the bridge. The run would then veer right, and there would be a sprint all the way through to Hound’s Clearing.

  Hella looked back again and saw Gwyneth, gritted teeth and all, closing in on her heels. The element of surprise had bought her a few horse lengths at most.

  The road narrowed on the skinny bridge, and so Gwyneth slowed behind her as caution reigned. Hella kicked hard, causing Colfax to vault through the air over nothing in particular. She leaned into the right bend after the bridge just as Gwyneth had taught her, keeping her buttocks up and head down. Then, finally, she was on the home stretch.

  Hella looked back to see that Gwyneth and Valor were still at least two horse lengths behind her, but they rode with unmatched elegance, Gwyneth spurring Valor’s sides with just the right amount of force, and Valor galloping in a consistent rhythm. Hella could hear them gaining on her steadily. She pushed Colfax with her spurs and patted her flank, but it wasn’t working. Colfax seemed spent, her breaths sounding blubbery, more like Uncle Heward’s drunken flatulence than a royal steed.

  There was nothing to do but push on. Gradually, with painful excellence, Valor and Gwyneth overtook her, not even looking to the side once, lest she show any imperfection. By the time they reached Hound’s Clearing, Hella was peering squarely at Valor’s rear end.

  They reined up the horses and circled the clearing, the horses panting.

  Hella wasn’t surprised, nor was she disappointed. Rather, she was impressed, and she felt Gwyneth deserved to know. “You’re a marvel, Gwyneth, a horse-riding marvel. I’m blessed to have you as my teacher.” And Hella bowed.

  Gwyneth didn’t know how to respond to this unlikely show of humility by Pomerian royalty. Her cheeks reddened. “You…are too kind, Princess. It is I who have the honor.”

  “Oh shush,” Hella said, smiling at Gwyneth. She liked to keep Gwyneth guessing as to whether she was the snob everyone made her out to be.

  Hella spurred Colfax back toward the stable, leaving Gwyneth to rest in contemplation behind her.

  Chapter 3

  The Imbecile

  Darian’s wiry frame ambled over the grassy knoll with an uneven cadence, while his close-set eyes paid keen attention to the surroundings. The northern lands of Thelonia differed little from the southern lands, except that townships were fewer. Given the similarities, Darian would often find himself doing a doubl
e take on a farm or hillock, thinking they were passing through his father’s estate. He even wondered if he could sometimes see his mother watering the flowers in the distance.

  “Still daydreaming, Bronté?” Carmine quipped. “I’ve never seen someone so awed by grass and cow patties.”

  “Still daydreaming, Bronté? Still daydreaming, Bronté?” Darian repeated to himself under his breath, getting the pitch as close to Carmine’s as he could.

  Carmine was his league partner today. He was a carpenter guildsman’s only son with rough hands and rougher manners. Darian tried to ignore him, hoping that Carmine would eventually lose interest in speaking with Darian. Ignoring his last league partner had worked. Not so with Carmine—at least not yet.

  Darian began jogging, his feet falling into a more comfortable rhythm. Carmine was out of shape, so forcing him to run would sometimes shut him up or at least make him lag sufficiently behind so that he was out of earshot.

  “Wait, wait, Bronté, is running really necessary? Do we even know where we’re going?”

  “If we want to win, running is necessary,” Darian said. He kept jogging. Carmine followed reluctantly.

  “Yeah, but…you didn’t answer my question. Do you even know where you’re going?”

  In truth, Darian wasn’t certain of their precise location. He was making an educated guess based on how far they’d come and where he thought they were on the map. Unfortunately it had been impossible to use Matteo’s moon to guide them on such an overcast day. Occasionally he would see what he considered to be the silver circle and make that his northwest reference. More than once, however, he realized afterward it was just some malformed cloud and not the moon at all.

  But Darian knew that the other league cadets would have the same challenges.

  “It’s this way,” Darian replied, pointing directly ahead of them.

  Carmine seemed to give up on arguing. His breath became more labored as he devoted himself to his exertions.

  It was their third day of orienteering. Darian was actually beginning to enjoy it, despite having to interact with people like Carmine. He wished they would have allowed him to do it alone like he’d asked. He could run much faster than these stodgy city folk and guild members.

  Darian whispered under his breath as he ran, “Still daydreaming, Bronté? Still daydreaming, Bronté?” Eventually it began to feel just right.

  Their objective today was a depression about eight miles northeast of the league campgrounds. The first trainees to reach it would win. On the map it looked easy to find; there were no large hills or ravines to circumnavigate like the past two days, but in reality it turned out to be more difficult to find precisely because the landscape was so repetitive. There were less unique landmarks to establish his bearings.

  Occasionally they would see the other trainees on the horizon. They weren’t allowed to communicate with them, so they kept their distance. It was encouraging that they weren’t completely lost, unless everyone else was.

  After a while, Carmine stopped running, so Darian had to slow his pace. Carmine looked angry, his face flushed and dripping with perspiration. They continued walking wordlessly until they came to a stream that cut a channel through a steep hill on their left. It was what Darian had been looking for. He turned right and began walking faster.

  “Can you run?” he asked Carmine.

  “You’re kidding me. I thought you said it was straight ahead? Now you’re taking a hard right for no reason at all.”

  “I think it’s this way,” he said, but he could tell Carmine wouldn’t take his word for it. He would languish unless he had more certainty. So Darian slowed to a stop and pulled out the map. “See, the flag we’re looking for is here, but notice it’s actually in a region of land that’s generally lower elevation—next to these rolling hills.”

  Carmine rolled his eyes. “So that’s why you’re following the stream.”

  “Still daydreaming, Bronté?” Carmine’s earlier words reverberated in Darian’s mind.

  Darian continued, “If you look on the map here, there’s a stream but it’s origins aren’t shown. Water has to escape the depression that has the flag in it somehow. I think we’re in the depression, and the water is escaping through that cleft in the hill to meet up with the stream you see on the map below. If so, it means if we cut right and go upstream, it should lead us through these hills—to the flag.”

  Carmine looked at him skeptically, but he seemed to consider his words. “That’s a pretty big gamble, Bronté. Let’s follow the stream, though. At least we’ll have water nearby if we get lost.”

  Whatever Carmine’s words, he began jogging behind Darian again. From then on, he followed without complaint.

  The run along the stream wasn’t steep, but it made for a meandering path that seemed circuitous. It cut through another hillock and kept going, and Darian’s mental image of the map asserted itself. If he was right, they were still quite far away. In hindsight, they hadn’t taken a good line to get to the stream in the first place. Others might be much closer to the goal.

  Eventually the stream forked into two smaller rivulets. Darian ran ahead and climbed up a few tree limbs. He jumped down and kept running up the rightmost fork, and Carmine followed. He grew hopeful. They hadn’t seen anyone in the last half hour, so perhaps he would finally win a contest.

  He ran faster, not sure how to otherwise encourage Carmine to do the same.

  Soon they saw the green-striped shirts of two other league cadets through the forest. When they were even closer, Darian could see them sitting on a rock next to the flag. Darian cursed under his breath as he finished his run to touch the flag.

  Carmine cursed as well, but more openly, dashing with newfound energy toward the finish. “Naustic nephews!” he said when he saw the victors. “I should have known.”

  “Still daydreaming, Bronté?” Darian said to himself quietly.

  Darian recognized the two other trainees. They were lithe athletes born of military families in Thelos. They’d won the first day of the games and come in third on the second day. The bigger of the two often kept company with Carmine during meals. Darian remembered the way he looked down and to the left when he chewed, just so.

  This bigger one laughed heartily. “That’s right, Carmine. But I’m surprised you made it at all.”

  “We would have won,” Carmine replied, “but Bronté had us looking for his farm—as if we were in southern Thelonia.”

  Darian felt a twinge of anger. Carmine would never have made it without him, but his statement was actually close to the truth. Darian’s daydreaming could have made them veer off course at least once.

  The big one turned his gaze to Darian. “So this is parrot boy Bronté? Pretty scrawny. How does your head stay up on that toothpick of a neck?” Seeing him up close, Darian could tell the boy was not only large, he was also rippling with muscle. He was the kind of boy who knew he could beat anyone in a tussle and was eager to prove it as often as he could.

  Darian didn’t respond. Instead he sat down slightly removed from the others and absorbed the taunting.

  “Oh, come on, can you give us one of your parrots, moron boy? I bet you would nail Carmine here, who only speaks in one- or two-word sentences.”

  “Still daydreaming, Bronté?” Darian said aloud, just so. He couldn’t help it.

  Carmine went red, and the military brute’s eyes lit up as he slapped his knee. “Ha! That’s really something. You sound exactly like him.”

  Darian walked away from them, into the forest, and then went about foraging for wood. They called after him, but they were far enough away that he was able to shut them out.

  In a few minutes, he came back and allowed himself to listen to their conversation, despite what it might make him mimic later.

  “Where’s the marshal?” Carmine asked. “I’m hungry.”

  It was indeed strange that no league marshals were in the clearing. The flag was unquestionably the objective, and there
had always been marshals to properly record results at the flag on the prior two days.

  The big one answered, “Maybe we beat him to the objective?“

  No one could answer his question.

  So they waited.

  After another fifteen minutes, not only had no other league cadets reached the objective, but there was still no sign of the marshal. Darian pushed a stick into the ground while Carmine and the big one threw stones into the forest.

  The other military boy came over to Darian. He wasn’t as big as the bully, but he had a wiry strength. More noticeable was an odd look about his eyes. There was a friendliness to them, but at the same time a fire lurked somewhere beneath them.

  He spoke casually. “Hi Darian, I’m Reniger. Nice to meet you.”

  “Nice to meet you too,” Darian replied, trying hard not to emulate his words or his eyes.

  “My brother knew your brother Baldric…from when he served in the league. Did he ever speak of anyone named Warren? Warren Teig?”

  Baldric always seemed preoccupied with his other brothers or Father’s demands, so Darian rarely spoke with him. With the twins’ antics or Radley’s obsessions with the Canons, Darian could easily be forgotten. That was fine with him.

  “Sorry, he didn’t mention it,” Darian responded.

  This Reniger seemed to be making some kind of overture to Darian, but Darian didn’t care. Whether his league mates wanted to taunt him or engage in civil conversation it didn’t matter. Both made him equally uncomfortable. All he wanted was to finish his training and head back to the estate. He longed for free time to range in the hills south of Marsaya, to jog through the dusty trails where no one ventured. Then he could get away from all these people and stop their annoying conversations from playing back in his head.