The Swampling King (The Windwalker Legacy Book 1)

by Ben S. Dobson

  Lenoden interrupted the birdkeeper’s babble. “Eroh!”

  The boy looked at him with no surprise in his golden eyes, and reached up with one hand to feed something to the eagle on his shoulder. “Hello.”

  “We have been looking for you, Eroh,” said Auren. “You cannot wander alone.” There was little bite to the scolding. The old man wasn’t even looking at Eroh. His head was cocked and his blindfolded eyes stared at nothing in particular, as if the rustling and crying of the birds was disorienting to him.

  “I’m sorry. I just wanted to see the eagles.” Eroh glanced up at the older two eagles in their nest. “He says they’re free, but I think they’re sad. They want to fly.” The boy’s instinct was not wrong—whatever the chastors claimed, the birds were there to stay. The Convocation used eagle feathers to signify rank, from the single feather of a novice to the high chastor’s full feathered robe; they used eagle eggs in rituals of anointment and cleansing. Without the eagles, many of their traditions and rituals would be meaningless, and they weren’t about to allow that.

  Chastor Ivon’s mouth had fallen open when he saw Benedern, and one hand fretted at the thong about his neck, hung with three golden feathers. “Your Eminence!” He bowed low. “I’m sorry, I… he just came in, started asking questions. I didn’t know what to—”

  Benedern held up a hand, his attention on the boy and his little eagle. “Did you bring the bird to him?” he asked the birdkeeper.

  “No, I… I didn’t think it would leave the nest. It’s a runt, born too small. I didn’t know if it would ever fly.”

  “So it came to the boy of its own will.” There was a surprising reverence in Benedern’s voice. “The Lord of Eagles makes his presence known.”

  “His name is Goldeyes,” Eroh said. “He doesn’t want to stay here.” The boy seemed to understand where the final decision lay; he turned to Lenoden. “Can I take him with me?” The bird he called Goldeyes cocked his head as if awaiting an answer.

  Two pairs of fierce eagle’s eyes fixed on Lenoden, two pairs of eyes that seemed to penetrate his skin through to the soul beneath. And for a moment, Lenoden saw the boy as something beyond a simple, strange-eyed lad from the Swamp. Something more. With an eagle that shared his eyes perched upon his shoulder, Eroh truly could have been a figure out of myth, a child prophet of the Sky God.

  The last Windwalker.

  Not an empty title, not just words chosen to throw the lowborn into raptures of praise and adulation, but the Word of the Wind made real, writ in flesh and blood and golden eyes. When the people saw him with Goldeyes on his shoulder, none would deny that this boy had been chosen by the Lord of Eagles.

  Or that the man beside him was destined to be king.

  And he belongs to me. Lenoden smiled, as much to himself as for the boy’s benefit. “Yes, Eroh,” he said. “I think that can be arranged.”

  18. Kinmeet

  Zerill

  Zerill had been little more than a child at her first Kinmeet, peeking between the arms and legs of adults to catch a glimpse of the kin leaders atop the knoll at the Kinhome’s center. Grandfather Tarv had appeared as solid as the earth to her, a stocky man with muscles like boulders; she’d fancied that she could see a hundred years of knowledge behind Grandmother Nevris’ ancient eyes. And though Azlin had been very young then—the youngest grandmother in memory—she had somehow belonged there beside Tarv and Nevris, tall and graceful and unafraid. The three of them had looked as wise and powerful as the first ancestors, their little hill as tall as one of the highlander’s mountains.

  But Azlin was gone, and now that Zerill stood upon the same hill in her sister’s place, it seemed small.

  Looking down on her people, she didn’t feel tall, or wise, or powerful—she felt outnumbered and alone, even with Nevris and Tarv beside her. As Grandmother of the Lighteyes—for now, at least—she could guide the Kinmeet’s discussion, but the true power belonged to the thousands of Abandoned standing together in the darkness around the knoll. Thousands of men and women and children, those who had survived the purge or evaded it, those too young or too old to leave the Kinhome at all. Zerill didn’t know an exact number, but she knew the Lighteyes had been more than three thousand strong before the purge, and the other kins numbered as many or more. Even accounting for near a thousand lost, that left perhaps ten thousand all together. Ten thousand, and between them they had the power to accept or deny her as grandmother. The power to ignore everything she said if they didn’t want to hear it.

  The power to send her away forever.

  Yet for all their number, they were quiet, near silent. Eavesdropping on highlanders in their taverns, Zerill had been amazed by the sound even a dozen could make, words tripping over one another like beasts in a panicked herd; here, all the Abandoned together were only as loud as a single voice. Anyone could speak—they needed only to step forward to signify intent to the three kin leaders. But only one voice at a time, each in turn.

  And just then, that voice was condemning her.

  “The highlander was… near dead.” Jeva’s voice made the words an accusation. “She told Verik to heal, drew her spear. Made us bring him here. She was grandmother—we obeyed.” The older woman struggled with the loudspeech—most used it only in Kinmeet, where signs could not reach thousands of eyes at once—but her tale was damning all the same, coming from a warrior of Zerill’s own kin. “Now I ask her why.”

  If I can’t make the Lighteyes understand, I am lost. Zerill looked over her kin, tried to find a shred of understanding in even one pair of eyes, something that might mean she had a chance. The Lighteyes were her family; she knew most of them by name, even those who didn’t travel with Azlin’s band. Jeva and Ralk, Uvik with his half-shaven head, lanky Nikren towering over the others, and hundreds more. At her command, those of her kin she’d been able to find after the purge had borne Prince Josen on the long journey to the Kinhome, but that didn’t mean they would let her remain grandmother after what she’d done. If any of them offered hope, she couldn’t see it beneath the shadows that painted their faces.

  The Heartspears and Shadowfeet offered no better, not even those she would have called friends. She saw Korv near the front of the gathering; he’d escaped with the remnant of his band after Azlin’s attack ended the purge. He was only a step short of blood kin to her, but still his face—so like Verik’s—was as solemn as the rest.

  Ancestors, I wish Verik was here. Even one friendly face would have helped. But he was the only one she trusted with Prince Josen, and besides that, Makers could speak in Kinmeet only when allowed by the grandmothers or grandfathers of all three kins.

  He wasn’t there, and no one else believed in her. No one else understood.

  Which just meant that Zerill would have to convince them. She was no Arvur All-Kin to unite the Abandoned behind her cause, but there was no one else to do it, and it had to be done.

  “I saved the prince so that we might save ourselves,” she said, as clear and strong as she could. “I have spoken to him, and learned things that may change the future of our people. Will the Kinmeet listen?” It was a struggle not to say more, but there was a way to things in Kinmeet. Her position was already precarious; breaking custom would only make it worse. She would explain herself when the Abandoned agreed to hear her, and not before.

  Beside Zerill, Grandmother Nevris’ hand moved, slow and precise under the eyes of her speaker. The Grandmother of the Shadowfeet was the oldest of the Abandoned—older even than the oldest of the Makers, whose deepcraft slowed their aging—and her skin was as fragile and finely veined as lightfly wings. She stood without aid, still, and saw as clearly as ever, but her failing ears meant that she used the loudspeech rarely, even in Kinmeet. Instead, a kinmate accompanied her to speak her words aloud and translate others’ speech into signs. Nevris had used more than one speaker in her long life, but since Zerill’s first Kinmeet, it had always been Tavid—the narrow-faced old Shadowfoot who stood beside her now
.

  When Nevris’ hand fell still, Tavid voiced her words, his loudspeech as practiced as Zerill’s. “Since the time of the All-Kin it has been forbidden to show a highlander the Kinhome without putting him to question and death. Yet you sheltered this man, brought him here, forced a Maker to break oaths to save him. How can we trust your words?”

  “By choosing to,” said Zerill. Let this work. She had to win some measure of respect, and quickly; begging would accomplish nothing. “It is not my choice to be trusted, it is yours to trust.” She spread her hands wide and turned a full circle, sweeping her eyes over the Abandoned around the knoll. “The Lighteyes are my brothers and sisters. I have fought beside Heartspears, and walked beside Shadowfeet. You all know me, or know of me. And those who know me know that I have no love for highlanders. My spear has spilled as much of their blood as any warrior here. My father and mother died in their purges, and now my sister has too. I spared the prince because it was necessary, and I did not make that decision lightly. Believe me or don’t. Hear me or don’t. It is not for me to decide.”

  For a long time, no one moved.

  And then a man stepped forward.

  Ralk. Zerill’s stomach clenched. The big warrior’s words could be devastating; he’d been against Josen’s healing. Worse still, he had been among Azlin’s warriors in the attack on Duke Castar and the prince. Zerill didn’t think anyone else had seen Azlin fall, but it was possible, even amidst the chaos of the Deeplings’ feeding frenzy. And if Ralk had seen it and chose to reveal what Josen had done, no argument would prevent the prince’s death.

  Nevris and Tarv showed Ralk the sign for speak—a closed fist opening into a flat upward-facing palm. All three kin leaders had to acknowledge a speaker, but they could not deny anyone the right, only determine the order. Zerill hesitated a moment, but no one else stepped forward. Reluctantly, she held her fist out to the big man and opened it.

  But Ralk surprised her. “Zerill sees things. Warned us of this purge. Made the Maker heal highlander, yes. But said there was reason. I will listen.” He nodded at her before stepping back.

  Even as he moved away, more men and women of the Lighteyes stepped up to the knoll, first two, then ten, then dozens. Warriors and scouts and hunters Azlin had trusted, trail-mothers and fathers she had chosen to lead bands in the west. Kinmates who had lived and fought beside Zerill since she was a girl. And in their turn, each of them said much the same thing:

  “Her father and sister led well. Let her speak.”

  “Zerill would not betray us. Hear her.”

  “I trust her spear; I will trust her choice.”

  It was as if Ralk had opened a gate and led the others through it. Perhaps they had been too afraid, or proud, or stubborn to speak first, but that didn’t matter; what mattered to Zerill was that they spoke now. Her kin would hear her out.

  Her eyes found Ralk in the crowd, and she offered him a grateful smile. I won’t waste this, she promised silently.

  Finally, Grandfather Tarv held up a hand and addressed those who still waited to speak. “Your support for Grandmother Zerill is shown. No more is needed. The Heartspears will hear her.” He looked at Nevris. “Will the Shadowfeet?”

  Nevris gave Zerill a sour look, her wrinkled skin drawing tight around pursed lips, but she signed her agreement. “The Shadowfeet will listen,” Tavid announced.

  “Is this enough?” Tarv asked, glancing at Zerill. “Or must all speak?” He raised an eyebrow, half-smiled. He looked, for a moment, more like Verik than he did like his son, though he was nearly twice as broad and a half-foot taller. It was in the eyes; they had the same laughter behind them. It didn’t necessarily mean that he was on her side, but she found it comforting.

  “I can ask no more,” said Zerill. “I trust the Kinmeet’s justice.” She nodded at the waiting Lighteyes, and they indicated their acceptance by stepping back to rejoin the circle.

  All but one.

  Tarv signed for Jeva to speak, as did Nevris. All eyes turned to Zerill, and though she didn’t want to, she gave the older warrior the sign as well.

  “You say grandmother,” Jeva said, “but Zerill is not Azlin. Only stands for her until Lighteyes choose. She forced a Maker to do healing to save a highlander. She can be sent away for this.”

  Nevris signed at Tavid. “Jeva speaks truly,” the man said for her. “Banishment is the price for corrupting a Maker, and for giving aid to a highlander. She must answer for her actions.”

  “If she cannot explain, she will be banished,” said Grandfather Tarv. “Does this satisfy you, Jeva?”

  Jeva shook her head. “The Maker too. He broke oaths. Healing is Delver’s work.”

  “No.” Zerill took a step toward Jeva before she could stop herself. “Verik was as against the healing as you were. He is no Delver.” She would not let Verik be accused of that. Delvers were Makers banished for unforgivable transgressions against their oaths, for surrendering to the ever-present temptation of the deepcraft’s power. Most often for spilling Abandoned blood in sacrifice to the Deeplings, something Verik would never do. “He was only obeying a grandmother’s orders.” It was hard not to say more, looking at the scorn on Jeva’s face. You would see us both banished for trying to save our people, you fool.

  Jeva stared back without flinching. “Maker’s oaths hold over grandmother’s orders. He follows your orders. Because you asked. He is too close to you. We all see this.”

  “Enough,” Tarv said impatiently. “Zerill must speak or we cannot know truth. If the Kinmeet does not like her words, Verik will suffer as she does.” Zerill saw his jaw clench at those words—Verik had been his nephew once. That the Makers’ curse dissolved family ties was an old and hallowed law, but that didn’t make it easy to live by. “Who objects?”

  No one stepped forward.

  Forgive me, Verik. But Zerill couldn’t fight for him; he had broken his oaths for her. Arguing his innocence would do no good. If she wanted to spare him from sharing her punishment, she would have to avoid being punished at all.

  Finally satisfied, Jeva nodded and stepped back into the circle. Zerill badly wanted to leap from the knoll and strike the woman in the face until she could speak no more; instead, she remembered what it had been like to hold Azlin’s body in her arms, and buried her fury beneath the memory. Whatever it takes to stop this war, she told herself. Whatever it takes to make it end.

  Grandfather Tarv turned to face her. “The Kinmeet listens,” he said. “Tell us why the highlander is here.”

  Zerill took a deep breath. “He is here to stop the purges.”

  The Abandoned betrayed their surprise in silence: shared glances and rapid signs to those beside them, open mouths and widened eyes. But none stepped forward to interrupt. Zerill had earned her chance to speak—and she had practiced the loudspeech all her life. I can make them understand. I can do this.

  “When I found the prince, he was speaking to another highlander. Many of you know of the man, one of their greatest warriors—Castar, they call him. As I listened, they spoke of a boy they had seen, a boy marked by their Sky God. A boy of the Abandoned.” A small lie, but if she revealed that she hadn’t known about the boy when she’d saved Josen, it would call her decision into question. “The prince said that their purges had to end if their god had marked one of us; he demanded they tell their people immediately. For this, Castar stabbed him and took the boy.

  “But I could not let him die. He is a son of the highlander king, and with my own ears I heard him call for an end to a war I thought endless. If he tells his father and his people where this boy comes from, they might listen. Knowing this, I carried him through the Swamp, and commanded Verik to heal him. I measured the risk of bringing a highlander to the Kinhome against the cost of missing this chance, and could make no other decision. That is why he lives, and that is why he is here—not because I have any love for highlanders, but because I will do whatever I must to preserve our people.”

  The gathering wa
s still for a time, staring at her, and then Nevris’ hand moved, and Tavid said, “The Shadowfeet would know if a boy was born with some highlander mark. There is no such boy among the three kins. Where did he come from?”

  “There was another with him. His grandfather.” Zerill hesitated, remembering the hollows of the old man’s empty eyes. “A Delver, I think.” The Abandoned did not kill their own, but Delvers were too dangerous to simply banish. Most were maimed in some way first—the crippled and the blind did not survive long beneath the mist. An execution in all but name. There were always rumors, though, of those that survived, hiding in the deep east where even the Makers dared not go. Zerill had never believed such stories, but there weren’t a great many other reasons for a man to walk the Swamp kinless and alone. “If the boy was born in exile, we would not know of him.”

  Again Tavid gave voice to Grandmother Nevris’ signs. “So you ask us to trust our lives to a Delver’s child and a highlander’s word. What stops your prisoner from telling his people of the Kinhome the moment he returns to his mountain?”

  “As I said, there are risks,” Zerill acknowledged. “But again, what of the risk if we do nothing? It is not a question of if, but of when the highlanders will destroy us, whether they know of the Kinhome or not. It is safe here for now, but we must always leave again. We need to hunt, to find clean water, and so we go west among the mountains, knowing that less of us will return each time. If things do not change soon, there is no future for the Abandoned. And have we not always turned dangers into assets? We turned the threat of the Deeplings into a safe refuge here in the Kinhome; we turned the Makers’ curse into a power that forges our weapons and hinders our enemies. We can do the same with this highlander. He is a tool for us to wield, nothing more. I do not think he has the courage to betray us with my spear at his back.”