Children of the Wastes (The Aionach Saga Book 2)

by J. C. Staudt

  Jiren, the youngest of the three and the man who had severed Lethari’s sword in Belmond, waved to him and smiled. Lethari frowned and looked away to where the king was draped across the sandstone throne in his usual posture of apathy.

  “You are slowing with your age,” said Tycho Montari, his voice echoing loudly through the chamber.

  “The affairs of my household do not easily suffer interruption,” Lethari said.

  The master-king gave him an amused look. When he spoke, there was a mocking tone in his voice. “Many regrets, Maigh Prokin. No one has informed me this day that the affairs of a servant take precedence over those of his master. Has not the woman of your household seen to her duties in your absence?”

  “She has, my—”

  “No matter,” the king interrupted. “You have made clear your position. You have held your own command for some time now; far be it from me to break you of your self-reliance. I summoned you, and you came… perhaps I should not have expected better than that.”

  Lethari Prokin had endured more than his fair share of the master-king’s beratement. As his father had told him many times, serving a king was not about fairness. “I have come to do my master’s bidding,” Lethari said, bowing. “What would you have of me, my king?”

  “These pale-skins claim they do not know the way to their home,” said the king. “This place of the hidden sands is hidden even to them, it would seem.” He gave a derisive laugh. “This morning, there came a rider from the steel city. Diarmid Kailendi has found brothers of Raithur Entradi and his people. Not many; only a few. Yarun merouil have petitioned me to release them into your oversight for the return journey. You will bring them to the steel city and return them to me when they have discovered a means of finding their home. Then we will all go there together.”

  Lethari thought again of the casket, and the body inside. The destruction of the pale-skin traders had not been Daxin Glaive’s only dying wish. He had asked Lethari to do him one other favor as well. Lethari had seen Amhaziel’s visions, and he had no doubt that fulfilling Daxin’s wishes was his destined path. “I cannot take them to the steel city,” Lethari said. “A trusted friend of mine has died, and I would see him buried.”

  “Bury him, then. What is that to the task I have given you?”

  Lethari scanned the room, noticing the master-king’s guards and advisers more readily than before. He tried not to dwell on what they would think. “He is a pale-skin of the southlands. I would see him to his home… to be buried.”

  Tycho laughed. “You have no time for that. Burial in the sky is a more distinguished honor than any pale-skin deserves.”

  “His body has already been prepared for travel, and for burial in the ground. The sky will not do. His flesh would remain for many days and nights, poisoning the scavengers.”

  “Let the vultures get aches in their stomachs,” said Tycho Montari. “You do not delay your master’s plans for the sake of a slave-mongrel not worth the sand that would cover him.”

  Lethari raised his voice. “This is Daxin Glaive—the man who twice gave us the record of the pale-skin traders. Whose counsel has given your warleaders power over the merchants of the Black City and their wealth. Daxin Glaive was a lathcu, yes, but a lathcu you have come to know by name, if not by sight. He is dead, and his memory deserves our reverence.”

  The master-king straightened. “This is the man you speak of? He has come to my city?”

  “He came… and he died.”

  “Did he bring new secrets of the pale-skin traders?” asked Tycho Montari, gazing intently. He leaned forward, searching Lethari’s eyes for an answer.

  Lethari came close to moving his hand; to lifting the flap on his satchel and bringing forth the goatskin he had tucked safely inside for this very purpose. But when his father’s words began to resound in his head, he found he could not. Decide where your loyalty is strongest, Eirnan Prokin had told his son. Many are the faces of betrayal, but there is none so seductive as that which turns a man against his own household. Lethari had thought much about what it would mean to give up this most precious of items. The soothsayer’s visions had only reinforced his decision. “He carried no record with him. Not this time. I have searched his belongings this very morning and found nothing of that sort to be among them.”

  The master-king slumped his shoulders. “Search them twice more before you bury him.”

  “You mean to let me take him south, then.”

  Tycho pitched himself hard against the backrest, folded his arms, and brooded. “Go. I have already chosen to delay my journey to the place of the hidden sands. What is another string of days in obedience to the great scheme of the fates? I have no freedom to leave my throne vacant for so long a time. There is war now, and I cannot very well leave my city in the hands of these methachti…” He flung a hand toward his advisers, who shared glances with one another as though they were innocent of the slight.

  Across the room, one of the young pale-skins whispered something to Jiren, who laughed briefly before stifling himself.

  “As for you and yours, Raithur Entradi,” said the master-king, “be gone to your steel city. Find your star-tracker or your seeing device there, so that we may know the way to your home. When you come back to me, then shall I return your young Ros to you.”

  Raithur and the pale-skins raised a cry of complaint. Even when Tycho Montari lifted a hand to silence them, they kept on with their protest. Perhaps they are not so nimble-minded as they first appeared, Lethari thought. To think the master-king would give up his hostage and trust them to return. They misjudged Tycho Montari not to assume he would ensure their compliance.

  “Remove these ungratefuls,” the master-king yelled. “Remove them from my hall.”

  As the guards moved to surround yarun merouil, there was a flash of crimson light. A bright red ball of crackling energy lit up around Jiren Oliver. “We’re not leaving without Ros,” he said, gritting his teeth.

  The guards stopped short and pointed their spears. The hall descended into hysteria. The king rose to his feet and began to scream at the pale-skins as his guards formed a protective arc in front of him. Raithur turned to face his pale-skin brother and tried to calm the young man down.

  Against anyone else, Lethari would not have hesitated to join the confrontation in defense of the master-king. But he had seen how powerful these pale-skins were—and lost Tosgaith in the process. After a few tense moments in which Lethari thought he might need to get involved anyway, Jiren dropped his arms and let the red shield wink out.

  The chamber calmed, and the master-king sank back onto his throne. He was flustered and nervous, though he was trying not to show it. “You have taken shelter in my city, and I have granted you safety. This is your response? You would do violence to me in my own hall after I have treated you with good will?”

  “You’ve abducted our brother so you can force us to do what you want,” said Jiren Oliver. “You’d make us betray our own people by revealing our home to you. We don’t want you in Decylum. Outsiders have never been allowed to come and go as they please without the rule of the council. We live a peaceful existence, free from the war and treachery you cultivate as a way of life. We’ve been on our own for years without having anything to do with above-worlders, and I for one won’t stand by and let Decylum become a tourist attraction. If you really want to grant us safety, let Ros go. You’ll never become a blackhand. You’ll never discover a way to gain the powers we were born with. It’s impossible. You’re a deluded, power-hungry idiot if you think otherwise.”

  A devious smile spread across Tycho Montari’s face. “My halls are deep, duireh. As I live and breathe, your young Rostand Beige will never see daylight again. Test me in this. You may think you are one who knows the below-world, but you have never faced the darkness of my galleries. What more do you think I must do than issue the command? The next time you think to enter my chambers and cast your vulgar shame upon me, remember that it is I alone—T
ycho Montari, Lord of Sai Calgoar and Master-King of the Calgoarethi—to whom you owe your lives. It is only by my provision and my grace that you stand before me this day with dry backs and full bellies.

  “Had not my steward and warleader, Lethari Prokin, taken pity on you in your time of trouble—had not my agents in the steel city found and safeguarded your lost brothers there—where would you be now? What do you believe the fates had in store for you before Sigrede Balbaressi delivered you from the scum who reside in that cruel city? Tell me, duireh… what answer would you give me? Rostand Beige lounges in the richness of my house. Give me no answer unless it is to thank me that he will not shed his water and turn half-mad in the heat, as you will. Praise the wonders of my name that he will remain fresh and comfortable while you drag yourselves across the horizons to scorch and wither.”

  Jiren Oliver was silent.

  Raithur Entradi cleared his throat. “Your people have kept us alive. And so I’ll remind you that I have pledged to keep my promise in return. We’ll go to Belmond and reunite with our brothers. There, we’ll look for the others we’ve lost, and when we have found either a navigator or a device that will let us see home again, we’ll come back for Ros. Tell him we’ll be back for him. Tell him I am sorry we had to go, and I hope he understands. But also, know this: if, upon our return, you refuse yet again to release Rostand Beige into our custody, the next movement my living body makes will be to tear your beating heart from your chest. I swear it to the fates, as surely as I stand here now.”

  The master-king threw back his head and howled with laughter. When he was done, his face snapped straight, rigid and humorless. “Leave me now, pale-skin slave-mongrels. I will keep my pledge when you have kept yours, and not before.”

  Raithur Entradi’s massive chest rose and fell with a deep, slow breath. Without raising another word, he and his companions turned and left the hall, grim and silent. Something in their manner put Lethari on edge; their silence was hostile, somehow, as if they’d agreed on some secret plan for revenge without speaking it aloud.

  When the pale-skins were gone, the master-king shot to his feet. He paced the floor in front of his throne, spitting curses and insults, the likes of which any self-respecting man might cite as means for a challenge. After a few moments he’d gone red in the face, the veins in his forearms standing out above clenched fists. He wiped away the spittle that had gathered on his lips and plunged himself onto the throne once more. “Lethari Prokin. Approach.”

  Lethari knelt before the king, felt his satchel shift forward on his hip and hang loose in front of him. When he opened his eyes, he was looking down over the satchel’s leather flap, from the corner of which protruded a few hairs of the goatskin record. He stood quickly, hoping Tycho Montari hadn’t noticed. “I am here to do your will, gisheino.”

  The master-king was too agitated to have noticed the contents of Lethari’s bag. “These mongrel dogs have become troublesome. They think themselves above my authority. They have no respect—no gratitude for what I have given them. They are not like you, who sees his master’s kindness and knows to whom he is indebted. Tell me, Lethari. Do you serve your master truly?”

  Lethari frowned. This was a strange question for Tycho Montari to be asking him. He had never heard its like from the king’s mouth before. “I serve you truly and without reservation, my king.”

  Tycho Montari lifted his chin to look Lethari over, pausing for a long moment to search his servant’s face. “Yes,” he finally said. “I know this to be true. You are the most extraordinary of all my warleaders. I know you would never…” The master-king’s voice broke off.

  Lethari tried to remain calm. “Am I being accused of wrongdoing? Is that why you have summoned me here today? Or is it that you find the personal matters of my life so unworthy of my efforts?”

  “Have I reason to accuse you?”

  “I do not question my master’s justice. I only regret his doubts,” said Lethari, bowing his head.

  “I do not doubt you, Lethari. I have no doubt that you will find great success wherever I send you, and that upon your return, you will honor me with the profit and glory that are my due. Come now, and touch my hand.”

  Lethari approached the throne, where the master-king extended slender ringed fingers for him to take. Tycho Montari’s perfumes disclosed a bouquet of sweet canyon roses, purple sage, and cactus flower. The master-king’s hand was clammy to the touch. Lethari grasped it lightly and touched his forehead to it, bowing low as he backed away.

  “Rise, my warleader, and go forth with my favor.”

  Lethari lifted his eyes to find the master-king’s. “By your fortune I am favored, my master.” He left the hall with the image of the king’s face set in his mind like a stone carving. Tycho Montari sat poised and serene, but his smile was hard and insincere.

  The walk home seemed to last an age. Lethari knew there was neither slave nor servant in his household who could keep Frayla from leaving for the day’s errands if she wanted to, but still he did not hurry. He was relieved to find her seated in the great hall, finishing her first meal of the day. She was still in her bedclothes, her hair mussed and her eyes swollen with the touch of long sleep. When he entered, her eyes flicked up at him, but she looked away when he met her gaze.

  “I am happy you are here,” he said. “Come with me to my den. I must speak with you privately.”

  Frayla said nothing, but followed him obediently. She grimaced when she entered the room, pulling the collar of her bedclothes up over her nose and covering her face with both hands. Daxin’s body lay in the open casket behind the pile of personal effects Lethari had dumped on the floor. He was embarrassed to have left his den in such disarray. The day had warmed while he was gone, thickening the air to a stifling degree even in this dark corner of the house, and the closed door had encumbered his den with the heavy smell.

  Lethari lit a censer and circled the room, waving it on the end of its pendulum chains. He locked the door and put his satchel into the sideboard drawer, then sat his wife down on the lounge and took her hands in his own. “I know you are displeased with me,” he said, studying her. “I know you did not understand why I would take something that is mine by rights, and give it to the king. But I tell you now that I have seen the good sense in your wishes. Your displeasure was justified, and… it has changed my heart. We will keep the secret of the goatskin record to ourselves. It will be yours and mine only—as will all the favor and glory that comes with it. I will not yield to Tycho Montari’s will this time. We will be eminent and powerful together, my love. Only you and me, my dearest one. And the generations of our household will live in abundance.”

  “Did you tell your father that these were my wishes?” she asked, all but overlooking his confession.

  He hesitated. “Seeing my father today was not what changed my heart. We spoke of my mother, but he is still too far beyond grief to make sense of anything I say to him. I have changed my heart for you, and for the truth of what Amhaziel has shown me.”

  Frayla ran her fingers over Lethari’s new flaw—Amhaziel’s sigil, the creature that was both beast and man. The wound was still fresh, the skin around the cuts bright and inflamed. Her touch was painful, but Lethari did not flinch.

  “I sensed Amhaziel had been here,” she said. “This flaw is deep, but the lines are smooth and skillful. Tell me what he has shown you.”

  Lethari told her everything of the visions he had seen, the tides of the future, the man-beast and its sacrifice, his success in war and trade and spoil, the envy and resentment of lesser men, and of the children. The children who would shake the foundations of the Aionach. He would travel to the town of Bradsleigh to deliver Daxin Glaive’s body to his family for burial. Along the way, he and his feiach would begin to conquer the pale-skin traders and fulfill his destiny.

  All this, Frayla Prokin absorbed with reserved interest, her eyes intent and focused on him, never leaving his own. When he was done, she gave him a soft
smile, tender and alluring. Then she laid a gentle hand on her stomach, toned and flat though it still was. “You must not be away long,” she said. “You will miss the birth of your son.”

  CHAPTER 7

  The Waiting

  Merrick Bouchard’s stomach grumbled. He tugged a plump tomato from a half-withered vine and examined it before dropping it into the till. His mouth watered. The rooftop gardens were no place for a man of his ability, but the Gray Revenants had begun to treat him just as the Scarred Comrades had—like a useless, second-class citizen.

  Back in the city north, Merrick had eaten twice as much on a given day as he received in rations here. Being in the gardens only made him hungrier, but he never seemed to find the chance to sneak any extra food under the watchful eyes of the rooftop guardians. It’s just as well, he thought. In a city where everyone is bone-thin, the overweight man sticks out. He’d already lost weight thanks to his new diet, but he had a ways to go before he could truly blend in with his new companions.

  Cluspith Porter and his twin brother Swydiger were rolling out the planter boxes from beneath their shaded awnings for their periodic dose of daylight. Farming under such harsh conditions was a delicate art, but the Gray Revenants had positioned their gardens only where they could keep them hidden and watered without trouble from the gangers and muties and vagabonds of the city south.

  The Armitage Building was the highest Revenant-controlled structure in the organization’s hidden network of outposts. Every morning when the light-star rose, Merrick would climb to the top and look out past the eastern edge of the city, watching the wastes for a sign of Raithur and his companions. Often he would turn his gaze toward the city north, dreaming of days gone by and holding out hope for a future there. If the day was clear, he could make out Bucket Row, the city’s longest road and the impenetrable bastion of the Scarred Comrades’ power.