The Foundlings (The Swords of Xigara)

by J. Mark Miller

  “Come on out, Kel,” Tander encouraged. “Just a little more. One more push and you’ll be free. It’s time to fly.”

  That was all it took. A tremor rippled through the shell and the top of the egg went flying to the floor. The blinkswift’s head popped out and screeched in celebratory freedom. Tander let out a whoop of joy, slapping the table with his hand. This made the bird turn and lock eyes with the boy.

  Tander found himself submerged in Kel’s wide, yellow irises. The world fell away and he was lost in an ocean of impulses.

  *Hunger. Hunt. Fly. Dive. Snatch. Rip. Tear. Blood. Eat. Fly. Soar. Home. Master. Content.*

  Tander’s mind saw it from the bird’s perspective. The racial memories were rooted deep, fundamental to the bird’s existence and complete though the bird had never hunted or seen the sky.

  “Kel,” Tander whispered and the spell was broken. His self—his oneness—flowed back where it belonged, but he was no longer alone. Tander felt a link with the bird, a small flame burning at the back of his mind on the edge of his awareness. He knew the bird’s wants and needs as surely as he knew his own. Kel was hungry and wanted to hunt.

  On impulse, Tander pulled the gauntlet from his belt and slipped it over his left arm. Covered to the elbow, he lifted the gauntlet and said, “Come, Kel. Let’s dry your wing and see the sky.”

  Kel broke free of the remnants of his egg and perched on the cradle’s edge. He preened himself down to his talons, nibbling away and consuming the last bits of matter from his egg. Tander moved the gauntlet close and Kel stepped on, making the boy gasp as he felt the pressure of the bird’s talons through the thick leather. Kel secured, he turned to throw the door’s curtain aside.

  Tander felt the flame of Kel’s presence intensify in his mind when the bird saw Quist standing there. Kel’s awareness reached out, taking Tander’s with him. They saw the elf in sharp detail, so acute as to seem unreal. Yet there was a certain fuzziness, a fleeting sense that there was more to the elf than the eye alone could see, something hovering beyond the periphery of their shared vision.

  Tander teetered on his feet and clenched his eyes.

  “You have the Seeing,” Quist said. “Remarkable. I didn’t think it could happen so swiftly.”

  “Kel wants to fly,” Tander croaked, the falcon’s urgent need overriding his manners. He pushed past the elf and walked toward the nearest exit he knew of, a stairway leading up to the roof. When they broke into the open air Kel let out a screech at the rising sun.

  The bird spread his wings in the morning breeze and started flapping in an effort to speed the drying of his feathers. The flapping grew urgent as he grew impatient watching the sun creep up over the trees. Kel flapped hard and momentarily lifted from Tander’s arm. Ripples of exhilaration lanced through their mutual connection, and the boy added his own force of will to the blinkswift’s efforts. The bird flapped harder and finally he was up, swimming against the gravity trying to hold him down.

  Tander’s breath caught as Kel rose in ever growing circles about his head. Sensing a rising shaft of warm air, Kel arrowed toward it and was caught in the updraft. He soared up and away as fast as his fresh wings could carry him and Tander felt it all.

  “Now you feel what it means to fly,” Quist’s voice was reverent.

  The flame of Kel’s being flared and Tander felt a completion greater than anything he’d experienced before. He wondered if he’d ever been whole.

  Then a single thought drifted back from Kel.

  *Free.*

  59

  The Shrine

  Captain Stile stood on the quarterdeck watching a stream of acolytes carry stores of food and supplies down into the hold. A pair of sailors worked in the ropes overhead checking the rigging, looking over yard after yard of rope for signs of rotting or fraying. One of the pair was new to the crew, a former acolyte who was taking the place of one of the few crew members choosing to leave the ship rather than take part in the potentially risky voyage.

  What the new crew members lacked in skill and experience they more than made up for in enthusiasm and work ethic. Many of them had been skilled carpenters within the Shrine’s community, so their abilities were welcomed by the crew. Not a one of them complained over the workload pressed on them by the senior crew. All in all, Stile was more than pleased with the transition, so much so that he thought he might make recruiting new crew at the Shrine a regular habit, provided the Keepers would allow such an arrangement.

  Y’neth came up from below decks and made her way up to the quarterdeck. He noticed the crew no longer craned their necks to watch her every move but they did try to steal glances now and then. At first he thought the crew had only grown used to her presence but Cyril set him straight one morning at breakfast. It was public knowledge that she was the captain’s woman and no one would swim in those shark infested waters.

  He remembered telling Y’neth what Cyril said, and her strange reaction. Her face had flushed deep purple and Stile was worried she was angry—until she broke out laughing. How could she be offended, coming from a matriarchal society? The idea delighted her and left Stile wondering if he’d ever understand her.

  He was grinning at the memory as she walked up. “Smiling at your woman again, my captain?” She cocked on eyebrow.

  “I suppose I am at that. You don’t mind do you?”

  Y’neth brushed her hand against his on the railing. “What do you think?”

  Though their relationship was an open secret, Stile avoided showing open affection in front of the crew. A man of propriety, Stile had yet to initiate even the holding of hands, a trait Y’neth found silly yet boyishly charming all the same. She had no qualms and routinely reached for his hand when they sat together at meals, but always under the table and out of sight in the interest of keeping his propriety satisfied. And she was careful to respect his wishes aboard ship, he was the captain after all.

  They watched Tander walk up the gangplank in the company of Quist, a pair of acolytes trailing behind laden with bags and spare weapons. A large falcon of some sort was perched on the boy’s arm. Stile had heard rumors the boy might be bringing a hatchling aboard, but surely this was another bird altogether.

  “Where’s the boy going to keep that thing?” Stile said. “I don’t see a cage of any kind.”

  “There’s no need,” Y’neth said. “The blinkswift has bonded to the boy and will never be far from his side. It will likely perch high in the rigging when it’s not flying and you should warn your men to leave it alone. It won’t attack anyone but it will defend itself.”

  Stile kept a suspicious eye on the bird for another moment before turning to look as more passengers embarked. Katalas and Duras, seasoned warriors used to traveling light, carried little. Doulos and Zalas followed close behind, each of them enigmas Stile hadn’t been able to figure out. He felt Zalas was a man much like himself and looked forward to the opportunity to debate history.

  The wizard was another matter. A few short weeks ago he would have scoffed at the man’s claims, but his experiences at Tower Island had changed him. He’d witnessed prophecies come to life and most of his skepticism had washed away.

  A crowd began to form along the river bank as residents came to see the High Keeper off. There would be no ceremony, only a simple wave goodbye from Karah to convey the love she had for her people, and a promise to return if possible.

  The crowd split as Karah made her slow way through the throng, Tenna at her side. She touched as many as she could, calling them each by name. The newly Named beamed as Karah looked them in the eye and spoke their name, solidifying their new identities. Most were astonished she remembered their new names while they themselves were still getting used to wearing them.

  An elf maid dressed in gold walked arm in arm with Tenna. Her face radiated happiness as she reveled in her new name and position. The two girls chatted with excitement as they walked behind Karah, talking animatedly until they reached the lip of the gangplank. Sudd
en sadness marked their faces as the pair realized the parting of ways had come. Stile imagined them saying goodbyes, promising to find one another when the times of trouble were over.

  He prayed their promises were not hopeless.

  The crowd parted again as Tenna moved to follow Karah up the gangplank. The High Keeper’s jungle tiger padded his way down the quay, stopping just short of the ramp. Stile hoped Karah wouldn’t bring the huge cat aboard and had visions of his ship turning into a menagerie.

  Karah seemed to sense the cat’s presence and turned to walk back down the plank. She knelt before the cat and whispered in its ear, then offered him a final hug. With that, the tiger turned and walked back through the crowd, disappearing into the jungle.

  Stile breathed in relief as the cat vanished but regretted his attitude when he saw Karah’s tears. She’d said goodbye to an old friend, likely for the last time.

  Karah took her place at the railing on the main deck, determined to watch until her people were out of sight. Tenna stood next to her and Stile noticed neither woman had brought a load of possessions aboard. He was surprised, expecting them to bring a large amount of necessary items. These ladies knew how to travel light and it made him wonder where they’d learned to do so.

  Then a commotion rippled through the crowd followed by several yelps of surprise. A gray mass shot through the throng, tripping one of the acolyte porters as he labored up the gangplank. Mas, the little tiger kit, came to a skidding halt at Tenna’s feet and started clawing at her boots. She picked the cat up and began to chide him.

  “You can’t come, Mas,” she said. “There’s really no place on a boat for a cat.”

  Cyril standing nearby overheard and said, “Ship.”

  “What?” Tenna turned to the man.

  “This is a ship, not a boat.” Cyril’s voice was deadpan but amused.

  “Oh,” Tenna raised her eyebrows, “well then, there’s no place on a ship for a cat.”

  “Actually, miss, lot’s o’ ships have cats,” Cyril shrugged. “Keeps the rats an’ other nasties out o’ the cargo.”

  “You’re not helping, Cyril,” Stile called down from the quarterdeck. “Move along.”

  “Aye, Cap’n.” Cyril walked away grinning.

  “I think I see who Mas was running from.” Y’neth pointed down at the quay where the little cat’s mother sat waiting. Mosu roared at her cub, tossing her head toward the jungle. Mas mewed back his defiance and his mother roared again, louder. Mas buried his head in the crook of Tenna arm and shivered from head to tail.

  “I fear Mosu’s kit has become your responsibility,” Karah said. “She won’t like it, but Mas seems to have chosen you over his mother.”

  “Isn’t he too young?” Tenna asked.

  “Not for a jungle tiger,” Karah said. “They often leave their queen to become a person’s companion. So it was for Zul when he became my protector.”

  Mosu padded up the gangplank but stopped short of coming aboard ship. Mas pushed out of Tenna’s arms and fell to the deck, scampering toward his mother. Mosu nuzzled the little kit, rubbing her whiskered cheek against his. Mas mewed, seeming to have a last moment of indecision before caressing his mother one last time and bounding back toward Tenna.

  His mother lifted her head toward Tenna and roared one last time before turning back down the gangplank. The crowd parted and she walked out into the jungle to join Zul.

  “That last roar was for you, Tenna,” Karah said. “You’re to look after him so that one day he can grow up to look after you.”

  Up on the quarterdeck, Stile muttered to Y’neth, “A bird of prey and a cat that will grow to the size of a large dwarf. You’re not planning on adding any talking fish to the spectacle are you?”

  “Of course not, my captain,” she smirked and leaned into him. “Fish can’t talk.”

  Stile rolled his eyes and walked away in mock offense. He raised his voice to issue orders. “Cast off the hawsers and prepare to get underway before that dragon tries to join the crew.” Y’neth’s laughter filled the air and he threw her a wink.

  “Cast off the hawsers and draw the plank,” Cyril enhanced the command. The crew set into motion to get the ship untethered and move her into the river’s flow.

  Karah called up to Stile. “I’d like a private conference once we’re all settled and safely underway, captain. Please join us when you can.”

  “Once we get into wider portion of the river I’ll feel comfortable enough to join you,” Stile said.

  Karah nodded and turned back to wave goodbye to her people.

  60

  The Shrine

  Stile left the wheel and joined Karah’s impromptu council an hour later. He felt a small measure of excitement over the risk of their venture but had already sat through far too many meetings. One of the reasons he’d ended his short career in the Maehdrasian navy was the never-ending stream of pointless meetings called by puffed-up officers. Most meetings were nothing but thinly veiled opportunities for that officer to crow about his past achievements or wax ineloquent over the same particulars given out the last four or five times around.

  Karah had the good grace to do neither of those things so far.

  His new companions were sitting around the table in the mess. He frowned as he saw the boy’s bird perched on the back of his chair with the tiger kitten prowling about underfoot. Their owners seemed oblivious to the impending disaster because they were wrapped up in talking to one another.

  He slid onto the bench next to Y’neth and nodded to Karah.

  “Thank you for coming, captain,” Karah said.

  “Of course, my lady High Keeper.”

  “Please,” Karah lifted a hand, “call me Karah. Though I retain the title, I’m leaving its trappings behind. I’m simply another member of this company now.”

  “My lady, Karah, then,” Stile said. “It wouldn’t do to break down all formalities in front of the crew.”

  Karah nodded her agreement and turned to address the assembly.

  “It’s not my intention to sequester us from the crew but I’ve received urgent news that affects our plans.” She paused to be sure she had everyone’s attention. “There’s been a coup in Ulquiy.”

  “What?” Zalas asked. “Silent Runner’s dead?”

  “Not dead, but deposed,” Karah said. “A man calling himself The Fang has usurped both leadership of the Snake clan and the jelefe’s chair.”

  “How’d that happen?” Duras asked.

  “The details are murky,” Karah said, “but it seems he’s been able to stir up sentiments within Ulquiy for a return to what he calls the Old Way—their old, animistic religion. He has a shaman who seems to possess power, enough power to produce signs and wonders that he used to persuade his clansmen to oust their chieftain and install The Fang in his place. The Fang sent his lackeys out to preach a return to the Old Way all across Ulquiy and a sizable number answered the call.”

  “But Ulquiy’s been Devoted for centuries,” Zalas said. “Why didn’t the Wolf clan’s priests counteract those lies?”

  “In other times they could have,” Karah said, “but no longer. Ulquiy’s been a Devoted land more out of sheer hide-bound tradition than any real faith for decades now. Most consider themselves followers of Onúl simply because their ancestors were, not from any thoughtful decision of their own.”

  “Hmph,” Doulos huffed, “and Ulquiy’s saturated in superstition. Their beliefs in ghosts and bad luck and spirits is still prevalent, despite their knowledge of the truth. So many of them are gullible enough they’re swayed by charlatans, easy prey for The Fang’s diabolism.”

  “We knew his influence had been growing,” Karah said, “and so we kept him under watch. Once he usurped the leadership of his clan he called for a meeting of clan chiefs. He marched on Parthiy with thousands of his disciples in tow. His shaman worked up the crowds in every village along the way, gaining more and more followers as they drew closer to Parthiy. By the time all
the clans were gathered the populace was calling for Silent Runner to step down, calling his the figurehead of a false religion.”

  “Unnatural,” Doulos cursed.

  “The chiefs all stood against The Fang, even when their own clans began to call for their removal as well. They might have prevailed, but the usurper unleashed his final gambit.”

  Doulos sat forward, the concern plain on his face. “What?”

  “Their meeting was closed to outsiders,” Karah said, “but public rumors speak of a talisman. Its influence was enough to cause every chieftain to turn their support away from Silent Runner and proclaim The Fang their new jelefe.”

  Y’neth was gripping the edge of the table so hard Stile heard it creak under her fingers.

  “Dilkah,” Y’neth whispered.

  “We believe so,” Karah nodded. “Silent Runner and his clan were driven from the city, suffering great losses. My agents say they managed to escape to Mailliw, where the Snake clan has their city under siege.”

  “What’s a jelefe?” Tander asked. “I’ve never heard the word.”

  “Jelefe is Ulquiy for Chief Clan Chief,” Zalas said. “It’s unlikely you’ve ever heard the language on your continent.”

  “Ulquiy is tribal in nature,” Doulos said, “but they interact with the rest of the world as a confederation. The jelefe acts as the confederation’s representative on matters of trade, treaties, general welfare, and war.”

  Stile’s face curdled in disgust. “Sounds like this Fang is maneuvering to be more than their representative. He’s setting himself up as a tyrant, using his people’s old traditions as an avenue to power.”

  “It gets worse,” Karah said. “He’s ordered the withdrawal of troops from the Maehdrasian border. He says Eldinn’s invasion is the elder gods’ judgment on Ulquiy, a judgment meant to purge the land of false religion. Then, and only then, will the gods return to crush Ulquiy’s enemies.”

  “The Huwm are behind this,” Y’neth spat. “They hope to breed enough chaos to prevent the Swords being gathered together.”