Sons of the Oak

by David Farland

  He must have been round a corner, for Fallion could see little light.

  “Are you sure?” Jaz asked.

  “Don’t worry,” Fallion told him. “They … just want to scare us.”

  So Fallion hung against the wall, his weight born by the manacles around his wrists, and sang to his little brother, offering comfort whenever he could.

  His were small manacles, made especially for women and children, he realized.

  They cut into his wrists, made them swell and pucker. He had to wiggle his hands from time to time, try to find a more comfortable position, in order to keep the blood flowing to his fingers. He’d seen a man once, Lord Thangarten, who had been kept hanging in a dungeon in Indhopal so long that his fingers had died, and he was left a cripple.

  Yet if I wiggle too much, he knew, in a few days my wrists will chafe and begin to bleed.

  So Fallion hung on the wall and tried to minimize his pain. With his wrists bearing all of his weight, his lungs couldn’t get air. After the first few hours, he learned that it would be a constant struggle.

  In the darkness, Fallion was left to focus on sounds, Jaz’s breathing as he hung in his cell, deep and even in sleep, ragged when he woke. His brother’s weeping and sniffing, the clank of chains against the wall, the sobs of the tortured as they lay in their cells, the squeaking of rats, the snarling of strengi-saats.

  He would not have minded the rats, normally. But after he had hung against the wall for a few hours, he heard one squeaking below. It rose and bit his big toe.

  He kicked at it. The rat squeaked angrily as it retreated.

  It will be back, Fallion knew. It will be back, when I’m too tired to fight.

  He found that he had to pee. He held it for as long as he could, then let it go.

  In the darkness, deprived of light, accompanied only by the smell of mold and urine and cold stone and iron, as days began to pass, Fallion despaired.

  Several times the torturer passed by their cell, never looking toward them, his torch guttering, his keys jangling.

  He came at dawn, Fallion surmised, and left at night.

  “How long has it been?” Jaz asked time and again.

  Only three days, Fallion suspected, but he told Jaz that it was a week.

  One cannot despair forever, even in the worst of times. The body is not capable of sustaining it. And so the despair came in great waves, crashing around his ears sometimes, threatening to drown him, and then ebbing away.

  Sometimes he dared hope. Straining for every breath, he’d babble to his brother.

  “Maybe they’ve sent … messages to Mystarria, demanding payment for our release,” he’d offer. “We’ve been, at sea for eight weeks. It will take a ship that long to reach Mystarria, another eight weeks back.

  “Four months. In four months we’ll be free.”

  “When will they feed us?” Jaz begged.

  “Soon,” Fallion promised time and again.

  But they had been hanging on the wall for days. Fallion’s mouth grew dry and his tongue swelled in his throat. Greasy sweat became his only blanket. He woke and slept, and hung on the wall, sometimes unsure if he was awake or asleep any longer.

  Now when the torturer passed, Fallion and Jaz would both cry out, their dry throats issuing only croaks. “Food.” “Water.” “Help.” “Please.”

  Down the hallway, lost in time, Fallion heard a woman’s scream echo, followed by the snarl of a strengi-saat, the sound of it grunting, and more screams. The strengi-saat was filling the woman with its eggs, he realized.

  Who are all of these people? Fallion wondered. What have they done to deserve such pain?

  He had no answer. Like him, he suspected, they had done nothing.

  Waggit had taught Fallion about the lives of evil people. He knew that there had been lords in the past who tortured others for their own amusement.

  What had Waggit told him? Oh, yes. Such people eventually went mad. “They ride into power on a steed of fear and violence, doling out favors to those who support them. But as their inhumanity grows, their supporters fade away. Fearful of losing support, they begin to kill the very lords who brought them to power, and the foundations of their empire crumbles. In time, in fear and madness they dwindle away, and at last they tend to die by their own hands, or the hands of their people.”

  Waggit had cited examples of men and women so cruel that even to tell of it was harrowing.

  Is that how Shadoath will end? Fallion wondered.

  At the time, the lesson had seemed … boring, a mere recitation from the pages of dusty old books.

  Now, Fallion was learning of such things firsthand.

  Hunger gnawed at his belly. Thirst became a nagging companion.

  It was under these circumstances that the boys received their first visitor. Fallion had expected Shadoath herself to show up, but instead he woke in his cell, his vision blurred, and peered up to see Deever Blythe peering through the bars, a torch in his hand, grinning inanely.

  “’Ow they treatin’ you boys?” Blythe asked.

  Jaz was unconscious. Fallion peered at him, saw him pale and vulnerable. For the first time, Fallion began to worry that his little brother would die.

  “Last couple o’ days been nice, ’ave they?” Blythe asked.

  Fallion did not want to let Deever see him beaten. Choking, he said, “I’m well, and you?” But his voice betrayed his outrage.

  He’s the one that told on us, Fallion realized. He’s the one that betrayed me.

  “Not like back ’ome, I’d imagine?” Deever asked. “Not like those hoity-toity dinner parties, what with the lords in their silk tights, struttin’ about and dancin’ with their plump ladies. Not a bit like that, is it?”

  Fallion had never been to a ball. He’d seen one or two, and it sounded to him as if Blythe had only some garish approximation of what it was like at a ball.

  Outside the cell, down a hallway, an echoing groan came loudly.

  Fallion said, as if he were a lord at a dinner party, “The music does leave something to be desired.”

  Blythe peered at him, his eyes glowing with delight. Fallion wondered what message Blythe had come to bear, and realized at last that he had brought none. He’d come only to gloat.

  “Mr. Blythe,” Fallion begged. “Can you get … food and water? At least for my brother?”

  “What?” Deever Blythe asked. “You tired of chewin’ on your tongue already?”

  His teeth were flashing broadly in a smile, half hidden by his scraggly beard. There would be no food or water.

  Blythe held his torch loosely.

  Fire. So close, so easy to tame. Fallion could feel it calling to him, could feel the rage rising in his chest, the flames ready to leap out.

  “Oh, look at that,” Blythe said. “There’s a nice ’ungry rat down in the corner, come to visit ya. Better watch out!”

  Fallion hung his head. It wasn’t hard to do. He barely had the energy to lift it anymore.

  He saw the rat trundling toward him as it edged along the wall. There were rat bites on his ankle and feet, little red patches already swollen. The wall was slimy and dark between his legs, wet with urine.

  The rat nosed around Fallion’s feet, peering up at him, black eyes reflecting the torchlight.

  “Go ahead, little feller,” Blythe said, “’ave another bite.”

  Fallion kicked at the rat, and it backed away an inch. It knew that Fallion couldn’t reach him.

  Blythe laughed and lurched down the hall.

  33

  THE SEA APE

  Man learns in his youth that he must submit to indignities, for nature itself heaps them upon us.

  —Asgaroth

  Rhianna rode through the green hills by daylight, passing cottages and fields all left fallow, drifting in and out of consciousness. She did not know whether the men who had found her running on the beach were her saviors or captors. She felt tired beyond caring.

  She discovered the tr
uth when they reached the palace, and the men took her in and dumped her at the feet of Shadoath.

  “Your Highness,” one of the Bright Ones said. “We found her on beach patrol, just north of Port Syndyllian.”

  Shadoath studied the young woman, a pretty thing. Not many like her could be found on the island anymore.

  Rhianna peered up. Shadoath was easily the most beautiful woman that she’d ever seen. The palace was astonishing, its high windows all draped in white silks, with heart-oak panels upon the walls, and beams all gilt with silver. The room was resplendent, and Shadoath was its crown jewel.

  Only one thing marred this picture of perfect beauty. On each side of Shadoath’s tall throne, a strengi-saat was chained like a lion. The beasts slept at the moment, or at least rested lazily, but Rhianna felt certain that they were aware of her.

  Rhianna gaped, unsure what to say. Finally she asked, “Where’s Fallion and Jaz? What did you do with them?”

  Shadoath walked around to Rhianna, studied her as she circled. “You should be worried about yourself.”

  “Please, let me see them,” Rhianna asked. “I’ll do anything.”

  “You’re in no position to barter,” Shadoath said. “Do you know what we do with little ones like you?”

  Rhianna was afraid to ask.

  Shadoath frowned down at her. “We give you to the strengi-saats.”

  Rhianna swayed on her feet, nearly fainting, the terror written plainly on her face.

  “Are the boys all right?” she begged.

  Shadoath made no answer.

  Tears filled Rhianna’s eyes. She was trembling. She dropped to one knee, bowed her head, and said, “Please, spare them. I’ll do anything for you. Anything. People don’t think that I can do much, because I’m still just a girl. But I killed a man once, and I could do it again.”

  Such a bold declaration was not to be taken lightly.

  Shadoath had few servants that she could trust. If this girl feared her enough, she might become a proper tool.

  “Give me your hands,” Shadoath asked.

  Fearfully, Rhianna held out her hands. Shadoath grasped her wrists and studied Rhianna’s palms.

  Yes, I can feel the bloodstains there, Shadoath realized.

  “You love these boys?” Shadoath asked.

  Rhianna bit her lip and nodded.

  “Do you love them enough to die in their place?”

  Rhianna nodded again, but more slowly. Too slowly.

  From the back of the throne room came the sound of a throat clearing, and Shadoath’s son Abravael said loudly, “Mother, may I have her?”

  Shadoath hesitated, turned to her son. He had crept into the room quietly. Sneaking—that was his way.

  He was sixteen, still in that awkward period when he was still half a boy but had the lusts of three grown men. Shadoath had no doubts as to what services his son might desire from a pretty young girl.

  Rhianna peered up to see Abravael, not nearly as handsome as his mother, come striding into the room. He stared at her, bemused.

  In her heart, Rhianna dared to hope that Shadoath would give her to him, let her become his slave. She’d give anything rather than die.

  Shadoath got a sly grin on her face, and still holding Rhianna’s hands, said, “I think that you would make a fine servant. I’m not sure that I can trust you completely yet, but there is a fierceness in you that I admire.”

  Rhianna tried to force a smile, but failed.

  “And so I will give you this one chance: I will teach you the true meaning of devotion. Do you understand?”

  Rhianna nodded, for she understood that Shadoath wanted her complete devotion.

  “No, you don’t,” Shadoath said. “Not really. Not yet. But soon you will. I want an endowment from you. Do you think you could give up an endowment?”

  Rhianna nodded.

  Shadoath smiled.

  Taking Rhianna by the hand, Shadoath led her deeper into the palace and out the back. There, beside a pool, squatted a young sea ape, a female with long yellow fangs, and hair that was almost as white as snow. She stood perhaps only seven feet at the shoulder, and when she saw Abravael, she rushed to his side and squatted next to him, gently inspecting his skin as if seeking lice.

  Total adoration shone in the sea ape’s dark eyes.

  “Love without wisdom is useless,” Shadoath said. “I want you to give your endowment of wit to her. She will teach you devotion, and with your help she can learn many things.”

  Rhianna nodded slowly. To give an endowment of wit was dangerous. It was supposed to allow the recipient to use a portion of your brain, to give him an expanded memory. The recipient would thus become a genius, while the Dedicate was left an idiot.

  There was a danger, Rhianna knew, that the Dedicate would give too much, that she would grant so much of her intelligence that her heart would forget how to beat, her lungs forget how to breathe.

  I won’t do that, Rhianna promised herself as a servant brought a facilitator, the wizard who would transfer the endowments.

  The facilitator was surprisingly young, dressed in rich robes of deepest crimson. His face had a solemn, drugged look.

  “You promise?” Rhianna begged Shadoath. “You’ll spare the boys?”

  Rhianna was in no position to make demands. Shadoath could kill her before she blinked her eyes.

  “You keep your end of the bargain,” Shadoath said, “and I’ll keep mine.”

  Rhianna nodded, and dropped to her knees in submission, for she could do nothing more.

  The facilitator had her sit beside the sea ape, peering into its enormous eyes, as he began to sing the incantations, his voice sometimes dropping low and liquid, like the solemn tones of a bell, then piping high and frenzied, like the distraught calls of a mother bird.

  Sometime as he chanted, he reached into the sleeve of his robe and brought out a forcible, a tiny branding iron no thicker than a nail, about the length of his hand. The forcible was cast from blood metal, and so was the color of dried blood, rough and granular. At its tip was forged a single rune.

  The facilitator held the forcible out, spread over one palm, as if to display it to Rhianna.

  He wants me to get used to it, Rhianna thought. He doesn’t want me to be afraid of it, and indeed, a moment later, still singing the incantation, he brushed it against the back of her arm for a long moment.

  Shadoath was sitting behind Rhianna, and she whispered, “Now, child, look into the ape’s eyes, and give yourself to her. Will yourself to her.”

  Rhianna tried to obey, but it was hard. She was frightened. She had heard that giving endowments was painful, and now the facilitator placed the forcible to her forehead.

  “Will it hurt?” Rhianna asked, panic shooting through her. She suddenly clenched her knees together, afraid that she might pee.

  “Only a little,” Shadoath assured her, “only for a moment.”

  The facilitator held the forcible against her skin for a long minute, singing faster and more frantically. His voice was like a distant drum, pounding and pounding on the edge of her consciousness.

  The forcible began to grow warm, and Rhianna could see the metal heating up, glowing red like tongs in a forge. She smelled a strange metallic smoke, and then it began to burn.

  She heard her skin sizzling, and there was a light as the forcible glowed white-hot. But she felt surprisingly little pain. It was as if the forcible flared so quickly that it merely fried the nerves off of her head, and mercifully, the facilitator chose that moment to remove it.

  He waved the white-hot forcible in the air, and an afterglow followed it, but mystically seemed to hang in the air between them.

  It’s like a snake, Rhianna thought, a snake made out of light.

  Its head was at the tip of the forcible, but its tail extended back to some point inside Rhianna’s forehead.

  There was a dull ache between Rhianna’s eyes, a pulling sensation, as if the contents of her skull were being drawn
out.

  The facilitator sang and waved the forcible in the air, peering at the snake of light, seeming to judge its heft and thickness.

  He turned to the sea ape, and the ape just peered curiously at the glowing forcible. He plunged the tip of it into the hair between her breasts, and the sea ape peered down, her mouth open in dull wonder.

  The facilitator sang louder and louder, more frantically. There was a yanking sensation between Rhianna’s eyes, and then she saw it: a bright actinic flash traveling through the pale pipeline of light.

  The facilitator cried out in triumph. The air stank of burning hair and scorched flesh as the forcible went white-hot.

  Rhianna felt a pain blossom, one that started between her eyes but that shot to the back of her skull. It was as if her skull were suddenly shrinking to the size of a walnut, and everything inside would gush out.

  Just when Rhianna realized that the pain was greater than anything she had ever hoped to bear, it suddenly intensified a hundredfold, and an endless cry was torn from her throat.

  Rhianna collapsed, and as she did, she found herself staring down at her own body, watching herself collapse. She flared her broad nostrils, sniffing, and got up and paced about on her knuckles, too energized and too alarmed to sit any longer.

  Rhianna was the sea ape.

  34

  A CHILD OF EVIL

  One of the sweetest victories in life comes when we discover who and what we are.

  —Fallion Val Orden

  Twice more the torturer came and went. But the hulking, hooded brute never turned to look Fallion’s way.

  But the time will come when he will look my way, Fallion thought.

  No food or water appeared.

  Jaz had grown weary of asking for it, and both times that the torturer passed by, Fallion saw that his brother only hung limp now, barely alive.

  Fallion knew that torturers liked to soften their victims, to withhold nourishment before putting them to pain. It weakened their wills, weakened their resistance. A man who could withstand the burning tongs often could not withstand the eroding weakness brought on by hunger.