by A. C. Smyth
His mother made up for the villagers’ indifference with her enthusiasm at his return. Her attention made him a little uncomfortable, but he allowed her to fuss. He knew she missed him, especially with Lynto gone, and Aithne would join her husband’s family, as was traditional. They had been close, Sylas and his mother. Even now, in the midst of his change from boy to man, she understood him. He could tell her anything, but rarely needed to; she always knew his thoughts as well as he did. Zynoa didn’t quiz him on his studies, for which he was grateful. His father would do enough of that when he returned. That he had ridden home after a year told her a lot. His silence on the subject likely told her the rest.
Sylas was enjoying his meal—simple by Aerie standards, but anything prepared by his mother’s hands took on an extra flavour for him—when fists pounded on the door.
“Now who could that be, making such a din?” Zynoa went to the door, wiping her hands on a cloth. Outside stood a young man, a year or two older than Sylas, with the linandra bead glittering at his left ear. His beard was coming in, but his shaved cheeks marked him either a linandra digger or a changer, and Pietrig was no changer.
“Your pardon, Zynoa, but is Sylas here? I heard he arrived.”
Sylas turned to see who the visitor might be. A warm smile crossed his face at the sight of his old friend and wrestling partner.
“Pietrig,” he said, setting aside the bowl and jumping to his feet, then frowning as his mother’s face hardened. Pietrig had been like another son to Zynoa since they were children. He and Sylas had been as inseparable as brothers.
“He is eating, Pietrig, and then he needs to sleep. He has had a long journey and must be rested for the ceremony.”
In the normal course of events, Zynoa’s house would always have been open to Pietrig. Sylas couldn’t understand why his friend was not already beside him on the mat with a bowl of soup and talking excitedly about what had happened since they last met. Pietrig had been in the linandra pits the last time Sylas had come home, and Sylas had been looking forward to seeing him.
“I’m not that tired, Mother, really—”
“But we have things to discuss. Things that do not concern your friend here.” A slight emphasis on friend. Sylas studied his mother’s face, hoping for a hint of her thoughts, but Zynoa’s face had taken on the mask-like stillness that Sylas knew meant she had made up her mind. What had happened to cause friction between his mother and Pietrig? Zynoa had guessed her son’s nature years ago. Did she fear the relationship between them? Sylas loved Pietrig dearly, and he believed Pietrig loved him too, but Pietrig was also popular with the village girls and he returned their affections. Pietrig was the elder’s son, required to observe the proprieties. He would marry and have children, and pretend their youthful explorations had never happened.
“We must talk!” she said determinedly and pushed against the door. Pietrig leaned his weight into it—not enough to force his way in, but enough to stop Zynoa closing it on him.
“Don’t believe them, Sylas! It’s not true, I swear it. Don’t believe them, for the love of the Lady.”
Zynoa shoved the door to, then turned to lean on it for a moment. She looked tired, Sylas thought. The grey hairs on her head now outnumbered the dark. He sat again, taking up his bowl, then pushed it aside with the soup unfinished. Neither spoke. This was not the homecoming he had anticipated: his mother anxious; his friend not welcome in his house. And the village, so subdued, as if the people were frightened.
“What’s happening, Mother? What was Pietrig talking about? What’s going on here that I don’t know?”
She came to sit beside him, one hand patting his knee. His back tensed. He was not a child, to be fussed over. She drew her hand away as if sensing his unease.
“All is not well in Namopaia, son.”
“I can tell. What has changed since my last visit?”
She sighed. “You’ll hear sooner or later. Yestro is dead.”
“Yestro? The dig team leader?”
“He was murdered.”
Sylas sat up straight, staring at her as if she had gone mad. Murder? In a Chesammos village? Impossible. The Lady ordered that each should care for all. Any sort of violence between Chesammos was unheard of, with the exception of the wrestling at weddings and manhood ceremonies and festivals. And that was a way to let the men work off some of their aggression without actual harm befalling anyone, save the occasional strained shoulder or bruised ribs.
“What did—? Who killed him?”
“That’s why Aithne and your father aren’t here to greet you. She is with Yestro’s daughters, helping comfort them. They always were great friends, you know. His family was one of the few that did not look down on her for being one of only three. And your father is with the menfolk. Ilend is the obvious choice for the new leader, but it will take them a full day’s arguing before they agree on something the women would settle in a few minutes.”
“What has this to do with Pietrig?”
Sylas’s mouth went dry. They couldn’t think Pietrig had killed him? No, he would not be roaming freely in the village if they thought that. And Pietrig was no killer. A fine wrestler, but he would no sooner kill a man than Sylas would.
“What? Pietrig? This has nothing to do with Pietrig. Lord Garvan’s guards killed Yestro. They said some of the dig crews have been coming up short, so the soldiers were sent to make sure all the linandra got handed over. Yestro protested that his crew had never come up short and the soldier struck him with his sword. Ilend said they searched them all and didn’t find any more stones than Yestro gave them. There is trouble coming from the Irenthi. Some of the men are talking of arming themselves.”
Lord Garvan was Casian’s father. In the Aerie, Sylas could forget that one day Casian would rule the area of Chandris in which Namopaia lay, yet here were Casian’s father’s troops killing one of the village’s prominent men. He found he didn’t want to give that too much thought.
“Arming?” The Chesammos never used weapons, on each other or anyone else. They were a peaceful folk and even petty crime was rare in a Chesammos village. No one had anything worth stealing, mind. Trouble brewed when someone envied what another had: money, status, husband, wife. Nobody had much to covet here except children and grandchildren. Perhaps that was why status was determined by how many offspring a man sired.
His mother nodded glumly. “There is talk of raids by soldiers on some of the other villages. Houses burned out. People injured. Stay in the Aerie, Sylas. Stay as long as you can. You will be safer there.”
“But Pietrig? What did he mean I wasn’t to believe what I heard? And why did you send him away?”
His mother slumped next to him and he wondered if she was ill. Her hand strayed to her neck, then drew from inside her dress the linandra necklace that he remembered seeing from childhood. Unknotting the end, she slipped one bead from the thread. She held it out, then laid it on his outstretched palm.
“This is for your piercing.”
He had known his bead would come from his mother. Zynoa had quietly provided beads for those families so far down the social order they might wait months, even years, for beads brought by the Irenthi, unable to have their children receive the adulthood rites that were their due as Chesammos. Ironically, his was one of those families. His mother’s beads were small, barely more than chips, misshapen and imperfect, but the ones the Irenthi brought were little better. The Chesammos got the ones too small or too flawed to be of value to merchants.
Then she reknotted the thread and held out the necklace.
“I want you to take this,” she said. “It would come to you anyway. You can keep it safe in the Aerie. If they come and find me with this—if they think we have stolen these beads—it could go badly for me.”
“But it is yours. The only thing you have from your
family. If I took it to the Aerie someone might steal it. Some of the boys are not as honest as they might be. This is the only bead I need from you.” He held the single bead between his finger and thumb. It glowed faintly, responding to him, showing his sensitivity to the stone that made him valuable to the diggers. “We can bury the necklace somewhere if you are worried. By the hearth, maybe, but I’ll not take it. It should go to Aithne. What would I do with a necklace?” He gave her back the stone. She would give it to his father for the ceremony. The thought of Craie piercing his ear made him uncomfortable.
“You may find you need it, someday. You more than Aithne.”
“You are talking in riddles, Mother. Tell me simply. What is wrong with Pietrig? What has this to do with your necklace?”
Her eyes flashed, their placid depths roused at last.
“He has betrayed your friendship!” she said. “Pietrig has arranged with Skarai to have you replace him in the linandra digging team and get your father to take him on as brick maker.”
Sylas swallowed. He knew he would go to the pits whatever the result of the next ballot; his sensitivity to the precious gem had made that all too likely. But for his father to sanction this exchange was inconceivable. They had never been close, but surely even Craie would not trade his own son, would he? Especially after losing Lynto to the fever.
“But what about me marrying? The family he wants me to have?”
Sylas had known from childhood that he would be expected to father many children. If not, he and his parents would stay low-ranked in the village. His father counted on Sylas and his sister to rear plenty of Chesammos babies and remove some of the stigma that Zynoa bearing only three children had put on the family. Linandra diggers had families, of course, but they tended to be smaller. The diggers spent most of their time in the desert, and then there were the health problems they often suffered.
She covered her face with her hands. “Your father said if you took Pietrig’s place on the linandra team, Skarai would betroth you to Fienne.”
Fienne was Pietrig’s sister, close to Sylas in age and a childhood friend. If he had to marry, Fienne would have been his choice; but, for them to be used as a bargaining tool like this was unthinkable even by Craie’s standards.
His throat tightened. Don’t believe what they tell you. I swear… “And what do we get out of this? What do I get out of it?”
“Your father gets a seat on the village gathering as father to the elder’s daughter. You and Fienne get a house provided, as they will provide for Pietrig and his betrothed, when his marriage is settled. Being linked by marriage to Skarai will benefit us.”
Poor Fienne. Sylas wondered if she realised the man to whom she was to be betrothed loved her brother better.
“And me? What about me?”
His eyes met hers and he saw she knew the truth—had likely known before he did. He knew of at least two others in the village with a preference for a male bedmate. In fact, he had spent a year trying to deflect the attentions of an older man who liked young boys. Yet in a society where so much emphasis was placed on producing children, it was a lonely path to tread.
“You have someone? At the Aerie?” She had never asked him anything of the sort before. It had remained unspoken between them, only surfacing now they had reached the point at which he had to decide the course of his life.
“Yes.”
“You love him?”
He thought of Casian’s fair skin and silver hair—the way he tossed it back when he laughed. “Yes.”
“Then you must go back to him. Be a changer, my son. Do what it takes to achieve that dream and try not to think about those you leave behind. It has to be, you will see. And I am sorry for what will come of it.” She patted his knee once more, and this time he welcomed her touch. He would have thrown his arms around her if he had not been too old for such things.
All his life, she had been the only one who understood him—had known him deep down, as if she knew his thoughts and feelings as well as he did. Her words puzzled him, but comforted him at the same time. She wanted him to go. He knew she would miss him, as he would miss her, but she wanted this for him as much as he did for himself.
He took the bead necklace and put it back around her neck, drawing her hair out from beneath the cord.
“Thank you. But I will not take this from you. It is yours.”
And then his father returned.
Alike in looks, yet so different in personality, father and son locked gazes until Sylas broke the contact, as he always did. Craie blamed Zynoa for letting Sylas become soft and for filling his head with a useless education that would leave him discontented. Sylas had never fully understood the friction between his parents, particularly with regard to their children, yet had been aware of it since he was old enough to notice such things.
The first time Sylas could remember squaring off against Craie he had been no more than four or five—beating helpless little fists on his father’s chest. He could not remember what had triggered it. The way his father treated his mother, most likely. That had been the first time he had felt the blade grass on his legs, his mother sobbing that he was too young to be beaten. Much too young. Craie dominated Sylas by strength and fear after that. But he and Craie now stood eye-to-eye. Soon Sylas would have his father’s breadth of shoulder and depth of chest. Older than Zynoa, Craie was well past his prime and heading for decline. Sylas knew the days of Craie’s dominance over him were coming to an end.
Craie’s lips parted in something close to a sneer.
“So you’re back. I hear you rode back?”
Sylas nodded. He didn’t want to talk to his father. Other boys would get a back slap or a brief hug from their fathers. He got a staring match and a greeting that would never suggest how rarely they saw each other.
“Still not mastered it then, this changing?” The way Craie spoke of it, with a sneer in his voice, it sounded as if changers were the despised people on the island, not the Chesammos.
“Not yet.” Sylas heard the strain in his voice—his jaw clenched so tight it almost cracked—and made an effort to relax himself. He unfisted his hands, forced his shoulders lower, finally released the tension in his jaw.
Craie grunted. He had not listened when Sylas explained about the kye and the calling, pronouncing it ‘changer nonsense.’ Sylas was sure Craie thought he made most of it up. He realised with a sinking heart that his father’s only interest was in how soon he could be brought back from the Aerie and set to work digging linandra.
There was no shame in the work—the village ate only if the diggers found linandra—but Sylas had glimpsed a better life. He now knew it was possible to learn, live in freedom, and maybe, just maybe, take his mother there to give her the life she deserved.
“Father, when I have controlled my changing, may I stay at the Aerie? There is so much more I could learn and—”
“You truly think I would allow it?” Craie’s roar filled the house and from the corner of his eye Sylas could see his mother quaking. Even now, with Sylas on the brink of manhood, Craie was quick with his blade grass belt, and Sylas held up his hands in a placating gesture. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell Craie that he would do as he pleased and Craie could not stop him, but if he were to be rejected by the Aerie he would have no home here—no place to go. He had heard of others in a similar situation, making their way to Adamantara, selling their ear bead for the price of a passage to the mainland, never being heard of again. It would destroy his mother if he did that.
“I only thought…”
“What good do you do our people up there on the mountain? Do you breed more Chesammos to help us? Tell me, are there Chesammos changers up there with you?”
There were three Chesammos on the council, Sylas told him. Master Donmar, Master Jesely, and Master Cowin. All h
ighly respected. Beside him, his mother tensed and Sylas glanced at her in reassurance. He would watch what he said—try not to inflame his father’s temper.
“And are they married to Chesammos women? Do they make more Chesammos to help us survive?”
Sylas hung his head. “No, Father.”
Master Jesely had been married—to an Irenthi, of all people, albeit a low-ranked one. A daughter of one of the minor houses who had died bearing their only child. Their daughter had died with her. When Jesely made any comment about Sylas and Casian, Casian went off on a well-worn rant over his supposed double-standards. Master Cowin had recently married Mistress Elyta, an Irmos so fair anyone would take her for Irenthi until they drew close enough to see her eyes—light hazel, not the blue or green of the true Irenthi.
“Then you will come back. Work the pits. Be a man, not some pampered bird up in your mountain nest.”
“And marry Skarai’s daughter, so that you may sit on the council?” He regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth.
Craie’s eyes flashed past him to Zynoa. “You told him?”
Sylas knew that look. Craie barely held his temper in check.
“It wasn’t her fault. Pietrig said something. I pressed her. She would not have told if I had not made her.”
Craie’s lips drew back, showing teeth.
“I should let both of you feel the cut of the grass for that.”
“And have your wife and your son bloodied and beaten for the festivities? That would hardly be auspicious.” And would hardly suit a gathering member-to-be, Sylas thought wryly. Luckily the same thought must have crossed his father’s mind. He glared at Sylas and stormed off, leaving Zynoa looking as shaken as Sylas felt.