Deviants of Giftborn (The Etherya Series Book 1)

by Amarcya, Zuri

  Nemma’s heart sunk. She had been found already. She shrugged.

  The man sighed. “I might as well take you back before my shift ends. Come on.”

  Nemma stared at him. Take her back?

  “Get up,” he ordered, gesturing to the layer of light he was standing on. “Before I change my mind.”

  Nemma tentatively stepped up onto the glistening sheet and stifled a gasp when they began to drift along the road.

  “Never been on one of these before?” he chuckled. “I’m not surprised.”

  The buildings rushed past as they picked up speed along the busy road. And yet she could feel no wind. In fact it was warm. Nemma sat down and ate a chunk of bread and some dried fruit noticing that there were other layers of light on the road with small groups of people on them. They all seemed to be headed by a young gray-robed person, all with different color cowls. She had seen magiens entering and exiting the city and none of them wore gray and yet these people were obviously Giftborn. By the time they began to slow, stars glinted in the sky and the moon hinted its arrival with a slight curve amongst the clouds.

  “Here we are,” Gray-robe said, as they came to a stop next to a broad paved area behind which sat a number buildings with small dark paths between them.

  Nemma scrambled down from the light and thanked him.

  His brown eyes softened. “Go and find Calladene and get those cuts seen to,” he said trying to sound stern. “If you think you had it bad during the day, the night does not compare.”

  Nemma took in her surroundings. The buildings in front of her were not like the huts she had seen earlier. The walls were yellowing and cracked, the windows smudged and dirty, the roofs full of gaps. Roughly dressed men loitered outside each building smoking, play games or just sitting and talking. Nemma walked towards the building that looked the cleanest. As she neared, a tightness squeezed in her chest and a prickle on the back of her neck spread down her back and arms. The men nearest to her looked up from their game when Nemma approached and she readied herself, prepared for any attack. They got to their feet, a dark hunger spreading on their faces.

  “Leave her be,” ordered Gray-robe behind her.

  They lowered their heads and dropped back to the ground, muttering obscenities between them.

  Gray-robe turned and zoomed back down the road and Nemma dashed round the back of the building. The door was chipped and battered, but still on its hinges. She hesitated. Was this a good idea? She had no idea what lay behind that door. And yet, she thought glancing back at the men, it could not be worse than remaining outside. She knocked.

  The door opened almost immediately and a large block of a woman towered over her, scowling. Her hair sat short and scraggly above her hard face and she wore a brown, well-made tunic that was too small for her muscular body.

  “Curfew has past,” she barked at Nemma, ushering her inside. “You’ll be punished tomorrow.”

  Nemma found herself in a small corridor. A musky odor hung in the air and lamps sat on the walls. She squeezed against the wall to allow room for the woman to pass.

  “You will declare all your earnings now and go to your room,” the woman scolded, walking down the corridor to a small desk. “No food, no treatments.” She eased herself onto a stool.

  Nemma edged up to the desk while the woman glowered at her.

  “Er, are you Calladene?”

  The woman blinked in surprise. “Are you new?”

  Nemma nodded.

  The woman cursed, throwing down her quill stick. “Look what hour of night it is. Anyone would think I didn’t have a house to run.”

  Nemma flinched. The flickering flames from the wall lamps danced across the woman’s strong features making her look terrifying.

  She said to Nemma, “If I wasn’t expecting a latecomer, you wouldn’t have gotten in tonight, young girl. Some foundhouses may stay open all night, but this isn’t one of them. As it happens I do have a few spare beds but you will have to pay upfront.”

  Nemma nodded and rummaged through her carrysack. She pulled out a diuth jewel earring and bracelet set with a matching belt. The gems glistened in the fluttering orange light, blending from purple into orange and green in the blink of an eye. The big woman went silent for a moment.

  “Where did you get these?” she asked in a hushed voice, taking them from Nemma.

  “I traded for them.”

  The woman looked at her and examined the set. “Hmmm… So you are a good trader? Well, you’ll need to be. It’ll not be easy making your mark here, believe that. Follow me.”

  She grabbed a lamp that sat next to the desk and led Nemma through a door at the end of the corridor. They crossed a dark hallway, Nemma following the woman’s stumping footsteps and the orange flare that outlined her shape. The musky smell became stronger.

  “You will rise at day break and go out to trade every day. I will take all of your earnings in exchange for providing you with food, shelter, health treatments and a bed. I don’t care what you trade or how you trade but the consequences of any illegal activity will not be brought here. You will lose your place immediately and be reported to the Thaide if that happens.”

  The woman turned a sharp corner and led her up what seemed to be endless crumbly stairs.

  “You must earn at least twenty lorel per day to get a bed for the night. Any extra goes towards better quality beds and food. If you are expecting a baby your minimum is thirty-five lorel, that is, if you wish to live past childbirth.”

  They were in a dark corridor with doors on either side. The lamp swinging in front of her threw light into one of the open doors and Nemma caught a glimpse of sleeping bodies.

  “Your curfew is sun-fall. I don’t care whether you are in the middle of a trade or if your tunic is on fire, sun-fall is your curfew. We are all trained to read the skies from birth so there are no excuses. Arriving after sun-fall will incur extra charges and you will lose any privileges you have gained. Repeated occurrences will lose you your place at this foundhouse.”

  She stopped outside of a door and fought with a key to open it. She held up the lamp inside and Nemma saw a small room with a single bed.

  “To answer your question, yes I am Calladene. The quality wares you have submitted has earned you this room for three nights, but I don’t normally accept wares as payment, only coin. So next time sell any jewelery you get and sell it for a big sum if you want to live well here.”

  Nemma stepped inside the room and a faint odor of sweat enveloped her.

  Calladene held the lamp up to her face, almost blinding Nemma with the warm orange light.

  “Well,” she sighed, “at least you are clean. You can deal with those cuts in the morning.”

  She walked away.

  Nemma looked down and in the fading lamplight saw that, although the cuts and bruises remained, all the mud and blood had fallen away and her skin was perfectly clean.

  Eight

  Essen observed the lord in front of him. He did not sweat. His energy release flowed at normal rates from his slim build. His words quivered as he spoke but he was not hesitant and he did not break eye contact. When the lord finished speaking a long silence filled the room.

  Lord Telmar, who sat next to the speaker, shifted in his chair. The two Thaide standing either side of the room and the Thaide Priest leaning by the window did not stir.

  Essen clasped his hands together. “I wish to see,” he said. “Be still and do not panic.”

  He closed his eyes and prepared his consciousness. With careful precision he projected his senses onto the lord’s mental energy pattern. As they merged, he felt a sharp pull of surprise and confusion.

  Do not panic, he repeated into the lord’s mind. Think back and show me what happened.

  A whirlwind of images swept through Essen’s mind while the lord tried to order his thoughts, and his emotions dashed from fear to curiosity to shame and back to fear before he was able to still the memory in his mind. Essen sought out the mem
ory’s thread and took hold of the root, submerging his mind inside it.

  “How long do we have?”

  Essen sat in a large room. Daylight poured in through two windows on either side. A scruffy rug lay on rough floorboards, one side of it trapped underneath the legs of a solid wooden table.

  A large man stood by the table looking at him expectantly. He wore a long sleeved brown tunic and black trousers that looked as though they had been repeatedly patched up at the knees and elbows. The air reeked of animals, mud and fruit.

  “Maybe a half-week or so,” Essen heard himself reply. “Maybe less…”

  The man’s face dropped and he shared a look with a woman standing in a corner, her arms around a young girl. Discomfort spread through Essen and at the same time a sweet flavor burst in his mouth.

  Essen created a thin film of resistance around his consciousness and moved into the tail of the memory. The feeling of discomfort faded, as did the taste on his tongue. Pulling back into the top corner of the room, he saw the lord sitting on the wooden chair he had just felt underneath him, eating sugared grapes from a chipped blue plate.

  “Will we get to see her enter her thirteenth year?” asked the woman, her voice hopeful. Her brown hair hung loose and unkempt, but her skin was smooth and radiant. She wore a plain, simple-cut, dark green dress that looked as frayed as the rug on the floor.

  The lord shrugged. “Once a pairing has been decided you must expect her to be taken any day. So make use of your last days.”

  The man moved over to his family and put his arms around them. The lord lowered his eyes.

  “Thank you my lord,” the large man said, smiling. “We hoped she would be—” he stopped. “What is that?”

  Essen heard it. Baying, squawking and shrill calls from many different animals all at once. The man looked bewildered.

  “My lord, I must check the cattle. I don’t know what is causing the animals to create such noise.”

  The lord nodded and the man left the room.

  “Is the ward far?” the woman asked, after a few moments when the cattle had quietened.

  “No,” said the lord. “And the family is looked after by a friend of mine. She will be safe and cared for. Since you and your husband have no other children I will try to arrange that her children, your grandchildren, are allocated this ward.”

  The woman smiled at her daughter and they talked in low, excited voices. The baying started up again and the lord stood up, uncertainty on his face.

  “What’s taking him so long?” he asked, heading for a window.

  At that moment several men burst into the room. They moved their hands in the air in a series of gestures and the woman and her daughter dropped, like wooden planks, to the floor. Essen froze the memory. He swooped down to the men and examined them. They wore thick, black-blue tunics and trousers. The tunics had been fashioned to end at the hip and the stitching pattern was foreign. None of them wore jewelery or decorative wear of any kind, although the black scars covering their palms and the underside of their fingers were enough of a distinction. Their heads were shaved and their skin colors ranged from Hanwyan light to Shyrotho dark.

  Essen moved over to the woman and girl. Their eyes were open, bodies rigid. But there was no marking on their skin, suggesting they were still alive. When he had examined all he could, he allowed the memory to continue.

  “What is this?” shouted the lord, as the men surrounded him. “What do you want?”

  The men did not say a word but stood around him in a circle.

  “Why are you here?” shrieked the lord. “Release me! Please do not hurt the crops. Please!”

  The men did not reply. The lord shouted until his voice became hoarse. He clenched his fists and pushed against them attempting to break through the circle but the men stood firm, pushing him back to the center. They did not move to harm him. Why didn’t he alert the Thaide? Essen thinned the layer separating his consciousness from the memory and the lord’s intense fear seeped into him. Thinning the layer further he searched the lord’s thoughts. He had left his alert signal in his carriage.

  After a while, another black-clad man entered and beckoned to the group of men. The group tightened their circle around the lord and led him outside. Essen followed them, pausing the scene for short intervals to examine further.

  The men marched the lord through the family’s farming land, pushing him when he slowed. A few times he slipped down into the mud, but they pulled him up without breaking their stride. Once he refused to get up and the man behind him made a shape in the air with his hand. The lord cried out and grabbed his arm, blood oozing through his fingers. Another man pulled him up by his collar and he continued walking. Crops had been ripped from the ground and destroyed. Cows, pigs and sheep lay still on the ground and further out among them lay the father of the family. The horizon was a blur of muddled grays, greens and browns and some of the objects in the scene kept changing, disappearing or blurring into bland colors. The lord was already beginning to forget some details.

  The men led the lord off the ward onto a road, where his carriage stood. One of them stepped forward and spoke.

  “You will not be harmed. We don’t intend to deprive the people of Torak of their food, so you may go with the cargo already packed up. Keep riding and don’t come back.” He turned to face the carriage, lifted an arm and carved a semi-circle in the air with two fingers extended, followed by short series of taps and jabs. “The carriage will only stop when you reach a top-rank magien or a Thaide.”

  The lord did not hesitate and jumped up to his carriage. As he traveled away the world began to blur.

  Essen released control of the memory and gently removed himself from the lord’s mind. When he opened his eyes the lord had a sheepish look on his face.

  “You are immediately relinquished of your ward duties and your lord status, Rauyo,” Essen said. “You no longer own the carriage outside or your robes. Remove them immediately. I’m sure Telmar’s wife will have something you can wear home. After you change, wait here. You will be held until you are presented in front of the council. I suggest you consider what you’re going to say when they ask you why you didn’t use your signal when leaving the ward.”

  Shock registered on the lord’s face. He rose slowly, bowed and left the room.

  “I assume you have been lining up potential lord replacements since the incident at Yoen’s ward?” Essen said to Telmar, rising himself.

  “Yes, High Priest,” Telmar said, also getting to his feet. “The problem is there aren’t many suitable candidates at the moment.”

  “Identifying lord potential takes time, Telmar. That’s why you have been given the luxury of your rank.”

  Telmar nodded, his large frame hunched. “There’s a very strong candidate that I think may be suitable…” he hesitated. “I took the liberty of inviting them today.”

  Essen frowned. It was not normal practice to meet a potential lord candidate in such a casual way, but with two lords dismissed within a week, it may be beneficial to meet and approve him straight away. At least it would save arranging a Council hearing. Whoever took responsibility for Yoen’s ward would need to be much more strong-minded and obedient than Yoen and Rauyo, and the Council tended to be passive in their choosing, searching for weaknesses rather than strengths.

  “Very well,” he said.

  Telmar left the room and the Thaide Priest, Kelvedon, came to stand by Essen’s side, awaiting instruction. Unlike most men in Torak, Kelvedon wore his hair loose to his shoulders which gave him a rugged, harsh look strengthened by his stubbled jaw and dead, black eyes.

  “Phalorians,” Essen told him, knowing he would have already correctly guessed. Phalorians were the only real nuisance that troubled the Realms. They caused numerous problems in some of the other countries; stealing children, poisoning crops and burning the Sovereign’s temples. The Thaide usually subdued them and even deterred them, but the increase of attacks in Hannaw suggested a fres
h boldness in their dedication to turn people against the Sovereign. They needed a strong reminder of the force of the Thaide. “They were clever,” Essen continued. “I couldn’t see all they did. I doubt they killed the family but they let him leave with his cargo. Search his carriage thoroughly.”

  Kelvedon nodded and left the room, his white and blue robe whirling around him.

  Essen looked around Telmar’s meeting room. The harsh primitive weaponry stuck out at him from all directions. It was almost grotesque, as were the portraits of Telmar and his family. Even the artwork had a poor finish to it, as if it had been rushed. Surely more could be expected from citizen artists?

  Telmar re-entered the room followed by a young woman.

  “High Priest, I would like you meet Clisantha Saraethien,” said Telmar.

  “I don’t have time to meet citizens, Telmar,” Essen said, as the woman bowed. “Bring the candidate.”

  “Please excuse me, High Priest,” Telmar said, his broad face stretched into a grimace. “This is the candidate.”

  Shock hit Essen for the first time in many years. Words failed him as he looked upon the woman. She wore no jewelery or face design and her thick, black hair had been twisted up into a patterned mound on her head, a popular style in Torak fashion. Her womanly shape was strongly apparent, even though she wore a simple round-neck tunic. She looked to be in her twenty-eighth or ninth year. Both the moonlight falling through the window and the lumni light on the walls around the room caused her skin to glow, but neither softened the defiant and serious look on her face.

  “You are aware that citizen women don’t become ward owners, Telmar?” Essen asked finally.

  “Yes, sire. But I hope for this to be reconsidered in light of recent events. You have always asked me to look for the right candidate, not the right male candidate. We need someone to take on one of these wards immediately and I believe that the right woman would be… appropriate at this time.”

  Essen digested this. Never in the history of Torak had a citizen woman been given rights to own a ward. No wonder Telmar had come straight to him with this. The Council would have been in utter disarray and deferred the decision to him anyway. And what would he have done, he wondered, taking another moment to absorb the woman’s beauty. On parchment he would not have hesitated to say no. But something about this woman caused him to pause. Her beauty was of no consequence but the way she held herself reminded him of… what exactly? He couldn’t quite place the feeling. It must be worth speaking to her.